Let it Sew (9 page)

“And Tori, if you ever think you could use one of our folks at the library—shelving
books or reading to kids—let me know. They’re hard workers, every single one of them.
And I’d sure like to help as many of them as possible before The Prince takes his
throne.”

Tori slipped her hand from the man’s grasp and shifted her purse from one shoulder
to the other, a burst of curiosity preventing her feet from walking through the door
Jerry Lee held open. “Prince?”

“Prince Ethan. Parker’s son.”

Chapter 11

“It’s going great, Victoria.”

Tori pulled her gaze from the crowd and fixed it on the source of the whispered voice
at her elbow, the smile she’d finally allowed herself to enjoy stretching still wider.
“Melissa, you came.”

“Came? Are you kidding me?” Margaret Louise’s daughter-in-law joked as Tori leaned
forward and kissed the strawberry blonde perched on her hip. “The kids circled this
day on my kitchen calendar weeks ago and put twenty little stars around it just to
make sure it wouldn’t get overlooked.” Lifting her right index finger into the air,
Melissa guided Tori’s focus toward six familiar heads moving up and down each makeshift
aisle in search of literary treasures. “So far, Jake Junior, Julia, Tommy, and Kate
have found their allotted three books each. Technically Lulu has, too, but now she’s
searching for books for Molly Sue so you and I can chat.”

At just under two years old, Molly Sue Davis was the youngest of Melissa and Jake’s
brood, a title she’d be relinquishing come spring when the couple’s eighth child made
his or her debut. And just like her two brothers and four sisters, Molly was sweet,
good-natured, and a loyal member of Tori’s personal fan club based on her outstretched
arms.

“Remind me to get them all an extra special something this year for Christmas,” Tori
quipped as she took hold of Molly and brought the toddler in for a cuddle.

“Christmas . . .” Melissa mumbled. “I have to tell you, Victoria, as much as I love
seeing the kids excited about all the books, it was also a treat to see their faces
when they walked in here and saw the holiday decorations. Now, if only the town would
take notes before they ruin the fun for all of us . . .”

Tori touched her forehead to Molly’s and closed her eyes, inhaling the sweet smells
of talcum powder and recently eaten sugar cookie before addressing the topic that
seemed to have everyone in Sweet Briar talking. “I take it you’ve driven around the
town square?”

“After Thanksgiving dinner at Margaret Louise’s, Jake and I got all of the kids into
their jammies and out to the car for our annual Let’s Get Ready for Christmas drive.
We started it when Jake Junior was only a year and far too young to even know what
he was looking at.” Melissa glanced toward the book section, her lips moving along
with her mental count. When she hit six, she continued on. “Year after year, we make
the same drive on the same night, knowing that all of the decorations around the Green
will be in full force. It gets the kids excited and, in turn, makes the whole season
even more fun for Jake and me.

“Anyway, we figured it might be a
little
different with Margaret Louise not running things this year, but, Victoria, it was
downright awful. The wreaths and garland and big red bows the kids have come to associate
with the season were gone! Even the nativity scene that’s been outside Sweet Briar
Town Hall since
I
was a little girl was gone. And do you know what they had in its place? A bench!
Painted to look as if it’s covered in snow . . . in
Sweet Briar
!” An uncharacteristic frown took up temporary residence on Melissa’s finely featured
face. “By the time we pulled back into our driveway, the kids’ disappointment was
palpable. Even Molly Sue seemed sad.”

Tori rested her chin atop Molly’s smooth hair and skimmed the room with a different
purpose—bypassing the book browsers, the autograph line for visiting author Felicia
Donovan, and the promising expressions on her volunteers’ faces in favor of the holiday
magic she’d tried to sprinkle around the empty warehouse loaned to the Friends of
the Library for its First Annual Holiday Book Extravaganza. The Christmas trees, while
artificial, looked grand with their ropes of silver garland, bursts of multicolored
lights, and array of book-themed ornaments. Poinsettias and sprigs of holly arranged
atop the book tables were a festive touch, as was the presence of Santa’s elves moving
their way through the crowd with candy canes for the children.

“I just wanted everything to be nice.” The fact that it helped offset some of the
disappointment over the changes in town was a benefit she hadn’t anticipated.

“It’s better than nice.” Melissa swept her hand in the direction of the book tables.
“Even the volume of books is better than I expected. And they were all donated, right?”

