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Mabel always loved hosting the Stitch & Bitch meetings. Carol's living room was technically functional again after the accident, but it still smelled faintly of fresh plaster and bad memories; Mabel believed firmly that knitting required a certain settled comfort, soft lamplight, good wine, and furniture that was comfortable.
They were gathered in her parlor that evening, the air full with the hum of quiet jazz and the low, comforting murmur of overlapping gossip. A bottle of merlot stood open on the coffee table, already half-empty. From her usual armchair, Faye sat with her spine as straight as a queen holding court, while Blanche occupied the sofa as though she had personally financed it. Carol, currently in the throes of a yoga phase, perched cross-legged on the rug, while Artie anchored the far end of the couch, his needles moving with a steady, economical precision.
And then, there was Buck.
Mabel watched him discreetly over the rim of her wineglass. He was hunched forward in deep concentration, those broad, firefighter shoulders curved protectively around a project so small it looked absurd in his large hands. It was a tiny beanie, striped in soft greens, the tension neat enough to suggest he'd been practicing.
"For my nephew," he had explained earlier, with a shy sort of pride that had done something dangerously fond to Mabel's heart.
If she were being honest, she hadn't expected him to come back after the auction. She'd assumed that after they'd won their firefighter for an afternoon, subjected him to knitting needles and wool, and endured Blanche's notoriously invasive questions, he would consider his civic duty fulfilled and disappear. Young men like Buck had lives filled with adrenaline and heroics. They didn't choose to spend their Tuesdays untangling yarn with elderly widows.
And yet, here he was for the third time.
In week one, he'd wrestled a scarf into submission. In week two, he had attempted socks (socks!), and to the group's collective astonishment, they had actually looked like footwear. Now came the hat: small, careful, and imbued with the kind of attention that suggested the finished object was already deeply loved.
It was not only that he was talented, though he was. It was not only that he was pleasant to look at, though Mabel was not blind. It was that he seemed to enjoy being there. He listened when corrected. He asked questions. He laughed easily.
Mabel decided, as she set her wineglass down and adjusted the fall of yarn over her fingers, that three meetings was enough time and Buck was part of the group now. Which meant...
"So, Buck," she began, her tone warm, "now that you have practically earned your probationary membership, perhaps you could tell us a little more about yourself."
Buck glanced up, eyes bright and open, that familiar polite grin already in place. "What do you want to know?"
Mabel tilted her head, acting as if the question had only just occurred to her, even though she had been considering it for the better part of ten minutes. "Well, you are such a handsome young man. I cannot imagine there isn't a sweet girl waiting for you at home."
"Or boy," Artie added calmly, never lifting his gaze from his needles.
The effect was immediate. A flush crept up Buck's neck and settled across his cheeks, the tips of his ears turning pink in a way that made Blanche's eyes sparkle.
"Well," Buck said, clearing his throat, "I'm bisexual."
Faye paused mid-stitch and regarded him thoughtfully, assessing the statement like a practical matter. "Oh," she said after a moment, nodding once. "So you don't limit your options. Sensible."
Blanche hummed in approval, and Carol smiled encouragingly, and just like that, the tension drained from Buck's shoulders.
"I'm single, though," he admitted a moment later, speaking almost offhandedly.
The room reacted in unison, though Blanche was the one to speak first. "You?" she demanded, her disbelief loud and immediate. "You are such a nice, handsome young man. That must be by choice then."
Buck made a face, a complicated twist of self-awareness and long-suffering amusement. "Well, as one of my friends likes to remind me," he said, tugging absently at the yarn in his lap, "not by my choice."
Curiosity settled over the group like a blanket, but Mabel did not press. She merely waited, because people often filled the silence when it was offered kindly.
And slowly, Buck did.
There had been someone he told them. Tommy. Just saying his name softened him visibly, rounding out the edges of his posture and changing the cadence of his voice. Tommy had been, as Buck put it with an awkward laugh, his "bisexual awakening". He recounted how they met, how Tommy flew a stolen helicopter into a hurricane to rescue one of Buck's teammates, and how he couldn't stop thinking about Tommy afterwards and ended up kissing him in his kitchen.
They had enjoyed six good months together, he said. It was a relationship that felt fresh, new, and certain in a way he had not expected. He described that time without realizing how tender he sounded, as though recounting something both precious and fragile.
But then came the breakup.
"Oh, honey, why did you ask him to move in? I mean, he has a house, right? And you just hit your first little issue. Don't you think saying the three little words would have been the first step?" Carol asked.
Buck ducked his head a little, clearly embarrassed by how he had jumped over three steps at once. But then he told them about the bar.
"A few months after, I ran into him again and we, uh…" Buck gestured vaguely, words clearly deserting him.
Mabel waved a hand with breezy impatience. "We know what sex is, Buck."
The poor boy turned scarlet. "Anyway," he hurried on, eyes fixed firmly on the little hat in his hands, "after that we talked, and it was kind of clear he wanted to try again. And I wanted it too. But then we argued, and I said something the wrong way. It came out mean, even though I did not meant it that way, and he left. Said he had a shift."
Artie's needles slowed to a stop.
"You know he didn't have a shift," he said gently.
Buck blinked, startled. "What?"
