The Christmas Wedding Quilt: Let It SnowYou Better Watch OutNine Ladies Dancing

by Emilie Richards

  She spotted Gabby’s gray head the moment she entered the other woman’s wool and fabric store. Rachel’s shoulders immediately relaxed. The older woman was a regular at the library where Rachel worked, and she and Rachel had had a number of friendly chats about the various quilting and other craft books Gabby borrowed. That was the thing about working at the library in a small town—Rachel knew everyone’s preoccupations and peccadilloes. Their public ones, anyway.

  If anyone could help her with the quilt, it was Gabby. Maybe she even offered a quilting course Rachel could take. Or some other miraculous solution to her dilemma.

  Rachel studied Gabby while she waited for the other woman to finish serving someone else. In her mid-to late-fifties, Gabby wore her hair in a short bob, a style that suited her fine-boned face. Her blue eyes were warm with interest and good humor, one of the many reasons she’d become one of Rachel’s favorite patrons at the library.

  Finally Gabby turned to Rachel with a friendly smile.

  “Rachel. Looks like it’s my chance to help you for a change. What can I do for you?”

  “I need your advice. And maybe a reality check.”

  Very aware of the other customers waiting behind her, Rachel explained the situation as succinctly as possible before unfolding a portion of the quilt to show Gabby.

  “Oh, yes. This is beautiful. I can see why you’re nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous. I’m petrified. Am I also insane to even consider taking this on?”

  “Well, as long as you go slowly, I’m sure you can create something just as beautiful. How much time did you say you have?”

  “Until Christmas. So, four months, give or take.”

  Gabby reached out and patted her arm. “Relax. We can do this.”

  Never in her entire life had Rachel been so pleased to hear the word we.

  “Oh. Thank God.”

  “We close at one on Saturdays. Can you hang around for fifteen minutes? Then we can go over things in more detail without being rushed.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Rachel moved off to one side, extraordinarily grateful for Gabby’s generosity. Twenty minutes later, the last customer was gone and Gabby leaned a hip against the counter. “I’ve been mulling things over while I was serving those last few people, and I think the first step is for you to decide what you’d like to do for your border. Can I suggest you do a bit of reading and looking around on the internet to see what tickles your fancy before we reconvene?”

  “That makes sense. Should I keep anything in mind while I’m researching?”

  “Let’s take a look at the quilt properly.”

  Between them, they spread the quilt across the cutting counter.

  “My gut instinct is that you need to keep the color palette pretty simple,” Gabby said after considering it for a few minutes. “There are so many wonderful things happening on this quilt, you don’t want to introduce a new color or element and risk making it appear messy.”

  “So I should maybe pick one or two of the dominant colors in the piece?” Rachel said thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps. But work out what appeals to you first, then we can discuss ways and means and colors. I’ve got a few books at home that you might find helpful—coffee-table books on quilting and a few beginners’ guides.”

  “They sound perfect.”

  Gabby pulled her handbag from beneath the counter. “I’ll drop them by the library for you on Monday, if you like.”

  “I would like. I would like very much.”

  Very aware that Gabby’s working day was over, Rachel thanked her once again before heading home, immeasurably relieved that she now had a plan. Not much of a plan, granted, but she had faith in Gabby and the power of research. After all, what librarian worth their salt wasn’t awesome at research?

  She could do this. She would do this. For Olivia, and for Aunt Gloria.

  * * *

  LEO BENNETT WOKE to the sound of heavy things being moved around. He frowned, then opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the clock on the bedside table. Three o’clock. Why was his mother rearranging her house at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon?

  He used his good arm to push himself into a sitting position and reached for the glass of water beside his bed. He felt fuzzy-headed and prickly and too hot. His collarbone also ached, along with his sprained wrist.

  Nothing new there. They’d been paining him the exact same way since he’d injured them three weeks ago.

  Three weeks. Damn.

  He closed his eyes as the reality of it hit him all over again. For a moment he could almost hear Cameron’s laughter, the teasing note his mate got in his voice when he was trying to goad Leo into running another kilometer or haul ass up another flight of stairs. He saw Cameron’s face, big eyed and open, always on the verge of smiling.

  It just didn’t seem possible that all that life, all that energy, had been gone from the world for three weeks now. But it was. He was dead.

  He heard another bang, and the pressure at the back of Leo’s eyes increased. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and pushed himself to his feet. The worst thing about his injuries was that they gave him too much time to think. He didn’t want to think—or feel, for that matter—right now. He wanted...

  He wasn’t sure what he wanted.

  To turn back the clock.

  But that wasn’t possible.

  He used his good hand to pull on a pair of track pants, then slipped the sling over his shoulder and slid his bad arm into it. He found his mother on her hands and knees in the study next door, pawing through stacks of books.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Oh, hello. How are you feeling?” She smiled up at him, her eyes filled with the mix of worried pity-sympathy that had become her stock-in-trade since she’d collected him from the hospital and brought him to his childhood home on the Mornington Peninsula to recover.

