J A Whiting Books and More
Secrets and Lies - Read Chapter One
Secrets and Lies - Read Chapter One
Chapter 1
“The pattern tells the truth, child. Look closer.”
Haley Coleman startled from her dream and sat bolt upright in bed. Her Australian Cattle dog, Snoot, lifted her head from the end of the mattress with a questioning whine.
Haley’s dream had been vivid with her grandmother, Iris, standing in the fabric shop, running her weathered fingers across a quilt, and pointing to stitches that seemed to shift and rearrange themselves. “Every thread holds a story,” Iris had said, “but some stories don’t want to stay hidden.”
Haley had been having these dreams more frequently since returning to Snow Creek three years ago; dreams where Iris spoke in riddles, and where fabric patterns moved of their own accord. She’d learned not to dismiss them entirely—her grandmother had known things and had seen patterns in the world that others missed.
As dawn light filtered through the curtains of her apartment above her shop, Thread and Thimble, Snow Creek’s Main Street was just beginning to stir beneath its blanket of December snow. The small town, nestled on the coast of Massachusetts, was a popular tourist destination in every season of the year.
Since inheriting the shop, Haley had expanded the loyal customer base by doing alterations, custom sewing, designing dresses, selling fabric and notions, and teaching quilting classes.
She pushed her long, chestnut brown hair from her face, got out of bed, and padded downstairs in her flannel pajamas, as Snoot trailed behind, with one ear up and one ear down. The shop was quiet. It was still an hour before opening, and morning light sent long shadows across the bolts of holiday fabric—deep reds, forest greens, and winter whites.
And there, stretched across her cutting table, was the commemorative quilt.
Fresh pine garland wrapped around the table’s edges, releasing its sharp, clean scent. The quilt lay exactly as she’d left it last night, the binding nearly complete. It would be ready for pickup by the festival committee tomorrow morning.
Hayley looked carefully at the quilt. Something was different.
The Sagamore section—the timber baron mansion rendered in careful silk thread—seemed to shimmer in the early light. Not dramatically, but enough that Haley felt that familiar prickle at the base of her skull. The same sensation she’d felt when she first explored Iris’s belongings after the funeral and found boxes of her things in the attic.
“Okay, Gram,” she murmured to the empty shop. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
Snoot whined and pressed against Haley’s legs, her tail tucked low.
The quilt had taken three months to complete—a historical representation of Snow Creek’s founding families, commissioned for display at the annual Holiday Heritage Festival. She ran her finger along the Sagamore mansion’s roofline, then across to the Ashford Estate with its vineyard rows, and finally to the Hennessey construction company building.
Yet something whispered at the edge of her awareness, the same way a thread sometimes caught on rough skin before you could see where it snagged.
Hayley let out a long sigh and headed back upstairs. By the time she’d made chamomile tea and gotten dressed in a forest green vintage dress with a cream apron, the morning had taken on its normal rhythm. The dream faded away, and the quilt looked like what it was, beautiful needlework ready for display.
The shop door opened at precisely nine o'clock, bringing with it a blast of cold air and Kelsey Morton, her best friend and owner of The Reading Nook next door. Kelsey’s long, dark auburn hair cascaded down her back, with snowflakes still melting in the strands. She held a takeout tray with two paper cups from Nina’s café.
“Peppermint hot chocolate delivery,” Kelsey announced. “Nina said to tell you she’s trying a new recipe, and you’re the guinea pig.”
“Is that supposed to make me more or less likely to drink it?”
“More, definitely more likely. She threw in extra marshmallows.”
Snoot came rushing over to greet Kelsey and after receiving some cheek rubs, the dog’s snout moved toward the young woman’s ankle, getting ready to pinch it in order to herd her around the shop.
“No herding, Snoot,” Haley commanded. She had been training the cattle dog to curb her natural instinct to herd everything in sight. Some customers didn’t appreciate getting their ankles pinched.
Kelsey set the tray of cups on the counter, her gaze falling on the quilt.
“Holy heck, Haley. That’s gorgeous. You really captured the old mill.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes squinted. “Though I keep thinking I missed something.”
“Everything looks perfect to me, but then, I can barely sew on a button without drawing blood.”
“That’s because you try to rush it. Sewing’s like reading—you have to pay attention to the small details.”
“Speaking of details,” Kelsey said, perching on the stool near the register, “have you decided what you’re wearing to the Tree Lighting ceremony tomorrow night? Because I’ve seen your closet, and ‘festive’ isn’t exactly your strong suit.”
