Let it Sew (7 page)

Fred swiped the back of his hand across the sweat-dampened dirt on his brow. “Heckuva
hunch.”

She met his gaze and held it a beat. “There’s a body, isn’t there?” she finally asked.

“Shallow grave. No casket. South Carolina temperatures and rain.” Fred shrugged. “I
wouldn’t expect anything resembling a body to be left after five years.”

Five years.

“Five—but wait.” Choosing her words carefully, Tori posed the only question that made
sense in light of what Fred himself had just said. “If there’s nothing resembling
a body in that hole, what makes you think there was one?”

“Doesn’t matter how shallow the grave or how hot the climate, metal doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Metal?” she echoed.

Fred took a second swipe of his face, following it up with a slow, distracted nod.
“That’s the thing about an artificial hip. It doesn’t go anywhere.”

Chapter 7

Somehow Tori moved through the next five days, dotting her
i
’s and crossing her
t
’s on all final preparations for the First Annual Holiday Book Extravaganza, spending
time with Milo, and fielding have-you-heard-anything-yet phone calls from nearly every
member of the sewing circle at some point or the other. But the waiting was killing
her.

It didn’t matter that Rose, Dixie, Margaret Louise, and Georgina had all confirmed
that Parker Devereaux had an artificial hip. And it didn’t matter that Melissa, Beatrice,
Debbie, and Leona all shared stories about the man’s favorite brown leather shoes.
She still wanted official confirmation of what everyone was saying across Sweet Briar’s
dinner tables, park benches, and picket fences.

“Pink and silver? Since when are pink and silver considered Christmas colors?”

Tori glanced up from the library’s main computer and smiled. “Good morning to you,
too, Dixie. Don’t you look festive in your harvest sweater.”

Dixie made her way around the information desk and tucked her purse on the bottom
shelf, her normal brisk efficiency emitting an air of irritation that, for once, didn’t
seem to be aimed in Tori’s direction. Sure, the ice had more than thawed where her
predecessor was concerned, but Dixie was Dixie and she tended to be irritated with
just about everyone at some point or another.

“I really thought Georgina would pull rank and put a stop to this woman’s shenanigans,
but she didn’t. And I’m fit to be tied, Victoria. Fit. To. Be. Tied.”

Pausing her hands atop the keyboard, Tori did her best to decipher the bubbling tirade
but came up short. “Dixie, I’m sorry, I’m not following.”

Dixie straightened up and grabbed hold of a nearby stack of returned books. Seconds
later, they were sorted into piles based on their shelf position around the room.
“That—that woman. That Maime Wellington. She’s hammered the first nail into the coffin
that is about to hold Sweet Briar’s long-standing and long-celebrated Christmas traditions.”

She pressed Save on the name card she was making for the festival’s visiting author
and swiveled her stool around to face Dixie head on. “What are you talking about?”

The irritation that had somehow escaped Tori during Dixie’s entrance was missing no
more. Hands on hips, eyes narrowed, Dixie stared at her. “Are you going to sit there
and tell me you didn’t notice the pink bows and the garland of silver stars inching
down every single light pole from Town Hall to here?”

“Pink bows and garland of silver stars?” Confused, Tori slipped off her stool and
out from behind the confines of the information desk en route to the front door. “No,
I drove this morning and I came in the back way . . .” Her words trailed off as she
peered through the glass, the object of Dixie’s ire impossible to miss.

“Before you stole my job, I used to come to work on the day before Thanksgiving with
a sense of childlike anticipation. Because I knew the decorating fairies would have
come while Sweet Briar was sleeping and transformed our beautiful little town into
something
magical
. And then, after I was tossed to the curb by the library board, it came to hold even
more importance for me. As a symbol of tradition and . . .
loyalty
.”

Tori leaned her forehead against the cool glass in the hopes it would shield her eye
roll as Dixie continued pontificating off to her right. “So today, I came to town,
hoping things would be the way they’re supposed to be, and instead, I see
that
.”

She followed the border of light poles as it surrounded the town square and searched
for something, anything, that would soften the harsh reality of Dixie’s assertions.

