by Tracey Drew
Rosie pursed her lips. “They’re carob, not chocolate. Vegan and gluten free.”
As per the neatly printed sign in front of them. Doh. “I don’t think anyone will mind as long as they taste good.”
Rosie added folded arms to her body language of insulted café owner. “Of course they taste good. Mum baked them fresh this morning.”
“Splendid.” Who, other than those in the over-sixties age group, says splendid? Obviously, I was spending way too much time with Harry and the predominantly retired patrons of Unraveled. “I’ll have a half dozen, thanks.”
“Diet blowout, Tessa?”
Oh, so she did remember my name.
If not for the reason why I’d ventured into Rosie’s lair in the first place, I would’ve met snark with snark—I was no longer that scared little mouse hiding in corners.
Harry, I reminded myself. For Harry.
“They’re for the Crafting for Calmness class tonight.”
Rosie cocked her head, ponytail swinging jauntily to one side. “You’re taking over that?”
The disbelief in her tone needled me harder than her diet comment. “I believe I’m capable of running a weekly class until Harry’s up to it again. Anyway, knitting and crochet are great for relaxation and mood boosting. Maybe you should try it.”
I’d said more than I’d intended, and I certainly hadn’t meant to extend an open invitation to what I’d begun to think of as my class.
“My aunt raved about Nana Dee-Dee’s weekly get-togethers.”
Maybe I imagined it, but Rosie’s glacial expression appeared to defrost slightly at my nana’s name. Until one of the customers in the line forming behind me oh-so subtly cleared their throat.
Aaaand the permafrost reappeared in Rosie’s eyes. “Cake and slice coming up.” She snatched up a couple of to-go boxes on her way to the cabinet.
While studiously ignoring her transferring baked goods, I stared at the café’s community noticeboard. Too far away to read any of the flyers, I flicked my gaze across the photos submitted for some fundraising competition and listened to snippets of conversations from the surrounding tables.
“…and I reminded her of his outrageous behavior last Wednesday night.”
“…of course, my Cydney took top prize…”
“…a Kiwi version of a young George Clooney.”
“…spinach, not seaweed. Just try it, sweetie, pretty please?”
“Here.” Rosie interrupted my eavesdropping by sliding the two boxes across the counter. She rang them up.
Since there seemed nothing more to say, other than thanks—because I was raised to use my manners regardless of anyone’s snotty attitude—I headed to the exit.
Balancing the two boxes, I strode back toward Unraveled, choosing the other side of Cape Street this time to keep the cake and slices in the shade. I’d just reached the far corner of the old butcher shop when the door slammed open, and Ed Hanbury marched out.
If I had to use one word to describe the town’s grocery store owner, it would be uptight. From his not-a-strand-out-of-place nineteen-forties gentleman’s haircut to his stiff white button-down shirt and polished dress shoes, Ed normally epitomized that word. Today, however, his hair stood in jagged spikes, his tie and shirt collar sat askew, and blotches marred his milk-pale complexion.
As he whirled around in the doorway, Ed didn’t see me partially hidden behind an outside display of inflatable beach toys. He smacked his palm against the open door, slamming it into the outer wall and setting the wind chime hooked over the back jingling like Santa’s sleigh bowling over a reindeer.
“I’m not the only one in town who wants you gone,” Ed shouted into the shop. “Go peddle your imported garbage somewhere else.”
I didn’t hear the response to Ed’s angry outburst because he released the door and gave it a helpful kick on its way closed. His mouth pulling into an exaggerated frown, he straightened and smoothed down his hair, after which he swiped what I assumed was a product-slicked palm down his pants leg. He made a harrumphing sound, which startled me and my right elbow. It jerked sideways, hit a blown-up seahorse, and sent it and a dozen other psychedelic inflatables bouncing to the ground.
Ed whipped his head to the side, catching me gawping over my cake boxes and surrounded by dolphins, orcas, and a ghoulishly grinning shark.
“Hey, Mr. Hanbury.”
“Miss Wakefield.” His gingery eyebrows arrowed down. “I’m sorry you had to witness that unpleasantness.”
“Oh, it’s noth—” Something squished beneath my foot with a hiss as I shuffled forward a half step. A bug-eyed mermaid glared up at me.
