Sins & Needles Read online

  “Yes, she is,” I agree. “Her name is Sophie, and she’s allowed on the furniture. It might be more comfortable for you than the hardwood floor.” I gesture to the two sofas in the cozy knitting area.

  “I should socialize with the humans,” Dina says. Then she looks at Sophie. “I’m sorry, Sophie, I have to do people things. I’ll rub you again before I leave.”

  I extend my hand to help her up, and she accepts it.

  “Nice unicorns,” I say, pointing to the pink and purple unicorn bandage on Dina’s index finger.

  “Thanks,” she laughs. “The first aid kit at our rental cottage has an eclectic collection of supplies. The only bandage options are unicorns or jack-o’-lanterns, and since it’s April, I went with the unicorns.” She shrugs.

  “If it’s serious, there’s a walk-in medical clinic over…”

  “It’s not,” Dina interrupts, flicking her wrist. “It’s a paper cut. Occupational hazard in my job.”

  Through the display window, I spy the handsome, well-dressed, bald man who was kissing Jules Janssen earlier. He is pacing on the sidewalk across the street.

  Noticing my distraction, Dina asks me what’s wrong.

  “That man,” I say, nodding toward the display window. “Have you seen him before?”

  Dina’s eyes follow my gaze. “Brooks?” she asks. “The bald guy in the expensive suit?”

  “You know him?” I ask.

  She nods. “His name is Brooks Wiley. He’s Claire’s literary agent.”

  “Really?” I ask, wondering if he’s the reason Jules knew about Claire’s visit to Knitorious today.

  Why would Brooks Wiley sneak around town, making out with Jules Janssen, someone his client is trying to avoid?

  Duh! Why wouldn’t he? She’s Jules Janssen, recipient of Hollywood’s most-beautiful-person-in-the-world-award.

  “Why do you ask?”

  I shake my head. “No reason,” I reply. “He was hanging around outside earlier, and I’ve never seen him before. Tourists don’t dress like that or look so intense.”

  “That’s just Brooks,” she assesses flippantly. “He’s made of expensive Italian suits and smoldering intensity.”

  “Brooks is welcome to come in,” I offer. “He doesn’t have to wait for you and Claire outside.”

  “I don’t think he’s waiting for us,” she says. “I don’t know why he’s there. Trust me, if he wanted to come in, he would.”

  Her last sentence sounds ominous.

  I can’t tell if Dina likes Brooks Wiley, but something about him makes me cautious, like I need to be hyper-aware of my surroundings when he’s around.

  Chapter 4

  Claire inspects the needle-felting display, strolling from item to item with her hands clasped behind her back, smiling and dispensing generic compliments as she saunters past each piece of the exhibit. She reminds me of the parent volunteers who judged the science fair exhibits when Hannah was in elementary school.

  A few paces behind her, Dina pets each miniature person, place, and animal. She marvels at the accuracy of each tiny character and setting from the books.

  “There’s even a miniature Mama needle felting in her easy chair!” she proclaims with awe.

  With unbridled enthusiasm, Dina asks who made each item, then compliments their workmanship.

  While everyone is busy hovering around the exhibit, waiting their turn for Claire and Dina to compliment their creative talent, Connie and I slip away to the kitchenette to refresh the tea and coffee and fill the water pitcher.

  “Is it me, or does Claire Rivera seem… I don’t know”—Connie tosses her hand in the air—“indifferent to the exhibit?”

  “It’s not you,” I assure her, plugging in the kettle. “I noticed it too. She’s kind of standoffish.”

  “And she has touched nothing! My dear, have you ever encountered a fibre artist who doesn’t squish the fibre?”

  I shake my head. “I noticed that too,” I concur. “Maybe she keeps her hands clasped behind her back to avoid touching it. Maybe she’s afraid she’ll break something, or doesn’t want to touch it without buying it?” I venture a guess at some unlikely reasons to explain Claire’s apparent apathy toward the craft she claims to love.

  When we emerge from the kitchenette, Claire’s inspection of the exhibit is over, and several knitters are milling around the harvest table, oohing and aahing over the bookish cookies from Artsy Tartsy. Dina is in the thick of it, taking selfies with the cookies and crafters.