“People drop off books for us all year long. Sometimes the books are in really bad
shape and other times they’re practically new. Either way, they’re generally donated
in conjunction with a thorough house cleaning, a garage sale, an upcoming move, and/or
a death.”

Melissa drew back. “Death?”

Tori nodded, the motion receiving assistance from Molly’s dimpled hands. “When someone
dies, their loved ones go through their belongings in an effort to sell their home,
or vacate their room at the assisted living facility, or whatever. Goodwill gets their
clothes, shelters get their food, and libraries get their books. It happens all the
time.

“In the past, the Friends of the Library held their book sale in the spring, selling
off the donated books and giving the proceeds to us for programs and events. It’s
been successful, but the thought was that by doing it in conjunction with the holidays
and making a daylong event out of it with a visiting author and programs for the kids,
it would be even more successful.” Molly Sue released her face long enough to allow
Tori to take in the room yet again. “And from what I can see so far, it is.”

Molly Sue retrieved Tori’s face long enough to shower it with kisses before reaching
for the safety of her mother’s arms. Melissa obliged. “I’ve been to the fair in the
spring every year for as long as I can remember. It was always good, but this is a
million times better.”

Tori couldn’t agree more. The decorations, the visiting author, the food, and the
assorted craft stations for kids had transformed the annual book sale into a can’t-miss
event for all ages. The fact that folks could take care of the book lovers on their
holiday lists at the same time was simply an added bonus.

“Mama?”

Tori and Melissa looked down simultaneously to find Lulu, the fifth child in the ever-growing
Davis family, peering up at them with a picture book in her outstretched hands and
an impossible-to-miss question in her dark brown eyes.

“What did you find, Lulu?” Melissa lowered Molly Sue to the ground and squatted beside
her, bypassing the book in her older daughter’s hand in favor of a loving nose tap.
“Did you find something good for Molly Sue?”

At the sound of her name, Molly Sue did a little dance in place, earning her a smile
from Tori and her mom as well as several elderly event goers seated at a nearby table.

A brief hesitation was followed by a slight nod. “It’s a book about a little boy who
makes messes everywhere he goes.”

Melissa scrunched her eyebrows and settled her hands on her hips in dramatic play.
“Are you saying Molly Sue is messy?”

Turning her head ever so slightly, Lulu addressed Tori, the question in her eyes finding
its way through her mouth. “I was looking at all the pages, Miss Sinclair. Making
sure it was a good book for Molly Sue. But when I got to the second-to-last page,
I found this.” Lulu flipped open the book from the backside and pointed at a folded
piece of paper wedged inside the binding. “It’s a drawing.”

“A drawing?” Melissa echoed.

“A real good one, Mama,” Lulu said. Then, with sturdy hands, the ten-year-old retrieved
the picture and handed the book to an overjoyed Molly Sue. “Do you wanna see it, Miss
Sinclair?”

There was something about Lulu Davis that jettisoned Tori into the past while simultaneously
making her long for the future. And it had been that way from the moment they met
during a third grade outing to the library. Somehow, the dark-haired child had reminded
her of the best parts of her own childhood���sewing lessons and trips to the library
with her late great-grandmother and reading away the hours in her room. At the same
time, Lulu’s genuine sweetness and priceless innocence touched something maternal
in Tori, as did the accompanying images of the little girl she hoped to have one day.

A little girl who was a lot like Lulu Davis.

“Of course, I’d like to see it, Lulu.” She took the offered piece of paper from the
child’s hand and unfolded it bit by bit, the quick glimpses of a pencil sketch building
to a complete picture that set Tori’s heart pounding. “What on earth . . .”

Melissa shot upright. “Victoria? What’s wrong?”

She stared down at the sketch, her focus bouncing from the broken clock on the wall
to the row of framed photographs and the discarded piece of paper intended for Ethan
that adorned the mantel below. It was the same drawing. The same exact drawing as
the dozen or so others Charlotte Devereaux had sketched while confined to a chair
in her late husband’s study. And like the final drawing that had led to the discovery
of Parker Devereaux’s body a week earlier, the page in Tori’s hand showed signs of
tearing along the left side, too.

“I—I don’t understand.”

Ever so gently, Melissa turned the paper in Tori’s hands to afford a closer look.
“What is this?”

“It’s exactly like all the others,” she whispered, overriding her head’s refusal to
accept what her eyes were seeing. “I mean, every last detail is the same.”

