Sins & Needles

by Reagan Davis

  “No worries.” I smile and drag my hand out from under hers.

  “Also,” Jules adds, lowering her chin and looking up at me coyly from beneath her long, well-maintained lash extensions. “I was hoping you could put in a kind word for me. Maybe you could say something like, I think Jules would be perfect for the role of Mama.”

  I don’t like being manipulated.

  “Jules,” I say, sitting up a little straighter in my chair, “I’m happy to give the gift bag to Claire on your behalf, if I see her, but that’s all I can do. Besides, I don’t even know Claire, so my opinion won’t mean anything to her.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” Jules responds matter-of-factly. “I’m told Claire and your father used to be very close. I’m sure it’s not a coincidence that she’s attending this book fair and visiting your store. I mean, you must be friends, otherwise why would an author as famous as Claire Rivera attend a book fair in this hick little town?” She chuckles, ignorant to the casual insult she just made.

  I’m offended, and judging by the way Connie is smoothing her silver, chin-length bob with her chin held high, I’m not the only one.

  Connie opens her mouth to speak, but I speak first, hoping to stop her from saying something she might regret. Connie is fiercely protective of the people she loves and of our sweet, tight-knit community. I think Jules Janssen just lost a fan.

  “Like I said,” I stand up, “I’ll pass along the gift to Claire if I see her. If not, I’ll leave it at the front desk at your hotel.” Following my lead, Connie and Jules also stand up.

  Connie opens the door that separates the back room from the store. “It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Janssen. I hope you enjoy your stay in our hick little town,” she says in an over-the-top, saccharine-like voice with a fake smile plastered on her face.

  “It was lovely to meet you, too, Connie,” Jules responds, seemingly oblivious to Connie’s intended sarcasm. “Here,” she says, thrusting a business card at me. “This is my private number. Call or text me if Claire says anything at all about my gift, a potential movie, anything.”

  I take the card and smile. Jules gathers her auburn tresses and twists them into a bun, which she covers with her baseball cap. Then she dons her sunglasses and tugs the brim of the cap to shield her face. She hoists her backpack onto her shoulders.

  “Have a nice day,” I say.

  Jules walks briskly toward the front of the store with her head down.

  I gesture for Connie to exit the back room ahead of me, but she closes the door, places her hands on her slim hips, and quirks an eyebrow.

  “Claire Rivera used to be close to your father?” Connie asks. “Neither you nor Mitchell have mentioned this before.”

  “Actually,” I say, securing Jules’s business card to the side of the fridge with a magnet, “we told you. We just didn’t use Claire’s name.” I resume my seat at the table in the kitchenette.

  “I’m listening, my dear,” Connie says, taking the seat across from me.

  “Remember about ten years ago when my dad’s author assistant resigned out of nowhere, then became an overnight sensation with a book series that my dad swears was his idea?”

  Connie nods, then gasps when the realization hits her. “You don’t mean Claire Rivera is the assistant who stole Mitchell’s idea?”

  I nod. “That’s what my dad says. He swears the Familia series was his idea. He hadn’t written any books, but the series was in the development stage, and he had made extensive notes when Claire quit. Then less than a year later, out of nowhere, she hit the best-seller lists with the first Familia book.”

  “Why didn’t Mitchell do something?” Connie asks. “Couldn’t he have sued her or something?”

  “He considered it,” I admit, “but he didn’t want to give her any more oxygen, as he likes to say. He believes there’s no such thing as bad publicity, and he didn’t want to help make Claire’s series more popular than it already was. Also, he didn’t want to appear bitter, like he resented his former assistant’s success. He confronted her privately, but she denied it. So, he did nothing. He kept writing his books and moved on with his life.”

  “Does Claire know you own Knitorious?” Connie asks. “Is she coming tonight intentionally to see you, or will she be shocked you’re here?”

