Page 63 of The Goat Next Door

“It’s wabi-sabi, Dotty,” I say smoothly, leaning my elbows on the glass. “The intentional embrace of organic imperfections. It’s very big in Tokyo.”

“It’s a good way to get lockjaw,” Bernice counters, setting her canvas tote bag down with a heavy thud.

The tiny, white-haired woman steps forward, her face crinkling into a soft smile. “Don’t mind them, dear. I’m Hazel. We saw you at the station on June sixth. And we heard Brooks Lawson spent his day hauling a floor-model oven into your kitchen. What’s the story there?”

I feel a sudden, sharp prick of heat behind my ears. “The story is that my previous appliance was a methane hazard, and the Chief was executing a routine public safety intervention. It was entirely civic, I assure you.”

“Uh-huh,” Hazel chirps. “Brooks doesn’t carry an appliance for just anyone, Ember. He won’t even help his cousin move a sofa because he says it’s ‘outside his operational grid.’”

“Well, he was very strict about the municipal fire codes,” I say. “He barely looked at me. He just corporate-vetoed my hammer technique and left.”

“He needs to loosen his corset, that boy,” Bernice declares, slapping her palm on the counter. “Too serious. Always looking like he’s trying to calculate the weight of a roof collapse. Anyway, you’re coming to the church basement tonight. Seven o’clock. We call it the Stitch and Bitch, but mostly we just make sure nobody’s dying of loneliness in the hills.”

I blink. “Tonight? I actually have a highly rigorous schedule of researching water heater gaskets—”

“The water heater can wait,” Bernice dictates. “There’s a thunderstorm coming up the ridge tonight, and you shouldn’t be sitting in that big, creaky house by yourself anyway. You need people to help you navigate life in Suncrest Hollow, Ember. Otherwise, you’re going to end up eating wild mushrooms and getting rescued by the county helicopter. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late. Bring snacks.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

By seven o’clock, the sky over the valley has turned a deep, bruised charcoal, the first heavy drops of rain slamming against the windshield of my truck like gravel.

I run from the parking lot of the church to the basement door, holding a plastic-covered platter of loaded taco dip above my head like a shield.

The wind is howling down the street, bending the trees into wild, green arcs, and the thunder is a low, constant rumble that vibrates straight through the soles of my boots.

I push the heavy wooden door open, stepping into the warmth of the church basement.

A long folding table is set up in the center, surrounded by mismatched plastic chairs.

Bernice, Hazel, and Dotty are already entrenched, their knitting needles clicking away in a frantic, rhythmic tempo that sounds like a miniature printing press.

“She made it,” Dotty announces, checking her watch. “Seven minutes past the hour. Not bad for a city girl in a downpour.”

“Sit, sit!” Hazel says, patting the empty chair next to her. She looks at my platter. “Oh, is that taco dip? With the little sliced black olives? George loved olives.”

I set the dip down, peeling back the plastic wrap, and take my seat. I pull out a small crochet hook and a skein of cream-colored yarn I bought at the pharmacy, trying to look like I know how to execute a basic loop.

Within five minutes, I realize that the “Stitch and Bitch” group has zero actual interest in textile production. The knitting is just a front, a rhythmic cover story for a highly sophisticated operation of social architecture.

They spend the first twenty minutes dissecting the town council’s budget for the new snowplow, the secret recipe for Mel’s chicken salad, and whether or not the new teller at the bank is related to the people who owned the lumber mill before it burned.

“So, Ember,” Bernice says, her wooden needles never slowing down as she cuts her eyes toward me. “Your parents. Marge said they’re writers?”

I feel a familiar, brief flash of defensiveness—the old instinct from the city where people always wanted to find the ‘angle’ or the joke in my family dynamic. But looking at Hazel’s kind, curious face and Bernice’s attentive gaze, I realize there’s no malice here.

They just want to know who I am.

“Yeah,” I say, a soft smile breaking through my guard. “They are. They write historical romance novels. Well, technically erotica. My dad handles the historical research and the plot architecture, and my mom writes the… the sensory descriptions.”

The table goes completely silent.

Dotty stops her chip mid-air, a dollop of taco dip hovering dangerously close to her denim shirt.

Bernice blinks, her wooden needles freezing.

“Erotica,” she says. “Like… the paperbacks with the long-haired men on the cover? The ones with the unbuttoned shirts on the pirate ships?”

“Exactly like those,” I say, leaning into it now, my voice full of pride. “They’ve been doing it for thirty years. They’re completely obsessed with each other. They work from their living room in matching velvet robes, arguing about whether a medieval knight would use the word ‘ravish’ or ‘claim’ in a particular scene. I grew up with a house full of reference books on Scottish weaponry and Regency-era undergarments.”