Haley took a sip of the hot chocolate. The peppermint hit first, sharp and clean, followed by the rich chocolate underneath. Nina had outdone herself. “I have a green dress that’s perfectly good enough.”
“The one from two years ago that you wore to the Holiday Heritage Festival?”
“It’s classic.”
“It’s boring.” Kelsey’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You should let me help you pick something out. Maybe that vintage burgundy dress you’ve got hanging in the back room?”
“That’s for display.”
“It’s for you to actually wear to something other than a sewing machine. Come on, Hale. When was the last time you dressed up for something that wasn’t a customer’s wedding?”
Haley opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Kelsey had a point. Since returning to the coastal town in Massachusetts, her wardrobe had become increasingly practical—vintage dresses covered by work aprons, comfortable flats, and clothes that could withstand a day of pinning, cutting, and pressing. The burgundy dress had hung in the back room for two years, with tags still on, waiting for an occasion that never seemed to arrive.
“Fine. I’ll wear it,” she said, “but only because you’ll make my life miserable if I don’t.”
“That’s the spirit.” Kelsey raised her cup in a mock toast.
Haley laughed, the sound bright in the cozy shop. This was her favorite time of year in Snow Creek—the streets decorated with lights and garland, the smell of pine and cinnamon drifting from every shop, and the way the whole town seemed to slow down and remember what mattered.
It was three Christmases now since Grandma Iris had passed. Three years of Haley running the shop, of learning its rhythms and secrets, and of discovering that her grandmother had been more complex than she’d ever realized. The shop still felt like Iris sometimes—in the careful organization of the notion wall, in the vintage sewing machines displayed in the window, and in the way certain fabrics seemed to whisper of old patterns and stories.
A crash from beneath the table broke her reverie. Snoot emerged, triumphant, with a length of ribbon garland trailing from her mouth.
“Snoot, no!” Haley retrieved the now-slobbery ribbon. “That’s for the window displays.”
Kelsey watched the chase with amusement. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to help you run the shop, she’s remarkably destructive.”
“She keeps me company.” Haley managed to corner Snoot by the fabric bolts, retrieving the now-slobbery ribbon. “And she’s good at finding things.”
“Finding things to destroy, maybe.”
Snoot trotted back to her fabric scrap basket, circling three times before settling down with a satisfied huff. One ear remained perked up, as if listening for the next opportunity for mischief.
Kelsey leaned forward. “Have you heard the latest gossip from Nina’s? Professor Wellington was at the café yesterday, looking stressed. Nina said she was muttering something about ‘finally finding proof’ and ‘they can’t hide it anymore.’ And she mentioned the old mill.”
Haley’s attention sharpened. Bea Wellington was a retired history professor who’d commissioned several historical quilts from Haley over the years, including the new one for the festival.
“Coral Ashford wasn’t pleased when Bea Wellington’s last journal article questioned the town’s official founding date,” Kelsey continued. “I heard she tried to get the Historical Society to revoke Bea’s research access.”
Before Haley could respond, the shop door opened again and Winston Pike shuffled through, brushing snow from his jacket and the cuffs of his flannel shirt.
The old mill caretaker rarely came into town, and never into her shop. His weather-worn face looked troubled, and his white beard was dusted with snowflakes. Kelsey straightened, her eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Mr. Pike,” Haley said. “Can I help you?”
He approached the cutting table with a slight shuffle, as his faded blue eyes fixed on the quilt. “Heard you were making a historical piece for the festival. Didn’t realize you were putting in the mill.”
“Yes, it’s there in the center. I used those old photographs from the library archives—”
“Which photographs?” The sharpness in his tone made both Haley and Kelsey exchange glances.
“The ones from the late 1800s, showing the mill in operation. Why?”
Winston’s gnarled finger traced the air above the quilt, not quite touching it. “And the properties? You mapped them from the official records?”
“Of course. I mapped them from three different sources, all cross-referenced.” Haley felt defensive. “Mr. Pike, is something wrong?”
The old man was quiet for a long moment, his gaze moving across the quilt like he was reading a story written in thread. “Your grandmother knew, you know. Iris knew the truth about how this town was built… about what really happened at the mill.”
Haley’s pulse quickened. “What truth? What do you mean?”
But Winston was already backing toward the door, his expression closing off. “The official records don’t tell the whole story, girl. They never do. You’ve got your grandmother’s gift for seeing patterns. You’ve got strong intuition—I can tell. I’d wager you’re already starting to notice things that don’t quite line up.”