  I shrug and shake my head. “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same questions. She emailed me at the store email address, but when I replied, I signed the email, Megan Martel. She knows my dad is attending the book fair. Back in the day, before my father accused her of plagiarism, she knew I lived in Harmony Lake. Claire and I were never close, but we were friendly. We haven’t spoken since she resigned as my dad’s author assistant.”

  “It sounds like tonight might be more interesting than we were expecting,” Connie observes.

  We stop talking when someone knocks on the door. Marla opens the door enough to peek her head in.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, ladies.”

  “You’re not interrupting anything, Marla,” I assure her.

  “Megan and I were just talking about the book fair,” Connie adds.

  “Would one of you mind standing on the sidewalk and telling me if the book fair banner in the display window is straight and centred?” Marla asks.

  “Of course,” I reply, standing up.

  “Megan, you take the sidewalk, and I’ll help Marla in the window,” Connie instructs.

  Stepping onto the sidewalk, I squint into the midday sun. I should’ve grabbed my sunglasses. I position myself on the curb and use one hand as a visor to keep the sun out of my eyes as I squint at the store window.

  I use my free hand to point to my left. “To the left,” I shout, even though they can’t hear me.

  Marla and Connie nod, then move the banner to the left.

  “Stop,” I shout, holding up my hand in a stop motion. They stop, and I give them a thumbs-up.

  I point to the right, then jerk my thumb upward. The right side needs to move up a little. Marla complies, and I wave when she raises it enough. Then I give them another thumbs-up.

  I’m about to go inside when something catches my eye. In the blur of my peripheral vision, something moves around the corner, in the laneway that leads to the parking lot, behind the store. I check for traffic, then step backward, off the curb, and onto Water Street. I crane my neck and squint, trying to peek around the corner. It’s Jules Janssen. The back of her baseball cap and backpack are facing me. She’s not alone. A younger, well-dressed, bald man stands in front of her. They’re stance is intimate and friendly, and they’re in each other’s personal space. He’s smiling and laughing. He’s handsome. His hand moves to her butt, further convincing me they’re more than friends. He stoops down and kisses her. Yup, definitely more than friends.

  If someone told me this morning that I’d catch A-list celebrity Jules Janssen canoodling with a tall, handsome stranger in the alley beside my store, I would have said they were crazy, but here we are.

  Chapter 3

  Marla and Connie go home to freshen up before they meet their favourite author, and I sit down at the harvest table near the back of the store and work on a miniature, needle-felted Sophie. It’s for my daughter, Hannah. I plan to turn it into a key chain and give it to her when she comes home for the summer in a couple of weeks.

  Stabbing is oddly satisfying; nothing relieves stress like stabbing something over-and-over with a sharp, barbed needle.

  The bell over the door jingles, bringing me back to reality.

  “Megastar, where are you?”

  My best friend, April, likes to call me nicknames that are puns of my name. Today, I’m Megastar.

  “I’m here,” I say on my way to the counter.

  April places a large, white confectionery box on the counter, and we have a tight hug. Then she squats down to greet Sophie, who’s acting like she might explode if April doesn’t acknowledge her right now.

  “The needle-felting display looks ama
zing,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I respond. “We worked hard on it. There are a lot of bandaged fingers in Harmony Lake this week because of this display,” I tease, referring to all the crafters who accidentally stabbed themselves instead of the fibre.

  “Are you ready for Claire Rivera’s visit?” April asks, using Claire’s first and last name.

  I nod. “As ready as we can be. I’m waiting until the last minute to put out the finger food.” I point to the confectionery box with the Artsy Tartsy logo on the lid. “What’s this?”

  April and her wife, Tamara, own the local bakery, Artsy Tartsy. Tamara is a talented pastry chef, and her creations are famous around here.

  “A little something for your event,” April replies.

  She opens the box to reveal cookies shaped like stacks of book spines. Tamara used icing to make the book spines look like the Familia series of books. She captured the colours, titles, and even the font with perfection.

  “Oh, April!” I gasp in disbelief at the artistry. “Please tell T she’s outdone herself. These are beautiful!” I resist the urge to pick one up.

