Knitted Hearts - Amber Kelly Page 0,7

I walk over to the standing mirror tucked into the corner of the shop and do a turn-about.

“I love it. You should keep the other one, and we can be matchy-matchy this winter.”

I hear her chuckle from behind the counter.

“If it were up to you, I’d never sell a thing,” she calls out.

She’s right. Every time I come in to visit, I walk out with something new, and she never charges me a dime. She also lets me live in the tiny one-bedroom apartment above the shop for free.

“Yeah, I guess I have enough sweaters. Someone is going to love these,” I say as I take it off and hang both of them up in the window beside the door.

The bell rings as a customer walks in. I greet her and lead her to the counter.

“Hi, Maisy. I have your husband’s alterations all finished. Let me fetch them for you. I’ll be right back,” Momma says as she slides from the stool and slips into the back.

I walk behind the counter and start ringing up the ticket for her.

“How are you doing, Sonia?” Maisy asks.

I manage to conjure up my brightest smile.

“I’m fabulous,” I tell her.

She gives me a look, one I’ve become uncomfortably accustomed to over the last ten months. One of sympathy.

“Are you really, dear?” she asks as she kindly pats my hand that is sitting on the counter.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m dandy. Turns out, being separated suits me. I might get hitched again someday, just so I get the joy of divorcing him,” I chirp.

A confused expression overtakes her weathered face, and I feel bad for my outburst. I’m just so sick of the words of sympathy—or worse, words of encouragement—from every person I’ve crossed paths with since my husband, Ricky, and I split last year. Don’t get me wrong. The split was—and still is—painful. I loved Ricky. I thought he was my forever and that we’d be starting our family this year, not filing papers to end our short marriage, but it seems the town is taking it harder than either of us. It’s embarrassing, and I’m tired of the condolences. If I can move on, so can my momma’s friends.

“Here we are,” Momma says as she reemerges with four pairs of crisply ironed slacks hanging from wire hangers and wrapped in clear plastic.

“And here is your change, Maisy. I hope you have a wonderful evening,” I say tenderly, and the crease between her eyebrows falls away.

Maisy is a sweet older lady, and I know she meant no harm in her questioning.

“You too, sweetheart. You come by and see Harold and me when you’re out our way, tending to Edith. I’ll make us some coffee and heat a slice of apple pie,” Maisy offers.

Edith Reid is one of the home health care patients I see daily. Her son, Walker, is married to one of my best friends, Elle. Edith and Maisy are neighbors.

“I’ll do that,” I promise.

“And I’ll have that blanket you ordered done shortly. I’ll give you a call when it’s finished,” Momma assures her.

“Wonderful.”

She gives me a pleased smile as she takes her goods and walks out of the shop.

“I hate how everyone acts like I’m a widow and I should be walking around in my black mourning clothes and crying into my hanky every time they mention Ricky,” I tell Momma.

She sighs. “They mean well,” she says as she wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in to lay her head on my shoulder.

“I know. I still hate it.”

“Oh, before you know it, something will happen around here to take everyone’s attention off your misfortune. Don’t you worry,” she teases.

“Not soon enough,” I grumble under my breath.

I spend the next hour helping her restock shelves, hang new inventory on racks and redo her window display before we lock up for the evening so that she can head home.

“Do you want to come over for dinner with Don and me?” she asks as I walk her to her car.

Don is my stepdad. He and Momma married about eight years ago. He’s a good man, and he loves and cares for my momma, which makes him one of my favorite people.

“No, thanks. Elle and I are going over to Bellamy and Brandt’s house to check out her new she-shed tonight,” I answer.

Bellamy is my other best friend. She, Elle, and I have been inseparable since we were children. The two of them have been my rocks the past year. I honestly don’t think I