Confessions from the Quilting Circle, Maisey Yates [animal farm read TXT] 📗

Her mother was already ahead of her, halfway down the stairs by the time Lark got to the top of them. She hadn’t seen Avery yet since she’d arrived. She loved her older sister. She loved her niece and nephew. She liked her brother-in-law, who did his best not to be dismissive of the fact that she made a living drawing pictures. Okay, he kind of annoyed her. But still, he was fine. Just... A doctor. A surgeon, in fact, and bearing all of the arrogance that stereotypically implied.

One of the saddest things about living away for as long as she had was that she’d missed her niece’s and nephew’s childhoods. She saw them at least once a year, but it never felt like enough. And now they were teenagers, and a lot less cute.

And then there was Avery, who had always been somewhat untouchable. Four years older than Lark, Avery was a classic oldest child. A people pleasing perfectionist. She was organized and she was always neat and orderly.

And even though the gap between thirty-four and thirty-eight was a lot narrower than twelve and sixteen, sometimes Lark still felt like the gawky adolescent to Avery’s sweet sixteen.

But maybe if they shared in a little bit of each other’s day-to-day it would close some of that gap she felt between them.

Lark reached the bottom of the attic steps, and walked across the landing, pausing in front of the white door that led out to the widow’s walk. She had always liked that when she was a kid. Widow’s walk. It had sounded moody and tragic, and it had appealed to Lark’s sense of drama. It still did.

She walked across the landing, to the curved staircase that carried her down to the first floor. The sun shone in the windows that surrounded the front door. Bright green and purple, reflecting colored rectangles onto the wall across from it. The Dowell house, so named for her mother’s family, had been built in 1866, and had stood as a proud historic home in the town of Bear Creek ever since.

The grand landscape, yellow brick that had mottled and taken on tones of red and rust over the years, was iconic, and had appeared on many a postcard and calendar. It had been part of her gram’s family, but to Lark it had always been Grandpa’s house. When he’d died ten years earlier, it had surprised everyone that the ownership of the place passed to Gram, considering the two of them had been divorced for over forty years at the time. But it had been clear that however deep Lark’s grandfather’s bitterness had been, it hadn’t extended to making sure his former wife didn’t get the home that had been passed through her family for generations.

But even after Lark’s grandfather had passed, Addie had never lived in it. A couple of times Lark’s uncles had stayed there when they’d come to town for visits, but for the past two years it had been largely closed up. And the attic had clearly been used as her grandmother’s preferred storage unit.

It was The Miner’s House that her grandmother had called home. She had made a little candy shop in the front, and had kept a bedroom in the back. The yard had a small dining set and the porch had rocking chairs. That, she’d said, was all she needed.

But as a result, The Dowell House was in a bit of disrepair, and in bad need of a good dusting.

Lark walked through the sitting room, and into the kitchen. The two rooms were divided by a red brick wall with another stained glass window set into it, and a large arched doorway. At one time, it had been an external wall and door, the change just part of one of the many expansions and remodels that had taken place over the years.

Another thing Lark had never given a whole lot of thought to. Because it was simply how Grandpa’s house had looked. Now, she saw it for the slight architectural oddity that it was.

She could see her sister through the window, the pane cutting across her face, the top of her head green, and the bottom half purple. Lark walked into the kitchen, where her mother was already seated at the table, and her sister was in the process of wiping it off. She had brought... They looked like insulated bags, which Lark could only assume had food in them.

“I figured you guys would be pretty hungry by now.”

“I’m always hungry,” Lark said. “And hi.” She closed the space between herself and her sister and drew her in for a hug.

“Good to see you.” Avery dropped a kiss on to her head.

Lark took a step back. Avery looked tired, her blond hair piled on top of her head, an oversize sweater covering her always thin frame. She had on a pair of black leggings and a pair of black athletic shoes. She looked every inch the classic image of the supermom that she was.

Avery had all the self possession and poise of their mother and the effortless femininity of their grandmother. She’d been popular and stylish with ease and Lark had envied her. When Lark had reacted to things it had always been big, and often messy. Until she’d learned to get a grip on herself. Until she’d finally learned her lesson about what could happen when you acted, and didn’t think it through.

“But what food did you bring?” Lark asked.

“I had a potpie in the freezer. I also brought salad and rolls. I figured Hannah would probably be hungry too, after flying cross-country.”

Her sister had also brought wine, and sparkling water. Lark helped herself to the water. Without asking for assistance, Avery finished cleaning off the table, then produced paper plates. “I didn’t know what kind of a state the dishes would be in. And I didn’t know which appliances in the house were functional. I don’t hand wash.”

“No. Why would anyone?