  T is what we call Tamara.

  “She wanted to do something special,” April explains. “We’ll be selling these, along with other bookish treats, during the book fair.”

  “These will take centre stage on the table,” I declare, carrying the box to the harvest table.

  I tidy my needle-felting supplies and head to the kitchenette in search of a platter to display the cookies.

  “Has Claire confirmed she’s still coming?” April asks, following me into the kitchenette.

  I shake my head. “No, but she hasn’t backed out, either, so I assume she’ll be here.”

  “Do you think it will be weird?” she asks. “Because of her history with your dad? I can be here if it’ll help,” she offers.

  “That’s sweet.” I smile. “But I know you and T are working all hours baking for the book fair. I’ll be fine on my own. Besides, Connie knows about Claire and Mitchell’s history, so if I need support, she’ll have my back.”

  I find the platter I’m looking for; it’s in the cabinet above the fridge. Seeing me struggle on my tippy toes, my tall best friend reaches above the fridge with little effort and retrieves it for me.

  “Thank you for helping your short friend,” I joke.

  April and I are opposites in more than height. Where she’s tall and willowy, I’m short and curvy. Where she has straight, blonde hair, I have long, curly, brown hair. April has blue eyes and a year-round tan, whereas I have hazel eyes and fair skin.

  “What you lack in height, you make up for in personality, Megapop,” April reassures me. “Anyway, you’re in good company. T is friends with the chef at King of the Hill, and he said Jules Janssen is shorter in person than on the big screen. She’s about your height. Good things come in small packages.”

  “He’s right,” I agree. “She is my height. I didn’t realize it until you mentioned it.”

  “How do you know how tall Jules Janssen is?” April asks, her eyes narrow.

  “I met her today,” I reply. “She came to the store incognito.”

  “Spill!” April demands.

  While we plate the bookish cookies, then plate and arrange the rest of the food, I tell April about my discussion with Jules, the gifts she wants me to give to Claire, and her cozy conversation with the unknown man in the alley beside Knitorious.

  “If Jules’s plan works, and Claire agrees to talk to her because of you, you’ll be able to say you’re the reason they made the Familia books into movies,” April theorizes. “Maybe they’ll include your name in the credits.”

  “As what?” I ask. “Artist liaison? Mutual acquaintance? Small-town hick?”

  April stops plating finger sandwiches and looks at me. “Small-town hick?”

  I tell April about Jules’s offhand remark about Harmony Lake, and I think Jules just lost another fan.

  We finish plating the cheese and crackers, and the bell over the door jingles. Connie, Marla, and a handful of charity knitters enter the store together.

  “I have to go,” April whispers. She stands up and pushes in her chair. “Text me if you need anything. I can be here in less than five minutes. Two if it’s for drama.”

  I nod. “I will.”

  April gives me a smile and says hi and bye to everyone on her way out.

  After the last charity knitter arrives, I lock the door and replace the OPEN sign with the CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE FUNCTION sign we hardly ever have occasion to use.

  I make the rounds, greeting each person and thanking them for coming. Then, while everyone exchanges compliments, admiring the display and each other’s needle-felting prowess, I slip into the kitchen to make tea and coffee.

  While putting coffee and tea condiments on a tray, a dull thud at the back door gets my attention. Not a knock, more like a kick.

  “Hello?” I say through the closed door.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice replies, sounding strained. “A little help?”

  “Oh, my goodness!” I say when I open the door to a young, blonde, full-figured woman who’s buckling under the weight of a cardboard box. “Let me help,” I insist. “You’ve really got your hands full.”

  “Careful, it’s heavy.” The mystery woman grunts as we ease the box from her arms to mine. “Thank you,” she says with a heavy sigh. “As much as I love books, they’re heavy when you pack lots of them in the same box.” She chuckles.

  I place the box on the table in the kitchenette. “I didn’t order any books,” I say, confused and wondering if she’s delivering them to the wrong store.

