Confessions from the Quilting Circle by Maisey Yates (ebook reader color screen txt) 📕

Hannah frowned. “That’s what I’m always trying to do.”

“I guess that’s the difference. You’re climbing a ladder, and I’m just...driving on the highway. Nowhere so far has been better, just different.”

It tasted a little disingenuous on her tongue. And she had to wonder if it was more accurate to say she was running down the highway. Leaving her past behind.

She just...as annoying as it was for them to underestimate her the alternative was emotional honesty and Lark had some things to work out in herself before she got there.

“Okay, do you want to help me box this stuff up?”

“Sure.”

The stuff was already boxed, technically, but it wasn’t exactly transport ready. They both knelt down on the rough, hardwood floor and opened up boxes, sifting through the contents. Silks, yarns, roving and gingham. Thread, wire and twine. Beads, pliers of all varieties, strips of leather and metal stamping kits.

It was so similar to the craft kits she’d started assembling right after Gram’s funeral. When the dream of the Craft Café was the only thing that kept her from sinking into full-on grief. Seeing it now gave her a renewed sense of purpose.

They shifted to another section and began unearthing scarves, half-finished sweaters that were on cables. There was even one that was entirely finished, just not cast off, still on the needles.

Lark touched the nearly finished sweater and chuckled. “I’ve never related to Gram more.”

“I feel lied to,” Hannah said. “She was always such a stickler to me.”

“She probably knew it was what you needed to hear. If you would have known that knitting would be a haphazard disaster of unfinished projects you would never have wanted to do it.”

Hannah looked surprised. “That is true. I really don’t like things being left undone.”

“Neither do I,” Lark said softly, touching a particularly beautiful, half-made pink cashmere sweater. “I seem to do it often enough, though.”

She hadn’t always. These things, arts and crafts, quilting and knitting...they’d done them all together once upon a time. Because no matter how different they all were, no matter how busy, they’d had time for Gram.

And she’d set them all down with a project and watch as their strife turned into teamwork. Turned into a kind of shared joy and purpose that they never found together outside of sewing or knitting.

Lark moved over to the next stack of boxes. “Oh,” she said. “It’s fabric.”

Fabric that was neatly folded into bins, with handwritten labels affixed neatly to the top of them. “‘Parlor curtains,’” she read. “‘Party dress.’ This is the fabric that she was going to used to make the memory quilt.”

“I haven’t... I haven’t gone near anything like this in years. Not since I left home.”

“Really? Why no—”

“He gets done at 5:30.” Avery’s voice filtered up the stairs. “He can wait around for like ten minutes. No I...you know, I’ll call Karen.” She pushed her way into the attic, her phone still pressed up against her ear. “No. Nonono. it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just that I told my sisters I would help sort through things tonight. I didn’t want to have to...” The sentence stopped sharp on a harsh breath. “Dinner will be ready. It’s in the Crock-Pot.” She closed her eyes. “It won’t be Crock-Pot dinner tomorrow night. I promise. Don’t worry about it.” She paused. “I love you too.” She hung up, and blinked three times as if to try and forcibly brighten her expression. “Scheduling drama.”

Lark wondered if that dismissal, airy and light like she was brushing a cobweb away from in front of her, worked on her friends. She might not have spent a ton of time with Avery in the last ten years, but she’d grown up with her sister.

And she could tell the conversation was bothering her deeper than she was admitting. She wasn’t used to seeing tension between Avery and David, but she usually saw them at holidays, when David was sitting with her dad or the kids with a beer in his hand. Relaxed. She wasn’t part of their real lives, with schedules and work and things.

“Your husband doesn’t want to pick up his son?” Hannah asked, arch and judgmental in a way Lark could never pull off.

That had always been Hannah’s way. She wasn’t mean, but she didn’t go out of her way to be...gentle either. Hannah’s opinions often fell like an ax and God help you if your neck happened to be under them.

Lark had spent most of their childhood mortally wounded by Hannah’s sharp tongue.

She could remember one fight they’d had about Hannah’s incessant, obsessive practicing.

I’m not scribbling on a piece of paper and calling it art, Lark. This is a discipline, not a kindergarten project.

And all her defenses had gotten jumbled up inside of her. About how art was a discipline, and you did have to learn it. About how there was real school for it. Real work. Because her tears had clogged up her throat and she hadn’t been able to say a thing.

That was when she’d do something like hide Hannah’s rosin or put a caterpillar in her underwear drawer.

Actions spoke louder than words, after all.

And because actions spoke louder, she’d just worked harder on her art—in between bouts of petty vengeance. She’d ended up getting a scholarship, same as Hannah. But she’d never felt like her sister had really...understood.

And all of her big attempts at being heard, being seen...being something. They hadn’t worked out well.

“He’s a doctor,” Avery said. “He’s busy. It’s not like he’s been out golfing all day. He’s been in surgery. He has some things to finish up. Paperwork.”

“Oh, right,” Hannah said. “You know, your time is important too.”

“I’m not...” Avery waved away more imaginary cobwebs. “In people’s spines.”

“If he’s in someone’s spine, I think there’s a problem,” Hannah said.

“He should be more considerate of your time,” Lark said.

Avery’s expression honed itself into a finely sharpened point, and she turned it straight onto Lark. Hannah had likely gotten away with