Knitted Hearts: A Small Town Romance (Poplar Falls Book 6)

Home > Other > Knitted Hearts: A Small Town Romance (Poplar Falls Book 6) > Page 3
Knitted Hearts: A Small Town Romance (Poplar Falls Book 6) Page 3

by Amber Kelly


  “Here we are,” Momma says as she reemerges with four pairs of crisply ironed slacks hanging from wire hangers and wrapped in clear plastic.

  “And here is your change, Maisy. I hope you have a wonderful evening,” I say tenderly, and the crease between her eyebrows falls away.

  Maisy is a sweet older lady, and I know she meant no harm in her questioning.

  “You too, sweetheart. You come by and see Harold and me when you’re out our way, tending to Edith. I’ll make us some coffee and heat a slice of apple pie,” Maisy offers.

  Edith Reid is one of the home health care patients I see daily. Her son, Walker, is married to one of my best friends, Elle. Edith and Maisy are neighbors.

  “I’ll do that,” I promise.

  “And I’ll have that blanket you ordered done shortly. I’ll give you a call when it’s finished,” Momma assures her.

  “Wonderful.”

  She gives me a pleased smile as she takes her goods and walks out of the shop.

  “I hate how everyone acts like I’m a widow and I should be walking around in my black mourning clothes and crying into my hanky every time they mention Ricky,” I tell Momma.

  She sighs. “They mean well,” she says as she wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in to lay her head on my shoulder.

  “I know. I still hate it.”

  “Oh, before you know it, something will happen around here to take everyone’s attention off your misfortune. Don’t you worry,” she teases.

  “Not soon enough,” I grumble under my breath.

  I spend the next hour helping her restock shelves, hang new inventory on racks and redo her window display before we lock up for the evening so that she can head home.

  “Do you want to come over for dinner with Don and me?” she asks as I walk her to her car.

  Don is my stepdad. He and Momma married about eight years ago. He’s a good man, and he loves and cares for my momma, which makes him one of my favorite people.

  “No, thanks. Elle and I are going over to Bellamy and Brandt’s house to check out her new she-shed tonight,” I answer.

  Bellamy is my other best friend. She, Elle, and I have been inseparable since we were children. The two of them have been my rocks the past year. I honestly don’t think I would have made it without them to lean on.

  Bells lives in an old Southern manor outside of town with her fiancé, Brandt Haralson, our town vet. They have been slowly renovating and updating the place into their dream home. It seems once a week she has a new completed project she wants us to come check out.

  “That sounds fun. Remind them that all you girls volunteered to help us with the homecoming picnic and carnival at the church tomorrow evening,” she says.

  “Did we volunteer, or did you, Doreen, and Ria volunteer us?” I ask.

  She waves me off. “Whatever. You’re on the list to help.”

  “We’ll be there with bells on,” I promise.

  “I have no doubt; in fact, I’ll pick you up in the morning, and we can go together,” she suggests.

  “I said I’d be there, Momma.”

  She shrugs. “It’ll save a parking space for one of the visitors.”

  “Okay. You can pick me up but I want breakfast out of the deal,” I give in.

  “Deal.”

  She stops at her car, kisses me on the cheek, and hands me a brown paper bag before getting in.

  “What’s this?” I ask as I open the bag.

  Nestled inside is the sweater I admired earlier.

  “Momma, I put this back for you to sell it.”

  “Once I saw it on you, I knew it was meant to be yours,” she says.

  “I can’t …” I start.

  “Sonia Leigh Pickens, you take that sweater and enjoy it. It’s my store. If I want to give my daughter something I made, then I can,” she says with her no arguing with your mother voice.

  I bring the sweater to my chest and hold it there. “I love it. Thank you, Momma.”

  “And I love you. Have a good time tonight and tell the girls I said hello.”

  I stand and wave as she drives out of sight.

  Then, I run upstairs to my apartment to change into the sweater and leggings, freshen up, and grab a bottle of wine for Bellamy before I head out to pick up Elle.

