by Lisa Norato
They now lived in Florida. Rick kept in touch, sent birthday cards and Christmas gifts. They regarded him as family, but with work and traveling, Rick didn’t get the opportunity to visit often. Despite all he owed Chris, he felt like an outsider. He wasn’t a blood relation to any of them and had lived in his stepfather’s home only a short while.
Over the years, his heart developed a habit of avoiding deep emotional attachments. He supposed, if he had to be honest, his mother’s desertion still ate away at his confidence on some deep, unconscious level. Her failures at relationships — those with her mother, her only child, her spouses — hung over him, making him doubt he could be any more successful at family life. He was content with things the way they were and had no desire to invite disappointment and heartache into his world.
Forty minutes later, his run complete, Rick found himself back at the small park that marked the village center. It occupied a corner lot with a gazebo at its center, surrounded by shrubbery and strung with lights. A picnic table sat under the elms. A couple of park benches overlooked the scene and a World War II memorial.
Across the street, a sewing center had opened up in the building that had once housed a post office stop for the railroad. According to the sign overhead, it was now “The Quilt & Curtain,” a freshly-painted shop of sky blue with pristine white shutters that had maintained the boxy construction and overhang of a nineteenth-century post office.
Its cozy appeal drew him, and Rick wondered why he’d never noticed it before when passing by on his way home from a run. Probably because his thoughts had been full of his workday ahead. But now late afternoon shadows fell lazily across the small porch decorated with an autumn display, consisting of a scarecrow with pigtails, hay bales, and potted mums. Orange lights twinkled around the frames of two square windows on either side of the door.
The sign in the door window read “Open,” and he climbed onto the porch. He had no expectations of finding a birthday gift for Stella here, especially since he had no idea what he was looking for, but the shop was inviting and he was curious.
Rick wiped his sweaty brow with a sleeve. A historical marker by the door read “U.S. Post Office 1875-1958.” He swiped his palm on his gray sweats and reached for the knob.
Swinging open the door, he stepped inside. A bell tinkled overhead and more than a dozen young girls, about ten to twelve in age, glanced up from their seats at two long tables positioned on either side of the small shop. They’d been chatting incessantly but stopped to gawk at him in surprise.
“Hi,” he greeted awkwardly, uncomfortably aware he had interrupted a class or junior sewing circle of some kind. The girls’ surprised expressions turned to amusement as they dropped their sewing to look him over carefully, some twisting in their seats for a better view, all except for a round-faced blonde in the back who waved her hand in the air while responding, “Hi!”
Their fresh faces seemed to glow in the bright, soft light. LED lighting fixtures illuminated bolt upon bolt of colorfully patterned fabrics filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves. An open oak cabinet displayed spools of thread and festive ribbons and other sewing notions. A center aisle between the worktables led to a back room. He glimpsed an enormous padded table and sewing machine before a petite, pretty woman in jeans appeared in the doorway.
“Hello.” She gave him a warm smile. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Her heels clicked on the linoleum floor as she proceeded towards him. They must have added at least three or four inches to her height, but even at that she only reached him mid-chest.
In fact, she wasn’t much taller than most of the girls at the tables, who had all by now turned around in their seats to give him their full attention.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Not at all.” Tilting her face up to his, he noticed her eyes were neither green nor blue but a blend of both. She had loose waves of mahogany hair, enormous doe eyes and a cute pixie nose. “This is your first visit to the shop?”
Rick nodded. “I’m new to the neighborhood. I bought the pink Victorian up the street. I pass by here every day on my way to the bike path.”
“Welcome to Elm’s Corner.” She held out her hand, which Rick accepted. “I’m Victoria Russo, the shop owner. I make custom draperies and quilts.” She smiled at the girls. “And hold sewing classes one night a week.”
Rick released her small, delicate hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Russo. Richard Damien.”
“Vicky,” she corrected.
