Page 28 of Chasing the Sun
Who needed the tropics when you had Western Michigan?
There were dozens of tourist towns that dotted Lake Michigan, but it was the Lady of the Dunes that drew them to Star Harbor.
I gulped in the warm air, imagining the last dying rays of golden light reaching every corner of my soul.
Staring at the entrance to the library, I lifted my chin and rolled my shoulders back as I grinned.
Here goes nothing.
EIGHT
ELODIE
“Doyou think these stitches look crooked?” Kit leaned over, holding a wooden embroidery hoop out to me. The beige canvas stretched over the small circle. The historical society was not only the women who kept the lore of the Lady alive, but a social club steeped in local history. They were responsible for maintaining any records of the Lady and ensuring her memory was kept very much alive. Every few months, as a social project, they took on learning a new skill, doing all the things women in history might do: quilting, dance lessons, croquet.
Their current project was learning needlepoint.
Kit’s hoop was stretched tight with a series of smallX’s printed on black fabric. If I squinted hard enough, I could make out where the floral border would be and a phrase in the center.
“What will it say?” I whispered.
Kit could barely contain her giggle. “It will readPlease don’t do coke in the bathroom.”
A sputtering laugh escaped me as we both dissolved into a fit of giggles. Ribbing her with a poke of my elbow, Igave my sister my most serious look. “That is hideous and totally inappropriate.”
She beamed, dimples flashing. “Thank you!” She gestured toward Selene. “So is hers.”
Selene’s angelic face lifted. Her brows were creased in concentration as her attention focused on us.
“Go on,” Kit prodded. “Show her.”
With a sly smile, Selene flipped her hoop around. From a distance, it was much easier to make out what she was creating.
A wreath of delicate flowers along the bottom cradled the long, beak-nosed mask of a plague doctor with the wordsWash Thy Accursed Handsarched over the top.
I had missed this—the silly camaraderie of sisterhood that the Keepers seemed to bring out in everyone. It felt like slipping into a warm, well-worn sweater—frayed in places, but still cozy. Or maybe I just wanted it to feel like home. I wanted to slot back in like I’d never left, like I hadn’t spent years chasing a life that suddenly didn’t fit anymore.
I was already behind in my needlepoint, but Helen assured me that after a few practice hoops, I’d get the hang of it.
I poked my needle through the canvas, stabbing myself in the finger. “Shit!” I sucked the tip of my finger, gently biting down to distract me from the pain. Needlepoint was officially on my enemies list, right next to humidity, Cal Blackwood, and feral raccoons.
Tara Smithton drew my attention. “So, Ellie. How are things going at the farm? We’re all so excited to see what you do with the place.”
With my finger still in my mouth, I abandoned my hopeless needlepoint practice. “It’s good.” I smiled, excited to talk about my new project. “It really is amazing howquickly things get done with a little help and a lot of money.”
Tara was one of my mother’s best friends and the town’s beloved librarian. Mom and Tara had grown up together, and each had created a family in the very town they’d been born in. Her light auburn hair was cropped short in a no-frills bob, her wispy bangs framing a kind face.
“She’s back after all this time,” she clucked. Tara leaned into my mother, bumping her side. “You must be so proud, Angela.”
My eyes flicked to my mother, who smiled at me. We shared the same green eyes and brown hair, though hers was more wiry and wild, like Kit’s. Her dimple was deeper on the right side, and I could pull up the memory of sinking a fingertip into it as a little girl, wishing I had inherited justonefrom her.
“No matter what Ellie does, it’s done with gusto.” Humor and pride swirled together like sweet cream churning into my favorite morning coffee.
Mom was soft and strong. She and Daddy were the roots that kept my family grounded so each of the Darling siblings could find our own wings to fly. They were the sole reason I was wholly unafraid to jump into anything with both feet. No matter what, I knew they’d be there to dust me off if everything blew up in my face.
Mom winked at me before returning her attention to the embroidery hoop in her hands. I had missed her. My parents were the kind of steady, good-hearted people who made you believe anything was possible. It was probably their fault I kept barreling headfirst into impossible ideas, like rescuing this long-forgotten farm.
When I poked myself a third time, I groaned, dropping the hoop into my lap once again. “Iofficially give up.”