  Where’s Claire? I scan the store and find her near the counter, looking disinterested as she thumbs through a book of knitting patterns, licking the tip of her thumb and index finger before each page turn.

  I place a bookish cookie on a plate, grab a napkin, and join her.

  “Our local pastry chef made these in your honour,” I say, placing the plate and napkin on the counter.

  “How clever,” she comments, looking at the cookie and smiling.

  “Would you mind if I took a photo of you holding the cookie?” I ask. “She’s a dear friend, and it would mean a lot to her to have a picture of you with one of her creations.”

  “Of course!” Claire uses the napkin to pick up the cookie and holds it next to her cheek. She smiles and raises her eyebrows, moving her eyeballs toward the cookie without turning her head.

  “Perfect,” I say, snapping two photos. “Thank you, Claire.”

  “No problem,” she says, then looks at her watch. “We should get going.”

  Claire stares at Dina until Dina makes eye contact with her. Claire winks and smiles at Dina before she resumes thumbing through the book, licking her thumb and index finger before turning the page.

  Was that a wink, or a wink? Is Dina more than Claire’s author assistant?

  “Claire,” I whisper. “Are you and Dina a couple?”

  “What?” she asks, her face scrunched up with confusion. “No! Why would you ask that?”

  “I’m sorry,” I atone. “It’s the wink. I couldn’t tell if it was a friendly wink or a flirty wink,” I explain. “It’s none of my business. Please don’t feel compelled to answer me. If you are a couple, Dina is super nice, and I hope you’re happy.”

  Claire laughs and closes the pattern book, pushing it aside. “Dina and I aren’t a couple, Megan,” she informs me. “Our relationship is purely professional. She’s my assistant, nothing more. We’re barely friends, for goodness’ sake. The wink is how I signal to Dina that I want to leave in five minutes.”

  “Ohhh,” I respond. “That’s smart.”

  Claire continues to chuckle under her breath and points toward the harvest table. “I’m going to say goodbye and thank everyone,” she says.

  I do a headcount of the felters. Twelve. I remove twelve books, then carry the box to the back room, place it on the floor near the back door, and place Jules’s gift bag on top.

  Standing in the doorway to the back room, I listen as Marla, on behalf of the book club and the charity knitters, thanks Claire and Dina for attending the book fair and gracing us with their presence at Knitorious this afternoon. Accompanied by applause, Claire and Dina retreat to the back room.

  “What’s this?” Claire asks, nodding at Jules’s gift on top of the book box.

  “It’s a gift for you from Jules Janssen,” I start. “I’m sorry. I’m not comfortable with this, and I understand if you don’t want to accept it. Jules asked me to give it to you on her behalf.”

  Claire rolls her eyes, then looks at Dina, and they both laugh, shaking their heads.

  “Unbelievable,” Claire says, then she touches my arm. “Megan, I’m sorry Jules put you in the middle like this. She’s been harassing me for months to sell her the movie rights to Familia.”

  “She mentioned that,” I say.

  “Well, she’s wasting her time,” Claire asserts. “The only way Familia will become a movie or TV series is over my dead body.” She looks at Dina and points to the box and gift bag. “Take these
to the car, Dina. I’ll meet you there.”

  Dina nods, and stoops to pick up the box.

  “It was nice to meet you, Dina,” I say, holding the door open for her.

  “You too, Megan,” she smiles. “Maybe we’ll see each other at the book fair.”

  “Megan, before I leave, can I ask you something?” Claire asks, scanning the room to make sure we’re alone.

  “Does Mitchell still hate me?”

  That’s a big question, and not one I’m qualified to answer.

  “To be honest, Claire, I’m not sure how my dad feels about you. He hasn’t mentioned you in years.”

  “That could mean anything,” she surmises. “Maybe he hates me more than ever, maybe he’s forgiven me.”