"If a man truly wants to stay," Artie continued, his tone mild but certain, "he stays. It was just an excuse to get out of the situation. He had planned to eat breakfast with you. You said there was champagne!"
The thought seemed to unsettle Buck more than comfort him.
He kept talking, though, describing how Tommy had once again arrived in a stolen helicopter to help rescue a friend just because Buck had called, and how seeing him there had made something inside Buck settle. He had wanted to make it right between them after.
And then the story shifted.
His captain, his sort of dad, as he awkwardly phrased it, had passed away in the accident. After that, Buck explained, everything had felt heavier. Reaching out had seemed impossible. He had not known how to let someone in while he was so thoroughly splintered, and the longer he delayed, the more impossible it became to bridge the silence. Now, he said with a helpless little shrug, too much time had passed. He didn't know how to start again without looking foolish.
Mabel watched him carefully as he spoke, noting the way his thumb smoothed unconsciously over the edge of the tiny beanie, the way his eyes brightened at certain memories even as they clouded with regret, and the way Tommy's name lingered in the air long after Buck stopped saying it.
It was not subtle: That boy was still in love.
He simply did not know what to do about it.
Mabel leaned back in her chair and lifted her wineglass. She said nothing at all, though in her mind, a plan had already begun to knit itself into existence.
Buck stayed for another half hour, long enough for the conversation to drift back toward safer territory, like Carol's renovation, Blanche's ongoing feud with her insurance company, and the scandalous price of decent yarn these days. He laughed when prompted, finished the tiny hat with careful concentration, and accepted Faye's critique of his bind-off with good-natured humility.
If his smile was a little thoughtful when he finally gathered his things, if his eyes carried that faraway sheen of someone replaying old memories… Mabel noticed.
At the door, he hesitated, glancing back at them with a sheepish sort of warmth. "Same time next week?"
"As long as you don't regress," Blanche warned, pointing a knitting needle at him. "We don't tolerate backsliding."
Buck laughed, promised improvement, and stepped out into the night.
The door clicked shut behind him. Silence settled over the room, not awkward or uncertain, but thoughtful.
"Well," Blanche said at last, setting down her wine with quiet finality, "that won't do."
It would not do, indeed. A young man sitting in her living room with love written plainly across his face and no intention of claiming it was unacceptable.
"He's still in love with him," Carol murmured.
"Obviously," Faye replied. "You could hear it in the way he said the name."
Artie folded his knitting neatly. "And from what I gather, the other one isn't indifferent."
Mabel considered the evening, the softness in Buck's voice, the careful defense of Tommy even while describing the hurt, and the way grief had been offered as an explanation rather than an excuse. The boy had not closed the door, she realized. He had simply stepped back from it and convinced himself it was locked.
"That kind of thing," she said slowly, "should not be left to chance."
Blanche's eyes lit with interest. "You're thinking…"
"I am."
Blanche's grin spread. "You want to investigate."
Faye tapped her cane once against the floor. "Investigation!" she declared.
"And," Carol added brightly, "interference."
Artie sighed, though there was no real protest in it. "Discreet interference."
Mabel allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
***
Faye stood at the edge of her driveway with her cane planted firmly before her, her posture straight despite the morning chill as she waited for Carol, the appointed driver. The decision had been unanimous and swift: Blanche was never to be trusted behind a steering wheel again, not after the incident.
The car rolled up precisely two minutes late.
Faye opened the passenger door, settling into her seat with the quiet dignity of someone boarding a royal carriage rather than a compact sedan. Then she turned to look at Carol... and paused.
Carol was wearing a deep red coat Faye had never seen before, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, and sunglasses so dramatic they looked like they belonged in a movie about international art theft.
Faye stared. "Why," she asked carefully, "do you look like Carmen Sandiego?"
Carol blinked behind the oversized lenses. "Why don't you look in uniform?"
"What?"
From the backseat came Blanche's muffled voice. "We said we had to look discreet, Faye."
Faye turned slowly, bracing herself.
Blanche was wearing a black-and-white striped shirt and, inexplicably, a small black eye mask perched above her cheekbones like a cat burglar. Artie sat stiffly in the middle seat in a beige trench coat, his own hat tilted low and sunglasses firmly in place. Beside him, Mabel wore a tailored black blazer over a black shirt and tie.
Faye regarded them one by one, her silence heavy.
"You do not look discreet," she finally informed them. "You look like a raccoon, Inspector Gadget, and a federal agent."
Artie adjusted his collar with great dignity. "We look like spies," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Which is what we are doing."
"We are not spies," Faye replied flatly.
Nevertheless, Carol put the car in gear, and they rolled forward.
The objective was simple: establish the identity of this Tommy and find out if he was good enough for Buck.
Buck had mentioned Harbor Station, the one with the helicopters, and so that was where they began their crusade. They parked across the street, the car coming to rest slightly crooked but technically within legal boundaries. Without a word, Blanche distributed newspapers she had apparently prepared in advance, each featuring carefully cut eye-holes.
Faye did not take one. She simply watched as the rustle of newsprint filled the car, followed immediately by the sound of frantic whispering.
"How will we know which one is him?" Carol asked, her voice hitching with excitement.
"Buck said he has a cleft in his chin," Mabel offered, peering through her cut-outs.
