A Summer of Firsts

Changes lead to fresh starts and new connections in these two emotional tales.

The Goodbye Quilt—Susan Wiggs

Linda Davis is driving her daughter, Molly, across the country to start college. As her only child readies for this big change, Linda is torn between excitement for Molly and heartache for herself. Who will she be when she is no longer needed in her role as mom? On the trip, Linda pieces together the scraps that make up Molly’s young life—the hem of a christening gown, a snippet from a costume. In the stitching of each bit of fabric, Linda discovers that the memories of a shared journey can come together in a way that will keep them both warm in the years to come.

First Time in Forever—Sarah Morgan

It’s been a summer of firsts for Emily Donovan. New to Puffin Island, and newly a parent to her niece, Lizzy, she finds her life virtually unrecognizable. Between safeguarding Lizzy, keeping their secrets, and her own overwhelming fear of the ocean—which surrounds her!—Emily has lost count of the number of “just breathe” pep talks she’s given herself. And that’s before charismatic local yacht club owner Ryan Cooper kisses her… Can the island work its magic and get Emily to take the biggest leap of trust of all—putting her heart in someone else’s hands?

Praise for Susan Wiggs

“A poignant portrayal of the relationship between a mother and her college-age daughter… Wiggs balances both perspectives with insight and compassion.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Goodbye Quilt

“Thought-provoking… A must read for anyone whose child is leaving home to begin their own life. It’s filled with more questions than answers, but questions we should all ask ourselves… Truly inspirational.”

—FreshFiction.com on The Goodbye Quilt

“This is a lovely, moving novel with an engaging heroine. Bestselling author Wiggs’s…talent is reflected in her thoroughly believable characters as well as the way she recognizes the importance of family by blood or other ties. Readers who like Nora Roberts and Susan Elizabeth Phillips will enjoy Wiggs.”

—Library Journal, starred review, on Just Breathe

Praise for First Time in Forever by Sarah Morgan

“A delightful small-town romance…. A little sweet and a lot sexy. Kristan Higgins fans will flock to Morgan’s latest and watch for the next installment.”

—Booklist

“A sweet, sexy and emotionally layered story that introduces us to a friendly, welcoming island and three college friends who each need a little nudge toward true love. Touching, sensual and warmly inviting.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Morgan’s genius shows in this emotionally charged series debut, a poignant page-turner about letting go, redemption and trust. The book’s co-stars wonderfully complement the vulnerable heroine and white-knight hero. The visually stimulating narrative perfectly captures the breathtaking seascapes.”

—RT Book Reviews

Also by Susan Wiggs

Family Tree
Just Breathe
The Apple Orchard
The Beekeeper’s Ball
Table for Five

THE LAKESHORE CHRONICLES

Starlight on Willow Lake
Candlelight Christmas
Return to Willow Lake

For a complete list please visit susanwiggs.com/books.

And from Sarah Morgan

FROM MANHATTAN WITH LOVE

Sleepless in Manhattan
Sunset in Central Park
Miracle on 5th Avenue
New York, Actually

PUFFIN ISLAND

First Time in Forever
Some Kind of Wonderful
One Enchanted Moment

For a complete list please visit sarahmorgan.com/books.

SUSAN
WIGGS

SARAH
MORGAN

A Summer of Firsts

Table of Contents

The Goodbye Quilt by Susan Wiggs

First Time in Forever by Sarah Morgan

Excerpt

THE GOODBYE QUILT

Susan Wiggs

To my curly-headed daughter, Elizabeth—you are my sunshine.

Contents

Day One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Day Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Day Three

Chapter Five

Day Four

Chapter Six

Day Five

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Day Six

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Day Seven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

One

How do you say goodbye to a piece of your heart? If you’re a quilter, you have a time-honored way to express yourself.

A quilt is an object of peculiar intimacy. By virtue of the way it is created, every inch of the fabric is touched. Each scrap absorbs the quilter’s scent and the invisible oils of her skin, the smell of her household and, thanks to the constant pinning and stitching, her blood in the tiniest of quantities. And tears, though she might be loath to admit it.

My adult life has been a patchwork of projects, most of which were fleeting fancies of overreaching vision. I tend to seize on things, only to abandon them due to a lack of time, talent or inclination. There are a few things I’m truly good at—Jeopardy!, riding a bike, balancing a checkbook, orienteering, making balloon animals…and quilting.