He grinned. “Rick. Custom draperies, great. I’d be interested in talking to you about curtains for my home. It’s a historically registered Victorian, and I’m trying to maintain its period integrity inside as well as out. I’d like to use reproduction fabrics in a couple of the rooms. But actually, today, I’m looking for a gift.”
“I’d be happy to work with you when you’re ready for curtains, Rick. Let me give you my card. As for that gift, did you have anything in mind? How about a gift certificate for sewing or quilting lessons?”
The girls stared, waiting for his answer.
Whatever had made him come in here? He felt ridiculous, hot, sweaty, and massive beside this petite proprietor and her young clientele inside this colorful dollhouse of a shop. He half expected Vicky to offer him tea in a little china cup.
“I don’t have anything in mind. That’s the problem. I think a quilt may be a little too personal, but whatever I decide, I need it for tonight.”
Sensitive to his self-consciousness, Vicky turned to the girls gawking up at him. “So, you’ve all mastered the blanket stitch, have you? There’s still fifteen minutes left of class, and after I’ve helped Mr. Damien I’ll be coming around to check each of your samplers.”
They dutifully returned to their sewing … or at least pretended to. Vicky smiled back at Rick apologetically and whispered, “Girl scout troop. We meet twice a month.”
The moment her back was turned, the girls glanced up at him again, all except for one shy redhead who continued with her blanket stitches. She worked with her head down, hiding behind one raised shoulder, but even that did not disguise her blush.
“May I inquire who the gift is for?” Vicky asked. “I may be able to help. I do have some finished projects.”
“Is it for your mother?” asked a scout to his immediate left. “I gave my nana one of Miss Vicky’s potholders and she said it was the nicest gift she’s ever got.”
Vicky nodded. “They are lovely. Let me show you.”
As Vicky moved toward some items on display, Rick said, “A potholder might work, actually. She owns a local restaurant and food is her livelihood. But I was thinking of something,” he searched for the right word, “bigger. It’s a birthday gift. But not for my mother. She’s a just very nice lady who has made me feel welcome in Elm’s Corner in the short time I’ve been here, and I consider her a new friend.”
And he wouldn’t mind if the gift also made an impression with her daughter.
“Is she your girlfriend?” asked another.
He shook his head vehemently, his thoughts still on Jamie, but before he could utter a word, another girl asked, “Do you want a girlfriend? Because my sister—”
“I like that pink house,” the blonde in the back interrupted. “I asked my mom if we could paint our house that color but she just laughed.”
“All right, girls, enough,” Vicky warned. “Back to your sewing. Please.”
She glanced up Rick and smiled. “I think I may have just the thing.”
*
Jamie hadn’t intended to be the last to arrive at her mother’s dinner party. Yet here she was, making an entrance, and she couldn’t help but suspect it was unfolding exactly the way Stella had planned.
Heads turned as Jamie stepped through the swinging kitchen doors into the restaurant’s dining area. She grew uneasy under the stares and avoided a natural impulse to search out Rick. But then her mother called out to her, and Jami
e followed the voice to where Stella stood in the glow of the firelight in a red dress, heels, and flowing auburn locks, enjoying a glass of wine with her special guest.
Jamie walked forward and gave her mother a kiss before greeting Rick. He’d taken her advice about not wearing a suit, but he hadn’t exactly dressed down either. He looked good, more pulled together than anyone in her family, with the exception of her mom, of course, in pressed jeans and a dark green crewneck beneath a tan cardigan, his chunky Longines watch flashing on the wrist that held his wine glass.
Stella linked her arm with one of Jamie’s, a subtle way of keeping her daughter from escaping. “I feel so happy. So proud, Rick. What more could a mother wish for on her birthday than to have been blessed with such a beautiful daughter. You agree?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. In fact, it’s remarkable how much you resemble each other now that I’m able to get a good look at Jamie without the baseball cap and ponytail.” He raised his wine glass to them. “Here’s to gorgeous Italian women.”
