reverse).
Aubrey had been active in the effort to stop Horseman Woods Commons—writing letters and managing campaigns from the shadows. But she’d never been visible or outspoken. It wasn’t her nature to call attention to herself. It was Mariah who would have leapt in front of the bulldozers and cried,
Over my dead body!
Mariah had been the one with the semaphore and bullhorn, and Aubrey was the one who held them for her when she needed to free up her hands.
“What are you thinking about?” Vic asked.
“This place.” She kicked a soda can that had been smashed against the sidewalk. “What it means.”
“Your sisters can’t make you leave if you don’t want to. You can stay.”
“But for how long? Until Steve Halpern decides I have to go? That we all do? If we don’t sell our property to them they’ll take it anyway.”
“But we’re fighting it. We’re going to win.”
Vic walked slowly, as if they were having a gentle amble along the river rather than a stroll in the paved heat of Tappan Square. His arm was bent at a gentlemanly angle, and it held the weight of her hand. It occurred to her: Why had she ever been so tongue-tied around him? When her sisters had practically attacked her just now, Vic had stood by her. In light of Mariah’s death and the change to her will, the idea of being nervous around Vic seemed almost petty—proof that worry was relative, that the fears of last week were the fears of a different woman at a different time.
“You know,” she said, laughing a little, “I think I have a better shot at convincing the town to let me keep the Stitchery than convincing my sisters.”
He was quiet for the space of a few steps. “I’m sure they mean well.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Aubrey said.
“So why not tell me?” His pace slowed until he was stopped on a street corner. She didn’t know what direction to head in, so she stopped, too. They stood: together, but not quite facing. “I am a good listener, you know.”
“All right.” She focused on his chin and spoke. “I don’t really have a choice but to stay in the Stitchery. Our family has these … um … traditions. And it’s up to me to keep them going.”
He was quiet, waiting.
“Mariah didn’t tell you anything?”
He faced her. He squinted hard in the sunlight, his face crinkling, his upper lip drawn. “I know about the yarns.”
“You do?”
“I’m not saying I know everything. But—yeah. The spells, all of that. Mariah told me.” He glanced down at her.
“And, what do you think of it? Did it freak you out?”
She felt his muscle tighten under her hand. “I guess I have to tell you a story,” he said, but he did not begin it right away. They walked a few more paces, and she looked up at him with the sense that something was caught in the balance—though what it was she couldn’t say. “When I was fifteen, my father was working illegally, you know, under the table, at a construction site. The crane operator apparently had too much whiskey in his coffee one morning, and the jib smacked into a neighboring building.” He paused, and Aubrey held his arm a little tighter. “They said my father didn’t even know what hit him. Stone and glass from the building fell four stories. Nobody but my father was hurt.”
“Hurt? As in … he recovered, right?”
“No.”
“Oh, Vic,” Aubrey said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I still miss him every day. But I’m not telling you this story to make you feel bad for me. I’m telling you because it has to do with the Stitchery.”
“How?”
Vic sighed, a full exhalation through his nostrils. “He was a quiet man, never the life of the party, but always the guy you’d want to talk to one-on-one. When you needed him, he was right there—but not really noticeable until you looked over your shoulder and realized he’d always had your back, but was letting you lead the way.”
“He sounds like an amazing
Aubrey had been active in the effort to stop Horseman Woods Commons—writing letters and managing campaigns from the shadows. But she’d never been visible or outspoken. It wasn’t her nature to call attention to herself. It was Mariah who would have leapt in front of the bulldozers and cried,
Over my dead body!
Mariah had been the one with the semaphore and bullhorn, and Aubrey was the one who held them for her when she needed to free up her hands.
“What are you thinking about?” Vic asked.
“This place.” She kicked a soda can that had been smashed against the sidewalk. “What it means.”
“Your sisters can’t make you leave if you don’t want to. You can stay.”
“But for how long? Until Steve Halpern decides I have to go? That we all do? If we don’t sell our property to them they’ll take it anyway.”
“But we’re fighting it. We’re going to win.”
Vic walked slowly, as if they were having a gentle amble along the river rather than a stroll in the paved heat of Tappan Square. His arm was bent at a gentlemanly angle, and it held the weight of her hand. It occurred to her: Why had she ever been so tongue-tied around him? When her sisters had practically attacked her just now, Vic had stood by her. In light of Mariah’s death and the change to her will, the idea of being nervous around Vic seemed almost petty—proof that worry was relative, that the fears of last week were the fears of a different woman at a different time.
“You know,” she said, laughing a little, “I think I have a better shot at convincing the town to let me keep the Stitchery than convincing my sisters.”
He was quiet for the space of a few steps. “I’m sure they mean well.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Aubrey said.
“So why not tell me?” His pace slowed until he was stopped on a street corner. She didn’t know what direction to head in, so she stopped, too. They stood: together, but not quite facing. “I am a good listener, you know.”
“All right.” She focused on his chin and spoke. “I don’t really have a choice but to stay in the Stitchery. Our family has these … um … traditions. And it’s up to me to keep them going.”
He was quiet, waiting.
“Mariah didn’t tell you anything?”
He faced her. He squinted hard in the sunlight, his face crinkling, his upper lip drawn. “I know about the yarns.”
“You do?”
“I’m not saying I know everything. But—yeah. The spells, all of that. Mariah told me.” He glanced down at her.
“And, what do you think of it? Did it freak you out?”
She felt his muscle tighten under her hand. “I guess I have to tell you a story,” he said, but he did not begin it right away. They walked a few more paces, and she looked up at him with the sense that something was caught in the balance—though what it was she couldn’t say. “When I was fifteen, my father was working illegally, you know, under the table, at a construction site. The crane operator apparently had too much whiskey in his coffee one morning, and the jib smacked into a neighboring building.” He paused, and Aubrey held his arm a little tighter. “They said my father didn’t even know what hit him. Stone and glass from the building fell four stories. Nobody but my father was hurt.”
“Hurt? As in … he recovered, right?”
“No.”
“Oh, Vic,” Aubrey said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I still miss him every day. But I’m not telling you this story to make you feel bad for me. I’m telling you because it has to do with the Stitchery.”
“How?”
Vic sighed, a full exhalation through his nostrils. “He was a quiet man, never the life of the party, but always the guy you’d want to talk to one-on-one. When you needed him, he was right there—but not really noticeable until you looked over your shoulder and realized he’d always had your back, but was letting you lead the way.”
“He sounds like an amazing
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