I’m good at pulling together little bits and pieces of disparate objects. The process suits me. Each square captures my attention like a new landscape. Everything about quilting suits me, an occupation for hands and heart and imagination.

Other things didn’t work out so well—Szechuan cooking, topiary gardening, video games and philately come to mind.

My main project, my ultimate work-in-progress, is Molly, of course. And today she’s going away to college, clear across the country. Correction—I’m taking her away, delivering her like an insured parcel to a new life.

Hence the quilt. What better memento to give my daughter than a handmade quilt to keep in her dorm room, a comforter stitched with all the memories of her childhood? It’ll be a tangible reminder of who she is, where she comes from…and maybe, if I’m lucky, it will offer a glimpse of her dreams.

All my quilting supplies come from a shop in town called Pins & Needles. The place occupies a vintage building on the main street. It’s been in continuous operation for more than five decades. As a child, I passed its redbrick and figured concrete storefront on my way to school each day, and I still remember the kaleidoscope of fabrics in the window, flyers announcing classes and raffles, the rainbow array of rich-colored thread, the treasure trove of glittering notions. My first job as a teenager was at the shop, cutting fabric and ringing up purchases.

When Molly started school, I worked there part time, as much for the extra money as for the company of women who frequented Pins & Needles. Fall is wonderful at the fabric shop, a nesting time, when people are making Halloween costumes, Thanksgiving centerpieces and Christmas decorations. People are never in a hurry in a fabric shop. They browse. They talk about their projects, giving you a glimpse of their lives.

The shop is a natural gathering place for women. The people I’ve met there through the years have become my friends. Customers and staff members stand around the cutting tables to discuss projects, give demonstrations and workshops, offer advice on everything from quilting techniques to child rearing to marriage. The ladies there all know about my idea to make a quilt as a going-away gift for Molly. Some of them even created pieces for me to add, embroidered with messages of “Good Luck” and “Congratulations.”

You can always tell what’s going on in a woman’s life based on the quilt she’s working on. The new-baby quilts are always light and soft, the wedding quilts pure and clean, filled with tradition, as though a beautiful design might be an inoculation against future strife. Housewarming quilts tend to be artistic, suitable for hanging on an undecorated wall. The most lovingly created quilts of all are the memory quilts, often created as a group project to commemorate a significant event, help with healing or to celebrate a life.

I’ve always thought a quilt held together with a woman’s tears to be the strongest of all.

Nonquilters have a hard time getting their heads around the time and trouble of a project like this. My friend Cherisse, who has three kids, said, “Linda, honey, I’m just glad to get them out of the house—up and running, with no criminal record.” Another friend confessed, “My daughter would only ruin it. She’s so careless with her things.” My neighbor Erin, who started law school when her son entered first grade, now works long hours and makes a ton of money. “I wish I had the time,” she said wistfully when I showed her my project.

What I’ve found is that you make time for the things that matter to you. Everyone has the time. It’s just a question of deciding what to do with that time. For some people, it’s providing for their family. For others, it’s finding that precarious balance between taking care of business and the soul-work of being there for husband, children, friends and neighbors.

I’m supposed to be making the last-minute preparations before our departure on the epic road trip, but instead I find myself dithering over the quilt, contemplating sashing and borders and whether my color palette is strong and balanced. Although the top is pieced, the backing and batting in place, there is still much work to be done. Embellishments to add. It might not be proper quilting technique, but quilting is an art, not a science. My crafter’s bag is filled with snippets of fabric culled from old, familiar clothes, fabric toys and textiles that have been outgrown, but were too dear or too damaged to take to the Goodwill bin. I’m a big believer in charity bins. Just because a garment is no longer suitable doesn’t mean it couldn’t be right for someone else. On the other hand, some things are not meant to be parted with.

I sift through the myriad moments of Molly’s childhood, which I keep close to my heart, like flowers from a prized bouquet, carefully pressed between sheets of blotter paper. I fold the quilt and put it in the bag with all the bright bits and mementos—a tiny swatch of a babydoll’s nightie, an official-looking Girl Scout badge, a precious button that is the only survivor of her first Christmas dress… So many memories lie mute within this long-handled bag, waiting for me to use them as the final embellishments on this work of art.

I’ll never finish in time.