  I purse my lips into a tight line and shrug. I don’t know what to say. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I want you to know that I didn’t steal Familia from Mitchell. I didn’t know what he was working on when I resigned. I never had access to his works-in-progress. And I would never hurt him. Your father is a brilliant, creative author, and I learned so much from him. He’s my mentor. I left because I felt it was time for me to stretch my creative wings. I was afraid if I didn’t do it then, I never would. But I swear to you, I plagiarized nothing of Mitchell’s.”

  “OK.” I hope she’s not looking to me for forgiveness because it’s not my place to offer it.

  “Do you think you could arrange a meeting between Mitchell and me while we’re both in Harmony Lake?” Claire asks.

  “Ooof,” I sigh. “I’m not sure, Claire,” I reply, shaking my head. “I can ask him, but I don’t know if he’ll be open to it. What do you want from him?”

  “Nothing,” she replies. “I want to explain why I left and assure him I didn’t steal his idea. I don’t expect us to be friends, but it would be nice if we weren’t enemies. I’m ready to write the next chapter of my life, and I’d like this chapter to end with no loose ends.” She reaches into her pocket and produces a business card. “Contact me if Mitchell agrees.” She hands me the card. “This has my contact information and Dina’s. Be sure to contact me. Dina is my assistant, and I keep my professional and personal lives separate.”

  “OK,” I respond. “I’ll tell my dad you want to bury the hatchet.” I add Claire’s card to the fridge, under the same magnet as Jules’s card.

  “I hope Mitchell wants to bury the hatchet too,” Claire says, opening the back door. She chuckles. “I just hope he doesn’t want to bury it in my head.”

  Chapter 5

  Thursday, April 15th

  Hannah: Grandma and Grandpa just left. They said to tell you they’ll be in Harmony Lake by dinner. Followed by an old-man emoji, old-woman emoji, and car emoji.

  Me: OK. Thanks. Good luck on your exam! Followed by a shamrock emoji and heart emoji.

  Hannah: And Grandpa said to tell Dad the books will be delivered to his office today. Followed by a book emoji, heart emoji and several cardboard-box emojis.

  Adam: Thanks, Princess! Good luck with your exam. Followed by a crossed-fingers emoji and a one-hundred-percent emoji.

  “Are you going to text Mitchell and tell him the books arrived?” Adam asks after he hits send on his text to the chez Martel group chat with him, Hannah, and me.

  “There’s no point. He and Zoe turn off their phones when they’re in the car.” I shrug. “I texted the person who sent them from the publisher and told her they arrived.”

  Adam is my ex-husband. He’s also the mayor of Harmony Lake and our town’s only lawyer. After twenty years of marriage, we finalized our divorce last year. As far as divorces go, ours was as amicable as it gets. We worked hard to keep our family intact, and we always put our daughter first. Some days are easier than others, but we’ve redefined our relationship and remain friends. We love each other, but not how married people should; we aren’t a couple anymore, but Adam and I will always be family.

  We met in university when I was eighteen years old. We got married when I was twenty, and I became pregnant with Hannah a few months later. Adam was an ambitious workaholic who spent most of his time climbing the corporate ladder to senior partner, at a law firm in the city. I focused on raising Hannah and immersing myself in the community. Our marriage didn’t have a dramatic ending. It fizzled out. Neither of us noticed until it was too late; one day we realized the only thing we had left in common was Hannah. After a few failed attempts to rekindle our connection, we decided it would be best for everyone to end our marriage.

  “Why did your father have his books delivered to my office, anyway?” Adam asks. “Why didn’t he send them to Knitorious since you’re hosting his book signing?”

  “He worried the delivery person would leave them in the parking lot, and Connie and I would have to lug them into the store,” I explain. “He figured you’d transfer them from your office and do the lugging for us. I didn’t know the books were being delivered to your office until after he shipped them. Otherwise, I would have asked him to send them here.”

  Adam’s short, dark hair is coiffed into place and doesn’t move when he shakes his head. “He did it to get under my skin, Meg. Mitchell’s always trying to antagonize me.” He hoists another box of books onto the harvest table. “He’s trying to get a reaction out of me. To goad me into freaking out so I’ll look crazy.” Adam shakes his head again. “I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

  “Who’s trying to get a reaction out of you?” Eric asks, the sleeves of his shirt stretching under the pressure of his biceps as he heaves two more boxes onto the crowded table.