"And he's tall," Artie added.
Carol lowered her paper just enough to squint at the station. "That describes every firefighter in the state of California, Artie."
The bickering followed immediately, a chaotic debate about chin structures, posture, and the statistical likelihood of tall men in uniform.
"Artie, put the paper down a bit, I can't see a thing!" Blanche protested, elbowing him.
"Maybe if we stack?" Mabel suggested, shifting her weight. "I can go very low, Artie can take the middle, and you can go high, Blanche."
Faye closed her eyes briefly, letting out a long, weary sigh as the car shook with their uncoordinated shifting.
"I have an idea," she said.
Before anyone could object or suggest a more complicated newspaper-stacking formation, she opened the door and stepped out into the light.
She crossed the street at a perfectly reasonable pace, her cane clicking rhythmically against the asphalt. It was only when she reached the threshold of the wide hangar doors that she slowed dramatically. She leaned a little heavier on her cane, shortened her stride, and allowed her shoulders to stoop just enough to invite the kind of immediate assistance people always offer a woman of a certain age.
Inside, the space was bright, the air smelling faintly of engine oil and sun-warmed metal. A helicopter loomed nearby, looking sleek and impossibly impressive under the industrial lights.
A firefighter approached her almost immediately. "Ma'am? Can I help you find something?"
Faye offered a gentle, slightly tremulous smile, a performance she had perfected sometime around 1998. "Oh, I do hope so, dear. My grandson simply adores helicopters, you see. I was wondering if there might be a way for him to see one up close? I could bring him by tomorrow, perhaps!"
She looked at the name tag, but it wasn't the right person.
"Well, ma'am, I'm afraid it isn't quite that simple," the man said, his tone apologetic. "You can't just walk in here with a child; it's far too dangerous with the equipment moving around."
As he spoke, Faye's eyes were already working, scanning the room over his shoulder. There were far too many handsome men in this building, honestly. How should she find the right one?
Then, another figure stepped forward. "Is everything okay?" he asked, his voice sounding warm but steady.
Faye turned and looked at the name tag pinned to his chest: Kinard.
Ah. Well. Buck, she thought, has excellent taste.
Tommy Kinard was tall and broad-shouldered, with a cleft in his chin that was exactly as advertised. He smiled easily, and more importantly, he smiled with his eyes. There was something unguarded in his expression, a fundamental kindness that didn't feel practiced.
He patiently explained the details of the upcoming open house and how local schools could book trips, then offered to write the information down for her. He did so in neat, precise letters. When he finished, he handed her the slip of paper and asked if she needed him to call her a cab.
"Or I could even drive you," he added, glancing at his watch. "I only have about thirty minutes left of my shift, and I'd be happy to help."
Green flags, Faye thought, green flags everywhere.
"No, thank you," she said graciously, tucking the paper into her purse. "A friend drove me and is waiting just outside."
She made her way back across the street at her normal, brisk pace, her cane striking the pavement. When she slid into the passenger seat, four heads turned toward her in a synchronized snap.
"Well?" Blanche demanded, her mask slightly lopsided.
Faye removed her gloves with deliberate calm. "I found him. He is very handsome," she began. "Good shoulders. Tall. Cleft chin confirmed."
Artie nodded approvingly, as if checking off a list.
"He was respectful," Faye continued. "Patient. He even offered me transportation without being the least bit patronizing."
Faye allowed herself the smallest, most satisfied smile. "And he smiles with his eyes."
There was a beat of silence as the group processed this high praise.
Mabel exhaled one impressed word. "Damn."
"So he's a keeper, then?" Carol asked.
"Possibly," Faye corrected, her tone turning practical again. "But first impressions are not sufficient evidence. We require further data."
Faye settled back into the seat, tapping her cane once against the floor mat. "He mentioned he has about thirty minutes left on his shift."
Four faces turned toward her, eyes bright with the thrill of the chase. Faye looked straight ahead at the hangar doors across the street, her mind already three steps ahead. "I suggest that when he comes out, we follow him."
Mabel nodded immediately, her expression glowing with approval. "Good plan."
And so, they waited.
***
Artie did not consider himself nosy; he preferred the word attentive.
Still, as they trailed Tommy's truck at what Carol insisted was a "respectful investigative distance", Artie found himself thinking that this was the most fun he'd had in years. The thrill of the chase was intoxicating.
But it was the destination that truly caught him off guard. They turned onto Magnolia Street, and the familiar rows of oak trees and neatly trimmed hedges began to look suspiciously like his own neighborhood.
"Artie, don't you live right around here?" Carol asked, catching his stunned expression in the rearview mirror.
Artie nodded once, his eyes fixed on the truck ahead. "The next street over."
Tommy's truck signaled with a crisp, rhythmic click, then pulled neatly into a driveway just two blocks from Artie's own front door. It was a modest place with clean lines and a well-kept yard, the kind of home that suggested a man who took quiet, steady pride in maintaining things.
Tommy stepped out of the car, stretched his broad frame until his spine cracked, and disappeared inside.
In the silence of the car, Blanche leaned between the front seats, her eyes gleaming. "Well."
Mabel folded her arms, her mischievous grin appearing. "I would call that an opportunity."