  That expression made him want to grind his teeth. Among other things.

  “I’m fine.” He could hear how brusque he sounded, how terse, but for the life of him he couldn’t moderate it.

  “Do you need your pain medication? You’re frowning again. Do you have a headache?” His mother started to push herself to her feet.

  “I can get my own tablets.”

  She gave him an assessing look before sinking back to her knees. “All right. But the offer is there if you want it.”

  He breathed in through his nose, counting to ten. She was trying to help, to make things easy for him. She didn’t understand that he didn’t want things to be easy.

  “What’s with all the books?” he asked.

  “I’m sorting through them for a friend. You might know her, actually. Rachel Macintosh? You would have gone to school together. Dark hair, dark eyes?”

  The name drew a blank, but his mother was waiting expectantly, so he frowned and dug deeper. His efforts yielded only a vague, out-of-focus impression of a tall, gangly girl with mousy-brown hair.

  “Yeah, maybe. She’s the one from America, right?”

  He vaguely remembered that she’d appeared in school in the middle of year nine or ten, a transplant from the U.S.

  “That’s her. She still has a bit of an accent, actually. I like it a lot. Something to do with her r’s and her vowels.”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway, she’s inherited a quilt that she needs to complete and I said I’d help her out.”

  Leo tried to seem interested as his mother explained something about round-robin quilting and a wedding at Christmas and how Rachel needed a crash course to get her skills up to scratch. But it was hard to muster interest in a stranger’s sewing project.

  Then again, it was hard to muster interest in much at all at the moment. The counsellor
he’d been forced to see as a matter of policy had told him that depression and anger were normal reactions after both an accident and the death of a close colleague. Which made it all okay, of course. Having the official seal of approval that his feelings were “normal” made them so much easier to deal with. He was practically skipping through the meadow, he was so well-adjusted.

  “Let me get you something to eat,” his mother said. “I bet you haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

  He hadn’t had breakfast, either, and he still wasn’t hungry. He followed her into the kitchen, though, and ate the sandwich she made him because he knew he had to eat. Life went on, after all.

  “I was thinking I’d offer to give Rachel a few lessons, if that wouldn’t bother you too much,” his mother said as she poured him a second glass of juice.

  “Why would it bother me?”

  “We’d probably have to use the living room to set up the sewing machine. I don’t want to cramp your style.”

  Where did his mum get these sayings from?

  “I don’t exactly have a lot of style to cramp right now. In case you hadn’t noticed.” He indicated his sling and casual clothing.

  “I just don’t want you to feel crowded if you’d rather not have people around.” She said it so gently, her eyes brimming with sympathy.

  “Do what suits you, Mum,” he said, pushing away from the table.

  He dumped his plate in the sink and retreated from her unwanted pity, returning to the guest room with its single bed, dainty Queen Anne furniture and pastel prints of thatched-roof cottages. He’d managed to man it up a little with a pile of clothes and shoes in the corner, but there was no denying the essential alienness of his environment.

  He was displaced and off balance. And he had no idea how to even start regaining his equilibrium.

  His best friend was dead, and he should have been there to save him.

  Dropping back onto the bed, he closed his eyes and willed himself back to sleep.

  * * *

  A WEEK LATER, Rachel parked her Mini in front of a white-painted timber home in one of Sorrento’s most coveted streets. Thirty meters away, the road petered out into a sandy dead end and a foot path took over, wending its way through a narrow band of bush until it hit the beach. Gabby’s house was only one story and more rambling than opulent—the neighboring properties were far grander, although most of them were of a similar vintage to Gabby’s. Old Sorrento money, in other words, as opposed to the nouveau riche currently gobbling up real estate left, right and center in town.

  It was the convenience factor that made it so sought after, Rachel figured. Sorrento was a mere hour-and-a-half drive south from Melbourne, making it a favorite weekend bolt-hole for the wealthy looking to shake the dust of the city off their feet. Fortunately for the locals, most of them went back to the city come Sunday evening. From the back of her car, Rachel collected the stack of books she’d borrowed from Gabby before slinging a wicker basket over her arm. It was heavy with a bottle of wine and a loaf cake she’d baked this morning, both gifts to say thank-you to Gabby for the books and her invitation to lunch today. Lastly, she grabbed the bag with the quilt in it, since it was the star of today’s show. Feeling like an overloaded pack mule, she made her way to the front door and used her elbow to ring the doorbell.

  Gabby appeared almost instantly, her face flushed.

  “Rachel. Come in. Sorry, I got caught up at work and I’m running a little behind.”

  Gabby led her down a bright hallway lined with an eclectic selection of artwork—etchings and tiny oil paintings of boats on the bay and a selection of modern tapestries. They passed what Rachel figured was a formal lounge room before emerging into a more casual area, complete with country-style kitchen, mismatched antique dining setting and two big, lumpy-looking feather-down couches upholstered in creamy linen.

  “Wow. This is gorgeous. It’s as if I’ve stepped into Country Living magazine,” Rachel said.

