Deydie bobbed her head up and down. “We need you to take care of something for us, Emma.”
Bethia shook her head.
Deydie went on. “We’re going to put you in charge of the Gandiegow Doctor quilt—the top of it, anyways,” she added.
“No.” Emma shook her head more emphatically than Bethia. “I don’t plan to be here long enough to make a quilt.” She looked over at Gabriel and saw he was staring back at her. She turned away, really blushing now.
She couldn’t make something for him. Especially a quilt. It was too personal. Too intimate. Nessa used to say, “Quilts are love made tangible.” But Emma couldn’t wrap her mind around Gabriel wrapping himself in a blanket she had made for him. A comfort to him on cold winter nights. Would he be reminded of her? Would he remember her fondly? Or would he hide the quilt away, not wanting to think about the kiss they’d shared last night, the one he felt he should apologize for. A kiss that caused regret in him instead of a smile. Emma’s face heated more. She would most certainly burst into flames if she didn’t set the ladies straight right now. About sewing, anyway.
“When I said I know how to sew, I meant little things—darning socks, a throw pillow, a simple blouse.” Emma waved a hand toward all the craft and creativity going on. “Not anything like all of this.”
Rhona broke away from Father Andrew and joined them. Moira, too, the same woman who had helped Claire with the breakfast this morning.
Moira gazed at her shoes. “We’ll help you with the quilt.”
The gray-headed Rhona was more direct. “No one in this town gets away with not being connected to Quilting Central in one fashion or another.”
Emma peeked over at Gabriel one more time and felt panicked. He might be considered perfection on so many levels. “But if I made the Gandiegow Doctor quilt, it wouldn’t be nearly good enough.”
Deydie patted her arm a little roughly. “It’ll be good enough.” Emma waited for her to add for an outsider.
But what Deydie said was, “For him.”
“But—” Emma tried.
“We need ye, lass. Ye and Claire.” Deydie grabbed Claire’s arm, as well. “Ye see, with this retreat popping up like a winter storm, we’ll not have time to finish the quilt for the doc.”
“It’s a tradition, dear.” Apparently, Bethia had bailed on Emma and gotten on board with Deydie. “The first Christmas a doctor is here, he gets the Gandiegow Doctor quilt as a present.”
Deydie pulled her closer. “Straight stitches is all ye’ll need. Nothing harder than sewing the pieces together. Simple as gooseberry pie.”
“I’m not a quilter,” Emma argued. “And there’s nothing simple about gooseberry pie.”
“Ye’ll be a quilter by the time we’re done with you” Deydie cackled. “Moira will be your teacher.”
Moira gave her a sheepish smile. “Aye.”
Emma turned to Claire. “You have to help, too. I’m not making it alone.”
Claire grinned like the kid who’d gotten out of chores. “Good luck with it. I’ll not have time to help ye. I have the scones, the restaurant. But you enjoy yourself.” She patted Emma on the back.
“Clairrrre.” Whining wasn’t becoming of a lady, but Emma did it, anyway.
Deydie harrumphed. “Ye’ll not be alone in it, lass.” She motioned to the whole room. “You have all of us.”
At that, Father Andrew cleared his throat and the room went silent. “Everyone, if we could all bow our heads.”
Emma bowed her head. It was a prayer about loving work with loving hands, eloquent and to the point. When he finished and the room resounded with an Amen, she looked up and saw Gabriel glance at her.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered, turning away.
Claire shook her head. “You can’t cuss in the Church of Quilting.”
Deydie pulled Emma over to a machine and pushed her into the chair. “I’ll get ye started. It’s important you make the seams exactly a quarter inch. Ye’ll use this special presser foot as yere guide.” She gave her a scrap of fabric and showed Emma how to position the foot up against the edge to get the seam the right width.
Emma stared at the pile of blue-and-white-print fabrics cut into pieces beside the machine next to her. She felt overwhelmed and caught in Deydie’s web.
“Surely there’s someone else,” Emma tried one last time.
