CHAPTER 8
Lily
Iunlock my car and gather my belongings. I grab my travel bag – carefully packed and repacked for this journey – from the passenger seat. Behind it, nestled in the backseat, is Mango’s crate.
“Mango, it’s time, buddy,” I say, tucking him into the crate and giving him a gentle stroke. He gives a half-hearted meow, almost as if to protest our hasty departure and apparent change of plans. I chuckle lightly, reassuring him with a gentle pat, “Trust me, it’s gonna be okay.”
Balancing the cat crate against my hip, I also grab Mango’s supplies – a small pack of his food and favorite treats, bowls, and other supplies. It’s a juggling act that I’ve gotten surprisingly adept at as I cautiously shut the car door.
I straighten, adjusting Mango’s crate once more before I start following Koko. On cue, Rog leans over my car, plucks the spindle out of my back window, and hands it over to the mayor. “Thanks, Rog!” she chirps, twirling the spindle in her hand.
As Koko struts off towards the bakery, her gold and purple dress swaying with each step, she throws an imperious wave over her shoulder, urging me to follow. I quickly hand my keys off to Rog with a muttered thanks and quicken my steps to catch up to the bakery owner/town mayor. I look back over my shoulder at my car, feeling a sense of apprehension. I watch as Rog examines the hole in my window, then gives Sema a scratch behind one of his ears.
I’m a step behind Koko as she enters the bakery. I breathe deeply as I step inside, the scent of fresh bread and sugary delicacies instantly filling my nose. I glance toward the bakery counter, now busy as the lingering parade spectators have rushed inside to escape the chilly evening air. A young woman is on the other side of the counter, efficiently taking care of the demanding customers with impressive aplomb.
“Do you need an extra hand here?” Koko calls.
The woman looks up, her smile unfaltering even as she juggles two steaming cups of hot chocolate. “I’ve got this, ma’am,” she declares with a confident grin.
I follow Koko through a crimson curtain separating the bakery’s front from the back. The kitchen is empty except for Dobry, who is washing dishes at a sink. An enormous mixer and the ovens sit like silent sentinels over the space. I can imagine what the bakery is like in the early morning when all the goods in the display case are being created. I picture a wonderland of activity, people rushing about tending to a multitude of tasks – kneading dough, tending the ovens, and decorating pastries.
We move through the area swiftly. Koko greets Dobry as he looks up to watch us pass by. It’s as if she rules over this domain, a revered and respected queen. We arrive at a surprisingly spacious and cozy office at the back. Koko gestures for me to take a seat in a cushy-looking armchair.
“I need to apologize once more,” Koko begins, twirling the spindle in her hands like a fidget spinner. Her eyes gleam with mischievous repentance. “I promise, Sema is usually very well-behaved.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s okay, Koko. Just my luck, I suppose.”
“Nonetheless, we can’t leave you homeless now, can we?” Koko muses, her rosy cheeks dimpling with a smile. “We’ve got quite a few accommodations available – The Sunflower Inn for one. It’s a lovely little bed and breakfast. The only problem is that they aren’t pet-friendly. I can ask the owners if they’ll make an exception for you as a favor to me.”
I hide my wince at that suggestion. I don’t relish staying someplace where the owners would find me and my Mango an imposition.
“There’s also a room available at Vedma’s house – I believe her renter moved out recently, but… it might be a tight fit for you and your pet, and you’d have to share the main living space with Vedma. I mean… she’s lovely, but she’s a busybody, and she will tell the whole town all your business.”
“My only other option is probably your best choice…” She looks at me, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I own a cabin at the edge of town, just in the woods. I had a couple lined up for the festival week, but they canceled at the last minute. It’s all primed and ready for visitors. It’s quite perfect, actually.”
That sounds promising. It would give Mango someplace to explore, and I could use the peace and quiet. “That sounds good, Koko, but how will I get there without a car?”
Her honeyed laughter fills the air, pure and infectious. “Oh, not to worry. Rog, bless his heart, has a garage truck he lends out to people when their cars are in his shop. He’ll be more than happy to let you borrow it.”
I shrug because what other options do I have? “That sounds great. Thank you.”
“Perfect! Let me text Rog and make sure the loaner is gassed up.” I watch as Koko quickly sends off a text, all the while fidgeting with the spindle that still has the red thread wrapped around it. She sets it to twirling like a spinning top on her desk’s surface.
Once she sets her phone back down, Koko catches me staring at the mesmerizing motion of the spindle.
“Lily, have you ever tried spinning?”
“I can’t say I have. But it looks interesting,” I admit.
“Spinning wool or flax into thread has a tradition that goes back thousands of years. I like to keep that tradition alive here in Lublin Harbor. I even teach a class to learn spinning with a spindle.”
The spindle topples over, coming to a stop on Koko’s desk. She picks it up and stares at the wooden object with a look that says her thoughts are a million miles away. “I love the tradition of spinning. It means the world to me,” she explains while I nod along.
“But it’s not just about creating thread or yarn. It’s about creating something from the unformed. The act of spinning is to create something new. I think that’s why spinning is so strongly associated with women, and especially motherhood. Creating the thread and weaving represents how everything is tied together. It’s why, historically speaking, it was women’s work. We create life. Almost every culture carries a myth about spinning and life and fate.”
“Like the Fates in Greek mythology?” I respond, thinking about the myth about the women who clipped the threads that ended people’s lives.
“Greek mythology,” Koko scoffs under her breath. “But yes. The Moirai is a good example. That’s one of the myths about weaving. In Slavic culture, we have our own myths as well. It’s said that the mother goddess spins the thread of life itself, determining a person’s destiny, similar to the Moirai.” Koko pauses, picking up the spindle and unrolling a bit of the crimson thread still spooled on it.
“This color makes me think about the Red String of Fate. In Chinese folklore, it is believed that each person is born with an invisible red thread that connects them to their one true love. Their fated mates. No matter where they go, no matter how the thread may stretch or tangle, the thread that connects them never breaks. The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place or circumstance. Isn’t that romantic?” Koko sighs at the thought like a teenage girl over a poster of her favorite boy band.
Maybe I’m too newly burnt by ‘love’, but fated love seems more than a little far-fetched.
“Hey, Koko?” I ask, my gaze watching as she rhythmically winds and unwinds the thread from the spindle. “Have you ever… met the person on the other end of your string?” I don’t know this woman well enough to ask such personal questions, but she’s the one who brought it up first. And I’m curious.
Koko’s laugh trails off at my question, a soft, odd note of understanding replacing it. She heaves a resigned sigh, her hands still busily fiddling with the red string. “Him,” she starts, her voice a timbre of worn wisdom and fondness. “Yes, I have met him… my string’s end. But we are currently on a break.”
My lips part in surprise. I have no idea why that catches me by surprise. Perhaps it’s because Koko seems so self-possessed.
Koko casts me a glance, her sparkling eyes painting a picture of trials, triumphs, heartache, and redemption. “It just goes to show, Lily, being fated does not exempt you from work,” she says. “Any relationship needs work to survive, even pre-destined ones.”
The wisdom in her simple yet expansive confession strikes me, a solemness settling around us like a shroud. It makes me think of Marcus – about how he just got comfortable and stopped trying. He let me do all the work and started taking me for granted. My mind spins, ensnared by this revelation, and I break the silence, albeit softly, “I’ll remember that, Koko.”
Koko jolts as if waking up from her thoughts, her twinkling eyes anchoring on me again. “So… Have you decided where you’d like to stay while your car gets fixed?”
“I think,” I begin, my decision already made, “I’d like to stay at the cabin in the woods.”