“All the others?” Melissa parroted.

“All the other pictures Charlotte drew before she died.”

“Charlotte Devereaux?” At Tori’s silent nod, Melissa’s eyes widened. “Then how did
it end up here? In a
children’s picture
book
?”

Melissa’s questions broke through her cloud of disbelief and forced her to focus.
How indeed.

With a shaky smile, Tori accepted the book from Molly Sue’s tentative grasp and positioned
it right side up in her own hands. The whimsical title, the author’s name, and the
beautifully illustrated cover barely registered as she flipped it open in favor of
the inside front cover and the inscription that brought a strangled gasp from somewhere
deep inside her throat.

My dearest Brian,

I love the you that you are—the you that you are because of a father’s love.

Forever and Always.

Love,

Mommy

No. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t . . .

“Okay, well, I guess it makes sense why one of Charlotte’s pictures was in there,
but still . . . Brian is like what? Fifty?” Melissa posed. “How would a picture she
recently drew end up in a picture book from his childhood?”

Her friend was right. So the familial connection was there, big deal. That didn’t
mean there was some big dark meaning behind the picture’s presence in the book.

Yet even as her mind did everything in its power to convince her heart of the coincidence
theory, Tori’s experience over the past two years told her otherwise. The sketch had
been folded into quarters and placed inside a decades-old storybook. The chance of
that meaning nothing was next to nil.

Which meant she needed answers. Answers that would only come if she asked questions.

The problem was figuring out whom to ask.

Melissa closed the book in Tori’s hands and passed it to Lulu, her happy-go-lucky
smile back where it belonged. “Thank you for bringing this to us, sweetheart.”

Lulu looked down at the book and then at her baby sister. “Mama, can it still be one
of Molly Sue’s books? It’s a really good story.”

“Of course it can, Lulu.” Swooping her arms close to the ground, Melissa lifted Molly
Sue back into her arms. “Now why don’t you round up your brothers and sisters and
ask them if they’d like a little treat before we head home, okay?”

At the mention of the word
treat
, Lulu’s eyes danced. Yet even with that pull, the little girl still took the time
to wrap her arms around Tori’s middle before going off in pursuit of her siblings.
“I love you, Miss Sinclair.”

Blinking against the sudden burn in her eyes, Tori leaned down and whispered a kiss
across Lulu’s soft mane. “I love you, too, Lulu.”

And with that, the child was gone, skipping her way back toward her brothers and sisters
with Molly Sue’s new books tucked safely under her arm. “She really is a very special
little girl, Melissa.”

“I think so, too.”

“Miss Sinclair? Ms. Donovan only has a few people left in her line.”

“Thank you, Sarah.” Shifting her gaze from one side of the warehouse to the other,
Tori confirmed the event volunteer’s words. Break time was over. It was time to reengage
herself as host. “I guess I better get back to it, Melissa. Felicia Donovan has been
amazing today and I need to make sure I thank her properly.”

“I understand.” With a protective arm on Molly Sue’s back, Melissa brushed a quick
parting kiss on Tori’s cheek before lowering her voice to a near whisper. “When Ms.
Donovan is gone and all of this is over, you need to find out how Brian Devereaux’s
book ended up here.”

“I imagine it was donated like all of the other books on those tables.”

“Okay . . . But when? And by whom?”

She let the questions swirl in her thoughts for all of about two seconds. Melissa
was right. The when and the who were the perfect place to start.

Chapter 12

It didn’t matter how many Internet articles Maime Wellington referenced, or how many
magazine pictures she shoved in front of their faces, the notion of a greenery-free
Christmas just wasn’t sitting well with Sweet Briar’s ragtag holiday committee. Not
that it mattered, really.

Maime Wellington had made up her mind. If she hadn’t, her ideas would have been formed
as questions, not statements. But they weren’t.

Rose could stamp her feet—and she did. It didn’t matter.

Dixie could snort and flail her arms and even smack her hand on the table—and she
did, numerous times. It didn’t matter.

All that
did
matter was Maime and her single-minded and oh-so-transparent pursuit of destroying
all customs and memories that transpired before her. Yet knowing that and accepting
it were two very different things. Especially when the vocal elimination of each treasured
tradition was met with a palpable hurt from the little boy at the far end of the conference
table.

