by Maisey Yates
“What makes you say that? You’re actually the worst matchmaker in the entire world.”
“No. I might have been wrong about Elliott. But it was Elliott who ultimately brought us together. And I’m going to go ahead and take credit for that.”
“If you’re going to think of it that way, then it was Elliott, blacksmithing and Barbara Niedermayer.”
“All right, all right,” Rose said, snuggling against him. “Maybe it was everything.”
Warmth spread through his chest, love so bright and heavy it was painful. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it might’ve been everything.”
Everything. All the pain, all the uncertainty, the doubt, the fear, had brought them here to this moment.
And he knew that whatever happened from this point on, they would be together.
And that was the happiest thing that he could possibly imagine.
EPILOGUE
IT WAS LOGAN’S first Christmas as a husband. And more notably, the first Christmas he had truly celebrated since he was sixteen years old.
He bought presents for everybody. Maybe too many. Especially when it came to Rose, who he had been lavishing for the last eleven days. She had called him unbearably cheesy. But she had also accepted her presents cheerfully.
Tomorrow morning, they would all open presents together around the tree. And it would be the first time for him since he let it all become grief and misery. And somehow it felt like magic. That here he was, on Christmas Eve, beneath swirling snow falling from the sky, holding on to his wife’s hand.
His mom would be really proud of this life. This one that he found himself living now. Full of laughter and healing.
And family.
“Are you ready?” Rose asked. “I hear tell that the Christmas Eve barbecue doesn’t last long. Because there are so many Daltons that it all gets consumed quickly.”
He had been slow to build a relationship with the Daltons, particularly Hank. West was easy, since he already knew and liked the man. The other brothers and McKenna... It was coming along.
But this was the first time that he’d consented to go to something at their house. Because it had felt right. Because it was Christmas. And he was just ready. Ready to set aside whatever ill will he had felt toward Hank. Any anger he had left inside of him at Tammy.
Because he had discovered something else over this past year. That life could expand and grow in infinite, wonderful ways when you quit putting it in a box. That there could be joy so deep and real you hadn’t known it could exist, so long as you quit holding on to anger.
He was ready to test the limits of that joy.
“Well, then, I guess we better go inside,” he said.
“Just a second,” Rose said, suddenly tugging on his hand and stopping him from walking forward.
“Why? You’re the one that said we had to go inside.”
“I know. And I wasn’t going to say anything to you, not until tomorrow. But...I have to tell you.”
“You have to tell me what?”
“I hope you’re going to be happy.”
“You have to tell me now.”
“You’re going to be a father.”
That word echoed inside of him. Father. Something he’d never had, and even now that he was building a relationship with Hank... It still wouldn’t ever be the same.
But he was going to be a father.
He was.
“It’s a miracle,” he whispered. “It really is.”
“Are you happy?”
He picked Rose up off the ground and spun her in the snow. When he set her back down, his eye caught the necklace she wore around her neck. The one he had given her last Christmas. The one that had been his mother’s.
He reached out and touched it, then touched her face. “Rose Heath, you make me happier than I ever thought I could be.”
And he knew that from now on Christmas would forever be this moment.
This moment with his wife, the woman he loved more than anything else. This moment when he had found out he would be a father.
The greatest gift of all, because Rose had taken something dark and full of guilt and shame, and had turned it into the most beautiful moment he could’ve ever asked for.
She had taken his grief and turned it into joy.
She had taken guilt and turned it into love.
She had taken a broken man and made him whole.
He wrapped her in his arms, and he kissed her. “I will love you forever, Rosie.”
She smiled. “Forever is a long time.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s the thing. It’s forever.”
* * *
When Lark Ashwood returns home to Bear Creek, Oregon, she is determined to realise her dreams of setting up a craft café. She’s equally determined to avoid the history she’s been running from – especially when it comes in the irresistible shape of local garage owner Ben Thompson. But as Lark embarks on a quilting circle with her mom and two sisters, she soon realises that the key to her future lies in unlocking the past...
Read on for a sneak preview of Maisey Yates’s emotionally compelling new novel for HQN
Confessions from the Quilting Circle
Confessions from the Quilting Circle
by Maisey Yates
one
March 4th, 1944
The dress is perfect. Candlelight satin and antique lace. I can’t wait for you to see it. I can’t wait to walk down the aisle toward you. If only we could set a date. If only we had some idea of when the war will be over.
Love, Dot
Present day—
Lark
Unfinished.
The word whispered through the room like a ghost. Over the faded, floral wallpaper, down to the scarred wooden floor. And to the precariously stacked boxes and bins of fabrics, yarn skeins, canvases and other artistic miscellany.
Lark Ashwood had to wonder if her grandmother had left them this way on purpose. Unfinished business here on earth, in the form of quilts, sweaters and paintings, to keep her spirit hanging around after she was gone.
It would be like her. Adeline Dowell did everything with just a little extra.