He was smiling at Jamie with awe and a bit of surprise. Jamie squirmed and her mother tightened the grip on her arm, as Rick gave Jamie a thorough once over. Really? The man had no subtlety. As for her mother, Jamie knew what Stella was up to and it was wrong. So wrong.
Originally, Jamie had arrived at the restaurant in time to help push tables together, lay the place settings, and fold the napkins into fleur-de-lis. She lit votive candles around the area where they’d be dining and along the bar. Stella had selected IL Volo and a couple of Dean Martin classics to be played over the sound system. IL Volo was singing “Mamma” when her mother intercepted her with tears in her eyes. That song never failed to move her.
She then sent Jamie home to change into something “prettier” than the jeans and sweater she’d chosen to wear. Jamie had been instructed to fix her hair, put on jewelry and not return until she was wearing a full face of makeup.
Jamie recognized a losing battle when faced with one. There was no use arguing with her mother on the ways of amore. Especially when Stella was feeling emotional.
It had taken a while to select an outfit that would both appease her mother and still be something Jamie would feel comfortable wearing. She chose a pair of lapis skinny jeans and a vintage-inspired tank of tiered, ivory crocheted lace. Over it, she wore a marled, shawl-collar sweater with her UGG boots, charm bangles on her wrists and a pair of thin silver hoops strung with lapis beads.
Rick gazed into her eyes. His teasing smile set off the dimple at the corner of his mouth. “I see the similarities between you — the family resemblance, a beautiful head of hair, both strong-minded women. But that’s where the resemblance ends.”
Jamie didn’t know whether he’d meant to compliment her or not, but she didn’t want him prying into her psyche or peering into her soul with those striking blue eyes. She excused herself to greet her grandfather and welcome her Auntie Angie with kisses.
“I haven’t seen you in months,” Auntie Angie complained, giving Jamie’s cheek a pinch. “But, ooh, you grow more bellissimo every time I do, eh, Santo?”
Auntie Angie was her grandfather’s older sister, and as usual, she had claimed the head of the table and was already picking away at the antipasto platter. With her great girth and bad knees, she would be content to remain there for the rest of the evening.
“So, Santo, what do you have planned for dessert?” she asked, as Jamie headed for the bar where her father sat on a stool, talking to her brother, and wearing high top work boots to support his healing ankle.
Matt was behind the bar, looking like a goomba in a graphic T-shirt he more than likely had fished out of the hamper on his way out the door. Those unruly black curls on top of his head and a jaw that looked as if it needed a shave, no matter the time of day, contributed to his shady image.
Did Ma not think to check his wardrobe this evening? It wasn’t fair. He’d always been able to get away with anything because he was male.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Her dad drew her near with one strapping arm and planted a kiss on her temple. “Gosh, you look beautiful.” Releasing her, he reached for a glass mug and Jamie caught a whiff of mulled cider. “I was talking with Rick, and he’s excited about the work you’re doing for him. I hear you’re going to demo the brick fireplace surround and install a Victorian mantelpiece. And also work with him to create a period feel to the kitchen. I’m proud of you, Jamie. I don’t know that I could have done better myself. Thank you for stepping in when I needed you. I couldn’t ask for a better business partner.”
Matt snorted.
“I hope you’re still not disappointed about losing the house,” her father said, ignoring him.
Jamie shrugged. “I’ve accepted it. Actually, I’m enjoying the project. You know how it is, Dad. It’s not often we get to do historical restoration on the interior of a house. Most homeowners are either looking to modernize or aren’t interested in making the financial investment.”
Matt leaned across the bar and gave her a once over. “You look like you’re dressed for a date.”
A fiery blush crept up her neck to the roots of her blown-dried and freshly-styled hair. She didn’t trust his grin. “What? No. I am not dressed for a date,” she spat back in a hushed voice. “What’re you talking about?”
Why would he suggest she was on a date?