Carol glanced at Artie again, a spark in her gaze. "A very convenient opportunity."
Artie adjusted his seatbelt with unhurried composure. "I suppose," he said mildly, "that it would be a neighborly thing to do. An introduction is only polite."
Blanche's grin spread like a stain. "It's your job now, Artie."
Artie pretended to consider this, letting out a long, theatrical sigh. "Well, I have never been one to oppose a conversation with a handsome gay man."
From the passenger seat, Faye let out a short, appreciative snort.
The next afternoon, Artie crossed the short distance between their houses carrying a small tray of brownies for effect. He didn't believe in rushing a performance; in the art of the "neighborly drop-in", subtlety was everything.
Tommy answered after the second knock.
Up close, the impression was exactly what Faye had reported: broad shoulders, an open face, and that cleft in his chin that Buck had described with a fondness he clearly hadn't realized he was projecting.
"Oh, hi. Can I help you…?"
Artie smiled pleasantly, his most disarming expression. "I'm Arthur. Artie, if you prefer."
"Tommy," the younger man replied, leaning against the doorframe.
Artie gestured vaguely toward his own property. "I wonder if I might borrow your strength for a moment, Tommy. I have a section of fence that has decided to lean quite dramatically, and I find myself in need of someone capable. I happened to see you yesterday and thought you might be the strongest person I've ever encountered here."
Tommy stared at him for a heartbeat, then laughed outright, a genuine sound that reached his eyes. "That's one way to ask for a hand."
"Flattery has carried me through eighty years of life; I see no reason to stop now," Artie replied calmly.
Tommy hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Yeah, okay. Let me grab my gloves and some tools. I'll be right over."
The fence wasn't in catastrophic condition, but it required steady hands and a bit of muscle to right it. Tommy worked with an efficient, practiced grace, his muscles flexing under his T-shirt as he adjusted the post and checked the level.
Artie observed with appreciation… Buck was a lucky man, indeed. But more than that, Tommy was kind. He smiled while he worked, he didn't complain about the heat, and he explained what he was doing in a way that wasn't patronizing, even though Artie hadn't asked.
"You live alone, Artie?" Tommy asked casually, tightening a bolt.
"I do," Artie replied. "These days."
Tommy glanced at him briefly, catching the subtle shift in his tone. "These days?"
"My husband Tim passed," Artie said, keeping his voice even. "Last winter."
Tommy's movements slowed, his hand lingering on the wrench. "I'm sorry."
"So was I," Artie said lightly. "Still am."
A quiet beat settled between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy with the weight of things understood.
"Were you two together long?" Tommy asked softly.
"Forty-nine years," Artie said. "Which, I assure you, felt like both a blink and an eternity."
Tommy let out a low, impressed whistle. "That's… that's incredible."
"It was work," Artie corrected gently. "Good work. Beautiful work. But work nonetheless." He shifted his weight, watching Tommy adjust the hinge. "He was bisexual, you know."
Tommy's head snapped up, his gaze sharpening. "Yeah?"
"Yes. He fell in love with me anyway." Artie smiled at the memory, a far-off look entering his eyes. "Early on, people used to ask if that worried me, that he could choose the 'easy' way for the time we lived in, and leave me for a woman. As though love were a limited resource, or attraction a threat to our commitment."
The fence post settled firmly into place. Tommy stepped back to inspect the line.
"Love," Artie continued, his tone matter-of-fact, "requires courage at the most inconvenient times. It is easy when things are bright and uncomplicated. It is significantly less easy when problems arrive, or pride, or the paralyzing fear of saying the wrong thing."
Tommy's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Artie noticed, but he was far too skilled to let on.
"My husband and I once spent three months not speaking because I misinterpreted a single sentence," Artie went on. "Three months. Over absolutely nothing of consequence."
Tommy looked down at the fence, his voice low. "Yeah. That sounds… very familiar."
Artie tilted his head, the picture of innocence. "Does it?"
Tommy hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. "Sometimes you say something wrong. Or it just comes out wrong. And instead of fixing it right then, you… you let it sit."
"And it grows," Artie supplied calmly.
Tommy nodded. They stood in the silence of the late afternoon, the sun slanting across the yard in long, golden lines.
"Do you ever regret waiting?" Tommy asked, not quite meeting Artie's eyes.
Artie considered the question with the weight it deserved. "Yes," he said simply. "Time is generous until, quite suddenly, it isn't. I would give anything to have those three wasted months back."
Tommy absorbed that in silence, his expression unreadable. Then, as though realizing he had drifted into a deep introspection with a man he'd just met, he straightened up. "Fence looks good. Should hold for a long time now."
Artie surveyed the work critically. "You are very good at this, Tommy."
Tommy shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "Occupational hazard of owning a fixer-upper." As he stepped back, his gaze moved instinctively around the yard. "You know," he added, pointing toward the side gate, "that hinge is loose. And that step over there could use some reinforcement."
Artie followed his line of sight with deliberate, agonizing slowness. "Is that so?"
"Yeah. I could… if you want, I can help you with the rest of it. I'm around."
Artie allowed a thoughtful pause, as though weighing the massive inconvenience of having a handsome, capableman fix his house for free.
"It would be wonderful," he said finally, a genuine warmth settling into his voice, "if you would help me with all of it."