From her glossy red hair—which stayed that color till the day she died—to her matching cherry glasses and lipstick. She always had an armful of bangles, a beer in her hand and an ashtray full of cigarettes. She never smelled like smoke. She smelled like spearmint gum, Aqua Net and Avon perfume.
She had taught Lark that it was okay to be a little bit of extra.
A smile curved her lips as she looked around the attic space again. “Oh, Gram...this is really a mess.”
She had the sense that was intentional too. In death, as in life, her grandmother wouldn’t simply fade away.
Neat attics, well-ordered affairs and pre-death estate sales designed to decrease the clutter a family would have to go through later were for other women. Quieter women who didn’t want to be a bother.
Adeline Dowell lived to be a bother. To expand to fill a space, not shrinking down to accommodate anyone.
Lark might not consistently achieve the level of excess Gram had, but she considered it a goal.
“Lark? Are you up there?”
She heard her mom’s voice carrying up the staircase. “Yes!” She shouted back down. “I’m...trying to make sense of this.”
She heard footsteps behind her and saw her mom standing there, gray hair neat, arms folded in. “You don’t have to. We can get someone to come in and sort it out.”
“And what? Take it all to a thrift store?” Lark asked.
Her mom’s expression shifted slightly, just enough to convey about six emotions with no wasted effort. Emotional economy was Mary Ashwood’s forte. As contained and practical as Addie had been excessive. “Honey, I think most of this would be boun
d for the dump.”
“Mom, this is great stuff.”
“I don’t have room in my house for sentiment.”
“It’s not about sentiment. It’s usable stuff.”
“I’m not artsy, you know that. I don’t really...get all this.” The unspoken words in the air settled over Lark like a cloud.
Mary wasn’t artsy because her mother hadn’t been around to teach her to sew. To knit. To paint. To quilt.
Addie had taught her granddaughters. Not her own daughter.
She’d breezed on back into town in a candy apple Corvette when Lark’s oldest sister Avery was born, after spending Mary’s entire childhood off on some adventure or another, while Lark’s grandfather had done the raising of the kids.
Grandkids had settled her. And Mary had never withheld her children from her. Whatever Mary thought about her mom was difficult to say. But then, Lark could never really read her mom’s emotions. When she’d been a kid, she hadn’t noticed that. Lark had gone around feeling whatever she did and assuming everyone was tracking right along with her because she’d been an innately self focused kid. Or maybe that was just kids.
Either way, back then badgering her mom into tea parties and talking her ear off without noticing Mary didn’t do much of her own talking had been easy.
It was only when she’d had big things to share with her mom that she’d realized...she couldn’t.
“It’s easy, Mom,” Lark said. “I’ll teach you. No one is asking you to make a living with art, art can be about enjoying the process.”
“I don’t enjoy doing things I’m bad at.”
“Well I don’t want Gram’s stuff going to a thrift store, okay?”
Another shift in Mary’s expression. A single crease on one side of her mouth conveying irritation, reluctance and exhaustion. But when she spoke she was measured. “If that’s what you want. This is as much yours as mine.”
It was a four-way split. The Dowell House and all its contents, and The Miner’s House, formerly her grandmother’s candy shop, to Mary Ashwood, and her three daughters. They’d discovered that at the will reading two months earlier.
It hadn’t caused any issues in the family. They just weren’t like that.
Lark’s Uncle Bill had just shaken his head. “She feels guilty.”
And that had been the end of any discussion, before any had really started. They were all like their father that way. Quiet. Reserved. Opinionated and expert at conveying it without saying much.
Big loud shouting matches didn’t have a place in the Dowell family.
But Addie had been there for her boys. They were quite a bit older than Lark’s mother. She’d left when the oldest had been eighteen. The youngest boy sixteen.
Mary had been four.
Lark knew her mom felt more at home in the middle of a group of men than she did with women. She’d been raised in a house of men. With burned dinners and repressed emotions.
Lark had always felt like her mother had never really known what to make of the overwhelmingly female household she’d ended up with.
“It’s what I want. When is Hannah getting in tonight?” Hannah, the middle child, had moved to Boston right after college, getting a position in the Boston Symphony Orchestra. She had the summer off of concerts and had decided to come to Bear Creek to finalize the plans for their inherited properties before going back home.
Once Hannah had found out when she could get time away from the symphony, Lark had set her own plans for moving into motion. She wanted to be here the whole time Hannah was here, since for Hannah, this wouldn’t be permanent.
But Lark wasn’t going back home. If her family agreed to her plan, she was staying here.
Which was not something she’d ever imagined she’d do.
Lark gone to college across the country, in New York, at eighteen and had spent years living everywhere but here. Finding new versions of herself in new towns, new cities, whenever the urge took her.
Unfinished.
“Sometimes around five-ish? She said she’d get a car out here from the airport. I reminded her that isn’t the easiest thing to do in this part of the world. She said something about it being in apps now. I didn’t laugh at her.”