Their mother. Jamie swung around in the direction of the fireplace where she could hear her mom and Rick conversing in fluent Italian. Look at them. How can they have so much to say to each other? Why wasn’t her dad over there, keeping an eye on his wife?
Jamie scowled, knowing her father was too laid back and too good-looking to experience jealousy. He was the all-American type, movie star handsome, with dimples and dirty blond hair that grew in thick waves, graying at the temples, all at an impressive six-foot-three.
Neither he nor Matt would ever suspect Stella of anything more than entertaining her husband’s client. She would certainly never share her premonition of Rick’s doomed romance with Vera and risk their disapproval or let them in on her scheme to place her daughter next in line as a love interest for Rick.
So why Matt’s remark about a date?
As if sensing her stare, Rick tore his gaze from her mother and looked across the dining room at Jamie. She found it unsettling the way he’d instantly tuned into her, and she turned away in time to catch her father glaring his displeasure at Matt. Her father shook his head in warning, then noticed Jamie watching him and quickly recovered with a smile.
What were they up to?
“Your brother’s just giving you a hard time. Hey, you’ve got to taste this hot cider. Matt, pour some for your sister.”
Jamie eyed her brother distastefully. “A T-shirt, really? Would it have killed you to make an effort?”
Matt lifted the lid on a crockpot, releasing an insanely wonderful fragrance of apples, cinnamon, and cloves. “Not that I owe you an explanation,” he said, ladling cider into a glass mug, “but I got sweaty in the kitchen helping Papa roll meatballs. He had me roll tiny meatballs for the soup, too. If you ever did anything around here besides eat, you’d know how hot it gets in there.” He dropped a cinnamon stick into the hot cider and slid the mug toward her. “I needed to change, and this was all I had in the car.”
Jamie gave a snort of uninterested acknowledgment, picked up the steaming mug and helped herself to a crostini from a platter on the bar. She bit into the toasted bread and crunched the flavors of her grandfather’s garden tomatoes, sweet roasted garlic, and fresh basil — all homegrown in the backyard of the home where he lived with her parents. Where Jamie now lived as well, having sold her starter home — a tiny fixer upper — to buy the Victorian, which she then lost to Richard Damien.
“Mmm, good,” she said between chews. “I’m starving. When do we eat?”
“We’re waiting on Dylan. And here he comes,” her father announced, gesturing to the young man with a nod.
Jamie turned, stu
nned to see the newest member of her construction crew enter the dining room from the direction of the rest rooms. Dylan wore a pair of dark wash jeans and a black fine gauge sweater that drew attention to his athletic physique.
Rick looked equally surprised to see him but offered Dylan a quick smile and a hand in greeting.
Jamie sipped the hot cider, studying the scene suspiciously. “Why has Dylan been invited to Ma’s birthday dinner?”
“Dad’s idea.” Mischief shone in her brother’s dark espresso eyes, and he answered her confused gawk with a bounce of his brows.
Jamie turned to her father for an explanation. He shrugged. “I’ve seen how hard Dylan’s been working and thought he’d enjoy the night out. I knew he wouldn’t turn down the food.”
Jamie wasn’t satisfied and her glare told him so.
Her dad straightened on his barstool, clasping his hands between his knees. “I’ve decided to hire him full-time as an architect. Our business is expanding. Homeowners are choosing older homes or historical reproductions, and we’re starting to take on bigger restoration projects. I could use a hand on the architectural side of things, and Dylan’s construction experience is a plus. I oversaw all the plans, but Dylan did most of the creative work in designing Rick’s carriage house garage and converting some of the small upstairs bedrooms into a master suite. He has talent, and you seem to work well with him. I feel he’s proven himself a valuable addition, and you’ve said as much yourself.”
True, she did praise Dylan’s talent. Her dad was currently the sole licensed architect of J. Kearly Restoration. This was a big step for the company and showed her father’s great faith in Dylan.
She felt a twinge of jealousy. “So, you’ve already made this decision. Without consulting me first, Dad?”