Page 46 of Down Knot Out
“Hard to believe, right?” I close the car door and place a hand on the small of Chloe’s back, guiding her up the stone path. “She doesn’t let many people see this side of her.”
“Does Emily have a fairy godmother?” A collection of glass ornaments hanging from a nearby birch tree twirls in the evening breeze, catching Chloe’s attention. “It’s hard to picture thewoman who barks at crews and hauls lumber living here.”
I chuckle. “Emily is a lot softer than she lets on. But she doesn’t open up easily. She’s been working with us since the beginning of our project, but I’ve only seen this place once before, when she hosted a small holiday gathering for the senior staff.”
“It was nice of her to let us crash here tonight.” Chloe’s hand finds mine, her fingers cold despite the mild evening. “Do you think we’re safe here?”
I keep hold of her hand. “Simon doesn’t know about Emily. And even if he managed to trace us, she has security that puts most private systems to shame.”
This earns me a small smile, a precious thing after the day we’ve had.
Before Chloe can respond, the cottage door swings open, spilling golden light onto the porch. Emily fills the doorframe, already dressed down for the evening. Gone are the thick jeans and flannels she wears at work. Instead, she’s changed into faded, flannel lounge pants and a soft, heather-gray T-shirt. An apron covers her front, cream-colored with “Life is What You Bake of It” written in looping script across the chest.
“You two planning to stand outside until themosquitoes carry you off?” she asks, one hand braced on the doorframe.
A hearty, savory scent drifts past her, and after our aborted dinner plans, my stomach lets out a loud complaint.
Emily tilts her head, the overhead light catching the silver of her chin-length hair. “Dinner’s just about ready. Nothing fancy, but it’s hot.”
I guide Chloe forward, my hand still on the small of her back.
Emily’s cottage exudes safety, from the cheerful yellow of the door to the soft glow of the lights within. As we cross the threshold, the scents of fresh bread, simmering meat, and root vegetables intensify, and underneath it all, a subtle, clean scent of pine and fresh snow that comes from Emily herself.
“Come on in.” Emily steps aside to let us enter. “Take your shoes off if you want. Floor’s warm.”
“Thank you for putting us up,” I murmur as Chloe and I stop to take off our shoes at a carved wooden bench in the entryway.
“It’s no problem.” Emily closes the door behind us, the heavy oak settling into its frame. “I keep the guest room ready.”
I take in the living space as Chloe moves beside me, her breath catching with wonder.
Lamplight spills across hand-carved furniture, each piece telling its own story with knots and whorls preserved in the polished wood.
Dark wood beams cut clean lines through cream plaster, and a wide stone fireplace anchors one wall. The mantle holds a row of carved wooden figures of birds in flight, forest creatures, and a leaping fish. Books fill built-in shelves, their spines a spectrum of colors on the warm wood.
Every corner has been softened with a handmade quilt on the chair, a woven blanket over the sofa, and cushions embroidered with intricate patterns of flowers and vines.
The floor beneath our feet is wide-plank pine, worn to a honeyed patina by years of footsteps. A circular, braided rug anchors the seating area, its colors still vibrant despite obvious age.
This isn’t just a house, it’s a home intended for a family. A pack. But Emily lives here alone.
“This is…” Chloe trails off, turning in a slow circle. Her fingers graze a quilt draped over the back of a rocking chair, the fabric a constellation of blue and white stars.
“Come, sit.” Emily gestures toward a dining area visible through an archway. “Food’s ready.”
A work of art in its own right, the dining table features a single slab of maple with the live edgeleft intact, its surface resting on legs that curve with the grace of deer haunches. Six chairs surround it, each with a different hand-carved back, flowers on one, mountains on another, waves on a third. Handwoven placemats mark three settings, with ceramic bowls and plates waiting to be filled.
Chloe pauses mid-step, her attention caught by a framed photograph on a side table. She moves toward it, drawn by something I can’t see from my angle.
“You have a cat?” Delight brightens her features as she bends closer to the photo.
Emily stiffens, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening before she turns away. “I need to slice the bread.”
As she disappears through a doorway, Chloe turns to me, hands curling together. “Did I say the wrong thing? Did her cat die?”
I move closer to her, taking in the photograph that captured her attention. It shows a sleek black cat curled on the very window seat visible across the room, sunlight warming its glossy fur.
“No,” I say quietly, mindful of Emily moving just past the archway. “The cat didn’t die. But it doesn’t live with her anymore.”