Deydie smacked her on the back good-naturedly. “Ye’ll do just fine, lass.”
Emma knew what the old woman was doing, but she didn’t know her well enough to make the accusation. You want this quilt screwed up because you don’t like your new doctor.
“’Tis easy.” Deydie took the pieces and arranged them in a block. It was pretty. “Sew these together. Then make another random block.” She shook her finger at her. “Don’t try to make a pattern with the blue prints. We want this quilt to be scrappy.”
Yeah, Emma thought. A mess. A clear message to their doctor that he doesn’t deserve anything better than their scraps.
Deydie looked up then and hollered, “Not there, Ailsa.” She turned back to Emma. “Ye’ve got everything you need. Moira, watch her.” And the old woman rushed off.
Great. Emma stared at the blocks and for a moment thought about leaving. Not just Quilting Central, but Gandiegow altogether. Fast, before the quilting ladies could tackle her. She looked up and found Gabriel gazing at her intently. A warm flush came over her, perhaps a full-on flood. It settled into her unmentionable areas—probably just like it had with all the other women before her who had fallen for his charms. He had the power to melt a woman’s underthings right off her. She gave him a weak smile and picked up the first pieces of fabric. If the women of Gandiegow didn’t care how this quilt turned out, then Emma wouldn’t, either. “Jolly well, then.” She started sewing.
Slower than a purposeful turtle, Emma stitched that first seam, keeping the quarter-inch foot squarely on the edge. When she finished, she held up the two pieces, now sewn together, and inspected them. “Not bad for a beginner.”
“That’s very good.” Moira handed her another two blocks. “Later I’ll show you how to chain-stitch the blocks so you can make them faster.”
“Ye’ll have to speed it up,” Deydie barked from directly behind her. “We need it done by this Christmas, not by next.”
Emma tried to ignore her, making sure her seams were straight, and finally completed the first block—a blue-and-white star with extra points. Moira took it from her to press.
Out of the corner of Emma’s eye, she noticed Claire going from woman to woman, speaking animatedly to the females of Gandiegow. What she said to each one caused initial concern in their eyes; then they would pat Claire’s arm and give her a hug.
“What are you up to, Claire?” Emma murmured.
“Excuse me?” Moira lay the pressed block beside her.
“Nothing.” Emma positioned the fabric into the next block.
Deydie’s hand hit the table, making the fabric jump. “Faster, lassie.” She huffed away.
Emma picked up two more pieces and realized her troubles were only adding up—enough troubles to piece into her own mess-of-a-life quilt.
Her dead career, her parents, Claire and Dominic’s marriage, whatever Claire was up to right now, the MacTavish baby, Deydie, and the Gandiegow Doctor quilt.
And at the top of her list right now, the doctor himself.
When Emma looked up this time, Gabriel had his back to her while he talked to an older gentleman. Her relief at not being examined by the doctor from across the room was only temporary, though. Her thoughts went back to him pushing her up against the wall and kissing her. Heat filled her face, chest, and other private areas. Yes, the doctor was at the top of her list.
And here was the problem she had with Gabriel: She didn’t know if it was just all in her mind. Should she forget that
kiss had ever happened? Or should she face the problem head-on and kiss him again—as an experiment—to see if the chemistry between them was real?
* * *
Deydie hobbled over to where Gabe stood with the McDonnell. “I need ye to start singing.”
“What?” Gabe looked to the McDonnell to see if this was normal behavior for the old woman.
The McDonnell laughed. “Deydie, you can’t mean me. Ye know I sing as well as a walrus with a sore throat.”
She turned her glower on Gabe. “’Tis time to quit resting on yere laurels and earn yere keep. Sing a carol to keep the out-of-towners busy.” She harrumphed. “Ye’re not terrible. I’ve heard ye at church. We’ve a situation.” She pointed to a woman by the fireplace who had a cell phone to her ear. “We just need one song until our master quilter finishes her call.”
“What am I supposed to sing?” Gabe asked.
“A Christmas carol,” she urged.
