Connor Larady’s world of routine shifted as the days passed. After a week, Jillian James had become part of his life as easily as if a piece had always been missing and she simply fit into the void.
He liked the easy way she greeted him every morning, not too formal, not too friendly. He looked forward to the few minutes they’d talk before the bus chauffeured his grandmother to the door of the quilt shop. He liked collecting little things he learned about Jillian, the pretty lady who never talked about herself.
Some mornings he’d studied the way Jillian dressed, casual yet professional, as if every detail about her mattered somehow. She might be tall, but she wasn’t too thin. Her eyes often caught his attention, stormy-day gray one moment and calm blue the next. She watched the clock, always aware of time, and she seemed to study people as if looking for something familiar in their faces. And she listened, really listened.
All the women he knew in town seemed shallow water, babbling brooks. But Jillian was deep current and he had a feeling it would take years to really know her. She never started a conversation, but if she disagreed with him she didn’t mind debating.
Who knew, maybe they’d become friends. But no more. The one thing Connor had figured out about himself a long time ago was that he was a watcher, not a participant, where women were concerned. If life were a banquet, he was the beggar outside the window looking in. He’d rather put up with the loneliness than take another chance.
He’d stepped out of his place once. He’d married Sunnie’s mother, Melissa, a few months after they slept together on their first date. He’d been home from school for the summer the year he turned twenty-one and she’d been nineteen. He’d used protection, but she’d told him it hadn’t worked.
Marriage had seemed the only answer. She went back to school with him. He took a part-time job and rented a bigger apartment. He’d known the marriage was a mistake before Christmas that year, but Connor wasn’t a quitter. He carried on.
Funny, he thought, he’d been caught in her net like a blind fish, but he hadn’t minded. It was just the way of life, and Sunnie made it all bearable.
Melissa loved that he was from one of the oldest families in East Texas. Almost royalty, she used to say. He was educated, a path she had no interest in following. His family might be cash poor at times, but they were land rich, she claimed, though none of them seemed inclined to sell even one of their properties.
Sunnie was eight months old when his parents were killed in a wreck. Afterward, Connor, Melissa and Sunnie had moved back to his childhood home, where he finished his degrees online. The house was roomy, but Melissa hated it from the day they moved in. She went back to her high school friends for entertainment, and he spent most of his days learning to handle the family business and his nights in his study with Sunnie’s bassinet by his desk.
He wanted to write children’s stories, blending Greek myths with today’s world. Though he rarely left Laurel Springs, his character, a Roman soldier, traveled through time visiting battlefields that changed the world. In his novels, Connor’s hero collected knowledge in hopes of ending all conflict.
But in reality, Connor simply fought to survive. To keep going when there never seemed enough time for his little dream; reality’s voice was always outshouting creativity’s whisper.
When Sunnie started school, he moved his stories to the newspaper office and set up a writing desk. As the newspaper dwindled to a one-man job, he set up a business desk across from his editor’s desk to handle his rental properties in town and his leasing property outside the city limits. Next came the mayor’s desk, with all the city business stacked high. Of all the desks in his office, the writing desk was the most neglected.
It had been that way from the beginning of his marriage. There was always too much to do. Too little time for dreams of writing.
Even when Melissa had started needing her nights out after Sunnie was born, he never thought to complain. But after they moved back to Laurel Springs, the nights turned into long weekends. She needed to feel alive, she’d say. She needed to get away.
About the time Sunnie started school, the weekends grew into weeks at a time.
When Melissa would return, she’d bring gifts for Sunnie, and her only daughter would forgive her for not calling. They’d go back to being best friends, not mother and daughter, and Connor would prepare for the next time she’d leave with only a note on the counter.
Even before she could read, Sunnie would see the note and cry before he read it.
He learned to cook. Kept track of Sunnie’s schedule. He was there for the everyday of her life. Melissa was there for the party.
Until three years ago, when she didn’t come back at all. A private plane crash outside of Reno. Both passengers died. Connor hadn’t even known the man she’d been with.
That day, he became a full-time widower, not just a weekend one. No great change. But Sunnie’s world had shifted on its axis. That one day, she changed.
Connor lost himself in the order of his repetitive days. He ran the paper his grandfather had started, even if it was little more than a blog, except on holidays. He looked after his daughter and his grandmother. Ruled over the monthly meetings of the city council. Paid the bills. Showed up.