Tommy smiled, that open, unguarded, eye-crinkling smile again. "Yeah. Sure, Artie."
Artie decided right then that Buck had not been wrong about the man. Now, the knitting circle simply had to make sure neither of them ruined it.
***
Carol had never hosted a conspiracy before. She discovered, rather quickly, that she liked it a lot.
The meeting took place in her dining room and was declared strictly unofficial on the grounds that no knitting needles were present, though Blanche had brought hers out of habit and was absently clicking them together like a percussion section. Artie arrived last, removing his scarf with the heavy gravity of a diplomat returning from high-stakes negotiations.
The group leaned in as one.
"Well?" Carol demanded, her hands clasped tight.
Artie did not rush. He removed his gloves. He sat down. He accepted the glass of wine Mabel handed him as though it were a medal of honor.
"He is," Artie began, his voice low and measured, "a very good man."
Blanche clutched her chest as if she might swoon.
"Handsome," Artie continued. "Capable. Thoughtful. Prone to deep reflection when properly nudged."
"And?" Faye pressed, leaning over her cane.
"And," Artie finished, taking a deliberate, agonizingly slow sip of merlot, "if those two idiots do not find their way back to each other, it will be a tragic waste of both bone structure and emotional potential."
Carol slapped the table, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Right. So we fix it."
And so, a plan was knit together.
Carol's role, as it turned out, was pivotal for the next step. She practiced her tone in the hallway mirror before dialing Buck the next morning, aiming for a very specific frequency: distressed but not dramatic, helpless but not incompetent.
He picked up on the second ring. "Hey, Carol!"
"Oh, Buck, thank goodness," she began, pacing her kitchen to give her voice a breathless quality. "My living room looks almost normal again after the accident, but now that the walls are dry, they look absolutely dreadful. The color clashes with everything. I think I need to repaint the entire thing."
There was a beat of silence on the other end. "Okay?"
"And I was wondering," she pressed on, layering a thick coat of urgency into her tone, "if you might help me pick something out? You have such a wonderful eye for these things."
He laughed softly, the sound warm and self-deprecating. "I absolutely do not, Carol."
"You do! The colors you choose for your knitting are always so sophisticated," she insisted. "Please? Tomorrow? At two-thirty sharp. It has to be two-thirty because… well… I have an appointment before and another one later, and my window of time is very small!"
There was a pause, the sound of a calendar shuffling, perhaps. "Yeah," Buck said finally. "Sure. I can do two-thirty."
The second the call ended, Carol fist-bumped the air so hard she nearly took out her fruit bowl. She dialed Artie immediately. "Mission Hardware Store has commenced," she whispered into the receiver.
The next day, Buck insisted on driving. Carol talked the entire way there. She spoke about throw pillows; she spoke about undertones; she spoke at length about how lighting changed everything and how a safe beige could betray you in the afternoon sun. The stream of words poured out of her in a desperate attempt to muffle the frantic thumping of her own heart.
They pulled into the parking lot, and Buck shifted the Jeep into park. Carol glanced toward the entrance and froze. Across the lot, she spotted Artie's unmistakable trench coat and, beside him, the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette of Tommy.
They were walking toward the automatic doors.
Oh no. Buck cannot see them together!
Buck reached for his seatbelt. "Wait!" Carol yelped, the sound a bit too high-pitched.
He blinked at her, startled. "What?"
Her mind went blank. Entirely, horrifyingly blank. Then, in a moment of pure, instinctive panic, she leaned across the center console, licked her thumb, and rubbed it firmly against his cheekbone.
"You had... something on your face," she announced.
Buck stared at her, his hand frozen on the seatbelt latch. He looked stunned. "...What?"
"It's gone now," she said quickly, tucking her hands into her lap.
He looked bewildered for a second, then snorted, shaking his head as he pushed the door open. "You're weird, Carol."
"I've been told," she muttered, following him out.
Inside the store, the smell of sawdust and fertilizer filled the air. She steered them toward the paint section, her pulse racing. The towering shelves of color swatches felt suddenly enormous, like a labyrinth.
"Oh!" she exclaimed abruptly as they reached the aisle. "I completely forgot… I wanted to check the plants outside. They had new succulents last time I was here."
Buck frowned slightly. "You told me last week you don't like succulents. You called them 'pointless rocks'."
"Growth!" she said brightly, already backing away. "I'm growing as a person. I like them now. Would you be a darling and look at the shades of navy for me? I'll join you in a minute."
He looked perplexed, but he nodded. "Yeah. Sure."
The second he turned toward the wall of paint chips, Carol darted behind an adjacent shelving unit and nearly collided with Artie, who appeared as if summoned by sheer dramatic timing.
"He's here?" Artie whispered, his sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead.
"He's at the colors," Carol hissed back. "Tommy?"
"Approaching any moment. I told him I needed to find a specific waterproof sealant."
They both hovered, peeking through the narrow gap between stacked sample cans of wood stain.
Tommy entered the aisle from the far end. For a suspended, breathless second, neither man noticed the other. Then: Collision.
A bumped shoulder. A startled step back. A muttered apology spoken in perfect, embarrassed unison.
Buck looked up. Tommy froze.