“Nevertheless, I stand behind my accusation. Lucas Kerr is a”—Ed glared through the store’s front window—“is a parasitic leech sucking dry the blood of this town.”
Before I could offer my opinion, Ed stomped past me and strode back toward his store. I lifted my foot off the partially deflated mermaid, who was giving me the stink eye, and calculated the odds of reviving her with mouth-to-mouth. Still softly hissing, she was growing skinnier by the second.
Not good then.
“Tess?”
My brother’s familiar voice jerked me around. He reached out to steady me as I stumbled, and another innocent sea creature hissed in despair. Luckily, I kept my grip on the café boxes.
“Whoa, now.” Sean laughed, and I looked up into his face.
His exceptionally handsome face that, more often than not, got him into trouble with women who should know better. Yes, I’m biased about his outward appeal. Yes, I know he’s made some not so savvy decisions over the years. And yes, as the youngest sibling and only boy with three older sisters, he’s probably been coddled and excused far too much.
But he was still my baby brother.
“Move out the way before you hurt yourself or drop those boxes,” he ordered. “I’ll sort this out.”
Stepping aside, I angled my head toward Ed’s retreating figure. “What was that all about?”
Sean’s nose crinkled. “Old Ed ranting at my boss?”
“Yeah. He seemed pretty steamed.”
“Eh.” Sean shrugged then stooped to collect an armful of inflatables. “He’s always got a flea up his butt about something or someone. This month’s flavor is Lucas.”
I couldn’t help myself. “A bug up his butt.”
A blank look. “Whatever. Some sort of insect.” He stacked the squeaky, non-hissing PVC inflatables back on the stand and shot a wary grimace toward the store. “Ed’s not all wrong.” His voice dropped to a conspirator’s level. “There’s a rumor going round that Lucas wants to turn this place into a more permanent store. Dad’s been hearing grumbles about declining sales and discussions on what can be done through DOPE.”
DOPE being the acronym for Discovery’s Organization of Professional Entrepreneurs, something Rosie’s father, who started it a way back, hadn’t considered when naming it. Ed was one of the founding members and the loudest squeaky wheel.
I opened my mouth to ask more, but Sean shook his head with another darting glance. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Come over first thing tomorrow morning before I open up. I’m on the first shift alone. I need your sisterly advice on something.” He gave me a wonky smile—one which could turn the knees of half of Cape Discovery’s female population to jelly—and disappeared inside.
Shivery spider legs scurried down my spine as I crossed the road. Out of all my siblings, Sean was the one least likely to ask anyone for advice. That he had was tantamount to the four horsemen of the apocalypse riding into town.
Two
That evening, Beth Chadwick was the first to arrive at Unraveled. A sixty-something widow and longtime regular customer, she waddled into the workroom like she owned majority shares in the business. After casting her beady-eyed stare around, she examined the food set out on the worktable that dominated the room, then sniffed her approval. She chose a seat near Harry, who sat at the far end of the rectangular table.
It was a badly kept secret that Beth had a teeny crush on my granddad.
Right behind Beth came Mary and Gerald Hopkins, perhaps the cutest elderly couple ever. After my grandparents, of course. Another longtimer, Mary was the founding rebel crocheter, who insisted that she and three other ladies be called the Happy Hookers. Thus differentiating them from the knitters, who jokingly referred to themselves as the Serial Knitters. Believe me, there was much heated discussion and controversy among the group over that! I suspected poor Gerald only tagged along for the cake and company. And because he clearly adored his feisty wife.
Next, in quick succession, arrived three of the groups’ younger members. There was Skye Johnson, a new-to-town hairstylist, whose multi-colored streaked locks and Doc Martens combat boots shot the older ladies’ gray eyebrows up to their equally gray hair. Isabel Burton, Cape Discovery High School’s principal, who couldn’t have pets due to allergies so had to satisfy herself with keeping treats in her bag for Kit and Pearl. And lastly, Haley Cole, heavily pregnant with her first child and knitting baby hats and booties as if she expected the kid to have six plus heads and ten feet.
