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“Damn!” He slugged the steering wheel in frustration, and winced.
Once Dotty got to talking, she didn’t stop, Bridget thought. She listened absent-mindedly while she flipped through a catalog of craft supplies. Coming into town in winter was something Dotty did only when her neighbors gave her a ride. Her ancient pickup seldom started when the temperature dropped.
The Pomfret sisters lived by themselves on a ramshackle farm they couldn’t afford to fix up. Now and then they sold off some acres to people from away who were looking to build a second home in scenic Vermont, surviving on that and Dotty’s income from spinning and dying the wool from her flock of cantankerous sheep. The older woman was a real character, but the shop’s customers were willing to pay a premium for her skeins.
Bridget had sent up a silent prayer of thanks when Dotty’s unexpected arrival cut Jonas’s visit short.
Jonas Concannon. Of all people to show up out of nowhere. Why and how he had, she didn’t even want to speculate. He’d looked at her so intensely, like he was drinking her in after all these years. Staying calm had taken a huge effort—Bridget hoped she’d seemed nonchalant. It wouldn’t do to let him know that seeing him made her heart race the way it had when she was only nineteen and he’d kissed her for the first time. Everything that happened after that … she wasn’t going to go there. That was then. This was now. She was on her own, she had a daughter, Jonas was definitely not a part of her life.
Had he looked her up on the Net, found her website, and decided to stroll in? She hadn’t asked and there was no way of telling. Bridget looked around her beloved shop, which she’d built into a thriving business that garnered orders from around the country.
Specialty knitters had spread the word about the wools she offered, and the custom quilt design business she’d added had boosted profits to the point where she was actually making a living and didn’t have to depend on her parents. This year she’d even hired an assistant. Although Mrs. Dutton was nowhere to be seen at the moment.
Probably over at To Go, lingering over coffee and a cruller. Bridget couldn’t blame her. The long winter was winding down and Vermonters were coming out of hibernation. She sighed, still thinking about Jonas. With Dotty around, Bridget didn’t want to explain who he was or reveal how much his appearance had affected her emotionally.
And having Molly walk in and seeing the two of them together—that had been almost too much. Bridget would have sent her daughter over to Vicki’s house even if Molly hadn’t asked. That moment of their meeting had been mercifully brief.
Bridget glanced at the older woman, who was wandering the aisles by this point, just for something to do, the impending snow forgotten. A few more people came in and distracted Bridget from the whirlwind of her thoughts about Jonas for a while.
If not for the long winters, she never would have made a go of this business, Bridget reflected as she helped the customers. Of course, with everybody being online these days, they were doing even better than she expected. In fact, she felt sometimes like she wanted to cut back, but she couldn’t. She made a point of being e-free on weekends—the hypnotic power of a computer screen kept her rooted in her swivel chair more often than she liked, and Bridget would just as soon be outdoors with Molly, hiking or riding through the woods that surrounded their own land. Her daughter was growing up so fast.
Maybe that was a side effect of not having a father around. But the shop meant Bridget had time for Molly, who often stopped in after school and liked to create projects of her own. They were sewing a mother-daughter quilt together, one block for each month of the year, and Bridget did the designs from Molly’s drawings. So far they had completed three blocks: a simple snowflake for January, a heart for February, and pastel crocuses for March. She looked out the window, reassuring herself that there were flowers under the snow, just waiting for the meltdown … and the inevitable muddiness of a New England spring.
Bridget looked at the clock. Five minutes to five. Almost time for her to go get Molly. Mrs. Dutton bustled in, grocery bags in her gloved hands.
“Sorry, honey. They were having a sale on tomato soup and you know how Elwood loves tomato soup …” She bubbled on as she stashed the bags behind the counter, taking off her warm things and waving to the customers. “Ohmigosh, is that Dotty?”
The woman with gray braids heard her name and came over, flowing coat swishing and workboots clomping. Bridget slid off her stool and found her own coat, happy to let Mrs. Dutton chat with Dotty for a while. If whoever had driven Dotty to town didn’t show up, Mrs. Dutton would eventually drive the older woman home. Around here, people looked out for each other.
She left to collect Molly from her little friend’s house, thinking about Jonas as she drove. A quick cell phone call from the curb saved her the trouble of stomping through the snow and ringing the bell. Molly raced out and got in, planting a kiss that smelled like watermelon candy on her mother’s cheek.
“Hi, honey.” She didn’t put the car in drive, wanting to make sure her daughter was safely buckled in before she pulled the car away from the curb. Molly tended to forget about things like that, but Bridget didn’t. She had only one child and she wasn’t likely to have more.
There was no sound of latch meeting catch, no click. “I’m waiting,” Bridget said sternly.
“Oh, Mom,” Molly said. But she complied, folding her hands in her lap when her seatbelt was buckled. “Me and Vicki finished sewing the crocuses.”
“Vicki and I,” Bridget corrected.
Molly nodded. “That’s what I said. Me and Vicki. But some of the stitches look lumpy.”
“You can do them over. That’s how you learn, by making mistakes.” She’d certainly made a few in her life and she’d been a lot older than Molly at the time, Bridget thought. She permitted herself a rueful smile that Molly couldn’t see in the semidark.
“I don’t want to. It looks good enough. Can we start another block for April?”
“Sure. What do you want to put on it?”
Molly thought it over. “Mud. April is mostly mud.”
Bridget laughed as she drove away from Vicki’s house. “What about colored eggs and chocolate bunnies and pompom chicks?
“Oh yeah. I forgot about Easter.”
Bridget ruffled her hair. “I didn’t. Spring is coming, little girl. Wait and see.