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
“Close enough. Now get on with it,” she growled.
It wasn’t the most pleasant of requests, but . . . he did want the town to be more receptive to him, so he broke into “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
“On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .” He looked over, and Emma stared back. He motioned to the packed room as the rest of them turned his way. “Come on, everyone, join in. A partridge in a pear tree.” And thank God they did, or else he would’ve looked ridiculous.
Emma’s eyes stayed glued on him, all kinds of emotions playing on her face. Mostly she seemed perplexed. He could’ve used a big smile from her for encouragement. He only got frowning. Was he off-key and didn’t know it?
“On the second day of Christmas . . .”
Also, for the past fifteen minutes, he really had been trying to figure out what Emma Castle was doing behind a sewing machine—Emma! Since he’d arrived in Gandiegow, he’d observed the quilters and how much talent, time, and patience it took to stitch a seam, let alone make a whole quilt. It was a real craft. As hard as repairing any engine. He couldn’t wrap his mind around Emma sitting behind that machine like she belonged there.
“On the third day of Christmas . . .”
And wouldn’t Emma consider sewing beneath her station in life? Miss Designer Suits toiling behind her machine held a certain homespun appeal, and he had to admit that it turned him on to see her across the room, picking out fabrics and piecing them together.
“On the fourth day of Christmas . . .”
The McDonnell pounded him on the back and winked, nodding toward the town’s newest quilter. Gabe shot him a couple of daggers. He couldn’t stop the song to tell the older man that he didn’t feel that way about Emma. Gabe couldn’t even call her a friend. An acquaintance of more than a decade, maybe.
“On the fifth day of Christmas . . .”
But something was definitely amiss, because he felt like he’d taken a cricket bat to the chest.
He put Emma out of his mind and continued on with the song by rote. It was then that he noticed the crowd that had gathered around him. The other men of Gandiegow had come to stand next to him, a surprising show of solidarity. The quilting women of the village joined them, too, one by one. It looked as if the town had rehearsed this Norman Rockwell moment and performed it especially for the retreatgoers.
He saw the master quilter put away her phone and enjoy the rest of the song from her place by the hearth. Emma, he noticed, dropped her head down like she’d been caught spying. It was best she was done staring at him; he was done staring at her, too.
When the song ended, he headed straight for the door, not saying a word to anyone. And making sure not to look back to see her behind the sewing machine. He needed to talk to Dom. He needed help and he needed it now.
As he walked down the boardwalk, a shout came from the pier.
“Doc, come here and give me a hand.” It was Ramsay with a large crate.
Gabe rushed over to the pier and took one end. “What’s in here?”
“Fish.”
“Isn’t it late to be out? And dangerous, too?”
Ramsay smirked at him. “Nah. I’m fine.”
“Where are your brothers?”
“John is home with his wife and kid. I don’t know where Ross is off to.”
“Aye.” Gabe adjusted his hands to get a better grip.
“I thought the ladies might enjoy fresh fish for their retreat. If our chef will fix it up for them, of course.”
“I’m sure Dom would be happy to oblige. I was just going that way.” Gabe groaned.
Ramsay laughed. “Not too heavy, is it?”
“Nay.” Gabe forced a weak smile back.
At the restaurant, Ramsay helped unload the fish into the cooler for the next day’s fare but then stuck around, not giving Gabe a chance to talk to Dominic alone.
“How about we head over to the pub for a dram?” Ramsay suggested.
“Gabe, you go on without me,” Dom said. “I have to get prepared for tomorrow.”
“I’ll stay and help,” Gabe offered.
“No. Showing you what to do will only take longer.”
“But—” Gabe tried.
“Go,” Dom insisted. “I’m terrible company.”
Gabe promised himself that later he’d lecture Dominic and tell him that he wasn’t the only person in Scotland with problems. At least Dom’s problems could easily be fixed: take his wife to bed and give her a baby.
Gabe’s problems, though, lingered at the opposite end of the spectrum. There was a bed he wanted to crawl into, with a certain woman whom he shouldn’t want. He needed to find a way to eradicate thoughts of her from his mind.