“I—I don’t think I’d call it pink exactly,” she offered. “I’d say it’s more of a dusty
rose.”

“Dusty rose . . . pink . . . what does it matter? Christmas is green and red. Vegas
stages are pink and silver.”

Realizing it wasn’t the time for playful quips, Tori resisted the urge to ask Dixie
about her Vegas knowledge and instead said the only thing worthy of the occasion.
“Wow.”

“Wow is right,” Dixie countered by way of a huff. “Wow that Councilman Jordan could
be so . . . so blind. Wow that Georgina would sit back and allow Margaret Louise’s
committee to get hijacked away from her. Wow that this Maime person could be so self-absorbed.
Wow that—never mind.” Spinning around, Dixie fast-stepped it back to the information
desk, grabbing three of her sorted piles at one time. “I refuse to let that—that person
rob this town of its Christmas spirit!”

Leaving her bird’s-eye view, Tori returned to the information desk and grabbed the
fourth stack of books. With a quick left and a right she found herself in the self-help
section. “So what do you propose?” she asked the woman who was one aisle over.

“That woman may be able to hornswoggle that buffoon she’s living with, and the entire
town council while she’s at it, but she’s got no say over the Sweet Briar Ladies Society
Sewing Circle.”

Tori skimmed the shelf that largely contained authors in the E–L range and popped
the top book into its correct spot. “True . . .”

“Well, since Santa is probably making a wide berth around Sweet Briar thanks to you-know-who
this year, I say we find someone to wear his suit and pass out homemade stockings
to all the children.”

“Homemade stockings?” Tori asked through twitching lips.

“That’s right, homemade stockings. And I bet if we ask, Fred Granderson would probably
allow us to have a meet and greet with Santa inside the fire station.” The sound of
Dixie’s footsteps grew closer, only to fade again as the woman traveled into a section
on Tori’s other side. “I mean, who says we have to run everything Christmas-related
through Georgina and her cronies anyway? We pay taxes. We support that fire station.”

Tori left self-help and ventured into local history, the placement of the next return
necessitating a bend. “Dixie, I really don’t think you can fault Georgina for this
Maime stuff. She might be mayor but she still has to work with this council member
for the next year or so. I’m sure she’ll step in if she needs to.”

A snort rang out from the mystery section. “She needed to step in two weeks ago when
Margaret Louise was removed from her spot as committee chair.”

Tori searched for an argument but came up empty. “So tell me about these stockings.”

Dixie’s voice remained in the mystery aisle for several minutes, the edge it held
giving way to the faintest hint of smile. “Margaret Louise was making one at our last
circle meeting. It was simple enough that if we make the stockings as a circle-wide
project, we could get them done in no time. And if we pool our resources and buy smartly,
we might even be able to fill them with candy canes and inexpensive little trinkets.”

No matter what angle she looked at the idea from, it all came back to one place. “I
love it, Dixie. It’s a wonderful idea. And I’m quite sure the others will agree, as
well.”

“Then it’s settled.” Dixie emerged from the mystery aisle to meet Tori at the information
desk. “I’ll make a sample or two during the day tomorrow and bring them to our meeting
on Monday night.”

“You mean you’ll make a sample or two on Friday, don’t you?” Winding her way around
Dixie, Tori returned to her stool and the task she’d abandoned in favor of gawking
at the spectacle that was Maime Wellington.

“No. I mean tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” she protested.

Reaching for the pencil basket and the stack of scrap paper, Dixie rearranged everything
so the paper was neat and the eraser ends of the pencils uniform with one another.
“So?”

“Aren’t you eating turkey?”

Dixie shook her head.

“Ham?”

Again, Dixie shook her head.

“Chicken?”

Dixie replaced the basket and paper in their correct spots and turned to face Tori.
“I won’t be celebrating Thanksgiving this year.”

She drew back. “Why not?”

“I don’t have anyone to celebrate it with.”

The pain that flickered across Dixie’s face at the confession pricked Tori’s eyes
with an unmistakable burn. “What about Rose?”

