feet, her voice doing little to disguise the anger she felt. “Victoria, I’m going inside for a spell. You stay out here and talk with Kenny for a bit, will you?”
She considered arguing but knew better than to go that route. Rose Winters was a sweet woman, her bristly personality nothing more than an outer covering for a soft interior. But if there was a time the claws stayed, it was when a demand was deliberately ignored. The key was differentiating between a Rose-issued demand and a true question.
The part about staying with Kenny was most definitely not a true question.
“I’d be happy to,” she said as she, too, stood and planted a kiss on the woman’s forehead. “I’ll be in to check on you before I head back to work.”
“No need. Just talk some sense into him before you leave,” Rose mumbled as she shuffled her way up the steps and into her house.
When she was gone, Tori turned her attention to the man still sitting at the table, a man with hands still fisted and shoulders still tense. “Martha Jane’s mistake doesn’t reflect on your intelligence in any way, Kenny. Please know that.”
“Don’t m-matter w-what I know . . . or w-what Mizz Winters knows. Everyone else treats me like I’m d-dumb. I’m used to that. Mizz Barker tried t-to m-make them think I w-was a c-crook, too.”
Reclaiming her spot at the picnic table, she reached out and touched his forearm with a reassuring hand, the coldness of his flesh making her draw back in surprise. “But you’re not a crook, Kenny. That’s all that matters.”
“She d-don’t know what it’s l-like to have p-people s-staring at you all the t-time. She don’t know w-what it’s like to have p-people sp-spit at you and m-make f-fun of you. But you w-wait . . .” Fisting his hands still tighter, Kenny continued on, his wooden rant drowning out Tori’s reassurances. “You w-wait . . . you j-just w-wait and see.”
A sharp chill shot down Tori’s spine. “Wait and see what, Kenny?”
“You w-wait and see,” Kenny repeated. “She m-might not s-say s-sorry to s-someone d-dumb like m-me . . . but—but someone d-dumb like m-me can—can m-make her sorry. R-Real sorry.”
Chapter 5
She ran her left hand across the pale pink Polarfleece in her lap, the baby soft material warm and cozy beneath her skin. From the moment Tori had decided on hats and scarves as her contribution to the women’s shelter in Chicago, she’d known it would be a labor of love.
On its own, a single hat and scarf set was the kind of project that could be started and completed in a matter of an hour or two. But when you multiplied that set by sixty as she intended, the time involved ballooned significantly.
She’d known that. Had embraced it, even . . .
Until tropical storm Roger blew his way into Sweet Briar, mandating more hours at the library, thinning out her sewing troops, and leaving a general feeling of malaise in his wake.
“If you don’t mind, Roger, I think I’ll pass on the thank-you note,” she mumbled as she grabbed her fabric scissors and began to cut, the blade gliding easily through the fleece. Turn by turn she maneuvered around the fabric, securing the 16 by 22 inch rectangular piece that would be the foundation for her second hat.
Dropping the scissors onto the sofa, she reached for the heart-shaped pincushion that had been her first sewing project as a child. One by one she removed pins from the red satin, depositing them, instead, into the pink fleece, temporarily adhering the two shorter sides together in preparation for the sewing phase.
Once the pins were set, she scooted forward on the sofa and unlatched the wooden sewing box she’d set on the coffee table. Spools of thread in varying shades and colors covered the bottom of the box, the perfect pink calling to her from its spot in the right corner.
Pulling the chosen thread from the box, Tori settled back against the seat cushions, her hands itching to sew for the first time all
She considered arguing but knew better than to go that route. Rose Winters was a sweet woman, her bristly personality nothing more than an outer covering for a soft interior. But if there was a time the claws stayed, it was when a demand was deliberately ignored. The key was differentiating between a Rose-issued demand and a true question.
The part about staying with Kenny was most definitely not a true question.
“I’d be happy to,” she said as she, too, stood and planted a kiss on the woman’s forehead. “I’ll be in to check on you before I head back to work.”
“No need. Just talk some sense into him before you leave,” Rose mumbled as she shuffled her way up the steps and into her house.
When she was gone, Tori turned her attention to the man still sitting at the table, a man with hands still fisted and shoulders still tense. “Martha Jane’s mistake doesn’t reflect on your intelligence in any way, Kenny. Please know that.”
“Don’t m-matter w-what I know . . . or w-what Mizz Winters knows. Everyone else treats me like I’m d-dumb. I’m used to that. Mizz Barker tried t-to m-make them think I w-was a c-crook, too.”
Reclaiming her spot at the picnic table, she reached out and touched his forearm with a reassuring hand, the coldness of his flesh making her draw back in surprise. “But you’re not a crook, Kenny. That’s all that matters.”
“She d-don’t know what it’s l-like to have p-people s-staring at you all the t-time. She don’t know w-what it’s like to have p-people sp-spit at you and m-make f-fun of you. But you w-wait . . .” Fisting his hands still tighter, Kenny continued on, his wooden rant drowning out Tori’s reassurances. “You w-wait . . . you j-just w-wait and see.”
A sharp chill shot down Tori’s spine. “Wait and see what, Kenny?”
“You w-wait and see,” Kenny repeated. “She m-might not s-say s-sorry to s-someone d-dumb like m-me . . . but—but someone d-dumb like m-me can—can m-make her sorry. R-Real sorry.”
Chapter 5
She ran her left hand across the pale pink Polarfleece in her lap, the baby soft material warm and cozy beneath her skin. From the moment Tori had decided on hats and scarves as her contribution to the women’s shelter in Chicago, she’d known it would be a labor of love.
On its own, a single hat and scarf set was the kind of project that could be started and completed in a matter of an hour or two. But when you multiplied that set by sixty as she intended, the time involved ballooned significantly.
She’d known that. Had embraced it, even . . .
Until tropical storm Roger blew his way into Sweet Briar, mandating more hours at the library, thinning out her sewing troops, and leaving a general feeling of malaise in his wake.
“If you don’t mind, Roger, I think I’ll pass on the thank-you note,” she mumbled as she grabbed her fabric scissors and began to cut, the blade gliding easily through the fleece. Turn by turn she maneuvered around the fabric, securing the 16 by 22 inch rectangular piece that would be the foundation for her second hat.
Dropping the scissors onto the sofa, she reached for the heart-shaped pincushion that had been her first sewing project as a child. One by one she removed pins from the red satin, depositing them, instead, into the pink fleece, temporarily adhering the two shorter sides together in preparation for the sewing phase.
Once the pins were set, she scooted forward on the sofa and unlatched the wooden sewing box she’d set on the coffee table. Spools of thread in varying shades and colors covered the bottom of the box, the perfect pink calling to her from its spot in the right corner.
Pulling the chosen thread from the box, Tori settled back against the seat cushions, her hands itching to sew for the first time all
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