The Double Wedding Ring Read Online Free Page A

years in New York and his marriage to Lizzie were big blanks in our relationship. I knew about his childhood and about his life now, but that period—the time in New York City with Lizzie—he glossed over as if it were too painful to discuss. I didn’t ask him about it. I guess I’d always been afraid of his admitting that his life now paled in comparison to those years.
    I stopped by the house to change clothes and get the keys. Eleanor had been distracted by the news, so thankfully she didn’t give me a hard time about letting the shop door lock behind me. She just handed the keys over and told me that she’d be at Someday later, once she’d done some shopping. She was doing a lot of shopping these days, but who could blame her? It was nice to see her so happy.
    I drove to Main Street, parked, and got out, but somehow I wasn’t ready to walk the few feet to the shop. Instead I stood quietly, breathing in the cold, crisp air and readying myself for the day. I felt overwhelmed, unprepared for Jesse’s grief, and maybe even a little uncertain of the memories it would bring back for him. At twenty-seven, I was only a few years younger than Jesse, but I was definitely out of my league in life experience. A broken engagement, a move from New York City to Archers Rest, and a reboot of my career from magazines to art school was big for me, but it could hardly compare to his responsibilities and the sudden, irrevocable changes he’d been forced to endure.
    I wanted to help him. And while I could do my usual snooping, being the town’s Miss Marple wasn’t going to be enough this time. What would be enough, I wasn’t sure.
    After a minute I forced myself to move toward the shop. I was being overly dramatic, I decided. Jesse and I were fine; nothing had changed between us, or would. Whatever part of his past had come looking for him last night, it wouldn’t get in the way of his future, and that was with me.
    The certainty felt good for a moment, the day seemed a little brighter. I was in charge of my life again. But that didn’t last. I put the key into the lock of the shop’s door, and pushed the door open. I assumed everything would be just as I had left it except for the one pile of easily righted, overturned fat quarters from the night before.
    But it was a mess.
    â€œWhat happened?” Natalie was suddenly behind me as I opened the door. Natalie was my age but had already been married for six years and had two kids. And the tone in her voice was the same one she had whenever her kids got into trouble.
    â€œI didn’t do anything,” I protested. “I left the shop neat and tidy, like always.”
    â€œAnd then a hurricane went through it?”
    She was right. Just yesterday Natalie and I had spent several hours making fat quarters, an oddly soothing and repetitive job. Once a fabric got low on the bolt, we’d cut the remainder into half yards of fabric, then cut that piece into half vertically, making pieces that were eighteen inches by twenty-four, instead of the normal quarter yard of nine by forty-four. The yardage is the same, but for many quilt projects the rectangle works better than a long, narrow strip.
    But all the fat quarters we’d made, all three hundred of them, were now scattered on the floor. The decorative yarns that had been arranged in a basket by the back wall were thrown about as well. Even a freestanding pattern rack had been toppled.
    â€œIt wasn’t like this when I left,” I said. “The wind closed the door behind me. . . .”
    â€œThe wind didn’t do this much damage.”
    â€œI was the only one here.”
    As the words came out of my mouth, both of us saw something dash by. Natalie jumped. In only seconds she had lifted herself up and was now on the cutting table.
    â€œWe’ve got mice,” Natalie said.
    â€œIt was black and white. I don’t think there are