Page 30 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

That’s the kind of love I’d wanted once.

Before the world cracked it open.

“Oh, shoot—I gotta go,” Sophie said suddenly, her voice pulling me back. “Karl’s awake and trying to make coffee, which is always a risk. I’ll call you soon!”

“Okay,” I said, blinking back into the present. “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

She blew a kiss into the receiver before hanging up.

I stared at the phone in my hand for a second, then smiled—soft, wistful, but real.

Somewhere out there, joy like that still existed.

After Sophie’s call ended, I stood in the quiet hush of my apartment, the kind that only came when everything was exactly where it needed to be.

I glanced at the couch, then at the pile of new pillowcases still sitting in a shopping bag by the window. Dusty sage, soft chartreuse, and one in deep forest green with golden thread stitched along the edges like ivy. I reached for them.

Nesting was second nature. A comfort I never apologized for. There was something deeply satisfying—healing, even—about creating softness around me, a fortress of fabric and scent and color that wrapped me in safety.

As I fluffed and rearranged, tugging the corners into perfect symmetry, memories trickled in—like warm water slippingbetween fingers.

I remembered the tiny two-bedroom house we lived in on Calle Ocho, the one with mismatched tiles and a crooked mailbox. My mom used to braid my hair at the kitchen table while the radio played boleros in the background. She had strong hands and a stronger laugh, one that cracked like thunder when she was really amused.

I have her skin. Her soft brown complexion, her long dark lashes, the same mouth that always tilts a little to the left when I’m biting back a smile.

But my eyes—those are my father’s. Deep-set, sharp, always scanning.

And my will?

That’s all him too.

My dad had this quiet kind of strength, the kind that didn’t need to raise its voice to be felt. He taught me how to stand up for myself without stepping on anyone else. How to work hard, keep my word, and never take no for an answer when my gut said yes.

He also taught me how to make black beans the right way, and how to change a flat tire without breaking a nail.

The pillows were finally in place, each corner tucked, every color balanced, and I stepped back with a small hum of approval. It was silly, maybe—to care this much about cushions and shelf placement and the way the afternoon light spilled across the hardwood floor. But it made me feel like I was here. Like this life, this home, this peace, was real.

I lit a candle—jasmine and pine, my favorite—and watched the flame flicker.

No matter how much the world asked me to be steel, I still allowed myself softness.

Even if no one was around to see it.

My phone buzzed again on the counter, the soft vibrationslicing through the quiet like a pebble skipping across still water.

I wiped my hands on my lounge pants and padded over to check the screen.

Sophie:Hope you don’t mind, I gave your number to Charlene Whitmore. She was at the ceremony and wouldn’t stop raving about the canapés. She’s planning her retirement party in October—very hush-hush, very exclusive—and wants you to cater it. Heads up, she’s... particular. Like, bring-your-own-silverware-to-restaurants kind of particular. But she’s got money. And connections. Hope that’s okay!

I snorted and shook my head, thumb already hovering over the reply.

Me:Of course. Thanks for the heads-up.

Then I paused… and smiled.

Charlene Whitmore.

That name sounded like old money, vintage pearls, and a closet full of pastel cashmere. The kind of client who’d ask for champagne pairings for finger sandwiches and handwritten calligraphy on the menu cards. The kind of woman who probably didn’t even look at a catering company unless it had a six-month waitlist and at least one celebrity testimonial.

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