You can do this. I try to give myself a pep talk, but the words fall through my mind and trickle away. This is unexpected, this inability to focus. A panic I haven’t been expecting rises up in me, grabbing invisibly at my chest. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.

The house already feels different; a heaviness hangs in the drapes over the old chintz sofa. Sounds echo on the wooden floors—a suitcase being rolled to the front porch, a set of keys dropped on the hall table. An air of change hovers over everything.

Dan has driven to the Chevron station to fill the Suburban’s tank. He’s not coming; this long drive without him will be a first for our family. Until now, every road trip has involved all three of us—Yellowstone, Bryce Canyon, Big Sur, speeding along endless highways with the music turned up loud. We did everything as a family. I can’t even remember what Dan and I used to do before Molly. Those days seem like a life that happened to someone else. We were a couple, but Molly made us a family.

This time, Dan will stay home with Hoover, who is getting on in years and doesn’t do well at the kennel anymore.

It’s better this way. Dan was never fond of saying goodbye. Not that anybody enjoys it, but in our family, I’m always the stoic, the one who makes the emotional work look easy—on the outside, anyway. My solo drive back home will be another first for me. I hope I’ll use the time well, getting to know myself again, maybe. Scary thought—what if I get to know myself and I’m someone I don’t want to be?

Now, as the heaviness of the impending departure presses down on me, I wonder if we should have planned things differently. Perhaps the three of us should have made this journey together, treating it as a family vacation, like a trip to Disney World or the Grand Canyon.

On the other hand, that’s a bad idea. There can be no fooling ourselves into thinking this is something other than what it is—the willful ejection of Molly from our nest. It’s too late for second thoughts, anyway. She has to be moved into her dorm in time for freshman orientation. It’s been marked on the kitchen calendar for weeks—the expiration date on her childhood.

At the other end of the downstairs, a chord sounds on the piano. Molly tends to sit down and play when she has a lot on her mind. Maybe it’s her way of sorting things out.

I’m grateful for the years of lessons she took, even when we could barely afford them. I wanted my daughter to have things I never had, and music lessons are one of them. She’s turned into an expressive musician, transforming standard pieces into something heartfelt and mystical. Showy trills and glissandos sluice through the air, filling every empty space in the house. The piano will sit fallow and silent when she’s away; neither Dan nor I play. He never had the time to learn; I never had the wherewithal or—I admit it—the patience. Ah, but Molly. She was fascinated with the instrument from the time she stretched up on toddler legs to reach the keys of the secondhand piano we bought at auction. She started lessons when she was only six.

All the hours of practice made up the sound track of her growing years. “Bill Grogan’s Goat” was an early favorite, leading to more challenging works, from “The Rainbow Connection” to “Für Elise,” Bartok and beyond. Almost every evening for the past twelve years, Molly practiced while Dan and I cleaned up after dinner. This was her way of avoiding dish-washing duty, and we considered it a fair division of labor—I rinse, he loads, she serenades. She managed to make it to age eighteen without learning to properly load a dishwasher, yet she can play Rachmaninoff.

In the middle of a dramatic pause between chords, a car horn sounds.

The bag with the quilt falls, momentarily forgotten, to the floor. That innocent yip of the horn signals that summer has ended.

Molly stops playing, leaving a profound hollow of silence in the house. Seconds later, I can still feel the throb of the notes in the stillness. I go to the landing at the turn of the stairs in time to see her jump up, leaving the piano bench askew.

She runs outside, the screen door snapping shut behind her like a mousetrap. Watching through the window on the landing, I brace myself for another storm of emotion. She has been saying goodbye to Travis all summer long. Today, the farewell will be final.

Here is a picture of Molly: Curly hair wadded into a messy ponytail. Athletic shorts balanced on her hip bones, a T-shirt with a dead rock star on it. A body toned by youth, volleyball and weekend swims at the lake. A face that shows every emotion, even when she doesn’t want it to.

Now she flings herself into her boyfriend’s arms as a sob breaks from her, mingling with the sound of morning birdsong. Oh, that yearning, the piercing kind only love-dazed teenagers can feel. Hands holding for the last time. Grief written in their posture as their bodies melt together. Travis’s arms encircle her with their ropy strength, and his long form bows protectively, walling her off from me.

This kid is both the best and worst kind of boyfriend a mother wants for her daughter. The best, because he’s a safe driver and he respects her. The worst, because he incites a passion and loyalty in Molly that impairs her vision of the future.