  “Bells, I love this,” I say as she leads us out the back door to the garden and a stunning hut.

  It was an old potting shed that was sitting in disrepair on the property when Brandt purchased it. He had the roof replaced with tempered glass and the inside renovated into an oasis for Bells to relax and read or drink wine with her besties.

  Passing the front of the shed with its small patio, dotted with rocking chairs that face the garden, we walk inside through the distressed teal wood-framed double doors. The moonlight above shines down between the high wooden beams that hold the glass panels in place. Two small crystal chandeliers are hanging from one shaft. A shaggy peach rug covers the dark floor, and a large, comfy cream sofa with soft peach and teal pillows is against the back wall. A live edge coffee table sits in front of it. A wine rack to the right is filled with bottles, and there is a hip-high wine fridge beside it. The other wall is floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  “Brandt outdid himself,” she says proudly as she looks around the space.

  “He sure did. He made you your very own Barbie dream hut,” Elle agrees.

  “He said that, one day, when we fill the house with kids, I’ll need the peaceful escape. He had originally planned to make it a workspace for his mother, but once she decided to stay in town, he made her a workshop out of his old room, and this became all mine.”

  I’m happy my friends have found men who care so deeply about their comfort and happiness. I always seem to attract the ones who need me to comfort them. Since high school, I’ve managed to hitch my wagon to the broken birds, the emotionally unstable or unavailable, the con artists, the self-centered, the boys looking for a mother more so than a partner. It’s my gift.

  “Grab a blanket off the crate for us, and we’ll sit outside to enjoy the fresh air. Brandt is delivering dinner to us when he finishes up at the clinic, so I’ll make our drinks.”

  Bells opens a bottle of wine and pours us each a glass as we settle into the rockers on the patio. The autumn nights in the Colorado Rockies can be unpredictable, ranging from pleasantly warm days to freezing temperatures and early snows. Tonight has gifted us with a clear, cool, star-filled night.

  “Have you guys set a date for the wedding yet?” I ask as Bells sits.

  “Not yet. I kind of want to wait until Faith is walking, so she can be our flower girl. It’s not like we’re in a hurry.” She shrugs.

  Faith is her niece. Her brother, Myer Wilson, and his wife, Dallas, had their daughter last year.

  I wish I were more like Bellamy. Content with just being in love. I was in such a rush to be someone’s wife that I married Ricky before I even truly knew him. I fell in love with a version of him that I’d created in my mind, one that didn’t exist.

  My daddy passed away from colon cancer my second year of middle school, and I think that since we laid him to rest, I’ve been trying to replace the family that I lost that day.

  My mother is wonderful, and I couldn’t have asked for a better one. But I was a daddy’s girl, and I long for that strong, protective male in my life. Don initially tried to build that relationship with me, but I was already a hormonal teenager when he entered my mother’s life, and at that point, the last thing I wanted was a man coming in, trying to parent me. My dad and I’d had a special bond, and I want to have that for my own little girl one day.

  Ricky is definitely not that man.

  “I bet Beverly is in a hurry,” Elle says.

  Beverly is Bellamy and Myer’s mother.

  “Not really. Dallas and Myer bought us some time when they had Faith. I think she and Beau are keeping Momma fairly occupied,” Bells replies.

  “I for one can’t wait for your big
day. You’re going to make a beautiful bride,” I tell her.

  “I did find a dress,” she squeals.

  “You did? Without us?” Elle pouts.

  “I found it online. I was browsing bridal magazines and there it was. The dress. The one I’ve dreamt about since I was little. I contacted the boutique in Los Angles and they said when I was ready to just make an appointment.”

  “Perfect! A girls’ weekend in California sounds nice,” I say.

  “It does. Maybe after the New Year. For now, let’s just enjoy this little slice of heaven,” Bells tells us, as she raises her glass.

  “To new beginnings.”

  Elle and I follow suit.

  “To new beginnings,” we repeat, before clinking our glasses.

