Chapter 1
Lia surveyed the scene before her with contentment, a feeling that not so long ago she doubted she would experience again but which she now savored. Her gaze wandered over the vendors who lined the huge barn, readying their booths for the start of the Crandalsburg Craft Fair: quilts, pottery, jewelry, suncatchers, and so much more, along with her own knitted goods. It was a beehive of activity and amazing colors as the craftsmen set out their wares, and she was so glad to be a part of it. She knew Tom would be proud of how she’d pulled her life back together after losing him. It had been hard, and required plenty of help, but she’d done it. Not the same as her old life—and never would be—but fine. She scolded herself. It was more than fine. Her new life was good!
Lia turned to her booth. Was it ready? Cabled crewnecks hung at the back, along with lightweight summer cardigans. Baby blankets, sweaters, and pink-and-blue-ribboned caps lay at one end of her front counter, knitted place mats, coasters, and two afghans neatly folded at the other.
Her stocktaking was interrupted by sharp, attention-getting claps. Belinda Peebles, the craft fair’s manager, marched through the center of the barn, her strident voice carrying to the rafters. “Come on, people! It’s almost ten! Enough with the dawdling. Get yourselves together!”
Dawdling? Lia’s eyelids twitched. She hadn’t noticed any dawdling. She saw vendors reacting to the unwarranted scolding with annoyed looks or ducking out of view. Lia knew Belinda was often edgy before the beginning of a fair weekend, but this seemed more than usual. She caught Belinda’s eye as she circled Lia’s way and pulled her over with a subtle head motion.
“You okay?” Lia asked.
“I would be if this group would get its act together!” The fair manager impatiently brushed back a strand of dark brown hair that had dared to slip out of her bun. “This is a big weekend. Mother’s Day!”
“Everyone knows that, Belinda,” Lia said gently. “They’re probably on pins and needles themselves. A little pep talk would go a long way, I’d say. Remember Miss Jenkins revving up our soccer team before a game and what a difference that always made?” Lia was glad to see a smile creep across Belinda’s face and added, “You know we all appreciate the work you put in for the craft fair.”
Belinda stared into Lia’s blue-gray eyes a moment before nodding briskly. She gave a determined tug to straighten the knit tunic that hugged her sturdy frame and took a few steps back from the booth.
“Good luck, everyone! We have a large crowd already gathering out there. I know it’s going to be a great weekend!”
Faces cleared, and Lia heard a few mild cheers. She gave Belinda a thumbs-up as the manager walked by, heading toward her office and looking less tense, though still not happy. That concerned Lia, who owed a lot to her old friend. She knew that Belinda came across to many as difficult and overbearing, but Lia knew about her softer side.
It was because of this considerate friend that Lia had made the move from York to Crandalsburg, a wrenching but ultimately healthy change for her after Tom died so suddenly. Belinda recognized how painful it had been for Lia to be surrounded by daily reminders of what she had lost and brought her to the small town where she lived, beginning with short visits. Those visits eased Lia into making it a permanent stay.
And it was Belinda’s craft fair that now gave Lia a new and exciting purpose: managing a booth filled with hand-knitted items, both her own and those of her knitting circle back in York. She and the group had long run out of people to knit for and ached for new challenges and outlets for their skills. Knitting for the craft fair connected delighted buyers with their lovingly made items and gave joy to all. A win-win, they all agreed, with Lia taking a modest percentage of the total sales to compensate for her time and efforts.
When Bill Landry, who worked security for the fair, opened the doors of the Crandalsburg Craft Fair at precisely ten o’clock, Lia focused on the surge of shoppers, all looking excited and eager—a very good sign. They fanned out, some turning to the booths at each side of the entrance, while others made beelines for particular booths. Lia was delighted to see a pair of women heading her way.
“This is it, Carrie,” the older of the two said to her companion. “This is where I bought those place mats. Ninth Street Knits.”
Lia smiled at the mention of the name she and her knitter friends had chosen. Ninth Street was the location of Jen Beasley’s home, just outside of York, where they’d met weekly for so many years.
“Hello again,” Lia greeted the auburn-haired woman. “You bought the light green place mats a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you?”
“Yes!” The woman looked pleased to be remembered, and Lia blessed her ability to recall faces, though names were a different thing. “They went great with my kitchen colors, and Carrie, here, loved the little daisies knitted into the corners.”
“Do you have them in yellow?” Carrie asked.
“Let’s see.” Lia quickly found one set of yellow place mats and pulled them from the pile.
But Carrie’s face fell. “There’s no daisies,” she said, which was true. These were flower-free, though Lia had worked in thin stripes of white.
“Look, there’s daisies on these blue ones.” Carrie’s friend found a set in navy blue. “The dark color really sets off the white flowers.”
“But I wanted yellow, to set off my new dishes.” She looked over to Lia. “Can I order them?”
“Absolutely.” Though Lia had knitted the blue place mats, she was currently in the middle of an ambitious, multicolored afghan. But she knew her fellow Ninth Street Knitter Maureen Evert had the daisy pattern and would have the time. She gave Carrie a form to fill out and an estimated time frame for the finished product, then collected the deposit. By the time they were done, new customers had arrived to browse.
Lia was kept pleasantly busy for several minutes. When there was a lull she sat on her folding chair and pulled out the burgundy-colored square that would eventually be part of the afghan. As she knitted, she observed the action and the atmosphere of the craft fair. Booths were filled with a mind-boggling array of wares in all sizes, shapes, and colors, as well as media: wood, leather, glass, metal, fabric, and clay. Then there were the canvas and paper paintings of Joan Fowler and framed photographs of Mark Simmons. Most vendors were artists in one way or another, in addition to her booth neighbor Olivia Byrd, who made herbal soaps, and Zach Goodwin, who brought in honey from his hives. Where Lia fit in, she wasn’t sure. Somewhere in the middle worked for her.
A glance at Olivia showed her to be a bit frazzled, which was ironic since one of the things she sold, besides her handmade soap, was an essential oil that promoted calm. She had lip balms, too, and herbal bath salts that sent lovely aromas wafting over to Lia, who was sure the wonderful scents affected her customers in a positive way as they fingered her items, putting them in the best mood to buy.