Dixie shrugged. “We decided a long time ago that sitting across from each other at
the Thanksgiving table was depressing. So we quit.”

“So Rose isn’t going to celebrate it, either?”

“You can’t tell her I told you, or she’ll have my head.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because she doesn’t like pity invitations.” Tori followed Dixie’s gaze around the
empty library until it came to mingle with hers. “It makes you feel like a bother.”

“A bother? You and Rose aren’t bothers. You’re friends.
My
friends.”

Dixie turned and cleared her throat but not before Tori caught the play of emotion
across her gently lined face.

Her mind made up, Tori spoke the words that needed to be said. “Milo laughed at me
the other day when he saw the turkey I bought. He said it was so big we should be
cooking for a small army instead of just his mom. So you and Rose? You’re now part
of our army.”

“I can’t impose like that.” But even as the words left Dixie’s mouth, Tori could see
the hope flashing behind the woman’s eyes.

“The only reason I didn’t invite you sooner is because I didn’t realize you were free.”
And it was true. For as rocky a start as she and Dixie had had in the beginning, their
common love for the library had forged a bond between them. “Please, Dixie. I want
you to come. I want Rose to come. I’d want everyone from our circle to come if they
could.”

Dixie shifted from foot to foot, her trouser socks pulled high beneath the hem of
her simple housedress. “But Thanksgiving is for families, Victoria. You know that
as well as I do.”

“You’re right. It is.” Slipping off her stool once again, Tori closed the gap between
the computer and the former head librarian with several easy steps. When they were
face-to-face, she took Dixie’s hands in hers and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “And
that’s why I want you and Rose to spend it
with
Milo and me. Because you guys
are
my family.”

Chapter 8

One by one, Tori transferred the piping hot rolls from the cookie sheet to the bread
basket, the sound of Milo’s voice just inside the living room solidifying one of the
many things she would give thanks for at the table that night.

Her late great-grandmother had always told her the right man was worth waiting for,
and she’d been right.

Milo Wentworth was the perfect man. He was patient and kind, creative and loving,
and accepting in a way she never could have imagined.

And he was night-and-day different from her late former fiancé, Jeff—the man she’d
once thought was right, only to discover he was wrong with a capital
C
. For cheater.

But she’d been fresh out of college when she’d accepted Jeff’s proposal and, thus,
rather inexperienced when it came to the warning signs associated with the wrong person.
His painful blind side and her subsequent broken heart had obliterated that naiveté
and replaced it with a wariness where the opposite gender was concerned.

Milo, however, had broken through that wariness by being exactly who he was, and exactly
who she was blessed to find.

“It’s a shame your great-grandmother didn’t get a chance to meet him.”

The truth behind Rose’s words pricked at the corners of her eyes and made her grateful
for the last two rolls waiting their turn to be plucked off the sheet.

She felt the weight of her friend’s eyes as she filled the basket and then covered
it with a cloth, her emotions still too close to the surface to respond.

“I can’t imagine many thirty-four-year-old men being terribly thrilled at the notion
of four stragglers invading his Thanksgiving dinner.”

Pushing the basket to the side of the kitchen table, Tori reached for the pot of gravy
and poured its newly warmed contents into the appropriate china piece. When she was
confident she could speak without crying, she gave it a go. “You and Dixie and Georgina
and Beatrice aren’t stragglers. You’re my family. He knows this.”

“You still miss her, don’t you?”

If it were anyone else, she might have gotten away with changing the subject or denying
full understanding of the question, but it was Rose.

And Rose knew better.

She felt her grip on the pot begin to give way and opted instead to set it back down
on the stove. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her, Rose. I think about her every
morning when I put my feet in my slippers because they’re one of the last things she
ever gave me. I think about her when I’m at work and I’m standing in the middle of
the library looking at all of the books—books she taught me to love. I think about
her every time I pick up my needle and thread, knowing the lifelong gift she gave
me by teaching me to sew. I think about her every time my mother calls and I hear
the growing similarity in their voices. I think about her every night when I lay my
head down on the pillow and I glance over at her picture on my nightstand. And”—she
paused to steady her breathing, to say the last few words before the growing lump
in her throat prevented her from speaking at all—“I think about her every time I see
you, Rose.”

