Page 23 of Tattered Edges

I grabbed a box of biscuits from the sweets aisle—because who didn’t like a cookie made of butter and sugar? If I was a baker, chocolate chip cookies would have been better, but there was a reason I merelywatchedBake-Offrather than try to replicate any of their recipes.

Besides, my kitchen was definitely not equipped to handle any homemade baking attempts.

I then wandered my way through the store until I found a selection of wine. While I was fairly certain wine and biscuits didn’t go together, if it turned out he wasn’t into sweets, a cabernet would be a suitable alternative. Or, at least, it made sense in my mind. Either way, it was the thought that counted.

Having made my purchases, I hustled my way back to St. Andrew’s Hill, in a hurry to get out of the cold. When I arrived at The King’s Steed, it was even busier in the tavern than it had been during my first visit. Knowing Rory was more than a bartender in the Parlour, I looked for him on the first floor before heading for the stairs.

“Hello, dear.”

I glanced beside me and found an old woman. She was about my height, with a generous bust and a round face. Her hair was completely white and cut in a short bob. She smiled at me, revealing a mouth full of crooked, discolored teeth that didn’t at all detract from her grandmotherly like charm. She couldn’t have been any younger than seventy, but she appeared far from slowing down. Her eyes were bright at the sight of me, as if she knew me, even though we’d never met.

“You’re more than welcome here, but I’m afraid we don’t allow outside beverages,” she said, pointing at the bottle tucked in the crook of my arm.

“Oh, this isn’t for me. I—it’s actually a gift for Rory. I’m his new neighbor. He helped me this morning, and I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You’re next door? Above Tattered Edges?” she asked, as if this was very juicy news.

“Mmhmm. I’m managing the store now.”

“Are you really? Rory didn’t mention it, that sly devil.”

Her intrigue had me smiling.

“I’m Sawyer,” I said, offering her my hand.

“Hattie,” she replied, accepting my gesture. “Sawyer, you say? Uncanny.”

“Yeah. It’s a long story,” I confessed.

Still eyeing me carefully, she said, “I’m sure it is, dear. I’m sure it is. I hope I get to hear it one day. As for Rory, he’s upstairs. Though, next time, I suggest you get thechocolatebiscuits. And a bottle of scotch wouldn’t hurt, either.” She winked at me then bustled off to a nearby table.

I noticed, as she approached, the group greeted her as if they’d known her for years. I got the impression Hattie had a way of making everyone feel seen and heard—like she was there to fill the role ofcare giverto anyone who needed it. She struck me as quite the unique woman whom I looked forward to running into again.

Remembering the gifts I was still holding, and the man I’d come to see, I left the Tavern behind and ventured up to the Parlour.

Rory

Aswasusuallythecase on Friday night, the pub was packed, and Rory and his staff had their hands full. That night, he was grateful for the presence of his closest mate. Graham was always easy company—especially because the only thing he ever ordered from the bar was beer and a bowl of crisps.

The two men met more than twenty years ago, while they were attending university. Unlike Rory, Graham had gone on to pursue a career in economics. Even though he thought it tedious at times, it paid the bills, and that was enough. More than work, Graham found his happiness at home, with his wife and daughter—Maya and Daisy.

It wasn’t often Graham found himself at the bar on a Friday night, but Maya and their two-year-old had spent the day with his sister-in-law and niece, who was about the same age as Daisy. When Maya insisted he needn’t rush home from the office, he didn’t even think twice about it.

“More of the black stuff?” asked Rory when he finally got a moment to check on his friend.

“Cheers,” insisted Graham, finishing off the last of his first Guiness. As Rory began to fill a fresh glass, he asked, “By the way, are we still on for tomorrow? Your place?”

“Of course. Match starts at half past five. Try not to be late this time.”

“Hey, I’ve got a toddler, mate,” he replied, throwing his hands up in surrender. “We run on her time schedule, not mine.”

“Yeah, well, tell her Uncle Rory says don’t be late,” teased Rory as he delivered Graham’s fresh pour.

He was distracted from their exchange when he saw her out of the corner of his eye.

Sawyer.

His good mood soured a little. Hers was the last face he wanted to see.

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