And, now and then, late at night, he wrote his stories. The dream of being a writer slipped further and further away on a tide of daily to-do lists.
He told himself that hiring Jillian hadn’t changed anything. She was simply someone passing through, no more. Gram’s time in the shop would soon be ending, and somehow he had to preserve an ounce of what she’d meant to the town.
The short articles about the quilts Jillian penned were smart and well written, and they were drawing attention. The number of hits was up at the free Laurel Springs Daily, and more people were dropping in to see the quilts she’d described so beautifully.
Which slowed her cataloging work for the museum, leaving him with hope that she’d stay longer. He hadn’t thought about how much it meant, talking to an intelligent woman his age for the first time. Now, he was spending time trying to say something, anything, interesting on their walks home. All at once he didn’t have to just show up in his life; he had to talk, as well.
Tonight he’d ask Jillian all about the tiny houses quilt she had logged. She’d said a lady quilted a two-inch square of a house every day for a year, then put them all together. Every one unique. The discipline would be something to talk about.
“Dad, did you get a haircut?” Sunnie interrupted his thoughts as he pulled into the high school parking lot.
Connor glanced at his daughter sitting in the passenger seat. “I did. What do you think?”
She shrugged. “Not much change. Better, I guess. I’m glad I got Mom’s straight hair and not your wavy curls. After you scratch your head it’s usually going every which way.”
“You have a suggestion?”
“Yeah, wear a hat.” Sunnie glared at him, her substitute for smiling. “Derrick says you should slick it down a little, then you’d look like one of those newscasters. He said his mother thinks you’re handsome in a nutty professor kind of way.”
“Tell Derrick’s mother thanks for the compliment, I think.” Connor tired to remember what Derrick’s mother looked like, but all he remembered were the tats covering her arms like black vines.
He studied his beautiful daughter beneath her mask of makeup. The last thing he ever planned to do was take advice from Derrick or his mother. “You know, women thought I was good-looking when I was in college.”
“Dinosaur days.” She rolled her eyes.
He nodded. Without reaching his fortieth birthday, he’d already become old to someone. Maybe he’d talk to Jillian about that on the walk home. She had to be in her early thirties, so surely she wouldn’t think of him as old.
No, he decided. People who don’t have children don’t want to hear what other people’s children say. Correction, what their children’s pimpled-faced, oversexed boyfriends say.
Sunnie was always texting Derrick, even when he sat a few feet away. If she ever glanced up and really looked at him, she’d drop the reject from The Walking Dead. Ten years from now Derrick would still be wearing his leather jacket while he worked at the bowling alley.
As soon as Connor pulled up to the curb, Sunnie bolted from the old pickup. He remembered a time when she’d lean over and kiss his cheek before she headed to school. Those days were long gone.
A few minutes later he parked behind the quilt shop, walked through the place turning on lights, and unlocked the front door. He was early. It made sense to go across the street to his office and at least go through the mail, but he liked the silence of the shop. He’d known every corner of this place for as long as he could remember. In grade school he’d run, not home, but to Gram’s after school, where she’d have warm cookies from the bakery and little milk bottles in her tiny fridge waiting. He’d do his homework on one of the cutting tables until his mother came over from the paper and picked him up.
He knew his parents were just across the street, working on what was then a daily paper filled with local ads, but they were busy. Gram always had time to talk, even when her fingers were busy sewing. She’d ask about his day, and she’d tell him who came by the shop. Only, she’d never told him the stories about the quilts that Jillian was writing. To him, each one was a treasure and he wished he’d thought to ask about them when he was a kid. It would have been nice to have the stories woven into his childhood.
The door chimed and Jillian rushed in with the winter wind. She stopped the moment she saw him and hesitated, as if unsure how he might react to her.
“Morning,” he said, as he did every morning.
“Morning.” She relaxed. “I know I’m a little early, but I wrote another three articles last night and couldn’t wait to give them to you.”
“I’ll take them with me and let you know if I can use them. Everyone is talking about the last one I put on the blog.”
“Good.” She smiled and he took a moment to study her mouth before looking away.
Not something he should notice. They weren’t even friends. Might never be, but it might be worth a try. He could handle friends with a woman. For a short time anyway.
“You’re welcome to come with Gram and me for lunch.” He always asked. “We’re headed a few miles out of town to a Mexican place she loves, though all she ever eats is quesadillas.”
