Page 2 of Forget Me Knot

“Yeah, yeah. Who’s gonna do all that on the farm if you drive to help your baby sister in Honey Hill smack dab in the middle of milkin’ hour?”

“I do have employees, ya know?”

I gulp the last of my latte and hop from the swivel chair, turning on the twinkle lights illuminating the shop and bringing the whole place to life. “I know you do. I promise, I’m fine here. Just bring yourself and my favoritedonut-printed-panty wearin’niece tonight, and get ready to party!”

Suddenly, a face smashes against the glass of the shop, peering in through a pair of purple spectacles. “Oh!” I jump and throw a hand to my chest.

“Dinah?” Emory says my name and sounds concerned, if not a bit distracted herself when she asks Molly—again—to stop singingmoist. It’s to the tune of “Old MacDonald” and absolutely hilarious. I love that kid.

Emory turns her attention back to me as I make my way to the front door. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” I answer, waving at the stranger now signaling for me to open the door while balancing a giant gift basket in her arms. “There’s someone here. I gotta go. See ya tonight?”

“Course. We wouldn’t miss it.” Emotion tinges her voice, but I don’t tease her for it, because despite my printed panties, I’m a mature adult woman and will absolutely wait to give her a hard time until she’s proudly sobbing to my face.

“We’re bringing you flowers!” Molly shouts, and Emory immediately shushes her.

“We’re bringing you flowers,” she echoes and sighs. “I’m so proud of you, sis. You have no idea.”

“I think I do, Em. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And Molly shrieks, “I love you, three!” before they hang up.

It’s our daily routine. One I’m thankful to keep, even if we’re only thirty minutes apart now. It was easy to leave the bed and breakfast in Vermont where I’d been renting a room for the summer. I loved the small town and the people there, but when Emory started mentioning how she wished we lived closer, how she wanted Molly to grow up near family, how she needed help—something my sister rarely admitted—I made my plans, packed up my pop-up pretzel shop, and took my show on the road, as they say.

She’d been living in Atlanta seven years ago when she married James. They were young and idealistic, jumping into a joint dream of starting a southern lavender and alpaca farm and, simultaneously, starting their family. But only a short timeafter finding out they were expecting Molly, my brother-in-law unexpectedly passed away, leaving Emory on her own with a hazy, half-fulfilled dream and a baby on the way.

I helped for a time, holding Emory’s hand in the delivery room and helping with late nighttime feedings and diaper changes, until Emory kicked me out, sending me back to finish my culinary apprenticeship and then out into the world to figure out what I wanted to do. But my nomadic way of life and all the exploring in the world couldn’t compare to the adventure of slumber parties with my sister and niece, toddler ballet recitals, and kindergarten productions ofCinderella.

Coming back to Georgia, to Emory and Molly, was the first time I felt like I was truly coming home to something. Honey Hill is only thirty minutes south of the farm, Purple Pastures and Alpaca,and though I have yet to meet many of the townspeople thus far, I knew the charming, southern small-town would be the perfect place to establish my first official store front, Knotty & Nice.

Nestled between a flower shop and a tattoo parlor, I poured all my savings into renovating the space that had once been a soda shop but had been left empty for some time.

I quickly unlock the latch of the front door and hold it open for the miniature, but mighty woman pushing her way into my shop.

“Mornin’,” I greet her, though haphazardly. I don’t feel ready for visitors and really do have so much to accomplish before opening in a few hours. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you just yet.”

The stranger—because she has yet to tell me who she actually is—pushes on by and sets her gift basket, tied with a perfect, pink monogrammed bow any Southern woman would be proud of, on my countertop. She’s wearing purple capri pants that match herglasses, a white tunic shirt, and floral-patterned clogs that give her at least three extra inches. Nowthoseare some mood shoes.

“Don’t you be silly,” she says, brushing her hands off as if she’s just completed hard labor. “I just came on by to introduce myself and welcome ya to the neighborhood.” She holds out her hand to shake mine and grasps it in a tight hand sandwich as she shakes vigorously. “The name’s Charlotte Banner. But folks ‘round here call me Charlie. You can, too.”

“Hi, Charlie. I’m Dinah Knot.”

She releases me and waves a hand, climbing into a seat at the high counter and tapping her hands on the surface. “Oh, I know who you are, Dinah Belle Knot.”

I glance quickly to that impressive monogrammed bow and realize she does, indeed, have my initials correct.

“Um… forgive me.” I clear my throat. “But how?”

Charlie chuckles like I’ve just told the cleverest joke she’s ever heard and then wipes under an eye. “Oh, girlie. It’s a small town, and I know the owner of the building, ya see? Known him since he was toddlin’ round these streets in his superhero tighty-whities. And that was just last week.”

She laughs again at her own joke and slaps my arm before hopping from her chair, doing a small jaunt around the place, sizing it up.

“I’m just kiddin’. He’s great, though. And a looker, too.”

I follow her gaze as she checks out the dangly lights and the graphic art depicting pretzel knotting steps I had commissioned for the walls. She swipes from there to the circular window that leads to the hallway where you can just make out the mysterious door I can’t get open and don’t have a key for. I painted it orange to pop with color behind the counter and to match the orange table tops and funky pine chairs surrounding each table. Maybe I should ask my new friend all about the elusive landlord and if he knows where that door leads.

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