Confessions from the Quilting Circle by Maisey Yates (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

“Ben...”

And then he touched her face. His hand, callused and rough, brushed over her cheek, and her heart beat an unsteady rhythm. His blue eyes were intense on hers as he leaned down, kissing her. Deep and hard. And it was like fire. Like magic. Like a deep bliss. She had told herself stories about his mouth. About his kisses. She had one night of them. One night of them and years of fantasy about them before, and a whole lot of weaving together dreams out of memory and wishful thinking in the years since.

It wasn’t as good as she remembered.

It was better.

His lips were firm and warm, and most of all, he was still Ben. Years hadn’t changed it. Time and pain hadn’t changed it.

She was a before and after, but this wasn’t.

It was everything it had always been. And then some. Because the first time he’d kissed her she’d been a virgin who hadn’t understood exactly what she wanted.

But she was a woman now, with a lot of experience in her rearview mirror, and she knew.

Oh, now she knew.

But there was more than physical desire here, and the memories of that first time made her pull away. Made her think twice as she fought to catch her breath.

“Ben... I...”

“It’s okay,” he said. “We don’t need to jump into anything.”

She wanted to. She wanted to drag him back to her Gram’s bed, and she didn’t even care how weird that was. But it was the memory of the consequences that stopped her. Of the fallout.

And Keira loomed large. Because fundamentally, she had been the person to mop up his heartbreak before. And it just hadn’t worked. She needed to be sure. She needed to be damn sure that she wasn’t just a sexual surrogate, not again.

“How many women have you been with?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“A valid one, I think. How many women have you been with?”

“Two. You know them both.”

“So, nobody since her?”

“No,” he said. “But that doesn’t matter.”

“What if it does? What if this is just the same as last time?”

“It isn’t,” he said. “Because I’m not eighteen. I’m not eighteen, and I know what I want. And I’m brave enough to fight for it. I don’t need to be with anyone else to know that I want you right now.”

“Can we... Wait?”

“I might not want to wait, but I will. For you. I’ve waited sixteen years. Now you’re here. I’ll wait some more.”

“You didn’t, though. Wait. You married someone else.”

“I did. And I have a daughter that I can never regret. Ever. But there were other things I did regret, and you’re just going to have to believe me. You’re just going to have to believe that I know what I want now.”

“Time.”

“Like I said. You’ve got it.”

“Okay.”

He touched her chin, her cheek, and then he turned and walked back out of the Craft Café. Leaving her standing there, shaking, aroused and bruised. Her heart hurt. Because she wanted to jump in with both feet. And it just seemed... Impossible and ridiculous and unfair.

That in order to do that, she needed to get back to who she’d been.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore.

And it was because of him.

19

I said I was a widow. People in this town believe me. There are too many widows. Too many wives who will never hold their husbands again. Too many children who will never know their fathers. My child may not even know his mother.

Dot’s diary, October 1944

Mary

It was quilting night.

Mary and Joe had handled picking up Hayden and Peyton from school in the days since Avery had moved out of her house. Had eaten dinner with the grandkids every night before taking them back home. Avery had joined them three times, and each time had been quiet.

Neither she or Joe wanted to bring the subject of David up in front of the kids. But he loomed there like a ghost.

She’d only gotten a small window of time to talk to her daughter without the kids around and they’d only had a brief exchange about Avery’s decision to press charges.

It was obvious Avery didn’t want much more than a brief exchange, and Mary wasn’t sure if Avery would come tonight, all things considered.

But right on time, she saw Avery walking toward The Miner’s House at the same time she was, a large, full bag slung over her shoulder.

Mary said nothing, she just walked quickly toward her oldest daughter and pulled her in for a hug. Avery was stiff for a moment, and then went pliant. She didn’t return the hug, but she received it. And for now, Mary would take that.

“Let’s sit out here for a moment,” Mary said, nodding toward the wooden rocking chairs that were just outside the front door. She watched as Avery hesitated.

Mary sat, and Avery finally followed suit.

The bruise on her cheek was fading, even with the makeup over the top of it, Mary could tell. But the circles under her eyes were darker than usual, and grooves around her mouth looked deeper.

Avery looked straight ahead, and Mary looked at her daughter’s profile. Mary wanted to fix this. Wanted to find the right thing to do. She wanted to carry it for her, and she knew that she couldn’t. Knew that it was impossible.

She was fractured inside, but Avery looked determined to hold herself together. And that made Mary feel even more broken.

“I’m sure that Lark wants to get started quilting,” Avery said, clutching her bag close to her chest and moving to stand.

“I wish you had told me,” Mary said. “I understand why you didn’t know if you could go to the police. And I understand that... I just... I thought if it was really important you’d tell me. I know I’ve never been good at chitchat and talking about boys or...manicures. I know I’m not like you are with Peyton. I know. But I was sure that if you ever needed me you’d tell me.”

The corners of