The Quick and the Thread Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Acknowledgements

  Teaser chapter

  A SURPRISE IN THE STOREROOM

  I was feeling good as Angus and I unlocked the door and entered the shop. I had my lists in hand and was eager to start calling people about the first embroidery classes. About seven people had signed up for the cross-stitch tote bag project. Twice as many had signed up for beginner’s crewel and candlewick classes. Besides that, many of the women at the party had indicated an interest in stopping by for “Sit and Stitch” sessions between eleven a.m. and one p.m. every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

  Suddenly, Angus ran to the storeroom and began pawing the door.

  “What’s up with you? You’re usually not this active until you’ve been awake at least an hour or two.” I strode to the storeroom and flung open the door. “There. Now are you—”

  I screamed. Timothy Enright was lying on the storeroom floor.

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, August 2010

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  Chapter One

  Just after crossing over . . . under . . . through . . . the covered bridge, I could see it. Barely. I could make out the top of it, and that was enough at the moment to make me set aside the troubling grammatical conundrum of whether one passes over, under, or through a covered bridge.

  “There it is,” I told Angus, an Irish wolfhound who was riding shotgun. “There’s our sign!”

  He woofed, which could mean anything from “I gotta pee” to “Yay!” I went with “Yay!”

  “Me, too! I’m so excited.”

  I was closer to the store now and could really see the sign. I pointed. “See, Angus?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “Our sign.”

  THE SEVEN-YEAR STITCH.

  I had named the shop the Seven-Year Stitch for three reasons. One, it’s an embroidery specialty shop. Two, I’m a huge fan of classic movies. And three, it actually took me seven years to turn my dream of owning an embroidery shop into a reality.

  Once upon a time, in a funky-cool land called San Francisco, I was an accountant. Not a funky-cool job, believe me, especially for a funky-cool girl like me, Marcy Singer. I had a corner cubicle near a window. You’d think the window would be a good thing, but it looked out upon a vacant building that grew more dilapidated by the day. Maybe by the hour. It was majorly depressing. One year, a coworker gave me a cactus for my birthday. I set it in that window, and it died. I told you it was depressing.

  Still, my job wasn’t that bad. I can’t say I truly enjoyed it, but I am good with numbers and the work was tolerable. Then I got the call from Sadie. Not a call, mind you; the call.

  “Hey, Marce. Are you sitting down?” Sadie had said.

  “Sadie, I’m always sitting down. I keep a stationary bike frame and pedal it under my desk so my leg muscles won’t atrophy.”

  “Good. The hardware store next to me just went out of business.”

  “And this is good because you hate the hardware guy?”

  She’d given me an exasperated huff. “No, silly. It’s good because the space is for lease. I’ve already called the landlord, and he’s giving you the opportunity to snatch it up before anyone else does.”

  Sadie is an entrepreneur. She and her husband, Blake, own MacKenzies’ Mochas, a charming coffee shop on the Oregon coast. She thinks everyone—or, at least, Marcy Singer—should also own a charming shop on the Oregon coast.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I’d said. “You expect me to come up there to Quaint City, Oregon—”

  “Tallulah Falls, thank you very much.”

  “—and set up shop? Just like that?”

  “Yes! It’s not like you’re happy there or like you’re on some big five-year career plan.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “And you’ve not had a boyfriend or even a date for more than a year now. I could still strangle David when I think of how he broke your heart.”

  “Once again, thank you for the painful reminder.”

  “So what’s keeping you there? This is your chance to open up the embroidery shop you used to talk about all the time in college.”

  “But what do I know about actually running a business?”

  Sadie had huffed. “You can’t tell me you’ve been keeping companies’ books all these years without having picked up some pointers about how to—and how not to—run a business.”

&
nbsp; “You’ve got a point there. But what about Angus?”

  “Marce, he will love it here! He can come to work with you every day, run up and down the beach. . . . Isn’t that better than the situation he has now?”

  I swallowed a lump of guilt the size of my fist.

  “You’re right, Sadie,” I’d admitted. “A change will do us both good.”

  That had been three months ago. Now I was a resident of Tallulah Falls, Oregon, and today was the grand opening of the Seven-Year Stitch.

  A cool, salty breeze off the ocean ruffled my hair as I hopped out of the bright red Jeep I’d bought to traipse up and down the coast.