“Thanks, but I’ll work through lunch.”
He tried not to look disappointed. The Autumn Acres bus pulled up out front and their conversation ended.
After lunch, any chance to talk was quickly forgotten. By the time Connor had Gram back in the shop and helped her strip off a few layers of coats, Joe Dunaway had slipped through the unlocked shop door. He stopped long enough to turn the closed sign over to open, as if he thought of himself as the designated flipper.
Connor greeted the retired teacher. He had the feeling the old guy thought the quilt store was really a Starbucks in disguise. He rarely went a day without Gram’s coffee. He even had his own mug in her tiny kitchen.
“Got any coffee, Jeanie?” he asked Gram as he leaned on the counter like it was a bar.
“Of course, Joe.” She made no move for the cups in the kitchen. “Did you tell my Connor about your new invention?”
Joe lowered his voice. “No. Haven’t had a chance. Have to be careful, Jeanie. Make sure no one is around to steal it. Loose lips sink ships, you know.”
“What invention?” Connor doubted it could be any dumber than the last twenty inventions Joe had come up with since he retired. A few months ago he’d invented a birdfeeder that attached to a telephone pole. Said since everyone was using cell phones they wouldn’t be needing phone lines so he’d thought of a use for them. Only hitch was getting seed that high.
“You’re going to like this one, boy.” Joe had known Eugenia long enough to call her Jeanie. And Connor, no matter how old he was, would always be “boy.”
Gram lost interest in Joe’s great invention and followed Jillian as she disappeared into the tiny kitchen to put coffee on.
Connor waited. If he was going to listen to details of one of Joe’s inventions, he’d need caffeine to stay awake.
The little man was developing a kind of hobbit look. Hair seemed to be growing in every direction from every exposed square of skin. Everything he wore was at least two decades out of style but intelligence, or maybe mischief, still sparkled in his eyes.
Joe cleared his throat and straightened. “I’ve been thinking. You know how hard it is to sleep on your back with your feet sticking up?”
“No. I sleep on my side.” Connor held little hope that his answer would earn him a get-out-of-one-invention-lecture free pass.
“Well, if you did, you’d know how the blankets cramp your toes when you’ve got them pointed straight up. Colder it gets, more blankets and more cramped toes. So I got this idea. Doesn’t take much in materials or time. Just canvas and some eight-inch poles, maybe longer for those with big feet.”
Connor nodded as if following a logic that long ago had gone rogue.
Joe lowered his voice. “I’m calling them Toe Tents. You put them under the covers at the bottom of the bed. Slip your feet in and your toes can wiggle all night without being cramped.”
“Brilliant!” Connor shouted. Joe had finally come up with an invention dumber than Tele-Birdfeeders.
Joe smiled, scratching his beard. “I knew you’d like it. I figured I’d cut you in for a share, son, if you’d let me set up in one of those old barns on the other side of the creek. If I remember right, your family owns them and a few are still solid enough to be of use.”
“No one ever goes over there.” Connor’s family did own the worthless piece of town. From the thirties to the early sixties there had been several small businesses. A barrel shop. A furniture store that made rockers and coffins. A repair shop that could fix anything from toasters to TVs and a small winery that shipped as far as a hundred miles away. One small storage shed had even been used to weave Angora rabbit fur into yarn. But that was long ago, before Connor was born.
His dad had told him the businesses died one by one when the chain stores came in. Folks could buy another radio or toaster cheaper than having one repaired. If Joe wanted to use one of the buildings, he’d be the one man in town who’d know if it was safe. Joe Dunaway knew everything about the building industry. He’d spent his summers in manual labor. Said it kept his mind sharp to work with his hands. He could have been a big-time contractor, but he’d chosen to teach.
On the bright side, Connor had gone from being called boy to son, so he was moving up. Maybe he could listen at least until the coffee arrived.
Joe didn’t seem to notice Connor was only half listening. “People will go over there when the big orders start coming in for my Toe Tents. You might want to tell the city to repair the roads. I’ll put a big sign out so the locals don’t have to pay postage. Once it takes off, I thought I’d reopen one of the factories and hire some of my friends who’ve been sitting around for years.”
Connor patted the old man on the back. “When the orders start, I want in. Tell you what. You pick what place you want, and I’ll lease it to you free for six months.”
