Knitted Hearts by Amber Kelly

October

Sonia

“Momma, are you sure you want to sell these?”

My mother, Kathy Chambers, owns a retail shop, The Cottage Boutique, and the consignment store beside it, Plum Nearly New, on Main Street in our hometown of Poplar Falls, Colorado. The shops are open to one another through the workroom-slash-stockroom and share a counter. My mother is a jack-of-all-trades. She’s a seamstress, she does embroidery, she tailors, she does a plethora of crafts, and she sells new and gently used items in her shops.

I hold up the two soft, thick cowl-necked sweaters she knitted over the weekend. They are gorgeous.

“I’m sure—unless you want one for yourself?” she answers.

I tug on one of the oversize cream-colored pullovers, and it is warm and cozy. I walk over to the standing mirror tucked into the corner of the shop and do a turn-about.

“I love it. You should keep the other one, and we can be matchy-matchy this winter.”

I hear her chuckle from behind the counter.

“If it were up to you, I’d never sell a thing,” she calls out.

She’s right. Every time I come in to visit, I walk out with something new, and she never charges me a dime. She also lets me live in the tiny one-bedroom apartment above the shop for free.

“Yeah, I guess I have enough sweaters. Someone is going to love these,” I say as I take it off and hang both of them up in the window beside the door.

The bell rings as a customer walks in. I greet her and lead her to the counter.

“Hi, Maisy. I have your husband’s alterations all finished. Let me fetch them for you. I’ll be right back,” Momma says as she slides from the stool and slips into the back.

I walk behind the counter and start ringing up the ticket for her.

“How are you doing, Sonia?” Maisy asks.

I manage to conjure up my brightest smile.

“I’m fabulous,” I tell her.

She gives me a look, one I’ve become uncomfortably accustomed to over the last ten months. One of sympathy.

“Are you really, dear?” she asks as she kindly pats my hand that is sitting on the counter.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m dandy. Turns out, being separated suits me. I might get hitched again someday, just so I get the joy of divorcing him,” I chirp.

A confused expression overtakes her weathered face, and I feel bad for my outburst. I’m just so sick of the words of sympathy—or worse, words of encouragement—from every person I’ve crossed paths with since my husband, Ricky, and I split last year. Don’t get me wrong. The split was—and still is—painful. I loved Ricky. I thought he was my forever and that we’d be starting our family this year, not filing papers to end our short marriage, but it seems the town is taking it harder than either of us. It’s embarrassing, and I’m tired of the condolences. If I can move on, so can my momma’s friends.

“Here we are,” Momma says as she reemerges with four pairs of crisply ironed slacks hanging from wire hangers and wrapped in clear plastic.

“And here is your change, Maisy. I hope you have a wonderful evening,” I say tenderly, and the crease between her eyebrows falls away.

Maisy is a sweet older lady, and I know she meant no harm in her questioning.

“You too, sweetheart. You come by and see Harold and me when you’re out our way, tending to Edith. I’ll make us some coffee and heat a slice of apple pie,” Maisy offers.

Edith Reid is one of the home health care patients I see daily. Her son, Walker, is married to one of my best friends, Elle. Edith and Maisy are neighbors.

“I’ll do that,” I promise.

“And I’ll have that blanket you ordered done shortly. I’ll give you a call when it’s finished,” Momma assures her.

“Wonderful.”

She gives me a pleased smile as she takes her goods and walks out of the shop.

“I hate how everyone acts like I’m a widow and I should be walking around in my black mourning clothes and crying into my hanky every time they mention Ricky,” I tell Momma.

She sighs. “They mean well,” she says as she wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in to lay her head on my shoulder.

“I know. I still hate it.”

“Oh, before you know it, something will happen around here to take everyone’s attention off your misfortune. Don’t you worry,” she teases.

“Not soon enough,” I grumble under my breath.

I spend the next hour helping her restock shelves, hang new inventory on racks and redo her window display before we lock up for the evening so that she can head home.

“Do you want to come over for dinner with Don and me?” she asks as I walk her to her car.

Don is my stepdad. He and Momma married about eight years ago. He’s a good man, and he loves and cares for my momma, which makes him one of my favorite people.

“No, thanks. Elle and I are going over to Bellamy and Brandt’s house to check out her new she-shed tonight,” I answer.

Bellamy is my other best friend. She, Elle, and I have been inseparable since we were children. The two of them have been my rocks the past year. I honestly don’t think I would have made it without them to lean on.

Bells lives in an old Southern manor outside of town with her fiancé, Brandt Haralson, our town vet. They have been slowly renovating and updating the place into their dream home. It seems once a week she has a new completed project she wants us to come check out.

“That sounds fun. Remind them that all you girls volunteered to help us with the homecoming picnic and carnival at the church tomorrow evening,” she says.

“Did we volunteer, or did you, Doreen, and Ria volunteer us?” I ask.

She waves me off. “Whatever. You’re on the list to help.”

“We’ll be there with bells on,” I promise.

