Confessions from the Quilting Circle - Maisey Yates Page 0,51
who owned one of the jewelry stores in Old Town, Wendy could see that there were a few more than just their core group there tonight.
One of the younger women, Jo, who ran Fog coffee along with her husband, Nick, was there. She was in her early thirties, and had a nose ring and the sides of her head shaved, while the top was left long and black and glossy. She was the same age as Anna—Wendy assumed—but she didn’t engender maternal feelings in Wendy. She was bright and sharp, and utterly unintimidated by anyone or anything.
In Wendy’s past experiences, younger women were sometimes cowed by a group of older ones. But not Jo, who was always happy to lead a discussion on what it took to make nondairy yogurt at home, or how to brew your own kombucha. Which was something almost no one who came to these gatherings was ever going to do.
But they all smiled and nodded along, anyway.
Lisbeth, the owner of the yarn shop, was there. She was always popular, as she tended to bring overstock to share around the table.
Wendy didn’t often knit anymore, but it was something she had once enjoyed doing, and she’d taught her girls how as well, so she was always happy to take extra yarn and hoard it, even if she didn’t have anything pressing to make with it.
She set down the platter on the table. “Hi, everyone,” she said.
She received a round of cheerful greetings from the group.
Wendy made a beeline for the wine, which was already open and sitting out on Cynthia’s sideboard.
Cynthia’s house was like an architectural representation of her as a woman. Bold, eclectic and deliberately unfussy. Her business, her home, her wild black hair and the locally made jewelry she wore all seemed to flow together. She was one of the most truly her people Wendy had ever known.
She could be bold, and outspoken, but with Cynthia it was always genuine and never from a place of manipulation.
She’d developed a good friendship with Cynthia over the years. Though, like with everyone in town, she talked mainly about her life as if it had started the moment she’d come here. But it had been more than thirty years now. It was the only life that really mattered.
When Wendy saw Lillian Chase, who owned the little children’s-clothing store, Peapod, she felt a kick of concern.
Lillian was very involved in Sunset Church, and where Cynthia was open-arms and authenticity, Lillian was narrow, polished reserve. Wendy had a feeling genuine conversation sometimes hit her perfectly coiffed hair and bounded right off. Because of all the hair spray, or maybe the real reason was that her heart was smooth and polished, too. With no space for love or compassion to slip in and take hold.
But then, the owner of Sunset Bay Coffee Company, Natalie, was involved in the church as well, and she gave Wendy the brightest smile imaginable upon entry.
So it wasn’t really fair to assume that it would be difficult with people from the church.
But, then, that wasn’t the real issue. It was Lillian’s involvement in the church, plus Lillian being who she was. It made Wendy feel on guard.
Lillian seemed to find new heights in the falling down of others, as if she saw an opportunity to step on the back of someone who stumbled and raised herself up higher.
Natalie wasn’t like that at all.
“Is there any business gossip?” Wendy asked.
“Pico’s is closing,” Cynthia said, tapping brightly painted nails against her wineglass. “It’s a shame.”
She didn’t actually think Cynthia thought it was a shame, as the store had crossover competition with Cynthia. They weren’t a jewelry shop, but an eclectic mix of different local goods.
They’d only been there for a couple of years.
It was Wendy’s experience that most people didn’t know how to get through those first years in a town like Sunset Bay.
They didn’t understand that you were going to have to lose a lot of money before you could find a groove. Before you could figure out how to cover the lean months, and live for Christmas, and summer, and those times that brought an influx of people to town.
There was just a limit to the amount of local people who were going to stop in on a regular basis and buy clothing at a boutique store, when they could go down the road from the cute little walkable tourist community and buy things cheaper in a big box store.