Emily lifts a skein of deep teal with silver threads. “Very pretty.”
“Could you crochet me a scarf?” Quinn asks, giving Emily her best puppy eyes. “And a hat? For winter? With the sparkly parts?”
I step forward, embarrassed by her direct request. “Quinn, we don’t ask people for presents. That’s presumptuous.”
“What’s pre-sump-tu-ous?” she sounds out the word carefully.
“It means assuming someone wants to spend their time and resources crocheting you a gift,” I explain.
Emily shakes her head in amusement. “It’s not presumptuous when I’ve been needing an excuse to use this particular yarn.”
She selects a skein of royal purple with iridescent threads and holds it next to Quinn’s face. “This would bring out the amber in your eyes.”
Quinn’s face lights up. “Purple is my favorite!”
“It must be destiny.” Emily places the yarn in Quinn’s hands. “Feel how soft it is? That’s merino wool. No itching.”
Quinn runs her small fingers over the skein with reverence. “It’s like clouds.”
A mixture of emotions rises within me that I can’t untangle. Emily’s ease with Quinn, her willingness to engage with a child’s enthusiasm without condescension, and the way she remembers details about Quinn’s preferences set off those flutters in my chest again.
It would be too easy to get used to this, which will make it hard to lose if our circumstances change.
Emily turns toward me, the purple yarn still in Quinn’s hands. “Winter’s coming. Do you think Mr. Leif might need a scarf and hat, too? The island gets much colder than the mainland once the winds pick up.”
Quinn gasps at this new responsibility. “Yes! He needs warm things!” She turns to the yarn wall with intense focus. “What color should we choose for Mr. Leif?”
“I don’t need—” I begin.
Emily cuts me off with a gentle hand on my forearm. “Trust me, winters by the water are harsher than you’re expecting. The damp gets into your bones.”
The brief contact of her fingers on my sleeve sends warmth spreading upward, contradicting her words about cold. Quinn has already begun comparing different skeins of yarn, holding them up for Emily’s assessment.
“This blue would match his eyes,” she declares, holding up a periwinkle skein.
Emily considers it. “Excellent color choice. But let’s search for a bit darker color that won’t show dirt as easily.”
They settle into a discussion of wool versus alpaca, color theory, and practical considerations. Sprinkles sits beside Quinn, receiving absentminded pats as she deliberates.
The store fades around me as the moment hits me with unexpected force.
I could build a life that includes this.
The thought is dangerous in its simplicity and the quiet longing it triggers. Not the temporary arrangement I’ve convinced myself is all I can have, not the careful distance I maintain from everyone except Quinn, but something permanent.
Something chosen rather than randomly fled to.
Emily lifts her head, her gray eyes finding mine across the small distance, and a moment of warm understanding passes between us.
Quinn holds up a skein of deep navy blue with subtle hints of teal. “This one. It matches the ocean when the sun is setting.”
“Perfect choice.”
Quinn cradles the yarn, her face solemn with the importance of her selection. “Now Mr. Leif will be warm all winter.”
The simple declaration, the certainty I’ll still be here when winter deepens, then when spring returns, hits me with unexpected force. I’ve been so careful not to plan beyond the immediate future.
Yet here Quinn is, planning for my warmth months from now, and Emily is agreeing to spend time crocheting a gift for me.