  Foster

  “You heading home?” Myer asks.

  My brother, Truett, and I work for him and his pop, Winston Wilson, at Stoney Ridge Ranch. Truett was hired as a summer seasonal ranch hand while he was still in high school. I was overseas at the time, but when I returned home, he introduced me to Mr. Wilson, and I started working for him full-time. I love this ranch. I love the Wilsons like my own family, and they have always treated Truett and me like we are a part of their family.

  “Nah. I’m going to lend Payne a hand out at the cider mill,” I reply.

  “Working for your rent?” he asks.

  “One of them.”

  Payne Henderson runs Henderson’s Farm and Apple Orchard. It’s his family’s farm, and he is in the process of turning it into a working cider mill and event venue. His mother and father live in the main farmhouse on the property, and Payne and his fiancée, Charlotte, live in a cabin on the other side of the orchard. His sister, Dallas, and Myer are married, and when she moved into his house, that left the converted silo she and her son, Beau, had shared behind her parents’ house vacant. I’ve been calling it home as of late.

  “Wendy’s still making you pay the mortgage, huh?” Myer asks.

  “Yeah. She’s going to bleed me dry for as long as she can,” I tell him.

  Wendy is my soon-to-be ex-wife. We separated early last summer and then briefly reconciled this past spring. I knew in my heart that it was over, but at the urging of my mother and with Wendy making a lot of hollow promises, I gave in and decided to give us one last shot.

  The reconciliation only lasted about a month before we both realized it was truly and completely over.

  Over in every way, except financially, that is. Wendy has become accustomed to sitting at home, watching soap operas and playing on her iPhone all day. The money she makes at the part-time jobs she picked up since our last split don’t seem to cover what she deems necessities, and the jobs themselves have cut into her valuable recreation time. I never minded that she preferred to be a housewife. When I was in the military, I made a good wage, and we had great benefits. Therefore; whatever made her happy and content, was fine with me. And once I was discharged and working for the ranch, I could still provide for us comfortably. Our house was a modest craftsman-style home on an acre of land in a nice neighborhood. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was cozy and big enough for the two of us with room to grow. I put food on the table, gas in the vehicles, and clothes on our backs, and we needed for nothing. Wanting is a different story. Wendy wanted for a lot of things, and she still does. The problem is, she still wants me to pay for her life of leisure while also paying for my new home and life.

  “She can’t take advantage too much longer. As soon as those papers are filed, she’ll be on her own,” he assures me.

  “I know. I swear, she only wanted to give our marriage another try to restart the clock on that filing.”

  I should’ve seen through that ruse, but I let my insistent mother get in my ear.

  “I hate that you have to deal with that shit,” Myer says as we wash up in the barn.

  “It’s just life. I should have known better than to rush and get hitched before I deployed, but I was young and stupid and making decisions with the wrong head.”

  He laughs at that. “We’ve all been there.”

  I pull up to the construction site on the farm. The cider mill is complete, and we are working on the final touches of the tasting room.

  “Hey, man. You’re just in time to help me get this paint on the wall behind the bar,” Payne greets me as I exit my truck.

  “Paint?” I look at the mirrored wall above the shelves behind the long, dark-stained pine bar.

  “Yep. Charlotte decided she wants to do a chalkboard menu. So, the mirror is out, and chalkboard paint it is.”

  “What are we going to do with that huge-ass mirror?” I ask.

  Payne removes the ball cap from his head and runs his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “She decided to put in a couple of pool tables in the tasting room now, and she wants us to hang the mirror behind them.”

  The tasting room is an ample, open space with the bar, a few high pub tables, and deer-antler lighting hanging from the vaulted ceiling. One entire wall consists of four double garage doors that can be rolled up during good weather to open the space to the outdoors and the central stone firepit. The plan is to add small log cabins and a couple of tree houses for overnight lodging for guests.