Surprise widened the elderly woman’s eyes behind bifocal glasses. “Me?”

Blinking against the tears that threatened to make her eyes puffy and her nose run,
Tori merely nodded before resuming the last few tasks necessary before calling everyone
to the dining room table. She added more gravy to the gravy boat, she filled one of
the serving bowls with stuffing and the other with the homemade mashed potatoes, and
she added a serving fork to the platter of freshly carved turkey.

Quietly, Rose moved in beside her, readying the green beans and the winter squash
for their place at the table alongside the plate of cranberry sauce. When everything
was ready, Rose took hold of Tori’s hands and brought them just shy of her wrinkled
cheek. “When you get old, like me, you tend to think you’ve had your moment in the
sun. You’ve lived your life, accomplished your dreams, and received all your blessings.
You start to sit back and wait until it’s your time to go. But your coming into my
life while I was sitting back, waiting, proved me wrong. At least on the blessing
part.”

Tori nibbled her lower lip inward and met Rose’s gaze through tear-dappled lashes.
“Are you trying to make me look all red and swollen at the dinner table?”

With a quick shake of her head and a soft kiss on Tori’s hand, Rose grabbed hold of
the cranberry sauce and headed into the dining room, her careful steps and momentary
hesitations betraying her earlier statements about feeling good. For a moment, Tori
simply watched her, all too aware of the passage of time and the need to savor every
moment you have with loved ones.

Savor . . .

Inhaling deeply, Tori scooped up the stuffing and mashed potatoes and fell in line
behind Rose, her gaze moving beyond the dining table and into the living room, where
Beatrice, Dixie, Georgina, Milo, and his mother were seated. “Everything is ready.”

And just like that, five additional pairs of hands swooped into the kitchen, only
to return carrying the rest of the Thanksgiving meal. When the various dishes were
in place, they each took their seat.

“Everything looks amazing, Tori.” Milo leaned over the corner of the table and planted
a kiss on Tori’s cheek. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

She smiled back into his warm brown eyes, marveling at the way their amber flecks
seemed to dance in the glow of the candlelight she’d chosen for the meal. “I’m glad.”
Turning her attention to include everyone assembled around the table, she took a deep
breath then released it slowly. “Every Thanksgiving for as far back as I can remember,
my great-grandmother would ask us to hold hands around the table and take turns sharing
something we were thankful for that year.”

Before she could continue, Milo grabbed hold of her with his right hand and his mother
with his left, prompting a domino of hand holding to move around the table until Rose
took hold of Tori’s right hand.

Blinking against a sudden threat of tears, Tori looked across the table at Milo’s
mother. “Rita? Would you like to go first?”

Rita Wentworth nodded. “I’m thankful for you, Victoria. For the chance to have a daughter
again.”

Tori felt Milo’s squeeze on her hand, knew that the reference to Milo’s late wife,
Celia, was just that—a reference. Celia’s death over a decade earlier had been tragic
and sad, but as Tori had come to realize, life went on. It didn’t forget. It just
moved on.

Dixie was next. “I’m thankful for friends, like Victoria, who make me feel wanted—at
the library and at a Thanksgiving meal.”

Always shy, Beatrice kept her contribution short, giving thanks for all of God’s blessings
before her silence paved the way for Georgina to speak.

“I’m thankful for—”

The mayor’s sentence was cut short by the first few notes of
Hawaii Five-0
, the song alerting Tori and her assembled sewing circle sisters to both the phone’s
owner and the caller’s identity. “I’m so sorry,” Georgina said, breaking contact with
Beatrice and Rose in order to push back from the table and jog into the living room
in search of her purse. “Chief Dallas wouldn’t call me on Thanksgiving unless there
was good reason.”

Tori watched as Georgina located her purse and slipped her hand inside, only to retrieve
the phone just as the ringing stopped. “Oh, darn.”

