Page 14 of The Weekend Crashers
Belinda compliments the sweater Maggie’s wearing, asking her about the buttons she chose for it, the brand of yarn. All the while, she looks Maggie directly in the eyes, making her feel like she’s the only person in the room.
Belinda’s attention warms her like sunshine. Older women have that effect on her, and it’s not a mystery why: Her own mother never had time for her. Even before Maggie got pregnant and dropped out of school and refused to return home, Birdie Hodges seemed alternately bewildered by and resentful of her. Birdie didn’t do “fun.” She’d never heard the expression “quality time.” And so Maggie formed a habit early in life looking for mother figures. She knows, on some level, that’s what made her dynamic with Elaine Berger work so well.Maggie was basically motherless, and Elaine only had sons, no daughters. Maggie wonders if Belinda has children.
Now she feels bad for making an issue out of the bachelor party. She wants to apologize, but before she can say anything two young women walk over.
Belinda makes introductions. The women are Laurel Hayes and Kalliope Dimitriou, best friends from elementary school on their annual girls’ weekend. They’re physical opposites; Laurel is slight and fair with a heart-shaped face framed by stick-straight, wheat-colored hair just skimming her shoulders. Kalli is tall, with long dark curls and eyes so brown they appear black.
“The selection of yarns here is amazing,” Laurel says. She has hazel-gray eyes with nearly invisible lashes.
“Thank you.” Belinda smiles. “We used to have a yarn shop in town, and I’d take all my knitters on a field trip the first day of every retreat. But it closed a few years ago, and so I started this little tradition instead.”
Maggie comments that she especially likes the brushed yarn selection.
“You know, I used to favor mohair in this category,” Belinda says. “But lately, I’ve been impressed by the softness of alpaca and alpaca blends.”
A woman comes barreling toward them, waving her hands. “Belinda, I forgot to register for Know Your Yarn,” she says.
She’s a whirlwind of energy, mid-fifties, curvaceous and busty with dyed red hair and dressed in a flowy caftan and a chunky beaded necklace.
“Sheila, you know that won’t be a problem,” Maggie says. “Sheila, meet Maggie, Kalli, and Laurel. Ladies, Sheila Bevins is a retreat regular.”
“I’ve been coming since the very first one,” Sheila says. “Summer of 1999. That’s right. Never missed a retreat, neverwill.” Sheila beams at Belinda, then turns to Maggie and Kalli. “Belinda’s classes are the best, and I’ll tell you why: One, she always has a clear agenda, and two, she doesn’t waste time. Oh, and three, she teachestechnique. Not everyone does. You’d be surprised.”
“That’s lovely of you to say, Sheila,” Belinda says, before she excuses herself to help one of the other retreat attendees, who wants to pay for a bundle of cashmere.
When she’s gone, Sheila says to them, “I’m hosting a yarn swap in my room later. It’s a retreat tradition. I’m in Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ll check with my daughter.”
Maggie looks around the room. Where did Piper go?
Piper spots HannahElise, aka @HaloHannahKnits, across the room talking to two other twentysomething women. Hannah Elise is easy to spot, with distinctive strawberry-blond corkscrew curls that fall halfway down her back and hooded, pale blue eyes. She has fair, faintly freckled skin. Her nose is pierced with a tiny gold hoop. She’s dressed in a crochet tank with a divine matching ankle-length jacket paired with faded wide-leg jeans.
It feels strange to just walk up and introduce herself. And before Piper can decide how to approach her, Hannah Elise notices her and waves her over.
“You look so familiar,” she says with a smile. “I’m Hannah Elise—one of the instructors this weekend.” It’s strange to hear her voice in person instead of through a video on her phone. Here, her Brooklyn accent is more pronounced.
“I know you from TikTok,” Piper says. Now that she thinks about it, she hasn’t seen Hannah Elise’s posts for a while. Her feed is now overly crowded with fashion accounts she followsfor networking. She makes a mental note to unfollow some of them so she can see more posts that actually bring her joy—especially considering what happened this week. The last thing she wants to think about now is the fashion industry.
Hannah Elise introduces the two women standing with her, Lexi Takahashi and Dove Sullivan. They’re both artists from Philadelphia. “This weekend is our honeymoon,” Dove announces, then gazes lovingly at Lexi. Dove is medium height, sinewy, with fair skin and short brown hair marked with a premature streak of gray.
Piper feels Hannah Elise looking at her intently.
“Now I know why I recognize you,” she says.
Piper can tell, just from the tone of her voice, that Hannah Elise has seen the video of her falling on the runway. But she doesn’t elaborate, and Piper is grateful. Dove and Lexi seem to have missed the comment entirely.
“You know I hate that term, honeymoon,” Lexi says. Lexi is shorter and broader than Dove, with delicate facial features and black hair feathered like Joan Jett’s circa the 1980s. “So patriarchal.”
“Congratulations,” Piper says. “When did you get married?”
“Monday,” they say in unison. Then Lexi adds, “We went to City Hall. Kept things simple.”
“But we’re going to have a real ceremony at some point,” Dove says.
“Thatwasa real ceremony,” Lexi corrects gently.
“You know what I mean.”
