by Maisey Yates
Lark had always been pure in her emotions. Mary had seen her daughter full of brilliant joy, and also screaming down the house in a rage. She no longer flew off the handle, but she was no longer pure in her joy either.
And Mary found herself keeping the crown on her head.
She had worried about Lark’s impetuous nature leading her to heartbreak. Had worried Avery’s desire for the finer things would leave her perpetually unsatisfied. Both characteristics had reminded her of Addie.
She’d worried less about Hannah, who had charted a course when she’d been a child and gotten right to work on meeting her goal. She had some concerns about Hannah’s happiness at times, because you never could tell, but when it came to life, she knew Hannah would be okay. She didn’t worry about Avery anymore. She’d been a silly girl in high school, but marriage and motherhood had taken that and honed her into the perfect suburban specimen. She was everything Mary had never known how to be.
Friends with other mothers, perfectly put together. A gourmet cook. Perpetually on the ball with her kids’ busy schedules, and took time to get manicures with her daughter on top of it. Actually liked getting manicures.
Mary might have had trouble connecting with Avery at times, but she must have done something right with her.
“Avery,” Lark said. Her tone was cajoling, but Avery was unmoved.
“No. I don’t go to costume parties.”
“This isn’t a costume.”
“Okay,” she said, still unmoved, taking a seat in the circle.
Mary sat next to her oldest daughter, and watched as Hannah and Lark moved some boxes around.
“There’s fabric in each of these,” Lark said. “I thought tonight we might go through some of it and choose what we like, and also go over some basic techniques.”
Mary felt that familiar sense of hollowness in her stomach. The one she often got when she was faced with an unfamiliar task. There were so many things that girls around her had simply known because they had grown up with mothers. She knew, logically, that there was no shame in not knowing how to do something.
But not having a natural confidante growing up had forced her to turn inward for strength.
When she’d collapsed on the ground weeping after her dad had told her Addie had left for good, he’d told her crying didn’t fix a thing. He was right, it didn’t.
So through growing up, through periods and hormones and liking boys for the first time she’d just stuffed it all down.
Joe had been the first person she’d ever shared her feelings with really. They’d met when she’d taken a job at a local ranch doing odd jobs when she was eighteen, and he’d been...well he’d looked like a cowboy to her.
And he’d been perfect. Sensitive in ways she never had been and strong in all the right ways.
Still, the feelings of inadequacy she had around all the “normal” girl things she’d never learned never really went away.
And it always seemed to combine with that last memory of her mother. The way she’d found her so unteachable.
She was sixty-five years old. She didn’t put a lot of stock into thoughts like that, not anymore. But even though the thoughts, the worries and the concerns had disappeared from her brain, they remained in the pit of her stomach.
Ideas could be unlearned, but feelings were a part of the very way your body was put together.
Lark pulled out the journal that she had that first day at The Dowell House. “This has the list of fabrics that Gram was intending to use. And they’re buried in these boxes. There are other fabrics too, but we’ll need more. Backing and a base fabric and all of that. But this is her drawing.” She held up a grid that made little sense to Mary. “And these are the fabrics.” She turned the page, and began to show the swatches. “There’s no information or anything on here, just titles.”
“How is this going to work?” Avery asked.
“We’ll each work on our squares. Sometimes here, but we can take everything home, because when we’re finished with the squares we’ll join them all together on the quilt. So, if we can each choose a few fabrics that we like best, we can work them into the pattern that Grandma made. And it looks like we’ll each be making...three squares, and there’s a guide for a big centerpiece, but I can do that.”
“Okay,” Avery said. “That makes sense.”
She stood up from the chair and gave Lark a distinct dirty look as she moved past the crowns, a clear warning that if she were to engage in a guerrilla coronation she would not blithely accept it the way that Mary had. “The parlor curtains,” Avery said, squinting at the page. “Those are pretty.”
In spite of herself, Mary was curious, and she found herself getting up out of her chair and moving closer. The parlor curtains were a rich burgundy velvet brocade. It didn’t surprise her that it appealed to Avery, who liked a traditional looking home, and probably liked the feeling that there was something connected to a family. But a fancy one.
“Those are in this bin,” Lark said, indicating a box of fabric. “If you want to take it home and then go through it, and see what else is there...”
“Sure,” Avery said.
“What’s this one?” Hannah leaned over and tapped a piece of peacock blue fabric that was filled with silver beads. “The party dress.”
Mary noticed that Hannah didn’t seem quite as into this as Avery or Lark, but she could also see a secret fascination shining in her eyes when she looked at that particular fabric.
“I assume it’s a party dress,” Lark said.
“Thanks,” Hannah said, rolling her eyes.
“Well, I don’t have any more information than that.”
“I’ll do that one. It’s pretty.”
“You’ll have to dig until you find it,” Lark said. And Hannah set about busily rifling through the boxes.