“I have no doubt; in fact, I’ll pick you up in the morning, and we can go together,” she suggests.

“I said I’d be there, Momma.”

She shrugs. “It’ll save a parking space for one of the visitors.”

“Okay. You can pick me up but I want breakfast out of the deal,” I give in.

“Deal.”

She stops at her car, kisses me on the cheek, and hands me a brown paper bag before getting in.

“What’s this?” I ask as I open the bag.

Nestled inside is the sweater I admired earlier.

“Momma, I put this back for you to sell it.”

“Once I saw it on you, I knew it was meant to be yours,” she says.

“I can’t …” I start.

“Sonia Leigh Pickens, you take that sweater and enjoy it. It’s my store. If I want to give my daughter something I made, then I can,” she says with her no arguing with your mother voice.

I bring the sweater to my chest and hold it there. “I love it. Thank you, Momma.”

“And I love you. Have a good time tonight and tell the girls I said hello.”

I stand and wave as she drives out of sight.

Then, I run upstairs to my apartment to change into the sweater and leggings, freshen up, and grab a bottle of wine for Bellamy before I head out to pick up Elle.

“Bells, I love this,” I say as she leads us out the back door to the garden and a stunning hut.

It was an old potting shed that was sitting in disrepair on the property when Brandt purchased it. He had the roof replaced with tempered glass and the inside renovated into an oasis for Bells to relax and read or drink wine with her besties.

Passing the front of the shed with its small patio, dotted with rocking chairs that face the garden, we walk inside through the distressed teal wood-framed double doors. The moonlight above shines down between the high wooden beams that hold the glass panels in place. Two small crystal chandeliers are hanging from one shaft. A shaggy peach rug covers the dark floor, and a large, comfy cream sofa with soft peach and teal pillows is against the back wall. A live edge coffee table sits in front of it. A wine rack to the right is filled with bottles, and there is a hip-high wine fridge beside it. The other wall is floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

“Brandt outdid himself,” she says proudly as she looks around the space.

“He sure did. He made you your very own Barbie dream hut,” Elle agrees.

“He said that, one day, when we fill the house with kids, I’ll need the peaceful escape. He had originally planned to make it a workspace for his mother, but once she decided to stay in town, he made her a workshop out of his old room, and this became all mine.”

I’m happy my friends have found men who care so deeply about their comfort and happiness. I always seem to attract the ones who need me to comfort them. Since high school, I’ve managed to hitch my wagon to the broken birds, the emotionally unstable or unavailable, the con artists, the self-centered, the boys looking for a mother more so than a partner. It’s my gift.

“Grab a blanket off the crate for us, and we’ll sit outside to enjoy the fresh air. Brandt is delivering dinner to us when he finishes up at the clinic, so I’ll make our drinks.”

Bells opens a bottle of wine and pours us each a glass as we settle into the rockers on the patio. The autumn nights in the Colorado Rockies can be unpredictable, ranging from pleasantly warm days to freezing temperatures and early snows. Tonight has gifted us with a clear, cool, star-filled night.

“Have you guys set a date for the wedding yet?” I ask as Bells sits.

“Not yet. I kind of want to wait until Faith is walking, so she can be our flower girl. It’s not like we’re in a hurry.” She shrugs.

Faith is her niece. Her brother, Myer Wilson, and his wife, Dallas, had their daughter last year.

I wish I were more like Bellamy. Content with just being in love. I was in such a rush to be someone’s wife that I married Ricky before I even truly knew him. I fell in love with a version of him that I’d created in my mind, one that didn’t exist.

My daddy passed away from colon cancer my second year of middle school, and I think that since we laid him to rest, I’ve been trying to replace the family that I lost that day.

My mother is wonderful, and I couldn’t have asked for a better one. But I was a daddy’s girl, and I long for that strong, protective male in my life. Don initially tried to build that relationship with me, but I was already a hormonal teenager when he entered my mother’s life, and at that point, the last thing I wanted was a man coming in, trying to parent me. My dad and I’d had a special bond, and I want to have that for my own little girl one day.

Ricky is definitely not that man.

“I bet Beverly is in a hurry,” Elle says.

Beverly is Bellamy and Myer’s mother.

“Not really. Dallas and Myer bought us some time when they had Faith. I think she and Beau are keeping Momma fairly occupied,” Bells replies.

“I for one can’t wait for your big day. You’re going to make a beautiful bride,” I tell her.

“I did find a dress,” she squeals.

“You did? Without us?” Elle pouts.

“I found it online. I was browsing bridal magazines and there it was. The dress. The one I’ve dreamt about since I was little. I contacted the boutique in Los Angles and they said when I was ready to just make an appointment.”

“Perfect! A girls’ weekend in California sounds nice,” I say.

“It does. Maybe after the New Year. For now, let’s just enjoy this little slice of heaven,” Bells tells us, as she raises her glass.

“To new beginnings.”

Elle and I follow suit.

“To new beginnings,” we repeat, before clinking our glasses.