“I’m not asking for anything free. I got this niece who’s got a houseful of kids, and she buys everything online. She says she’ll help me get set up with a website next week. I’ll cut you and her in for ten percent right from the start.” Joe thumped his fist on the counter letting Connor know he wouldn’t budge on the deal.
Connor agreed. Ten percent of nothing was still nothing.
Jillian brought out two cups of coffee and seemed interested in Joe’s idea. She’d probably heard every word from the kitchen. She also called the old guy by name, so this must not be Joe’s first time to stop by.
When she started asking if the Toe Tents came in different colors, Connor slipped out the door and carried his coffee and her short articles across the street. If he was lucky, he’d have a few hours to work on a short story explaining history through a time-traveling warrior’s eyes. Kids would probably like that.
Since Sunnie was a baby, he’d been compiling a collection of stories about famous battles that changed history. His main characters were the Roman warrior and his dog. They saw the fighting and how each battle changed the world. They were searching for the secret to end all wars.
Of course, it occurred to Connor that if they found it in the series, it would end his series. Then he’d have to come up with another idea.
His stories were about as likely to get published as Joe’s Toe Tents were to be stocked on the shelf at Walmart, but his writing gave him direction. A mission. A small doorway he could step through and out of his life, if only for a few hours a day.
After lunch he always dropped Gram back at the shop, then drove to his house already thinking about the walk with Jillian that evening. On the days Gram didn’t leave for lunch, he’d walk to work or drive the pickup. She’d finally reached the age that she had trouble climbing into the old Ford. If Connor had his choice, he’d walk everywhere, but the pickup was for hauling and the Audi was for Gram, so he owned two vehicles he didn’t really want.
When he wandered back to Main, he took the creek route. He liked stomping through tall grass. Getting his boots muddy. Enjoying the escape. The World War II battle he’d been writing about danced in his mind as he worked off a few calories from the three-enchilada plate he’d finished off at Lennie’s Tacos and More.
He thought of telling Jillian about how much he loved the wild nature park that ran though town, but he figured she’d just lump him in with Joe—another crazy person in the stop-off town for her. So he went back to his office and tried to concentrate on work.
After four hours of struggling with paperwork on several small farms the family business leased out, he closed the office. If he increased the rent, the farmers would suffer. If he didn’t, taxes would eat him alive. Somehow in the past fifteen years since he took over the Larady family books, he’d managed to keep the balance relatively even, but that wouldn’t be possible in the future.
At five, he ignored the chill in the air and darted across the street with a biography of Patton under his arm and an empty coffee cup in hand.
Jillian laughed when he walked in. “It’s too late for a refill; I’ve washed the pot.”
“Too bad. I could use another cup.” He walked past her, set the cup in the kitchen sink and returned. “Is Gram about ready? The Autumn Acres bus will be here soon.”
“Of course I’m ready, Danny, it’s closing time.” Gram stepped from the office.
He met Jillian’s glance and shook his head slightly, silently telling her not to mention that Gram had called him by his father’s name. “She does that sometimes,” he whispered when Gram was busy turning the sign over for the night. “It doesn’t matter.”
Connor didn’t miss the understanding in those blue-gray eyes. There was a wisdom there, as well. A knowledge of living many lives, maybe, or simply the loneliness of living one.
Jillian helped Gram with her coat. “Paulina came in for a few more purple fat quarters for that new quilt. She told us that tonight, after dinner, the high school choir is putting on a ’50s songs concert at the Acres. She wanted to make sure Gram would be there.”
Gram nodded. “And we’ve got good seats. I told Joe that if he wanted a seat in the front row with us, he’d better manage to show up on time.”
“Whose date is he for the night, yours or Paulina’s?”
She huffed. “Mine, I guess. Paulina has been swearing since she was twelve that she’d never date. How she ever managed to marry three times is beyond me. Come to think of it, I’d best sit between them just in case lightning strikes again. Joe’s old heart probably couldn’t take it.”
Connor smiled as he walked Gram to the bus. He loved the way her mind always wandered into a story. Bending, he kissed her check. “I love you, Gram.”
“I love you, too, Connor.”
She’d remembered his name. It was a good day.
When he turned back to the store, he noticed Jillian was locking the door.
“Ready?” she asked as she turned to face him.
“Ready,” he answered, thinking he’d been waiting all day for these few minutes they shared. He offered his arm as if they were in an old black-and-white movie.