“Mr. Pike, wait—”
“Just be careful what you put on display. Some folks in this town prefer the sanitized version of history. Your grandmother learned that the hard way.”
He was gone before she could ask what he meant, the shop door closing with a soft chime that seemed to echo longer than it should.
“Okay,” Kelsey said slowly. “That was weird, right? What on earth was he talking about?”
With her mind racing, Haley turned back to the quilt. “What did Winston mean about my grandmother learning something the hard way?”
“I have no idea. Iris ran this shop for forty-five years, but she was always kind of private, wasn’t she?”
It was true. Before her death at 102, Grandmother Iris had been reserved, often keeping her thoughts close. Now, three years after her death, Haley kept discovering new layers—cryptic journal entries, and the way certain customers would mention “what Iris knew” in hushed voices before changing the subject.
Haley found herself drawn back to the quilt, trying to see what Winston had seen. As she traced the stitched lines connecting the founding families’ homes, she noticed something she’d dismissed before as a trick of the light.
There were paths between the properties; subtle lines in the stitching that didn’t correspond to any roads on the historical maps. Faint trails winding from the Ashford Estate to the Hennessey construction yard, and from the Sagamore timber holdings down through the forest. They all converged at one place: the old mill.
Her breath caught. She hadn’t stitched those connecting lines. Had she?
“What is it?” Kelsey leaned in closer.
“Do you see these?” Haley pointed to one of the pathways. “These trails between the properties?”
“Yeah, I see them. Aren’t those just part of your design?”
“That’s the thing—I don't remember putting them in.” Haley pulled out her planning notebook, flipping through pages of sketches. “Look, here’s my original design. No connecting paths.”
She held the notebook next to the quilt. The quilt had details that weren’t in the plans—those mysterious pathways, rendered in thread that looked identical to her own work.
“Maybe you added them while you were working late one night and forgot?” Kelsey suggested, but her voice lacked conviction.
Haley shook her head. “I’m meticulous about tracking my work. Every change goes in the notebook.” She touched one of the mysterious threads. They were real, solid physical threads in colors that matched her palette exactly. “These weren’t here when I finished last night.”
Kelsey’s eyes widened. “Haley. What are you saying? The quilt... added its own stitches?”
It sounded ridiculous, yet Haley couldn’t shake off the memory of her dream—Iris pointing to stitches that seemed to shift and rearrange themselves.
“I don’t know what I’m saying, but something strange is going on.”
Kelsey shook her head. “I know you’ve got some paranormal kind of skills like having powerful intuition, having premonitions, and sensing things, but so far, I haven’t seen any telekinesis from you, and needles don’t sew things on their own. You were tired after you did the stitching and you forgot to document the changes. You’ve been working really hard lately. It’s easy to forget things when you’re exhausted.”
Haley hands shook as she positioned the magnifying glass over the mill section, where all those mysterious paths converged.
Grandma Iris had hinted at stories; bits and pieces over the years, dropped into conversation like breadcrumbs Haley had been too young or too focused on her own life to follow. Now those hints felt like mysteries, and the quilt spread before her seemed to hold questions she didn’t yet know how to ask.
Haley’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Looking forward to seeing the quilt tomorrow morning. 9am sharp. The Holiday Heritage Festival board is eager to approve it for display. Do ensure all historical details are accurate. - Coral Ashford
Haley stared at the message, then at the quilt with its impossible stitches. All historical details are accurate. But from which history?
“That text isn’t ominous at all,” Kelsey muttered as she looked over her friend’s shoulder.
Before Haley could respond, a woman in her thirties appeared in the doorway, shaking snow from her short blonde hair. She wore practical hiking gear and carried a well-used backpack.
Josie Rivers approached the counter. “I’m looking for my Aunt Bea. Have you seen her?”
Haley’s stomach tightened. “Not today. Is something wrong?”
“She’s not at home and she’s not answering her phone.” Josie’s voice was tight with stress. “She was working on some research project about Snow Creek’s history. She mentioned she was going to the old mill to verify something, and that’s the last anyone heard from her.”
The old mill. Where all those mysterious pathways converged. Where Winston Pike had warned about sanitized history and dangerous truths.
Sensing her friend’s unease, Kelsey took Haley’s arm, her grip tight.
“When did you last talk to her?” Haley asked.
“Yesterday morning. She called me, all excited, saying she’d found proof of something. She wouldn’t tell me what it was over the phone. She said she wanted to verify it first.” Josie’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “She said it was going to ‘shake things up’ in Snow Creek, and that the founding families wouldn’t be able to keep hiding the truth anymore.”
