Page 237 of Spicy Ever After
It’s a good problem to have, really. But neither one of us is keen on her crashing out.
We knew today would be the most draining. Nearly everyone we know has stopped by before mid-afternoon. Hattie’s parents came first, and her mom—who hadn’t seen the shop with any of the stock in place—kept swabbing tears and muttering, “I had no idea… no idea, Hattie. I’m just so proud,” under her breath. Margaret and Merrick came in from Colorado, helped us last night, and showed up about an hour after opening. Even people who have no interest in sewing or crafts, like her dad’s golf buddies and workers in neighboring shops, have dropped by.
It’s a lot of peopling, but Hattie is holding up. Lyra and I have been taking turns reminding Hattie to step out back. The property behind the strip of stores has a huge green space shaded with oak and pecan trees.
It’s a good place to take a walk, lie down in the grass, or just breathe.
She’s out there when Griffin, Kennedy, and Pop come in, my brother and his husband sticking close as Pop navigates the store’s entrance with his walker.
Pop doesn’t try to go anywhere without it these days. He still falls, but maybe not as much. And he sure seems to try harder when Hattie’s around.
We’re trying some new meds. Some days are better. Others suck ass.
Today, I’m glad he felt like leaving the house because I get second-hand pride just watching him survey the store.
“Hardly recognize the place.” The way his eyes dance tells me what an understatement this is.
We brought him to see it after the shelving and paint went up, but it’s a riot of color and texture now. The workstations and sewing machines shine. The curtained off changing room, the racks of notions, sewing tools and supplies, and the rainbow display of Hattie’s favorite brand of threads fill out the rest of the space.
Somehow, it looks bigger than it did when it was completely empty.
It looks alive.
“So, where is our resident entrepreneur?” Pop asks, craning his neck in an attempt to spot her.
“She’s out back, taking a breather,” I say so only my dad and the guys can hear.
Pop’s forehead wrinkles. “She doin’ okay?”
“Yeah.” I nod, grinning because she’s doing fucking great and because Pop might love Hattie almost as much as I do. “Just pacing herself.”
Pop grunts in approval and then surveys the shop. A young woman is waiting for the changing room to be free, holding up one of Hattie’s spring dresses. Two ladies about Hattie’s mom’s age have their heads together over a pattern book at one of the workstations. Another is running a hand over a bolt of floral knit.
“Looks like a good turnout,” Pop says.
Kennedy points to the design rack where Hattie’s creations hang. “Weren’t there a dozen of those when we finished up last night?”
My chest swells. “Yeah. She’s already sold four.”
“And you’re not proud at all,” Grif teases.
No point in hiding it. “What can I say? My woman is a rock star.”
Griffin snorts. “You don’t need to convince us. She’s well on her way to making us all rich.”
He’s not exaggerating. At least not by much.
But Kennedy just rolls his eyes. “I think Beck is responsible for some of our return-on-investment. I mean, it’s his vodka making us rich.”
Pop humphs. “And if our Hattie hadn’t stepped in when she did, we wouldn’t even have a sweet potato to our names, so, as far as I’m concerned, she’s the reason we’re in such good shape.”
Our Hattie.
I swallow hard when a rush of something—gratitude, love, both—humbles me. For her. For Pop. For Kennedy and Grif. For what we’ve built together—which is far more than a couple of businesses.
Far more.
For today and for the chance to celebrate everything Hattie has achieved in the last year and a half.