  “Thank you. Most of it’s purely accidental. Bits and pieces I’ve picked up around the traps over the years. Here, let me take some of that for you.”

  “I brought a cake. And wine,” Rachel said, handing over her offerings.

  “Oh, the cake’s still warm from the oven. How wonderful.” Gabby smiled, but there was a faint air of distraction about her that gave Rachel pause.

  She looked tired, too, the fine lines around her eyes and mouth more deeply etched than usual. If she and Gabby had been closer, she would have simply come right out and asked if everything was okay. But she wasn’t the type to wade in willy-nilly when she didn’t know someone very well. One of the many side effects of being more comfortable with books than with people.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked instead.

  “I was just about to set the table.”

  “Let me do that, then.” Rachel eased the cutlery from Gabby’s hand and turned toward the table. It was only when she started setting out the knives and forks that she realized Gabby had handed her three of everything. She was about to comment on it when she registered that there were three place mats on the table, too.

  Huh. She was pretty sure Gabby was divorced. But maybe there was a man on the scene that Rachel wasn’t aware of. Very possible, given their conversations to date had been limited to books and now quilting.

  “You’re wondering about the third place setting. My son might be joining us. I’m not sure, though...” Gabby smiled uncertainly.

  She seemed a little anxious. Because he might join them? Or because he might not?

  Rachel had no idea. Either way, it was none of her business. She was here because Gabby was so generously holding her hand while she grappled with the quilt. End of story.

  “Actually, I might go see if he’s up yet. At least we’ll know then if he’s eating with us.”

  Gabby left the room. Rachel straightened the place mats, then spotted the glasses Gabby had set out on the counter, and allocated one per setting. All the while, she tried not to speculate about a grown adult son who was still asleep at two in the afternoon. Maybe he did shift work. Or maybe he was sick. Or maybe—

  “I think we’re on our own. Shall I open the wine?” Gabby said as she breezed back into the room.

  “That would be nice.”

  Gabby insisted on looking at the pages Rachel had tagged in the books as they ate open ham-and-salad sandwiches, and they wound up with piles of books scattered across the table. They discussed the pros and cons of the various ideas that had appealed to Rachel, as well as possible color combinations, working their way through the bottle of wine.

  By the time Gabby served the cake, Rachel was feeling a little flushed and very content. Relaxing into her chair, she glanced back and forth between the two pattern options they had narrowed it down to. She was well and truly torn. Option number one was a white border that seemed deceptively simple at first blush, but was in fact richly decorated with a white-on-white appliqué of scrolling vines. The second option was a simple repeating block pattern in varied dark tones.

  “I feel as though I’m being asked to choose between the Dark Side and the Light Side,” Rachel said as Gabby handed her some cake. She sucked on her teeth and did her best Darth Vader heavy-breathing impersonation.

  Gabby laughed, then her gaze shifted over Rachel’s shoulder and her eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’re up. I wasn’t sure if you were interested in lunch or not, but I saved you a sandwich and Rachel has brought us a gorgeous banana cake.”

  All the little hairs on the back of Rachel’s arms stood on end. She glanced down at them, bemused, before twisting in her seat so she could greet Gabby’s son.

  And stopped breathing.

  The man standing in the doorway wore nothing but a pair of raggedy old track pants, a sling and a five-o’clock shadow. His dark b
rown hair was mussed, and from the cut of his muscles he must have spent the last century or so working out in the gym.

  Leo Bennett.

  Gabby’s son was Leo Bennett.

  Instantly everything she’d just eaten turned to lead in her stomach. The aftertaste of wine was sour in her mouth, and the smell of freshly baked cake made her want to push her chair away from the table.

  Her gaze went to her car keys, sitting on the kitchen counter.

  She wanted out of here. Now.

  But, of course, that wasn’t going to be possible. Forcing her lips into what she hoped was a reasonable facsimile of a polite smile, Rachel prepared to be nice to one of the most obnoxious men she’d ever had the misfortune to know.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LEO SHIFTED HIS weight back on his heels, momentarily thrown to discover his mother wasn’t alone. He’d forgotten about her lunch date with Rachel What’s-her-name. He wasn’t great at holding on to those kinds of details at the best of times—and this was definitely not the best of times.

  His mother’s guest was looking at him as though he’d just exited a spaceship, so he figured that gave him a free pass to check her out just as blatantly. She had long dark hair pulled into a high ponytail, pale skin and large dark eyes. She wasn’t a knockout, but she wasn’t ugly, either. Pretty, his mother would probably say. It was hard to confirm while she was sitting, but she looked as though she was probably tall and slim, maybe even a little on the skinny side.

  And if the way she was averting her eyes from his bare chest was anything to go by, she didn’t get out much.

  “I didn’t realize you had company, Mum. I can eat in my room,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly. Come and meet Rachel. If you’re nice, she might recommend some books for you to read while you recover.”

  Rachel shifted in her seat. Her smile seemed forced as she met his gaze.