Hesitantly, Jillian placed her hand around his elbow and began to tell him all the details of Joe’s dream of being a Toe Tent king. The old guy swore his ideas came to him while he was daydreaming about camping.
Connor listened, but mostly he just enjoyed the walk. He liked the easy way their steps matched and how her words never seemed in a hurry, like some folks talk as if rushing the clock. In a few more days it would be March and almost time for spring. Then, maybe, if she was still around, they’d slow their pace.
The air had stilled and the evening glowed in sunset’s last light. The smells of winter drifted near: wood fireplaces, the last scent of dying sagebrush. This was his favorite time of year. Spring might be for dreaming, but winter was for reflecting.
“I was afraid you’d be staying late tonight,” he said as they walked through leaves rushing nowhere in the wake of each passing car.
“Why? Did you think I needed to? The work still seems overwhelming.”
“No. I’m glad you didn’t put in longer hours tonight. Too great a time to walk. But if you’d like to come in on a Saturday morning or Sunday afternoon, I could offer to help.”
“That would be great. I could move twice as fast with photographing if I had help with the layout.”
“You’ve got a nice camera.”
She nodded. “I bought it a few years back when I was a Realtor’s assistant, and I found I couldn’t leave it behind when I moved on. I never seem to get pictures developed though, just store them on my laptop and keep on taking more.”
He grinned. She’d finally told him something personal.
When they reached the gate of the bed-and-breakfast, she broke the comfortable silence that had drifted between them for a few minutes. “I’ve been talking too much.” She hesitated. “If you want to come in, Mrs. Kelly always leaves cookies out in the parlor.”
Connor was too surprised by the invitation to answer.
Her words quickly filled the silence. “I’ve been waiting all day to hear how you like my latest articles. It might just be for the community blog, but I’m thrilled about writing something others will read.”
“Oh, of course.” He felt like a fool for even thinking she’d invite him in for some other reason. She hadn’t even hinted at flirting with him. “I’d love to talk about them, and cookies are one thing I never say no to. But you’ll have to promise to cut me off after two.”
He followed her to the parlor. He’d been in the old home a dozen times, but it never seemed as inviting as it did tonight. Low flames in the fireplace. The smell of gingerbread drifting from the kitchen. Jillian removing her coat as if settling in for a chat.
She made him a cup of hot cocoa to go with the cookies and they talked about her writing.
“I’d like to submit a few to one of the big papers in the state.” Connor was comfortable talking business. “Who knows, someone might pick them up. If they did, they’d pay far more than the twenty dollars I can afford.”
“You really think someone would want them?”
“Sure. I loved the story of the Orlando quilt I read this afternoon. A girl driving cross-country every year to visit her grandparents and seeing all the sights through a child’s eyes. Then, as an adult, she quilted from her memory. I loved the picture of her Yellowstone block with the bear as tall as Old Faithful.
“And, Jillian, you’ve got the pictures to go with each story. I’d think that would be a real selling point in a human interest piece.”
She laughed with excitement, and the sound made him smile.
When he reached for his fifth cookie, her hand covered his. “I have to cut you off, Connor, I promised. You still have to walk home. Any more cookies and you’ll have to roll.”
He turned his hand over and held her fingers. “Thanks. I have no restraint.”
Standing, he drew her up with him. “Okay if I send the articles? I think you’ve got a chance of making some money. Plus, if one of the big papers does pick it up, the articles might draw people to the county museum to see the quilts.”
“You think I might make as much as Toe Tents?”
He liked that she was so tall. He could look into her eyes. “Probably not,” he teased.
A thump came from just above their heads.
“The ghost?” he whispered.
“Probably. Mrs. K is in the kitchen. I hear old Willie now and then. He likes to move around about the time the clock strikes midnight.”
They both laughed.
Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and walked to the door. “There are always strange sounds in a house this old. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” she answered.
To his surprise, she followed him to the porch, and he didn’t have to turn around to know that she watched him as he walked away. She had been standing in the same spot every night as he glanced back, just before he turned the corner.
He closed his hand tightly as if trying to hold the warmth of her fingers for one more moment.
In his thirty-seven years, he’d never learned to weigh his feelings. The important ones, the unimportant ones. Not for women anyway. He could be polite, even funny sometimes. He could pretend to notice they were flirting, but he was never sure how to react.
But with Jillian, it was different. If she stayed around long enough, he might start to feel something for her, and it was his experience anytime his heart got involved, even slightly, it was bad news.