“Give him a minute, maybe he’ll leave a voice mail or call back,” Milo suggested from
his spot at the head of the table.

Sure enough, less than thirty seconds later, the phone chirped, signaling the presence
of a voice mail. Flipping it open, Georgina pressed a few buttons and then held it
to her ear, her eyes closed tightly as she nodded along to the voice in her ear. When
the message was done, Georgina shut the phone in her hand and slowly opened her eyes,
her voice void of its normal strength and confidence. “Well, it’s official. The apparatus
removed from the library grounds last week was, in fact, Parker Devereaux’s.”

Tori heard the gasp as it left her mouth, felt the subsequent tightening of Milo’s
hand on hers, but the sudden roar in her ears made it nearly impossible to acknowledge
either. On some level, she knew her reaction was silly. The presence of the man’s
shoe-of-choice, coupled with an apparatus Chief Granderson had already deemed an artificial
hip, had left her with little explanation other than the obvious. But still, she’d
hoped . . .

Hoped the metal plate and rod had been a contraption Charlotte’s husband had built
out of boredom. Hoped the buried shoe had been what Leona had suggested—an attempt,
by Charlotte, to rid her life of reminders of a philandering husband. Hoped the woman
who’d sketched such beautifully detailed drawings had been incapable of taking a life.

Chief Dallas’s phone call removed that hope.

A gentle shaking of Tori’s hand inside Milo’s broke through her woolgathering and
forced her attention back to the here and now. A here and now that had her sitting
at the Thanksgiving table, surrounded by her loved ones, all of whom were casting
worried looks in her direction.

She could try to explain what she was feeling, but then again, maybe she couldn’t.

Trying to explain your feelings to other people when you weren’t even sure what, exactly,
those feelings were, wasn’t easy.

“Don’t mind me. I’m fine. Really. Truly.” Forcing the corners of her mouth into something
resembling a smile, Tori nodded her head at Georgina, who’d just returned to the table.
“Georgina? You were saying . . .”

Georgina replaced her napkin in her lap and took hold of Beatrice and Rose’s hands
once again. “I’m thankful for the opportunity to serve the residents of Sweet Briar—people
I consider dear friends.”

Rose was next, her age-weakened voice bringing a catch to Tori’s throat. “I’m thankful
for . . . for this. This moment. Right now.”

As all eyes turned back toward Tori, Milo spoke, his request to go next followed by
his heartfelt words, making them all blink in rapid succession. “Tori, I’m thankful
for many things in my life. My mom, memories of my dad, good friends, good health,
and the innocence of the kids I teach every day. But having you in my life and knowing
that I will share the rest of my days hand in hand with you is what I’m most thankful
for.”

That did it. Her repeated attempts to ward off tears finally failed, leaving her reaching
for her napkin to fend them off. When she had stopped their flow, she took her turn,
her own words only serving to undermine her efforts.

“Three years ago, I thought my life was over. I’d lost my beloved great-grandmother,
and what I thought was my future. But it all turned around. I moved here. I got my
dream job. I found the friends my great-grandmother always knew I’d find—people who
have kept her spirit alive in my heart.” Slowly, she took in the faces assembled around
her—Dixie, Beatrice, Georgina, and Rose—before closing her eyes as the image of four
more faces flashed through her thoughts.

Margaret Louise.

Leona.

Debbie.

And Melissa.

Her lashes parted and she turned to Milo, her voice trembling with emotion. “And I
found the man I was destined to spend my life with. A man I cherish and adore.”

The way Charlotte adored Parker . . .

The thought churned in her stomach as hands released one another around the table
and began reaching for platters and bowls.

Beans changed hands.

Stuffing was passed back and forth.

Turkey was scooped onto plates.

Gravy was poured across potatoes.

Pockets of conversation sprang up on both sides of the table.

But none of it mattered except the one question that had been playing peekaboo with
Tori for days . . .

Why would Charlotte Devereaux have killed her husband, and who on earth helped her
bury his body?