Lark laughed, though. “She can rent a car.”
Lark hadn’t lived in Bear Creek since she was eighteen, but she hadn’t been under the impression there was a surplus of ride services around the small, rural community. If you were flying to get to Bear Creek, you had to fly into Medford, which was about eighteen miles from the smaller town. Even if you could find a car, she doubted the driver would want to haul anyone out of town.
But her sister wouldn’t be told anything. Hannah made her own way, something Lark could relate to. But while she imagined herself drifting along like a tumbleweed, she imagined Hannah slicing through the water like a shark. With intent, purpose, and no small amount of sharpness.
“Maybe I should arrange something.”
“Mom. She’s a professional symphony musician who’s been living on her own for fourteen years. I’m pretty sure she can cope.”
“Isn’t the point of coming home not having to cope for a while? Shouldn’t your mom handle things?” Mary was a doer. She had never been the one to sit and chat. She’d loved for Lark to come out to the garden with her and work alongside her in the flower beds, or bake together. “You’re not in New Mexico anymore. I can make you cookies without worrying they’ll get eaten by rats in the mail.”
Lark snorted. “I don’t think there are rats in the mail.”
“It doesn’t have to be real for me to worry about it.”
And there was something Lark had inherited directly from her mother. “That’s true.”
That and her love of chocolate chip cookies, which her mom made the very best. She could remember long afternoons at home with her mom when she’d been little, and her sisters had been in school. They’d made cookies and had iced tea, just the two of them.
Cooking had been a self-taught skill her mother had always been proud of. Her recipes were hers. And after growing up eating “chicken with blood” and beanie weenies cooked by her dad, she’d been pretty determined her kids would eat better than that.
Something Lark had been grateful for.
And Mom hadn’t minded if she’d turned the music up loud and danced in some “dress up clothes”—an oversized prom dress from the ’80s and a pair of high heels that were far too big, purchased from a thrift store. Which Hannah and Avery both declared “annoying” when they were home.
Her mom hadn’t understood her, Lark knew that. But Lark had felt close to her back then in spite of it.
The sound of the door opening and closing came from downstairs. “Homework is done, dinner is in the Crock-Pot. I think even David can manage that.”
The sound of her oldest sister Avery’s voice was clear, even from a distance. Lark owed that to Avery’s years of motherhood, coupled with the fact that she—by choice—fulfilled the role of parent liaison at her kids’ exclusive private school, and often wrangled children in large groups. Again, by choice.
Lark looked around the room one last time and walked over to the stack of crafts. There was an old journal on the top of several boxes that look like they might be overflowing with fabric, along with some old Christmas tree ornaments, and a sewing kit. She grabbed hold of them all before walking to the stairs, turning the ornaments over and letting the silver stars catch the light that filtered in through the stained glass window.
Her mother was already ahead of her, halfway down the stairs by the time Lark got to the top of them. She hadn’t seen Avery yet since she’d arrived. She loved her older sister. She loved her niece and nephew. She liked her brother-in-law, who did his best not to be dismissive of the fact that she made a living drawing pictures. Okay, he kind of annoyed her. But still, he was fin
e. Just... A doctor. A surgeon, in fact, and bearing all of the arrogance that stereotypically implied.
One of the saddest things about living away for as long as she had was that she’d missed her niece and nephew’s childhoods. She saw them at least once a year, but it never felt like enough. And now they were teenagers, and a lot less cute.
And then there was Avery, who had always been somewhat untouchable. Four years older than Lark, Avery was a classic oldest child. A people pleasing perfectionist. She was organized and she was always neat and orderly.
And even though the gap between thirty-four and thirty-eight was a lot narrower than twelve and sixteen, sometimes Lark still felt like the gawky adolescent to Avery’s sweet sixteen.
But maybe if they shared in a little bit of each other’s day-to-day it would close some of that gap she felt between them.
Lark reached the bottom of the attic steps, and walked across the landing, pausing in front of the white door that led out to the widow’s walk. She had always liked that when she was a kid. Widow’s walk. It had sounded moody and tragic, and it had appealed to Lark’s sense of drama. It still did.
She walked across the landing, to the curved staircase that carried her down to the first floor. The sun shone in the windows that surrounded the front door. Bright green and purple, reflecting colored rectangles onto the wall across from it. The Dowell house, so named for her mother’s family, had been built in 1866, and had stood as a proud historic home in the town of Bear Creek ever since.
The grand landscape, yellow brick that had mottled and taken on tones of red and rust over the years, was iconic, and had appeared on many a postcard and calendar. It had been part of her Gram’s family, but to Lark it had always been Grandpa’s house. When he’d died ten years earlier, it had surprised everyone that the ownership of the place passed to Gram, considering the two of them had been divorced for over forty years at the time. But it had been clear that however deep her grandfather’s bitterness had been, it hadn’t extended to making sure his former wife didn’t get the home that had been passed through her family for generations.