  “That actually sounds nice. I think pool tables are a great idea,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, my girl has a knack for being able to see the big picture. She looks at a space and envisions what it could be,” he says, and I don’t miss the pride in his voice.

  “I’ll go grab a couple of tarps, and we’ll get this knocked out,” I tell him.

  After an hour, we get the painting done as Charlotte shows up to boss us around.

  Once we have the mirror installed and our supplies put away, she stands in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips.

  “It’s perfect,” she declares.

  Payne backs up, brings his eyes to where she’s gazing at the chalkboard wall, and nods in agreement. “I love it.”

  “Imagine it; we can list the ciders that are on tap on one side of the board, the ciders that are available for purchase in the growlers in the middle, and on the right, we can put announcements, such as the food truck schedule, the live music nights, or any special events we are hosting. We can change it easily, and Sophie—with her beautiful, artistic handwriting—can be our chalk girl.”

  “You were right. It’s just what it needed. Very classy,” Payne praises.

  She wraps her arms around his waist and kisses his cheek. “I ordered the pool tables from a place in Denver. They’ll be ready for pickup in two weeks. It will take at least three trucks.”

  “I’ll ask Myer if he can assist,” Payne says.

  “And I’ll be happy to come and bring my truck,” I offer.

  “Thanks, Foster.” She beams.

  “I think we’ll be able to pull off a soft open before Halloween. We can do a trial run with just our friends and family, and if all goes well, we can open to the public by the end of October.”

  There is a lot of work to do before then. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get it all done on her timeline. But I don’t voice my concern. I let them have their moment. I’m sure Myer and I can wrangle a few extra hands to help make it happen on time.

  “Are you two hungry?” Charlotte asks.

  “Starving,” Payne answers.

  “Dottie has a feast waiting for us up at the big house. She said to come and get it as soon as you guys were done,” she informs us.

  I grab my keys and head out toward my truck. Payne’s mother is a fantastic cook. It’s been a long, exhausting day, and I don’t have to be told twice to go eat.

  I follow Payne and Charlotte to the farmhouse, and Dottie and Marvin are sitting on the steps, enjoying the evening.

  “Workday finally done?” Marvin asks as we make our way up the path to their porch.

  “Yeah, we’re calling it. We are all beat and starving,” Payne answers.

  “Good. Your momma has been cooking all day,” he
says as he stands and helps Dottie to her feet.

  Payne kisses his mother and opens the door for her. We all follow them in, and my stomach lets out a loud growl when I catch the scent of cinnamon and vanilla.

  I see a rack of un-iced cinnamon rolls on the counter, and I grab for one.

  Dottie slaps my hand away. “Uh-uh. Those are for the carnival at the church tomorrow,” she scolds.

  I give her my best sad eyes.

  “Save it, son. I’ve been pouting all day, and she hasn’t let me so much as taste one,” Marvin gripes.

  “You’ll all be able to eat your fill at the church,” she consoles.

  She informed us a couple of days ago that Payne and I volunteered to help with setup and to run a few of the booths at the carnival. It’s part of their homecoming celebration. They raise money that funds school supplies and lunches for children in need of assistance over at the elementary school each academic year.

  “What time are we supposed to be there again?” Payne asks.

  “We’ll need you fellas to help set up before the service. Then, you can all join us for the service. The picnic and carnival will immediately follow.”

  “That means, we’ll have to get up even earlier to do the feedings in the morning,” Marvin tells Payne.

  “Great,” he mutters on a yawn.

  “I’ll get up and help you guys. The three of us should be able to knock it out fast,” I offer.

  “You don’t have to do that, Foster. You’ve already been working yourself to the bone on the mill after work all week. We can’t ask you for more,” Payne says.

  “You didn’t. I volunteered. Your family has been good to me. Renting me the silo for pennies and feeding me practically every day,” I tell him.

  “You don’t owe us for that, silly. You’re like family,” Dottie assures me.

  “And you’re like mine, and that’s what family does, they pitch in when needed,” I insist.

 

‹ Prev