Even from several feet away, Carol could see it, the shock flashing across both their faces, followed immediately by something softer, something almost luminous.
"Oh," she breathed under her breath. "They're shocked."
Artie nodded solemnly, his eyes narrowed in professional observation. "Now they are recalibrating."
Buck said something, his hands gesturing with that nervous, high-energy charm of his. Tommy ran a hand through his hair, his posture losing its stiffness. Then they both laughed, a sudden, genuine sound that seemed to bridge the distance between them.
Carol clutched Artie's sleeve, her fingers digging into the beige fabric. "Now they're happy. Look, Artie, look."
They could not hear a word of the conversation, but they didn't need to. The body language told the entire story: the awkward shifting turned into ease, the eye contact holding just a few seconds longer than necessary.
After several minutes, Tommy stepped back first, offering a small, lingering wave. Buck mirrored it, his smile staying on his face long after Tommy had turned the corner.
Buck turned back to the paint, scanning the aisle. Carol felt her stomach drop.
"He's looking for me," she whispered urgently.
Artie straightened his coat, his expression turning sharp. "We must not be seen together. Tactical retreat."
They separated in opposite directions with remarkable speed for their age. Carol reappeared at the end of the aisle three seconds later, pretending to examine the price tag on a plastic fern.
Buck spotted her almost immediately. "There you are! Carol, you won't believe who I just ran into."
Carol widened her eyes, putting on a performance worthy of a daytime soap opera. "Really, dear? Who?"
***
Blanche had always appreciated a well-kept home. To her, a house was a reflection of the soul, or at least a reflection of how much one cared about their baseboards. This was why she paused dramatically in Artie's doorway, her gaze sweeping the room before she announced, "You have had work done."
Artie lifted his chin, his expression the picture of feigned innocence. "I keep my home in good repair, Blanche."
"Not like this," Blanche countered, stepping into the living room.
Mabel raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "And you have redecorated. Those curtains are new."
Artie clasped his hands behind his back, unable to suppress a smug, cat-like smile. "Well, since my friendship with Tommy has blossomed, the infrastructure of this house has improved considerably. The man is dangerously handy."
"Improved how, exactly?" Carol asked, her voice tight with suppressed giggles.
"Last week, for example," Artie said, his tone as smooth as a glass of expensive port, "he fixed my plumbing."
Blanche gasped, a hand flying to her chest. "Artie!"
The women dissolved into a chorus of delighted cackle-giggles. Artie rolled his eyes with the practiced suffering of a Shakespearean actor. "Not like that, you hags. Though I assure you, if circumstances were different, I would certainly not be complaining."
"Artie," Faye warned, though there was a twinkle in her eye.
He sighed, the humor fading into something more sincere. "He is far too young for me, of course. And he is absolutely, hopelessly in love with his Evan."
Blanche sank into the armchair next to Carol.
"At the very least," Artie added, adjusting a decorative bowl that was already perfectly centered, "he is extremely pleasant to observe while he works. I have taken to finding problems in every corner of the house just to keep him around. Also, I needed more excuses to send him on errands so that he could run into Buck."
Faye lowered herself more onto the sofa with a heavy, weary sigh. "These two are idiots. We have engineered four separate encounters. Four! And yet, they remain in a state of stalemate."
"It isn't nothing, Faye," Carol protested. "Buck brought Tommy up at the Stitch&Bitch every time now. He didn't even wait for us to prod him. He looked... well, he looked radiant."
"Radiant," Blanche echoed, a dreamy sigh escaping her.
"He is still very much in love," Carol insisted. "It's written all over him like a bad rash."
Artie nodded. "Tommy is the same. While he was repairing my sink, Tommy spoke about his 'ex'. He didn't use a name at first, but the cadence of his voice changed. And then he told me, while he fixed the stairs next time, how he ran into Evan again. He isn't moving on; he's pining."
"But we nudge Buck every time he brings up Tommy, telling him to finally call and talk to him. But he never does!" Blanche threw her hands up, the jewelry on her wrists clattering. "Why are men such stubborn creatures?"
"Hey," Artie objected mildly. "Not all of us."
She shot him a pointed look.
He relented with a shrug. "Fine. Yes. We can be extraordinarily infuriating."
Mabel, who had been nursing her wine in silence, finally set the glass down with a sharp clack of finality. "All right. Enough subtlety. No more hardware stores or supermarkets."
Carol straightened her spine. "What are you suggesting, Mabel?"
"It means," Mabel said, her voice dropping into a tone of military command, "that we escalate. We are going to organize a date."
"A date?" Carol squeaked. "They'll see right through us!"
"A blind date," Mabel clarified. "Artie, you will convince Tommy. Tell him you know a friend of a friend, someone handsome, someone stable, someone who needs a good man. You won't even be lying."
Blanche's eyes lit with a wicked, predatory spark.
"And Blanche," Mabel continued, "you handle Buck. Tell him about a friend's neighbor. Someone kind. Again, technically the truth."
"I was born for this," Blanche declared, already planning her outfit for the ambush.
A day later, Blanche arrived at Buck's house armed with a tin of homemade lemon bars and the unstoppable confidence of a woman who had orchestrated three marriages and a high-profile divorce.