  Angus followed me out of the Jeep and trotted beside me up the river-rock steps to the walk that connected all the shops on this side of the street. The shops on the other side of the street were set up in a similar manner, with river-rock steps leading up to walks containing bits of shells and colorful rocks for aesthetic appeal. A narrow, two-lane road divided the shops, and black wrought-iron lampposts and benches added to the inviting community feel. A large clock tower sat in the middle of the town square, pulling everything together and somehow reminding us all of the precious-ness of time. Tallulah Falls billed itself as the friendliest town on the Oregon coast, and so far, I had no reason to doubt that claim.

  I unlocked the door and flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN before turning to survey the shop. It was as if I were seeing it for the first time. And, in a way, I was. I’d been here until nearly midnight last night, putting the finishing touches on everything. This was my first look at the finished project. Like all my finished projects, I tried to view it objectively. But, like all my finished projects, I looked upon this one as a cherished child.

  The floor was black-and-white tile, laid out like a gleaming chessboard. All my wood accents were maple. On the floor to my left, I had maple bins holding cross-stitch threads and yarns. When a customer first came in the door, she would see the cross-stitch threads. They started in white and went through shades of ecru, pink, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, gray, and black. The yarns were organized the same way on the opposite side. Perle flosses, embroidery hoops, needles, and cross-stitch kits hung on maple-trimmed corkboard over the bins. On the other side of the corkboard—the side with the yarn—there were knitting needles, crochet hooks, tapestry needles, and needlepoint kits.

  The walls were covered by shelves where I displayed pattern books, dolls with dresses I’d designed and embroidered, and framed samplers. I had some dolls for those who liked to sew and embroider outfits (like me), as well as for those who enjoy knitting and crocheting doll clothes.

  Standing near the cash register was my life-size mannequin, who bore a striking resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, especially since I put a short, curly blond wig on her and did her makeup. I even gave her a mole . . . er, beauty mark. I called her Jill. I was going to name her after Marilyn’s character in The Seven Year Itch, but she didn’t have a name. Can you believe that—a main character with no name? She was simply billed as “The Girl.”

  To the right of the door was the sitting area. As much as I loved to play with the amazing materials displayed all over the store, the sitting area was my favorite place in the shop. Two navy overstuffed sofas faced each other across an oval maple coffee table. The table sat on a navy, red, and white braided rug. There were red club chairs with matching ottomans near either end of the coffee table, and candlewick pillows with lace borders scattered over both the sofas. I made those, too—the pillows, not the sofas.

  The bell over the door jingled, and I turned to see Sadie walking in with a travel coffee mug.

  I smiled. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It is, if you think it’s a nonfat vanilla latte with a hint of cinnamon.” She handed me the mug. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thanks. You’re the best.” The steaming mug felt good in my hands. I looked back over the store. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”

  “It looks fantastic. You’ve outdone yourself.” She cocked her head. “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”

  Happily married for the past five years, Sadie was always eager to play matchmaker for me. I hid a smile and held the hem of my vintage tee as if it were a dress. “You don’t think Snoopy’s Joe Cool is appropriate for the grand opening party?”

  Sadie closed her eyes.

  “I have a supercute dress for tonight,” I said with a laugh, “and Mr. O’Ruff will be sporting a black tie for the momentous event.”

  Angus wagged his tail at the sound of his surname.

  “Marce, you and that pony.” Sadie scratched Angus behind the ears.

  “He’s a proud boy. Aren’t you, Angus?”

  Angus barked his agreement, and Sadie chuckled.

  “I’m proud, too . . . of both of you.” She grinned. “I’d better get back over to Blake. I’ll be back to check on you again in a while.”

  Though we’re the same age and had been roommates in college, Sadie clucked over me like a mother hen. It was sweet, but I could do without the fix-ups. Some of these guys she’d tried to foist on me . . . I have no idea where she got them—mainly because I was afraid to ask.

  I went over to the counter and placed my big yellow purse and floral tote bag on the bottom shelf before finally taking a sip of my latte.

  “That’s yummy, Angus. It’s nice to have a friend who owns a coffee shop, isn’t it?”

  Angus lay down on the large bed I’d put behind the counter for him.

  “That’s a good idea,” I told him. “Rest up. We’ve got a big day and an even bigger night ahead of us.”