“Good idea, Ramsay,” Gabe acquiesced. “I could use a strong drink.”
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Emma cornered Claire in the restaurant. “What was going on between you and the other women last night? What were you saying that had them looking so concerned?”
“There isn’t time for talking. The retreatgoers will be starving. Frigid Highland air burns more calories than hours of exercise, ye know.”
Emma wasn’t buying it. Claire was definitely dodging her questions. But why?
“Go on now,” Claire said, shooing her with her hands.
“Just know that this talk isn’t over.” Emma stowed the huge batch of scones along with fresh fruit in the wagon and hurried to Quilting Central.
A storm was brewing out in the ocean, making her move faster down the boardwalk. When she got to Quilting Central, she hustled the scones inside and set them up on the food table.
Deydie and Bethia roamed over and each took a blueberry scone as the retreatgoers filed in.
“Ye better get back to work on that quilt, lassie,” Deydie said. “It ain’t going to make itself.”
“Ye were planning to stay, weren’t you?” Bethia said kindly.
“I guess.” Emma thought about how Claire didn’t want her around.
Deydie poured her a cup of tea. “Stay hydrated. Quilting is a marathon, not a light jog around the village,” she cackled.
From across the room, a woman about Emma’s age smiled at her and gave a little wave, but then went to help one of the out-of-town quilters.
“May I ask who that is?” Emma said.
“It’s me granddaughter, Caitie Macleod Buchanan.” Deydie motioned to the whole room. “All of this was her idea. She’s a smart one, my Caitie.”
“It’s quite an enterprise,” Emma agreed.
Deydie grabbed a broom and swept the crumbs by Bethia’s feet. “Ye’re getting the floor all dirty.” She turned on Emma with a glare. “Ye do have to actually use the machine to get the damned doctor’s quilt done, ye know.” She shoved Emma toward her work area.
Deydie tod
dled off to the long-arm quilting machine, gathering some of the local women around her. She looked almost like she was directing traffic, giving each woman specific instructions. Dread came over Emma. She had the feeling that Claire’s goings-on last night and Deydie’s machinations today were connected. Maybe Emma should go back to the restaurant and force Claire to tell her what the town’s women were up to.
But as Emma rose, Moira joined her, taking a seat.
“I’m going to teach you how to chain-stitch today,” the shy woman said.
“All right.” Emma sat back down, knowing she should be grateful for the instruction, but what she really wanted was to get to the bottom of the mystery playing out in front of her.
Moira tapped the fabric. “I usually get several pieces lined up and ready to sew.” Her soft voice brought Emma’s attention back to the task at hand.
While the morning workshop began, Moira gave Emma her private lesson. She demonstrated how chain-stitching the quilt pieces—sewing pieces one after another without breaking the thread in between—could be a huge time-saver. Emma mastered the technique quickly, gaining more confidence with every stitch. Her seams were straight and bore the correct quarter-inch width. By late morning, her shoulders were stiff. She stood and stretched, examining the work she’d done on Gabriel’s quilt. No. The Gandiegow Doctor quilt.
But that’s when she noticed something strange happening at the doorway of Quilting Central. The local women were grabbing their coats and filing out one by one.
* * *
Dominic had made an early start this morning and had already been to Inverness for the extra supplies needed for the spur-of-the-moment quilt retreat. He’d also been up late planning the catering menu and prepping what he could. But, hell, what else would he have done with those hours? He certainly wasn’t spending it with his wife.
When he walked into the restaurant loaded down with sacks, he was surprised Claire wasn’t there with the last of her late-morning customers. Either she had stepped into the kitchen for more scones or into the privy for a moment. He greeted customers as he walked through, but stopped at the kitchen doors. What if Claire was up to more tricks? Surely she wouldn’t be lying on the prep table, prepped for him. Or, even worse, she could be in one of her foul moods and standing near the recently sharpened knives. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the swinging doors.
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