Then Lark leveled her gaze at Mary.
“What are you going to pick, Mom?”
“You’re not going to choose first?”
“I can’t decide. There’s so much, and I really like all of it.”
Mary took the book from Lark’s hand and began to turn the pages. She stopped on some cream colored lace that seemed delicate and pale compared to the other fabrics. It simply said wedding dress.
She’d just take that. She didn’t much care and there was no point waffling about it.
“I like this.”
“Was that Gram’s wedding dress?” Lark asked.
Mary shook her head. “No. It couldn’t be. She and Dad didn’t have a real wedding. She wore blue silk for that. They had a picture when I was small. I remember it clearly.” Her dad had kept it, always. It had never made sense to Mary, not when she knew how angry he was with her.
Mary’s father was not a man to speak ill of others, but the icy look in his eye when Addie was mentioned said it all. He’d never remarried. As far as Mary knew, he’d never dated again after his wife had left him. His anger had been like a stone. Silent and heavy and present, whether it was remarked on or not. And after he’d died fourteen years ago, Mary had taken it upon herself to hold at least one corner of her heart in contempt of her mother. Making absolutely certain that full forgiveness was never on offer.
That unspoken tension and resentment lingered in the air between them at birthday parties and holidays. She did more than simply cutting her mother out of her life. She had allowed her in while making her aware that all was still not well. It had felt satisfying when her mother had been there to witness it. And now that she was gone there was something unsatisfying about it. Strangely unfinished.
And it was the oddest thing, because Mary had never meant to resolve things with the woman who had abandoned her when she was four years old.
Because just as she couldn’t go back and remake herself so those insecurities and feelings of failure didn’t exist inside of her, an ap
ology couldn’t undo what had been done. Coming back couldn’t restore what had been destroyed in the first place.
“I’m not sure where any of this fabric came from,” Mary said softly.
“Honestly, with Gram it could have come from anywhere. It could be from different rummage sales. Or people she knew in town...”
“She liked to collect things,” Mary said. “She could make anything sentimental.” It was one of those things that had bothered her about her mother. That she could be so attached to objects, and had left people so easily.
She touched the small square of lace as if it might teach her something. As if she might be able to understand her mother’s connection to such things.
She didn’t. She couldn’t. But she understood that this mattered to her girls. Standing here, in the middle of all this, feeling out of her element completely, for the sake of her daughters.
“I’ll do this one.”
After that, Lark began to talk about quilt construction, and the way that they would work a square. She had one partly finished, and began to explain the steps with the efficiency of a practiced teacher.
“Have you been teaching classes?” Mary asked.
“Here and there,” Lark said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t leave my house. I mean, drawing in your own home and communicating with everybody over email is pretty solitary.”
“I didn’t know that you were teaching.” Mary looked down at the practice square in her lap.
“It didn’t really seem important.”
She had the sense then, when she looked at Lark, of sun slipping behind clouds. Bright and warm, but elusive. But she lived far away for so long, Mary supposed it was only natural for her to forget to include her mother in the details of her life.
It was normal, not a slight.
Mary chastised her nervous fingers as they shook, trying to get the thread through the needle and finding little success. She said nothing, and instead watched her daughters chatter and laugh, looking more and more like the girls they had been as each minute passed.
And that’s why she was here. Not to quilt or confront untied threads from the past.
It was for them. For her girls.
They were happy. Hannah was on the verge of being principal violinist, like she had dreamed of since she was a little girl. Lark, for all that it was easy to seem like she was her pie-in-the-sky daughter, had come up with a business plan, and money in hand to begin this next phase of her life.
And then there was Avery. Married to such a wonderful man, with her two beautiful children, Mary’s grandchildren that she loved with all of her heart.
The girls were happy.
And the sharp, unsettled edges in her own heart didn’t seem quite so important in the face of that.
6
You have never gone so far that you can’t come back home again.
From a letter, unsigned and unsent
Lark
“Can I be your first customer?” Lark’s dad sat down at the counter and picked up one of her printed menus. “This is great, Lark.”
She had been ready for her soft open of The Miner’s House Craft Café. She didn’t do any advertising, she just quietly opened the door one sunny day at noon, with her family there to see it become official.
Over the past couple of weeks her dad had helped install the new counter, which had been built by a local furniture maker. Lark had assembled many of the craft kits that she had begun working on shortly after Gram’s funeral. Her sisters had helped clean the public areas of the space. The front room, where there was a bar and different things for sale, jewelry made by Lark, and other local artisans, local honey and fire cider, along with other folk medicines that were brewed in town. She was set up to serve coffee and had gotten her liquor license so that she could serve alcohol.
There was also a display with craft kits—small needlepointing sets with patterns, thread and hoops. Beading kits and kits to make graphic ink designs using linocut. All things she’d been working on for the last few months ahead of coming back to town.