Buck opened the door, looking slightly disheveled. "Blanche? What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood," she lied, breezing past him before he could object. "I have a proposition for you, Buck."
He blinked, closing the door slowly. "That sounds... ominous. And dangerous."
"It is romantic," she corrected, setting the lemon bars on his counter like a trophy. "There is a very handsome man I am acquainted with. Stable income. Shoulders you could park a truck on. He's interested in meeting someone nice, and I told him you were the nicest person I knew."
Buck's ears turned a vivid shade of pink. "Blanche, I don't think I'm ready to-"
"Oh, hush. You're going. Friday night. Seven p.m. at L'Andana. I've already told him you're charming and interested. You wouldn't want to make me look like a liar, would you?"
Buck stared at her, cornered by the scent of citrus and sheer, unadulterated audacity.
"...Fine," he muttered, his shoulders dropping in defeat.
Blanche beamed, patting his cheek. "Excellent choice, dear. Eat a lemon bar."
On the night of the date, the five of them were crammed into Carol's car once again. To Blanche's immense disappointment, they were in normal clothing.
"I liked the spy outfits," she grumbled, tugging at her silk scarf. "The mask gave me an air of mystery."
"We looked like we'd escaped from a local theater production," Faye replied dryly.
They were parked across from the restaurant, the window table Mabel had secured with ruthless efficiency perfectly visible from their vantage point. Tommy arrived first. He was wearing a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. He looked relaxed, but as he sat down, he began to straighten the silverware with a nervous energy that Artie recognized immediately.
"Oh, he looks delicious," Blanche murmured, leaning between the seats. "No wonder Buck is so smitten."
"Compose yourself, Blanche," Faye snapped, though she did take out binoculars from her purse to get a better view.
Five minutes later, Buck appeared, and the car went deathly silent. He looked stunning in a soft, cream-colored sweater that made him look approachable and vulnerable all at once. He stepped inside, scanning the room. The hostess greeted him and showed him his reservation, and then his eyes landed on the table.
He stopped dead. Tommy looked up.
"Oh," Carol breathed, her hand over her mouth.
From across the street, even without sound, they could see the shock ripple through them both. It was a physical thing, a momentary freezing of time. Buck hesitated, his hand hovering near the back of a chair.
"Sit down," Blanche whispered fiercely, her nose nearly touching the windshield. "Sit down, you beautiful fool."
Buck stepped forward. He sat.
The car erupted in a wave of celebration, clapping hands and whispered cheers.
"First hurdle cleared," Artie murmured.
Inside, the two men were now studying their menus with the kind of exaggerated focus one usually reserves for a bomb manual.
"They're pretending not to be flustered," Carol whispered.
"They're adorable," Blanche added. "Look at them, they're both blushing."
A waiter approached, drinks were poured, and then... the shift happened. Tommy leaned forward, his elbows on the table. Buck laughed, his head tipping back in that bright, open way of his. The eye contact was held.
"This is it," Mabel said softly, her voice filled with warmth.
Carol passed around sandwiches she'd prepared for stamina, along with brownies for morale, as she said. They watched the date inside like a panel of Olympic judges.
"He touched his hand! Did you see that? Tommy touched his hand!"
"That was deliberate!" Artie noted.
"Oh, look at Buck's face," Blanche cooed. "He's gone. He's absolutely gone for him."
Dinner arrived and departed, and neither man seemed to notice the food. When the bill came, they didn't rush to leave. They lingered over their coffee, their bodies angled toward each other as if there were no one else in the city.
Eventually, they stepped out into the cool night air. Tommy walked Buck to his Jeep, and the five observers leaned forward in unison, the car's suspension groaning under their collective weight.
Under the glow of a streetlamp, the two men stopped. Buck was gesturing, speaking earnestly, and Tommy stepped into his space. They stared at each other for a long, quiet second.
"Do it," Blanche whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Tommy reached out first, his hand cupping Buck's jaw, and Buck met him halfway. When they finally kissed, the car exploded.
"Yes!"
Fist bumps and muffled hoorays filled the cramped interior. Blance nearly slammed the horn in her excitement before Faye slapped her hand away.
"Our work," Artie said, leaning back with a look of profound satisfaction, "is exemplary."
Carol started the engine, a grin splitting her face. "We are geniuses. Absolute legends."
"Professional matchmakers," Mabel corrected with a small, satisfied smile.
As they drove off into the night, their voices overlapped in a chaotic retelling of every look and every touch.
Mission accomplished.
***
Mabel had hosted enough Stitch & Bitch meetings to know the difference between ordinary silence and the heavy, electric hum of anticipation. She had fluffed the cushions twice, arranged the teacups in a neat, porcelain crescent on the coffee table, and repositioned the lemon drizzle cake three times so the late-afternoon glaze caught the light just right.
Faye was already seated with her usual regal patience, though her fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the head of her cane. Carol was practically vibrating beside her, while Blanche attempted a look of serene calm and failed miserably, her knitting needles clicking at double-speed. Artie was busy inspecting his nails, though the way he kept glancing at the door betrayed the fact that he was just as much of a nervous wreck as the rest of them.
Buck had texted that afternoon: I have a boyfriend. I want you to meet him.
Mabel had read the message three times before allowing herself a small, victorious smile.