  Adam tells Eric his theory that my father’s mission in life is strategizing covert ways to torment him.

  Eric is my boyfriend. He’s also our local police chief and my tenant. He lives in the apartment above Knitorious, though we’re renovating my house so he can move in with me. Living together is a big step for me, so Eric is moving in slowly. He stays at his apartment about fifty percent of the time and at chez Martel the other fifty percent. Chez Martel is what we call my house.

  “Brace yourself, dude, Mitchell hates all his sons-in-law,” Adam warns Eric. “But he hates me the most,” he adds, sounding almost proud of his position as the least-liked son-in-law.

  By all his sons-in-law, Adam is referring to himself, and my sister’s current and former husbands.

  “Adam, stop scaring him,” I say, referring to Eric. “You’re being dramatic. My dad is always cordial and courteous to you.”

  “That’s part of his strategy, Meg,” Adam argues, furrowing his thick brows over his blue eyes. “He manifests his hatred passive-aggressively so I can’t confront him without looking paranoid.” He looks at Eric. “Guess how many times Mitchell has killed me?” The look on Eric’s face is blank, and he blinks. “Go on, guess,” Adam urges.

  “Mitchell killed you?” Eric asks, confusion clouding his handsome, chiseled face.

  “Nineteen times,” Adam replies, over-enunciating each syllable. “He always revives me so he can kill me again.” The look of concerned confusion on Eric’s face deepens. “You know Mitchell’s Shark Attack book series?” Adam asks.

  “I love those books,” Eric replies, his concerned expression replaced by a more enthusiastic one. “I’ve read the entire series. It’s one reason I wanted to be a cop.” Comprehension flashes in his brown eyes. “Wait!” he says, pointing at Adam. “Are you The Shark?”

  Adam nods and smiles, looking proud of his self-appointed status as my father’s favourite murder victim.

  Mitchell Monroe’s most popular book series is the Shark Attack series. The good guy is a cop named Rock Granite who devotes his life to apprehending a lawyer named Alan Mandell, a serial killer known as The Shark. In each book, Rock hunts The Shark. At the end, when Rock is about to capture him, The Shark fakes his own death; there’s never a body. In the next book, The Shark, miraculously resurrected, kills again, Rock hunts him again, and he fakes his death again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Adam believes The
Shark, Alan Mandell, is him, Adam Martel. My father insists it’s a coincidence and says Adam shouldn’t flatter himself.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t listen to him,” I tell Eric. “He’s worried Mitchell will hate you more, and you’ll replace him as most-hated son-in-law.”

  Instead of laughing at my attempt to make light of the situation, Eric looks worried. He furrows his brow, and his brown eyes dart back and forth between me and Adam.

  “I’m joking,” I assure him. “Mitchell will love you.”

  “You’ll know in a few months,” Adam warns. “If he hates you, Mitchell will write you into his next book and kill you.”

  Thanks for your support, Adam.

  “Let’s get the last few boxes from your car,” Eric says, nudging Adam and changing the subject.

  “You can hide at my condo until he leaves town,” Adam mumbles to Eric as they leave the store. “I’ve got your back, dude.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I call after them.

  Yes, my ex-husband and boyfriend are friends. Good friends. Eric was new in town and didn’t have any friends here. Despite living in Harmony Lake most of his adult life, Adam didn’t have many relationships here because he’d spent all his time at his office in the city. They bonded over a mutual love of golf and Buffalo wings and became buddies. Is it weird to watch my boyfriend and ex-husband hang out? Yes, but no weirder than the friendship I have with Adam’s new partner.

  Our modern, non-traditional family is one example of the many families of choice in our quirky little town.

  My dad sent too many books to display in the store. Adam clears yarn from the yarn shelves to make room to display some of them. Eric rearranges the storage room to accommodate the rest of the books and the displaced yarn. I erect an easel in the window to display the poster board of my Dad’s picture, his latest book, and the time and date details of his appearance this Sunday.