Page 60 of Brewbies
Every piece of paperwork including the one signed by a healthy cross section of the townsfolk. The triple espresso Darby had mainlined after she closed Brewbies early that afternoon turned to acid in her stomach.
“I see your misogynistic grandfather and raise you a circa 1990s phone psychic.” The ladder emitted an unearthly shriek of protest as Gemma folded it and shoved it behind a curtain behind the register. “Gemini Cleo McKendrick, at your service,” she said with a curtsy that flared her mustard-yellow and burgundy plaid skirt.
Today, it was paired with opaque tights in an oxblood mauve that picked up thin lines in the plaid, a short-sleeved blouse with a collar that looked to have hand-tatted lace edging, and a knitted vest embroidered with frolicking kittens.
An ensemble that clearly advertised the impressive array of her skills.
Other examples were displayed throughout the cozy, sunlit shop. Hats. Scarves. Socks. Gloves. G-strings?
“We ended up playing truth or dare at the last meeting of the Stitch n’ Bitch Club, and it got a little out of hand,” Gemma said, catching the direction of Darby’s gaze.
“And what are these?” Darby asked, lifting a small sleeve that looked like nothing so much as a knitted condom from a basket on the counter.
“Oh! I’m making a new line of dildo covers for Vee’s shop. We’re calling themcooz-ies,” Gemma said, bracketing the word with air quotes. “I happen to have a hot-pink one in a lovely merino wool if you’re in the market.” She arched a dark eyebrow at Darby, a smirk lifting one corner of her bright red lips.
“I’m always in the market.” Darby began pawing through the pile. Hell, maybe an aesthetic upgrade of her sexual artillery would make her more likely to reach for her vibrator like a responsible-ass adult instead of swing-shagging the sheriff.
Bareback,her lethargic conscience laconically pointed out.
A single bead of sweat crawled down Darby’s ribs beneath the fabric of her Barbie-pink sundress.
She could practically hear Sister Mary Mildred’s voice in the back of her head, a stern and disapproving reminder that those who“sin in haste, repent at leisure.”Or, as Darby and her classmates had put it,wrap the rod or spawn the wad.
Granted, Buckingham Palace’s guard could set their pocket watches by Darby’s cycle, and it was completely the wrong time of the month for anything to happen, but thirteen years of Catholic school had left her with the lingering impression that smiting women who had sex for fun was the heavenly host’s answer to craps or roulette.
“Here we are.” Gemma produced the promised penis-shaped handicraft and held it out to Darby. “On the house.”
“No way,” Darby said. “After everything you guys are doing for me, buying this is the least I can do.”
“Suit yourself.” Gemma walked back to the register, where she began unpacking a box of sewing notions. “Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?”
“Actually, yes.” Reaching into the messenger bag strapped across her chest, Darby pulled out the bustier she had been feverishly working on to distract herself from thoughts of Ethan. “I need some lace trim for this. Do you have anything in a dark purple or black?”
Gemma’s gold-green eyes lit up. “Does Raggedy Ann have a cotton crotch?” She disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Darby alone to peruse the other items in the shop.
“Amazing place you have here,” Darby called through the curtain. Despite her mostly selfish reasons for coming, she meant the compliment sincerely. Yarn in every color of the rainbow adorned the walls and shelves, forming a Technicolor landscape that dazzled her eye. Jewel tones, pastels, and neons mingled together in a wild and beautiful display.
“It’s been a labor of love,” Gemma called back. “Meaning I do all the labor and my dad loves to remind me that crafting isn’t likely to be a stable market long term.”
“Sounds like your dad and mine would get along swimmingly.” Darby reached out to touch the buttery fibers of a mint-green shawl draped over an antique dressmaker’s bust. “Mine was less then enthused when I informed him I was dropping out of law school to become an aerialist in a burlesque troupe.”
And by “less than enthused,” Darby meant he had pretty much stopped talking to her altogether.
Gemma pushed the curtain aside and dumped several spools of lace onto the counter in front of Darby. “I mean, I can’t be too mad at him, seeing as owns this building and he still put up the seed loan that got me started.”
Ah.
This answered one point of Darby’s personal curiosity.
More than once, she’d wondered how two women in their early twenties had ended up as the proprietresses of shops she knew the value of from her obsessive real estate stalking prior to her purchase of the land just outside town.
In her early twenties, Darby still had brown hair and a trust fund that trickled just enough money into her bank account every month to keep her from selling term papers online.
“Do your parents live around here?” She picked up one of the spools of lace and held it to the edge of the bustier to get a visual.
“From May to September,” Gemma said. “Winters, they spend in Arizona near my twin sister Lyra and her chode-boil of a fiancé.”
“Twin?” Darby asked, deciding to gloss over the potentially sensitive subject.