  At about ten a.m., a woman wearing a smart black pantsuit, a paisley scarf, and bold silver jewelry entered the shop. My first customer. I caught my breath when I saw that she was holding a list.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch. I’m Marcy Singer. May I help you find anything?”

  The woman smiled. “I’m working on a cross-stitch piece for my granddaughter, and I need some metallic threads, beads, and ribbon to finish it. Everything is written down here.” She handed me the list.

  I was relieved to see that I had in stock everything she needed. I invited her to take a look around the shop, or to take a seat in the sitting area while I gathered her items.

  “I’m having an open house tonight, if you’d like to stop by,” I said as I put skeins of metallic thread into a shopping basket. “It’s just a drop-in event—nothing fancy.”

  “I’ll try to stop by,” she said. “This is really a lovely shop.”

  I couldn’t help feeling a burst of pride. “Thanks. It certainly doesn’t appear that you need lessons yourself, but if you know anyone who’d be interested, I have sign-up sheets for crewel, cross-stitch, and candlewick classes—beginning and advanced—on the counter.”

  “Oh, I’ve always wanted to learn to do crewel.” She stood and walked to the counter. “I’ll sign up for that one, and my friend Martha might be interested, as well.”

  “Terrific.” I returned to the counter with all the items on her list.

  “I’m Sarah Crenshaw, by the way.”

  “Sarah, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re my first customer, and as such, I’d like to offer you a ten-percent discount,” I said in my best professional-shopkeeper voice.

  Well, now I knew there was one sure way to put a smile on my customers’ faces.

  As she left, I called, “I hope to see you this evening.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  When she was out of sight, I dropped to the floor and hugged Angus. “Our cash register has actual cash in it!”

  He wagged his tail.

  The rest of the day passed quickly. Some Tallulah Falls residents stopped by to wish me well; many bought threads, patterns, and fabrics, and most promised to return for the evening’s festivities. Sadie and Blake had enjoyed a busy day next door at MacKenzies’ Mochas, too, but Sadie had still managed to stop in for
a quick hello after the lunch rush.

  I closed the shop and hurried home to get ready. I had an actual house here, as opposed to the apartment I had in San Francisco. I bought the house shortly after leasing the shop, and I had finally finished unpacking the past weekend. Of course, in San Fran, I spent a lot of time at Mom’s house, too, which was okay, but that doesn’t lend itself to a mature, independent lifestyle.

  I liked being a homeowner. Sadie said it was because nothing had been broken yet, but I was optimistic. I’m not bragging, but my two-story house was gorgeous . . . especially compared to the cramped little apartment I had overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Here, while I didn’t have a direct view of the ocean, I could hear it all the time. It was wonderfully serene. I was also within walking distance of the beach, which was great, because Angus seemed to adore romping along the shore.

  I went upstairs to get ready. I showered, dried my hair, and then padded into the bedroom to get dressed. I opened the closet and took out my black lace dress. I slipped the dress over my head and smoothed the material over my hips. The dress came to just above my knees, but it didn’t do much to make me look taller. Maybe the four-inch-high red stilettos would help. The black did make my pale skin and platinum hair stand out, especially with my splash of red lipstick. I was going for an Old Hollywood look, and I thought I was pulling if off rather well.

  My mind drifted back to Mom as I dug through my jewelry box for my pair of jet beaded chandelier earrings I love so much. You could say Angus and I had gone and loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly. But actually, we’d moved away from Beverly—Singer, that is, aka Mom, movie-costume designer extraordinaire.

  I gave myself a mental shake. Why in the world was I thinking The Beverly Hillbillies theme song? Of course, thinking about The Beverly Hillbillies brought Buddy Ebsen to mind. And that, in turn, made me remember he’d played Audrey Hepburn’s estranged husband in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Random trivia seems to be always lurking just beneath the surface of my mind.

  I took a long black cigarette holder from inside my jewelry box and placed it between my teeth. Mom had given it to me years ago. It had been a prop on some movie set. God only knew who had used it, so she’d insisted on scalding it before giving it to me. Good thing. While I’ve never been a smoker, I used to love pretending to use the long black cigarette holder. It made me remember how even Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo had used one to make her look sophisticated after she and Ethel had attended charm school.