When the doorbell finally rang, every spine in the room straightened as if a drill sergeant had just walked in.
"I'll get it," Mabel announced, though she was already halfway to the foyer before the words left her mouth.
She pulled the door open, and there he was.
Buck stood on her porch, beaming with that open, unguarded joy that always made him look years younger than a man in his profession had any right to be. Beside him stood Tommy, looking steady and warm, though his shoulders carried the slight tension of a man walking into a den of lions.
And around Tommy's neck... Mabel's breath caught in her throat.
It was a blue scarf. It was slightly uneven, a little loose at one end, and undeniably crooked in the way only a first attempt at knitting can be. It was Buck's very first project, the lopsided one they had all helped him save from the brink of disaster. Tommy wore it like it was a medal of honor.
"Well," Mabel said smoothly, recovering her poise because someone in this house had to maintain a sense of decorum. "This must be the famous Tommy. Come in, please. Everyone in there is simply dying to meet you."
Buck flushed a deep, happy crimson. "Mabel, please..."
Tommy stepped over the threshold, offering a polite, slightly cautious smile. "I hope 'dying to meet me' is a good thing."
"Oh, it is," Blanche called out from the living room, her voice trailing them. "We adore our Buck, and we are quite happy that he is happy."
They stepped into the warmth of the living room, Tommy taking two steps onto the rug before he came to a sudden, jarring halt. His eyes landed on Artie, who was currently mid-sip of his Earl Grey.
"...Artie?" Tommy asked, his voice trailing off in confusion.
Artie froze, the teacup hovering just below his lip. "Tommy," he replied, his tone far too innocent to be believable.
Buck blinked, looking between the two of them. "Wait. You two know each other?"
Tommy looked from Artie to the rest of the group, realization dawning behind his eyes with the speed of a freight train. "He's my neighbor. He's the one I helped fix his house, and then he set me up on that blind date."
A heavy, thick silence settled over the room. Five elderly conspirators suddenly found the pattern of the wallpaper to be the most fascinating thing they had ever seen.
Buck turned slowly. Very, very slowly. His gaze landed on Blanche. "How," he asked with measured care, "did you know Tommy well enough to send me on a date with him?"
Blanche pressed a hand to her chest, the picture of theatrical distress. "Well... as it turns out... he is Artie's neighbor. It was a very small world, suddenly!"
"Mabel?" Buck tried next, his voice pleading for the truth.
There was no point in denying it any longer. "We may," she began with calm authority, "have facilitated certain... encounters."
Tommy stared at them. "Encounters?"
"Four," Faye supplied helpfully from her armchair.
"Technically five," Carol corrected, counting on her fingers. "If you count the blind date."
Buck looked at Tommy. Tommy looked at Buck.
"You mean…" Buck started, his voice rising in disbelief.
"For weeks, we planned exactly how to get the two of you back together," Blanche confessed, her voice rising with dramatic flair. "Because you are both absolute, total idiots."
"Hopeless," Faye added.
"Pining," Artie chimed in.
"Positively ridiculous," Carol finished.
Mabel lifted her chin, meeting Buck's stunned gaze. "We knew you belonged together, Buck. You simply required a bit of... guidance. We provided the map; you two just had to walk the path."
There was a long, suspended moment where the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock. Buck's expression flickered from shock to disbelief, and finally, to a reluctant, soft understanding. Tommy's hand moved instinctively to the end of the crooked blue scarf.
Then, Buck started to laugh.
It was a full, helpless, disbelieving laugh that bubbled up from his chest. Tommy joined him a second later, shaking his head as he looked at the circle of seniors. "You orchestrated my love life."
"With surgical precision," Mabel replied, her eyes twinkling.
Buck stepped forward and pulled Mabel into a hug before she could object, burying his face against her shoulder for a second. "You're unbelievable. All of you."
"We prefer the term visionary," Blanche corrected, smoothing her skirt.
Tommy looked at the five of them, this chaotic, smug, beautifully interfering committee, and his expression softened into something deeply touched. "You did all that... for us?"
Faye gestured with her cane. "Obviously. Someone had to. We couldn't very well sit here and watch you two mope for the rest of the decade."
Carol beamed at them, her eyes misting over. "We just wanted you two to be happy."
Tommy looked at Buck, and the look that passed between them was so warm and certain that Mabel had to look away for a moment to keep her own composure.
"Thank you," Tommy said quietly.
Buck nodded, his hand finding Tommy's. "Yeah. Thank you. Even if the idea of you all spying on me is mildly terrifying."
Artie scoffed. "We were excellent."
Mabel waved them toward the sofa. "Sit. Eat. Tell us everything we didn't manage to overhear. And Tommy?"
He looked at her attentively, recognizing the shift in her voice.
"If you ever break his heart," Mabel said, her voice dropping into a tone that was only fifty percent joking, "remember that we know exactly where you live."
Tommy grinned, undeterred. "Fair enough."
Buck dropped onto the couch beside him, their knees touching in a way that looked easy and natural. Mabel took her seat, surveying her living room: the lopsided scarf, the shared smiles, and the way Buck's hand kept brushing Tommy's as if he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed to hold it.
Yes, she decided. It was destiny.
But it was also a masterpiece of excellent planning.