“How can you even propose doing away with the annual tree-lighting ceremony?” Rose
hissed through clenched teeth. “It’s—it’s unconscionable.”

Tori saw Maime’s mouth move, knew the words being formed were stinging in nature,
but her thoughts, her empathy, her worry was on Councilman Jordan’s son, Kyle, whose
crayon hadn’t moved across his coloring book in nearly thirty minutes despite the
near death grip with which he held it to the paper.

The sound of Rose’s foot, stamping on the ground next to hers, forced her attention
back to Maime in time to hear the second part of her biting rant. “Cutting down a
Christmas tree simply to string it with lights and stand around singing songs is what’s
unconscionable. My idea would cost the town less money overall, jettison this dinky
little town into the twenty-first century, and position us to be more green.”

Dixie’s hand shot into the air like a crossing guard halting traffic. “You truly think
sitting on the ground in front of a projection screen and waiting for the computerized
image of a Christmas tree to glow with lights will give the same warm and fuzzies
as the real thing?”

Maime’s catlike eyes narrowed as if Dixie were a mouse that had just made the mistake
of peeking out its hole in plain view. “I’m not about warm and fuzzies.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed,” Rose grumbled.

Ignoring the elderly woman’s sarcasm, Maime continued, her detailed description of
Sweet Briar’s cyber-tree-lighting ceremony bringing a strangled sob from the opposite
end of the table.

“Kyle?” Tori pushed back in her chair and stood, her feet leading her to the little
boy’s chair. Crouching down beside him, she pushed a scrap of auburn hair from his
forehead in time to see a tear fall from his freckled cheek and onto his coloring
book. “Hey, sweetie . . . What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”

The eight-year-old shook his head, hard.

Tori peeked under the table. “Did you bump your leg or something?”

Again, the boy shook his head, yet said nothing.

She let her hand slip from his head to his back, where she moved it in slow, even
circles. “Are you upset about the tree-lighting ceremony?”

Burying his head in his hands, Kyle began to sob, his shoulders shaking and trembling
beneath an invisible weight far too heavy for a child to carry alone. “Hey . . . Kyle . . .
talk to me.”

After several long moments, the child popped up his head, his red-rimmed eyes moving
from Tori to Maime and back again. “I—I don’t want the tree to go away,” he said during
breaks in his crying. “I want it to stay.”

“Oh, quit your stupid crying!’ Maime gathered her articles and magazines together
into a pile. “It’s a tree. Who cares?”

“I—I care. M-My m-mom h-helped pick out its ornaments.” Kyle’s breath hitched once,
twice, three times. “It—it m-makes us think of her.”

Maime picked up the pile, only to slam it back down on the table. “Us? Who’s us, Kyle?”

“M-Me and—and B-Billy and—-and Daddy.”

The pain in the child’s voice grabbed hold of Tori’s heart and twisted. “Oh, sweetie,
I can see why it’s important to you—”

“Enough! Your daddy doesn’t
need
to remember,” Maime thundered, her anger and her meanness leaving Rose and Dixie
utterly speechless. “And I’ve seen those ornaments she bought and they’re sappy and
pathetic.”

Kyle’s lips trembled with a mixture of hurt and rage. “Stop it! Leave my mom out of
this.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, young man.” Glancing at her watch, Maime grabbed
hold of her stack of papers once again. “Let’s go, Kyle. Your dad should be done at
his council meeting by now, and I need to be at the house when he gets home.”

With shaking hands, Kyle wiped the last of his tears from his face. “Daddy and me
used to go for ice cream sometimes after his meetings.”

“Not anymore you don’t. Not unless I’m there, too.” Maime made her way over to the
door and snapped her fingers at Kyle. “Let’s go.”

Slowly but surely, Rose pushed her own chair back from the table and struggled to
her feet, her eyes wide and angry behind her bifocal lenses. “I don’t know who you
think you are, Ms. Wellington, but Avery is a bloody fool for giving you the time
of day.”

“Oh?” Maime taunted before every last shred of irritation disappeared from her voice
in favor of a sugary-sweet tone reminiscent of a preschool teacher. “Avery thinks
everything about me is wonderful—the way I dress, the way I look, the way I care for
his son, and the ideas I have for improving Sweet Briar. In fact, he says I was made
for him.”

*   *   *

Tori wasn’t sure how long they sat there, staring at the empty doorway in disbelief.
Ten minutes? Maybe twenty?