A chill ran down Haley’s spine.
“Have you called the police?” Kelsey asked.
“I just got off the phone with Detective Hollis.” Josie pulled a flyer from her backpack. “If you see my aunt, or hear anything...”
“Of course,” Haley said, taking the flyer. “I hope she’s okay.”
After Josie left, Haley and Kelsey stood in silence.
“There’s a lot of strange things going on,” Kelsey said quietly. “Professor Bea Wellington researching Snow Creek’s real history, your grandmother Iris knowing secrets about the founding families, that quilt stitching its own mysterious messages, and now Bea is missing.”
Haley agreed. She looked at the commemorative quilt, at the pattern that had added its own stitches. She had less than twenty-four hours until Coral Ashford and the festival committee came to collect the quilt.
What’s going on? Her hand trembled slightly as she reached out and touched the quilt.
“Don’t worry. Everything thing will work out. Why don’t you take a break?” Kelsey stood, draining the last of her hot chocolate. “Come over to the bookstore. We just got in a new shipment of cozy mysteries, and I know you’ve been dying to read the latest Maple Lane Murder.”
The offer was tempting. The Reading Nook was warm and comfortable, all overstuffed chairs and the smell of books and Kelsey’s seemingly endless supply of fresh-baked cookies, but Haley had promised herself she’d finish the binding stitches early in the day, and she still had to prepare the sample projects for next week’s holiday workshop.
“As much as I’d love to, I can’t,” she said. “I have to do workshop prep. Plus I need to finish these last stitches before the festival committee picks up the quilt tomorrow morning.”
After more discussion, Kelsey left to go back to her bookshop, and outside, snow began to fall again. Snow Creek’s Main Street looked like a postcard of small-town Christmas charm with brick sidewalks, twinkling lights, and families browsing the shops.
Suddenly, something in Haley’s chest tightened. It was the same sensation she’d felt the first time she’d explored Iris’s shop after the funeral; the sense that she was standing on the edge of discovering something important, something that had been hidden in plain sight for years.
Snoot lifted her head, ears pricked forward, staring at the quilt as if she too could sense something off. The dog’s gaze was intent and focused.
“What is it, girl?” Haley murmured. “You feel it too?”
Snoot made eye contact and something passed between them that made Haley shiver. She and her rescue dog had a strong bond, and it sometimes seemed they could almost communicate telepathically.
Snoot whined, low in her throat, and then settled back into her basket with an uneasy huff.
Haley straightened, rolling her shoulders against the tension gathering there. She was being ridiculous. The quilt was just a quilt—thread and fabric and history rendered in cloth. She must have stitched the threads and forgotten she’d done it. Any patterns she thought she saw were nothing more than her tired eyes and overactive imagination.
For the rest of the day, she gave advice to clients, helped her customers pick out fabric, and then finished the last binding stitches on the commemorative quilt as the afternoon faded into evening. Outside, Main Street’s Christmas lights flickered on, and through the shop windows, she could see couples walking hand in hand, families bundled against the cold, and the warm glow of other shops spilling onto the sidewalk.
Snow Creek at Christmas. Three years now, and it still took her breath away. This was home, in a way Boston never had been. These streets, these shops, this community—even with its secrets and its old family politics—had claimed her.
Haley carefully folded the finished quilt, smoothing each section before laying it in the special box she’d prepared for the festival committee’s pickup. As she worked, her fingers traced the stitched patterns one last time, following the lines of thread that connected Snow Creek’s past to its present.
Soon the quilt would go on display alongside the other historical artifacts. Tomorrow night, the whole town would gather for the Tree Lighting ceremony, and maybe, Haley thought as she secured the box’s lid, maybe she was just tired enough to start seeing patterns where none existed.
As she locked up the shop and headed upstairs to her apartment, with Snoot trailing at her heels, that pesty, nagging sensation remained. Something about the quilt wasn’t quite right. Something was hidden in the spaces between the stitches, waiting to be discovered.
In the morning, she’d hand over the quilt and forget about these odd feelings. In the morning, everything would look different in the clear winter light.
But tonight, as snow continued to fall on Snow Creek’s historic streets, Haley couldn’t shake the certainty that she’d stitched something into that commemorative quilt. Something true that the historical records had never quite captured. Something that might explain why Iris had run this shop for forty-five years, keeping her own secrets sewn into the fabric of the town.