Sarah shook her head, busying herself with picking up the flattened box. “Exactly,” she said finally. “I’m a friend. He’s not likely to see me any differently now.”
“You have to give him a hint. A strong hint.” Allison leaned toward her, voice eager. “Remember what I said about men and emotions? Just start him thinking, and let nature take its course.”
“I can’t.” She put out a hand to stop Allison before she could bubble out with a list of suggestions. “Really, I can’t imagine doing it. I’m not outgoing and confident like you.”
Allison seemed to make an effort to restrain herself. “You should be. Confident, I mean. Look at all you’ve accomplished.” She waved a hand to encompass the shop and its contents—the fabrics, quilts, wall hangings, all products of women’s industry. “You might have been too shy to say what you wanted at sixteen or seventeen, but you’re a grown woman now, an accomplished businesswoman.”
Sarah’s heart was so heavy she put her hand over it, as if that would ease the weight. It shouldn’t still hurt after all this time.
“It’s true that I’d never have imagined myself actually making a success of my own business. And I’ve learned a lot along the way. But that hasn’t changed who I am inside.” She patted her chest. “In here, I’m still the same person.” She managed a smile. “Maybe it comes of being taught all my life to be humble. Whatever the reason, there are things I know I can never do, and telling Aaron how I feel about him is impossible.”
Allison pressed her lips together briefly, holding back with an obvious effort. “I won’t argue. But I do believe you’re capable of a lot more than you’ve ever thought.”
Sarah just shook her head. Allison meant well. But Sarah knew herself. To speak out—to claim what she wanted—the very thought made her stomach twist. She would have to be content with being Aaron’s friend, because she’d never have anything more.
* * *
THE STOREROOM AT the rear of Blackburn House was theoretically for the use of all the residents, but in actual fact, only the quilt shop and bookstore staff made much use of it. Sarah stacked a box on one of the metal shelves, making sure the contents were marked on the side facing front. She’d hate to become like the former bookstore owner, who’d had such a scrambled method of storing things that he’d never known what he had.
The poor man was gone now, and Emily, the new owner, was far more organized, if a bit dithery when things upset her. Sarah and Allison had become used to calming Emily down whenever business threatened to overwhelm her.
Sarah made a quick survey of their storage section, just to be sure nothing had been neglected. It wasn’t too early to start thinking about Christmas fabrics, as the crafters in Laurel Ridge would soon start working on Christmas gifts and items for the various bazaars and craft shows.
Satisfied that all was in order, she stepped out of the storage room, keys in her hand, her thoughts still occupied with possible orders, and nearly bumped into Harvey Preston, who had the real estate agency on the second floor.
“Sarah! Just the person I was hoping to see.” His round, jovial face lit with a smile. Harvey, she’d always thought, had the perfect personality to sell real estate—outgoing, optimistic and soothing to the stressed nerves of sellers and buyers.
“How are you, Harvey?” She gestured toward the door. “Were you going in?”
“No, no. I don’t have occasion to store much in there, with practically all my work done online these days.” He waited while she locked the door. “I noticed you when I was coming down the stairs, and wanted to have a word.”
“Of course.” She couldn’t help the curiosity in her tone. She and Harvey were fellow tenants, of course, but other than that they had little in common. “How can I help you?”
“I know you’re a neighbor of Aaron King. A friend, too.” He shook his head, his normally cheerful face sobering. “I suppose he told you about this business of the Gibson farm.”
She nodded, not sure what, if anything, she should say. But Harvey didn’t seem to expect a comment.
“It’s very distressing.” He fell into step with her as she headed toward the shop. “I didn’t know what to say to Aaron when he told me about the understanding he had with Matthew Gibson. I really knew nothing at all about it. If only Gibson had told me...” He let the words trail off, shrugging.
“It is a shame. And very unlike Matthew, to go back on his word to anyone.” The man she remembered had always been the soul of honor—the kind of neighbor anyone would want.
“True, so true.” Harvey nodded. “But on the other hand, his health hasn’t been all that good lately, according to the conversation we had about the property. In fact, that’s why he entrusted the sale to me, not even making the trip back to clear the house. Depend on it, he forgot all about his conversation with Aaron.”
“I’m sure that’s what happened,” Sarah agreed politely. If Harvey had been taken by surprise by Aaron’s visit, it was natural enough that he wouldn’t have thought everything through. The situation had clearly been bothering him. “The King family certainly doesn’t blame you for what happened.”
“Are you sure?” His brows drew down, and he looked as woeful as someone with his round, cheerful face could. “I feel terrible about it, but there’s simply nothing I can do. I wouldn’t want to be on bad terms with anyone over it, especially not with any of my Amish neighbors.”
Enlightenment dawned, and Sarah smiled. Harvey’s real estate agency did a great deal of business in the area, and the Amish were the primary buyers and sellers of farmland. Naturally he wouldn’t want to get a bad reputation with them.
“I don’t think you need to worry about it.” She stopped at the door of her shop. “I’m sure it’s just as you say, and—”
Allison opened the door behind her. “Sarah, you’d better come in. The state police fire marshal is here to see you.”
Harvey looked startled, as well he might, and Sarah’s stomach seemed to do a somersault. She took a steadying breath. Mac must not have come with the man, or Allison would have said. Apparently Sarah would have to deal with the investigator on her own.
“SARAH, THIS IS Norman Fielding, the investigator Mac sent over to talk to you.” Allison gave her a reassuring look as she made the introduction. “I’ll just get back to work while you talk.”
The fire marshal turned out to be a diminutive man, barely her height, with the kind of wiry build that suggested he’d go on forever. Sarah guessed him to be about her father’s age, with a thin, noncommittal face and a way of looking suspiciously over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses as he took down her name and address.
“Now, then, Ms....um, Miss Bitler, I understand you were first on the scene at the initial fire.” In his clipped tones the fact sounded almost like an accusation.
“Yes, that’s right. I saw the smoke when I was driving into town that morning.” As often as she’d been over it, she’d begun to feel as if she could tell the story in her sleep.
“That’s what I was told.” He darted a glance around the shop. Allison was at the counter a few feet away, occupied with the quilt files but within easy earshot, and several women browsed through the racks. “Maybe you’d rather we talked in private,” he suggested.
Allison flicked a frowning look in her direction.
“This is fine,” Sarah said, trying to appear more at ease than she felt. “My partner knows all about what happened that day.”
She