But either way, nothing changed.

In fact, no amount of blinking, eye rubbing, or disgusted moans could change the scene
that had just unfolded in front of them like some sort of poorly written horror movie.
Yet true to form, they still blinked . . . and rubbed . . . and moaned, hoping against
hope someone would walk through the doorway and tell them it was all a joke—that Maime
Wellington was a figment of their nightmares.

Rose was the first to break the weighted silence. “Someone has to tell Avery. That
woman is going to destroy that little boy if she isn’t stopped.”

“But you saw her, Rose,” Dixie protested. “You saw the way she transformed herself
from a witch to a princess right in front of our eyes. He’ll think we’re causing trouble
simply because we’re angry about Margaret Louise being ousted from her job as chairman
of the Chirstmas Decorating Committee.”

“We are. But that has nothing to do with the simple matter of what’s right and what’s
wrong.”

“You’re right, Rose. But so is Dixie.” Tori planted her elbows on the table and propped
her chin up with her hands. “Right now, Avery wants, maybe even
needs
Maime to be this perfect little angel that found her way into his life. Hearing anything
to the contrary from us is only going to make him defensive and even more protective
of her.”

“But if Kyle tells him the things she says, that should be enough to wake him up.”

She tried Dixie’s words on for size but they didn’t fit. Not with the reality they’d
witnessed less than thirty minutes earlier. “But when would Kyle be able to say anything?
I mean, you heard that woman. She won’t even let the kid have ice cream alone with
his dad.”

“I almost wish Leona had made tonight’s meeting because we need to do something,”
Rose insisted, her voice barely more than a trembled whisper. “We can’t stand by and
let this woman talk to that child that way. It’s not healthy!”

Rose was right. The key, though, was how. Finding opportunities to talk to a third
grader that wasn’t your own wasn’t always easy.

A third grader . . .

“Wait!” The word shot from her lips with a crack of excitement. “I’m pretty sure Kyle
Jordan is in Milo’s class this year. Which means maybe Milo can help!”

Dixie and Rose exchanged glances and then shrugs. “Maybe. But if he can’t, Victoria,
I will,” Rose declared before pulling the cotton flaps of her sweater close to her
body as she shuffled her way toward the door. “I will see you ladies tomorrow. It’s
eight o’clock, which means it’s time for this old decrepit body to go home and get
its beauty sleep.”

When Rose had disappeared into the hallway, Dixie turned to Tori and mustered a genuine
smile. “Victoria, I have to say, the holiday book fair was outstanding. Can you believe
how much money we raised for programming and updates?”

It was hard not to meet and raise Dixie’s smile with one of her own. The First Annual
Holiday Book Extravaganza had been a smashing success. The dedicated crew of volunteers,
the timing of the event, and the generous book donations they had received over the
past six months had all culminated in a success they were already eager to duplicate
again next year.

Before Tori could respond, Dixie pushed a folder at her from across the table. “I
got a hold of that log you asked me about, Victoria. Though what you’re trying to
figure out is beyond me. All that really matters is the bottom line, right?”

She studied the stout woman closely. “Log? What log . . .” And then she remembered.

Flipping open the folder, Tori glanced down at the donation log listing the name of
every book donated to the library over the past six months. The computerized list
identified the title and genre of each book as well as the name of the person who
made the donation.

“The Friends of the Library are already writing out thank-you notes as we speak,”
Dixie continued. “People were very generous this year.”

“Yes, they were. But that’s not why I wanted this.” Slowly, she worked her way through
the log, passing pages devoted to mysteries, romances, thrillers, science fiction,
women’s fiction, and historical biographies before stopping on those devoted to the
hundreds of children’s titles that had been dropped off at the library in the hope
of finding new homes.

She allowed her eyes to guide her index finger down the column on the far right side,
the same donor often responsible for dozens of donated titles. Name by name she made
her way from one page to the next until she found what she’d been seeking when she
asked to see the log in the first place.

There, beside a single children’s book title, was a handwritten notation by a member
of the Friends of the Library . . .

November 18th—Donated by Frieda Taylor in Charlotte Devereaux’s Memory.

Melissa’s questions had been answered.

The book had been donated within days of Charlotte’s death by the woman’s full-time
nurse.

But instead of putting an end to the questions, the information only served to spark
one more.

“Now what?” she whispered.