The Quick and the Thread

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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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eISBN : 978-1-101-19821-6

J
ust 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.”

“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?”