  “Claire brought them for the needle felters who made the Familia display,” she explains. “They’re signed. We weren’t sure how many to bring, and we probably brought too many.”

  “Oh,” I say, struck with comprehension. “You’re with Claire!” I smile. “Hi! I’m Megan Martel. It’s nice to meet you.” I extend my hand.

  “Dina Langley,” she responds, shaking my hand. “Claire Rivera’s assistant.”

  “Will Claire be joining us, or are you here on her behalf?” I ask, pouring water from the kettle to the teapot.

  “Claire’s in the car. She’s finishing a call. She’ll be right in,” Dina replies. “I hope it’s all right to use the back door. I don’t think I could carry that box around to the front.”

  “Of course,” I assure her. “I’m glad I was nearby to hear you knock—er, kick.”

  I pick up the tray of tea and condiments to carry them to the harvest table in the store, with the finger food.

  “Let me take that for you,” Dina suggests. She’s already taking the tray from me before she finishes her sentence. “I’m dying to see the display.” Her smile is genuine and warm.

  “Oh, do you needle felt?” I ask, letting go of the tray.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “But I’ve watched Claire do it, and I admire the creativity and skill. The little forest animals are my favourite. I think they’re adorable.”

  A sharp rap at the back door brings an abrupt end to our conversation. On my way to open it, I tell Dina where to put the tray, thank her for her help, and tell her to help herself to the refreshments.

  I take a deep breath and brace myself to see Claire for the first time in a decade. For the first time since she betrayed my father.

  “Megan.” Claire’s smile is warm but cautious. “Do you remember me? Claire Rivera? I was Mitche...”

  “Of course, I remember you, Claire!” I smile and she pulls me into an awkward hug. “You look the same as you did ten years ago. Why haven’t you aged?” I ask when I pull away.

  It must be the dimples; For whatever reason, dimples make people look younger. At thirty-five, Claire is six years younger than me, but she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. It helps she has ageless features; her large brown eyes, round face, and dimpled cheeks suggest youth. She styles her brown hair the same, just below her shoulder
s with bangs. Claire Rivera looks exactly as I remember.

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” she replies. “You’re radiant.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “How’s Hannah?” she asks.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and open the camera roll. “You might regret asking that,” I tease.

  Claire and I spend a few minutes getting caught up. She moved to the West Coast after she resigned as my father’s assistant, and she never married because Familia takes up most of her life. I sense a hint of resentment in her voice when she talks about how much of her life she devotes to her book series. I show her more pictures of Hannah than she needs to see and tell her about the divorce. Our interaction is less awkward than I expected, and I sense Claire feels the same way; our mutual relief is palpable.

  “I’m sad I won’t see Hannah while I’m here,” Claire says. “But I’m glad she’s doing well at university.”

  Behind Claire’s back, Connie pops her head into the room and arches her brows, giving me a look that asks if everything is OK. I smile at her and subtly nod.

  “I hope we can get together and catch up while you’re in town,” I say, “but I think you should make an appearance in the store before the charity knitters accuse me of keeping you to myself.”

  “Of course,” Claire says. “Where’s Dina?” She looks around the small room. “We’ll need her to carry the books.” She points at the box on the table.

  “I’ll carry the books,” I offer.

  When Claire enters the room, the collective gasp from the charity knitters sounds like we’re deflating a giant air mattress in the store. Within seconds, Claire’s fans surround her, clamouring to be next to introduce themselves and shake her hand.

  I place the books near the door, so each guest can take one when they leave. When I stand up, I notice the top of Dina’s head near the floor, behind the sofa, and in front of the display window.

  “Are you OK?” I ask, approaching her.

  “We’re fine!” Dina flashes me a wide grin and looks up at me from the floor where she sits cross-legged with Sophie’s head resting in her lap. “I’m not antisocial,” she explains. “I just love dogs. And this one is so sweet that I can’t stop rubbing her.”