Fifteen minutes after everyone had unpacked their current project and sat down with their hot drink of choice, Pamela Martin, owner of Chic Threads clothing boutique, made her grand entrance. Sweeping in on a gust of cooler evening air, she swirled around the room to air-kiss everyone, leaving a wash of cloying perfume in her wake. Pamela was Rosie Cooper’s aunt, and, if pressed to make a choice, I’d rather be stuck in a room with my old nemesis. At least Rosie made no bones about disliking me—although, strangely enough, she’d added a half dozen extra slices to the to-go boxes free of charge.
Pamela was more of an expert in passive-aggressive warfare. And while I didn’t think she loathed me, I certainly wasn’t on speed-dial if she needed a cappuccino pal.
“Dreadfully sorry I’m late,” she announced as if we’d all been on tenterhooks waiting for her to make an appearance. “But I stopped to chat with the pop-up store’s proprietor. He’s a most charming, urbane man. Gracious”—she fanned her face dramatically—“I’m all discombobulated.”
She plopped into a spare seat and turned to Haley, who sat next to her. “Darling, would you get me a cup of tea? I’m parched after all that scintillating conversation.”
Before Haley could maneuver her baby belly out from under the table, I leaped to my feet. “I’ll get it, Pam.”
Pamela slitted her thickly-coated-with-mascara lashes at me. “It’s Pamela, darling. Pam sounds so dreadfully common.”
I glanced over at the corner of the room, where an electric kettle and a selection of mugs, tea bags, and a fragrant pot of coffee sat on the counter, next to the sink. “Sorry, Pamela. English breakfast or Earl Grey?”
Her nose crinkled. “Dee-Dee always had green tea with lemon tea bags set aside for me. Do you have any of those?”
“They’re upstairs in the pantry,” Harry said. “I can fetch them for you.”
“No, I’ll do it. You’ll lose your place if you put down your needles.” I dipped my chin to the complicated Fair Isle beanie he was knitting—a hat Nana Dee-Dee hadn’t had time to complete.
As I walked toward the door, Skye rolled her eyes at me in silent solidarity, and Mary whispered something in her husband’s ear that had him clicking his tongue in agreement.
“Oh, and Tessa?” Pamela called from her seat as I reached the open doorway between craft room and store. “On the return trip, can you fetch me a couple more balls of that delicious magenta yarn I bought the other day? You know, the possum-merino blend. Just put it on my tab.”
Have I mentioned Pamela’s a yarn snob? Fortunately, her expensive taste in yarns and tendency to hoard them was one of the reasons my grandparents had stayed in business.
“Sure.”
I slipped through the brightly lit store and trailed my fingertips up the worn banister as I climbed the stairs. The cozy apartment felt more like home than my own family home. As a kid, I’d spent many hours with my grandparents, whereas my older sisters preferred socializing with their peers, and my brother was busy with after-school rugby training. While Harry worked at Cape Discovery’s small police station, I dropped stitches and eventually knitted wonky scarves under Nana Dee-Dee’s patient tutelage.
Tears prickled the corners of my eyes as I pushed open the kitchen door and crossed to the pantry. “Miss you so much, Nana.”
A soft mew at my ankle jerked my gaze down. Pearl stared up at me with an unnerving focus that had me convinced she understood my lame human emotions.
“Guess you’re after a treat.” With a sniff, I reached down to tickle between her pointy ears—often the only safe spot to touch on her lithe body.
Pearl rose on her hind legs and bunted my palm then rested her front paws on my legs. All the while keeping her razor-sharp claws sheathed. She tapped her soft pads against my bare skin and mewed again, arching her spine.
Huh. Anyone who didn’t know her better would think she wanted to be picked up and…cuddled? Against my better judgment, I scooped her up, and she snuggled into the crook of my neck, purring into my ear.
“You miss her too, don’t you?” Tears spilled down my cheeks and rolled off my jaw, a couple of them plopping wetly onto her fur.
Pearl’s purring ceased, and she reared back to give me the evil eye for daring to let anything wet touch her body. Then, with a whisker twitch, she hauled herself up, up until she’d draped herself around my neck like a fur stole.
Once comfortable, she resumed her purring.
I froze, too stunned—and maybe a fraction terrified—to move. The only person Pearl sat on like this was Nana Dee-Dee. The only person. Ever.
Until tonight.
