Marie Bostwick - Threading the Needle

Also by Marie Bostwick

A Thread So Thin (Cobbled Court #3)

A Thread of Truth (Cobbled Court #2)

A Single Thread (Cobbled Court #1)

On Wings of the Morning

Rivers Edge

Fields of Gold

The Presents of Angels in Snow Angels

A High-Kicking Christmas in Comfort and Joy

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Threading the Needle

MARIE BOSTWICK

KENSINGTON BOOKS

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

With thanks to...

Mary and Hugh Bargiel, owners of the Strong House Inn, a charming B&B and quilting haven in beautiful Vergennes, Vermont, who inspired me to write about an inn catering to quilters and whose hospitality (and cuisine!) brings guests back again and again.

Cindy Bosson, owner of Flora and Fauna, in Litchfield, Connecticut, the lovely gift shop that inspired For the Love of Lavender, for generously sharing her time and knowledge about creating herbal soaps and cosmetics.

The Team (you know who you are), for their ongoing support and endless patience.

Liza, for helping me find my focus.

The Reading Friends who love New Bern as I do and whose expressions of encouragement are my greatest reward.

Prologue

New Bern, Connecticut1966

M adelyn Beecher stood on the icy sidewalk in front of Thomas Edison Junior High School, exhaling a frosty vapor as she scanned the faces of the chattering children who streamed past before they boarded the yellow buses that stood idling by the curb or formed into little clumps and cliques for the walk home from school.

As the crowd thinned out, Madelyn tightened her grip on the brown paper bag she held clutched in her left hand, shifted her book bag to a more comfortable position on her shoulder, and frowned, causing a small indentation to form between her brows, a line about three-quarters of an inch long, like the top of an exclamation point. When she grew older and frowned more frequently, this line would become permanent and more pronounced. Repeated, fruitless attempts at its eradication would pay for a family ski vacation in Vail for Dr. David Miner, one of the most prominent cosmetic surgeons on New York Citys Upper West Side. But, at age twelve, that little line did nothing to mar Madelyns looks.

She was pretty, with a clear complexion, high cheekbones, brown eyes rimmed by thick lashes, and light brown hair that she would later dye blond. However, like many young girls, Madelyn could only see the flaws in her face and figure.

She was the tallest girl in her class, half a head taller than most of the boys. She found this embarrassing, so she tended to walk with her shoulders hunched in a futile attempt to appear shorter. Yet a year or two from growing into her long limbs, Madelyns grandmother, Edna, often accused her of being so clumsy that she could trip over a piece of string, a cruel but not entirely inaccurate barb. Madelyn thought her forehead too high, so she kept her bangs long to cover it and to shield her eyes, which reminded her too much of her deceased father. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror and saw his eyes staring out from her face, she would begin to cry.

As a child, Madelyn was pretty. As a woman, she was beautiful, with a face cameras loved and a body men craved. She would not pass very far into adolescence before realizing that her physical appearance brought her attention and gave her power. But on this day, still clinging to the remnants of a short and rocky childhood, Madelyn would happily have traded her face, her body, and her life for those of her best and only friend, Tessa Kover.

It was twenty-nine degrees on that February afternoon. The radio said another snowstorm would blow in after sunset. Mr. Walters, the school custodian, didnt put much faith in weathermen, but he figured they had at least half a chance of being right and so he decided to sprinkle a layer of salt on the walkways before he swept the gymnasium.

He donned the plaid wool jacket and matching cap his wife had given him for Christmas and headed outside with a bucket of salt just as the buses were pulling away. He saw Madelyn Beecher standing outside with her coat unbuttoned, holding a brown paper lunch sack. Mr. Walters knew why she was waiting. In his thirty years as a school custodian, hed seen plenty of friendships between preteen girls, though the relationship between Madelyn Beecher and Tessa Kover was more intense than mostat least on Madelyns part. Girls could be funny that way.

Shes already gone home, princess.

Mr. Walters, who had no children of his own, called all the girls at Edison princess and all the boys son. None of them minded.

Tessa was one of the first ones out the door when the bell rang. Think Ben Nickles was walking her home.

She wouldnt walk home with Ben Nickles, Madelyn insisted. Hes a creep. Besides, we always walk home together.

The old man tossed a handful of salt onto the steps and shrugged. Well, he was carrying her books. Whatever it was, shes long gone. Probably home by now.

He looked up at the sky. Feels like the weatherman was right. Feels like snow. You should head home before it starts.

The frown line between Madelyns brows deepened. She sighed. See you tomorrow, Mr. Walters.

See you tomorrow, princess.

He watched Madelyn shuffle down the sidewalk with her shoulders drooping.

Hey! Princess! he called out. Button up your coat, will you? Its cold!

Madelyn waved at him and went on her way, coat still undone. Mr. Walters shook his head as he tossed more salt onto the walkway.

Poor little thing, he mumbled to himself. Doesnt anybody look out for that child?

Tessa and Madelyn were born in the same week in March. The previous year, to mark their twelfth birthdays, Madelyn made a pair of semi-matching friendship bracelets for her and Tessa to wear, stringing fishing line with aquamarine-colored beads salvaged from old necklaces that shed bought at tag sales. It had taken months to find enough.

The girls lived three doors apart from each other on Oak Leaf Lane, in New Bern, Connecticut. It was a pretty street and aptly named, lined with big Victorian framed houses and oak trees with strong branches that stretched streetward to create a canopy of green every spring.

Madelyn moved there at the age of nine, after the death of her father. She and Tessa became friends the way children often do, with the prodding of some well-meaning adult who assumed that two girls of the same age, living on the same street, had enough in common to become friends. This turned out to be true even though the adult in question never stopped to consider just how different Madelyn and Tessa were.

Tessa was as petite as Madelyn was tall. She, too, was pretty but in a sweet, girl-next-door way with blue eyes, brown hair that refused to hold a curl, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. As an adult, Tessa would grow to just a hair over five foot three and had to watch her diet carefully to keep from putting on weight. As a seventh grader she hadnt yet reached the five-foot mark, and after an uncharacteristic bout of begging, she had convinced her mother to let her start wearing high heels.