Page 8 of Knot By Design
The woodstove in the corner crackles under a new log Mick tossed in a while back, and the hum of Friday chatter fills every inch of the place.
Holiday garlands hang halfheartedly from the rafters even though Halloween is still days away. Mick’s been saying he’s getting ahead for the season, but I know it’s because he loves an excuse to hang twinkle lights before the snow hits.
Jude sits across from me, peeling the label off his beer, his shirt still smudged with drywall dust. We’ve spent the last three weeks renovating the old Fernbridge cabins, trying to turn them into something families might actually want to rent by Christmas.
He keeps talking about adding cedar beams and custom bunk beds, says the place deserves a second life. I’m half-listening, half-watching the foam settle in my glass. My body aches from the work, but there’s satisfaction in it. Building something back up always feels better than letting it rot.
We tore down the old porch today and replaced it with planks from local pine. The smell of resin and sawdust still sits under my fingernails.
Jude joked about my obsession with straight lines, said I measure twice, then measure again. Maybe he’s right. Precision keeps my hands busy and my mind from wandering where it shouldn’t.
Mick brings another round to our table without asking. “You two look like you’ve been wrestling a bear.” His beard twitches with a grin.
“Cabin two,” Jude mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Floorboards were practically mulch.”
Mick laughs, wipes the counter with his rag. “Guess Fernbridge owes you a beer or two, then.”
I grunt something close to thanks and take a long sip. The amber hits warm, spreading through my chest like slow fire.
The crowd around us is the usual mix. Locals shaking off the week, and a couple of tourists who think this is some hidden gem. The pool table clicks near the back, and Wren’s voice rises from somewhere behind me, light and teasing. I’d know that sound anywhere.
Then I see her.
Norah Knightly sits at one of the corner tables, under the fairy lights that Mick has strung up. She’s laughing at something Wren said, her head tipped back, curls bouncing with the movement. Auburn and gold in the low light.
A green scarf is draped around her neck like she walked straight out of one of those postcards they sell downtown, the ones of Fox Hollow in winter, all warm colors and soft edges.
The sight hits harder than I’d like to admit.
Jude follows my gaze and smirks when he spots her. “Didn’t know Norah would be out and about. I thought she stays late to work at her shop.”
“Probably here to meet someone,” I say, a little too fast.
He leans back, that knowing glint in his eyes. “You could just go say hi.”
I shake my head. “Not my place. Besides, she’s your friend too. You go say hey.”
He lets it drop, though the grin lingers. That’s Jude—reads more than he ever says. We’ve worked together long enough that silence feels like conversation.
I drain half my beer, trying to focus on the scoreboard over the bar, but it’s useless. My attention drifts back to her.
Norah looks good. Happier than the last time I saw her. There’s something lighter in her face now.
She gestures as she talks, that same spark she’s always had when she’s passionate about something. Her best friend Wren says something, and they both laugh, the sound carrying across the tavern.
We worked on renovating the café for Wren a few months ago, and it seems to be taking off now. Jude was hesitant about taking up a second project with all the work we were putting in for the cabins, but Norah asked me to help out her friend, and I just couldn’t help it.
My chest tightens. I shouldn’t watch Norah, but I do. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way her mouth curves when she listens.
I tell myself it’s harmless, that it’s just observation. But it’s not. It’s longing.
Jude keeps talking about supply deliveries for next week. I nod at the right times, my eyes still drawn to the table across the room.
When Norah glances up, our gazes almost meet. Almost. She looks past me, out the window, and the air leaves my lungs anyway.
It’s ridiculous how fast the past can reach across a room and pull you back under.
I look down at my hands, callused and nicked from the day. Claire used to tease me about that, saying she could tell how hard I’d worked by the state of my knuckles. I rub my thumb over the ring I still wear on my chain, the one I never take off.