Hannah sat down on the stool next to their dad. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Beer,” Dad said.
“Beer,” Hannah confirmed.
Her mom and Avery came in a moment later, and sat at the two bar stools down at the end. When Lark put the beer bottles on the counter, her mom gave her father a scathing look. “It’s barely noon,” she said.
“I’m retired,” he said, lifting the bottle. “Time is relative.”
“I’m a musician,” Hannah said, also lifting the bottle. “I do what I want.”
Hannah and her dad clinked their bottles together. “Cheers, Hannah Banana,” he said. “And cheers to you.” He extended the bottle toward Lark, and Lark felt herself warm with happiness.
“Are you going to do a craft, Dad?”
“Not likely,” he said. “I have a shop for that.”
For the first time, Lark realized that she probably got some of her creativity from her dad. He made things, it was just she didn’t think of them in the same way she thought of her own art.
“Are you all set up? Or do you need anything else?” her mom asked.
“I’m going to add more art to the walls. Keep gathering kits and talking to local artists.” She moved from behind the counter. “Come here.”
When they’d been little, Gram had often given them ice cream and set them down at the table nearest to the front of the store where she could keep an eye on them, and given them crafts to do.
Back then, the back rooms had been Gram’s living quarters. Lark had left her bedroom untouched, and it was still filled with her belongings. She couldn’t bring herself to disturb any of them.
The other rooms, though, she had turned into more space.
She led her family back to the room that was connected to the front. Past that was a hallway, another seating area, and then one in the back with a table for large groups. Behind that were the kitchen and bathroom. The kitchen was small, but she didn’t need much room, considering she would be doing more reheating than actual prep.
“Dad, this is where we quilt,” she said, gesturing to the room just behind the bar. It was the space where they had once done crafts in their grandmother’s candy store. Gram’s store had ice cream in the counter, along with walls of candy bins. Shelves filled with candy bars, both modern and old-fashioned. All the rooms had contained tables and chairs, similar to the layout that Lark had now, though she had traded in the round iron tables with matching chairs for eclectic chairs that she had purchased at various yard sales and thrift stores, with scarred, secondhand tables.
“It’s cozy,” Avery said.
“I think so,” Lark said.
“This is great. I have a lunch meeting. I need to go.” Avery pulled her in for a hug. “Best of luck on your opening day.”
“I’m reading at the library,” her mom said. “I’ll come back by later to see how things are going.”
“Hannah Banana and I can hang out for a bit,” her dad said, putting his arm around her sister.
“Maybe I’m busy,” Hannah said.
“You’re not busy. Go finish your beer. Maybe we’ll have one of Lark’s cheese plates.”
Hannah and her dad lingered for another hour before they left, and during that time, a few customers came and went. She had quite a few people come in and ask what was happening, and what the business was. And several of them stayed in the late afternoon and had beer. By the time she closed up, she was feeling more than a little bit tired. She was ready to go back to The Dowell House and lie down in a dark room. But when she got in her car and tried to start it, it only sputtered.
She sighed heavily. She could walk back to The Dowell House. It wasn’t far. But she had more supplies to bring over in the morning, and she really did need a car for carting things a
round.
She sat there for a moment, and then remembered. There had been a mechanic in town back when she’d been in high school. And she hadn’t really taken note of if the building it used to be in was in fact still the same business, but it was only two doors down.
At the very least she could go ask for a jump.
Of course, it was after five and most things in Bear Creek, except the bars and restaurants, closed by then.
She got out of the car and looked down the street, and saw a light filtering through the window of what had once been the garage.
Well. She might as well go check it out.
She started down the street, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the sign above the door still said R&J’s Auto Shop.
And the sign on the door said Open.
She pushed the door open and looked around the room. The small reception area was empty.
Except for a small, orange plastic chair and a fake plant that had seen better days. It was shabby and dusty, and Lark had to wonder what the point of fake shrubbery was if it actually made the place look uglier.
The floor was white tile with mottled gray spots, which worked, because the trim that separated the wall and the floor was also gray, and the white walls were spattered with what was probably oil, but could have been high-octane coffee, judging by the vaguely burned bean smell in the air.
She wondered if they’d just forgotten to lock up and turn the sign over. Which was infinitely possible in her hometown.
The second hand on the clock ticked around twice, and she was starting to wonder if it was a sign that this wasn’t happening and she needed to just walk on home. If the universe was going to prevent her from her quest, then she wasn’t going to argue with the universe.
The universe had seen things.
But just as she was about to turn and leave, the door that separated the reception area from the garage opened.
It was him.
Oh, lord. It was him.
Ben.
Recognition was swift and brutal.
But when she looked at him, she did not see her friend from all those years ago. He was older, that was how time worked, after all. But time hadn’t hurt his looks at all. Not at all.