The Quilting House
Page 11
Epilogue
It was Liesel’s grandmother’s wedding ring which Theo had used to propose. That accounted for the familiarity. Found amongst the family heirlooms in one of the boxes. The bands they exchanged at their intimate wedding ceremony a year later were also heirloom pieces—Theo’s grandparents’, Grandbern and Memaw Linden. Memaw was still alive but more than happy to contribute her band. What she hoped, she’d said, was that Theo and Gretchen would one day have a son or daughter with whom to share her engagement ring. That was the deal in Hickory Grove, after all. Things just floated down, down, down the family line and out into the roots of the town, some way, somehow.
The ceremony took place at the farm, the place she’d be moving away from now that she and Theo were married. He’d been accepted into law school at Louisville, as he planned. They would stay on in the barn until Rhett and Theo finished building a house for them—a real one—on the farm but an acre off, to provide for some privacy for the newlyweds.
Until then, though, they’d have the barn.
Or, as Liesel and Gretchen had since named it: The Quilting House.
In the six months since Liesel first posited her idea of investing in Gretchen’s business, they’d built a solid foundation, initially with Liesel walking Gretchen through her first quilt (a shoo-fly block pattern, or, as Gretchen chose to call it, the hole in the barn door). After that first quilt, which took over a month to finish, what with Gretchen’s two jobs, she found that she could give her notice at Malley’s. This was easier said than done, and Gretchen often found herself enjoying a milkshake and a hamburger there some late afternoons, just for old time’s sake.
As for Liesel, she’d set about researching what a small-town craft store could do for a community. Turned out, it was more than just selling good yarn and fine thread. They’d have classes. Regular classes they’d hold open to the community. Some free. Some paid. It’d all balance out. And with Mark Ketchum and Hickory Grove Unified providing his classroom as a designated space, it worked out quite well.
Over those months, Mark and Liesel spent more time together, too. Mainly when Gretchen was working at the Inn or enjoying dates with Theo, Liesel and Mark would take day trips here and there. It was funny, their commonalities. They had more than they’d ever have guessed.
Of course, that quilt got some good use. Between fish frys and tailgate parties and simple, quiet nights together under the stars, Liesel realized that everything her mother had ever taught her, turned out to be right.
The comfort in that was almost enough to allow Liesel to rest easy on the matter of her own origins.
Almost.
“Congratulations,” Liesel said to Gretchen and Theo as they made their way over to where she sat with Mark, at a back table, out of the way and close to the road, where Mark’s truck sat, packed and waiting.
“Thank you,” Gretchen gushed. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Liesel. I mean it.” Theo gave Liesel a peck on the cheek and echoed his new bride’s sentiments.
Once they’d left, Liesel squeezed Mark’s hand. He dipped his chin toward her. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
She nodded. “Only reason I’d have had a wedding would have been for my mom. But since she’s up there now,” Liesel pointed to the sky, “I reckon she’ll get to come along for the ride anyway.”
Liesel and Mark were eloping. To a beautiful town off the shores of Lake Huron. A place Liesel had been content to give up on but still harbored curiosities about. Especially when she came to learn that there was a little Catholic school there. A place where young mothers used to stay until they had their babies. The place where Liesel Hart was born. Probably where she’d been wrapped in her very first quilt, too.
A place called Heirloom Island.
If you enjoyed this story, be sure to order The Boardwalk House, An Heirloom Island Novel to see where Liesel and Mark’s adventure takes them.
* * *
Join Elizabeth Bromke’s reader club today at elizabethbromke.com.
* * *
Looking for a different read? Check out the bestselling series, Birch Harbor.
Also by Elizabeth Bromke
Birch Harbor:
House on the Harbor
Lighthouse on the Lake
Fireflies in the Field
Cottage by the Creek
Bells on the Bay
* * *
Gull’s Landing:
The Summer Society, a USA Today Bestseller
The Garden Guild
The Country Club
* * *
Harbor Hills:
The House on Apple Hill Lane
The House with the Blue Front Door
The House Around the Corner
The House that Christmas Made
* * *
The Hickory Grove Series
Acknowledgments
What a treat to return to Hickory Grove, Indiana! And along for the ride came some of my dear old friends, including Lisa Lee, my editor, and Tandy O., my proofreader. Thank you both, ladies, for polishing this story up.
My advanced reader team is a special group. Without you, a critical final step of my process would be missing. Thank you for being my cheerleaders!
My friends, especially Mel, Rachael, Gigi, Pam, Cindy, Jan, Lee, Kay, and Charity—thank you for your support in our little corner of the world! Also, to my friends Meagan, Shannon, Erin, and Kara (sisters, in fact) who unwittingly star in each of my books about female friendship. Your influence is precious to me.
Always my family: my parents, brother, sisters, grandfolks, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws… thank you for giving me the tight-knit world of Hickory Grove! My Aunt Margot, Aunt Jody, and Grandpa E. in heaven: I miss you all and think of you often. Love you.
Ed and Eddie, and Winnie, too! I love you so much!!!
About the Author
After graduating from the University of Arizona, Elizabeth Bromke became an English teacher. You can still find her in a classroom today, behind a stack of essays and a leaning tower of classic novels.
When she’s not teaching, Elizabeth writes women’s fiction and contemporary romance. For fun, she enjoys jigsaw puzzles, crosswords, and—of course—reading.
Elizabeth lives in the northern mountains of Arizona with her husband, son, and their sweet dog Winnie.
Learn more about the author by visiting her website at elizabethbromke.com.