And for some weird ‘woo-woo’ reason, I felt Nana Dee-Dee nearby…and that my nana had passed her love, and yes, some responsibility, onto my shoulders.
After finding the green tea at the back of the pantry, I crouched to countertop height and tentatively tickled under Pearl’s chin. “Pamela’s here tonight, so you’d better stay in the apartment.”
Claws flexing on my shoulder, Pearl stood then jumped onto the counter, her tail flicking from side to side as she strolled away.
“Sensible choice.”
Pamela was one of those people who didn’t get that cats chose whether they wanted to interact with you, not the other way around.
Dabbing my tear-damp eyes with a tissue, I headed back downstairs. After noting the extra yarn on a scrap of paper to add to Pamela’s account—which, along with the rest of Unraveled’s admin, I’d taken it upon myself to shift into the digital age—I selected two balls from the shelf and returned to the workroom.
Fortunately, Pamela’s needles were a clicking blur as she chatted to Haley about her brother’s new baby, and how scandalous it was to have a child at his age, but nevertheless, these things happen. Quietly setting the yarn by her elbow, not wanting to draw her attention to my bloodshot eyes, I kept my gaze down. As I prepared Pamela’s drink, I listened to the soothing clicks and rustles of crafting with half an ear but was unable to ignore the conversation between Skye and Mary, who were positioned closest to me.
“…went in for some of that caramel popcorn, even though it sticks to Gerald’s dentures, and came out with scented candles, a new set of steak knives, and even a few balls of cheap and cheerful acrylic.” Mary shot me an apologetic glance. “Sorry, Tessa, but it was less than two dollars a ball, and it’ll be perfect for making next year’s Christmas decorations.”
Less than two dollars a ball?
We couldn’t possibly compete with those prices, even with the few synthetic yarns we stocked. Nana Dee-Dee had believed in supporting local spinners and dyers, who used natural fibers such as wool and alpaca, and blends with silk, cotton, and bamboo. We supplied other branded yarns to remain competitive, but our suppliers understood Unraveled’s loyalties would always lie with locals.
However, Mary looked so worried that
I pushed my concerns aside. “Don’t be silly, Mary. Of course you had to grab a bargain when you saw one.”
Her gnarled fingers relaxed around her crochet hook. “He was very persuasive, I must say.”
“Who? Sean?” Skye, working on a slightly wonky-sided scarf that Mary was teaching her to crochet, bounced upright in her chair.
I mentally sighed at the way her eyes lit up.
“Gracious, no.” Mary chuckled and pointed a finger at the extra chain in the pattern that Skye had forgotten to add. “I meant the owner, Lucas. He’s quite dashing. Like a young Cary Grant.”
Skye poked out her tongue, the silver stud in it catching the light. “If you’re into that whole used-car-salesman vibe. The man’s a creeper.”
Isabel glanced up from the shawl she was knitting, spots of color pinking her cheeks. “Has he done or said something inappropriate to you?”
“Nah. Nothing like that.” Skye repositioned the yarn around the fingers of her left hand. “I guess he might be okay once you get to know him. Like the new English teacher at your school. My sister thought he was stuck-up at first, but he’s just a little shy.”
“Oh, is that Sven Andrews?” Haley said. “The Star Wars superfan?”
“That’s him.”
The conversation then veered off into favorite teachers and the use of pop culture in high school classes. Once I’d finished brewing the green tea, I carried the mug over to Pamela and picked up a cherry and carob slice for myself. As I returned to my seat at the table, I took a bite.
Although I hated to admit it, Rosie gave good slice.
And while I successfully commanded my brain not to worry over how many calories were in carob versus chocolate, I couldn’t stop it from wondering if the pop-up store’s cheap and cheerful yarn was the reason Unraveled’s January sales had been a lot slower than usual.
I made a mental note to ask Sean about it tomorrow.
The next morning, I was up with the birds. Or, to be more precise, the yowling of cats and the tweeting, wild fluttering death throes of a bird. As Armageddon could arrive with the dawn and my granddad would still sleep through until precisely seven thirty, when his alarm clock beeped, I crawled out of bed to see what Pearl had dragged in through the cat door downstairs. Before the cats spread bird guts and feathers all through Unraveled.