Page 3 of Forget Me Not (The Shifters of Timberfall #1)

Syve

Staccato thumping from her sewing machine echoed off the walls as Syve finished off Dorothea’s apron, neatly trimming the edges before folding it and setting it aside.

Normally she’d have her customers pick up their orders when they were complete, but Syve had a soft spot for the old widow and planned to take it to her in the morning.

Of course, the chance to indulge in some variety of freshly baked goods may have played a part in that decision.

“Syve! SYVE!” Aimi was running down the sidewalk, barely managing to stay upright while sliding through the snow as she reached the front door.

“SYVEEE!” she hollered again, the bell jingling violently as she burst inside.

Clad in her red, knee-length, puffer parka and black knee-high snow boots, she looked like she belonged in Antarctica.

“We literally talked on the phone twenty minutes ago, what the hell?” Syve shook her head at her friend and watched as she began the de-mummification process of removing her winter gear.

“I know! I know, but—” She paused to unwrap her scarf, unceremoniously throwing it in the corner with her already discarded coat and gloves.

“When I was locking up—” another pause, as she hopped on one foot to pry off her boots, “I looked at the bulletin, the one by the door! You know—” snow pants went next, “the one you told me would be stupid to have because it would just gather bullshit?”

Syve rolled her eyes and nodded for her to continue. “Yes, yes, bulletin. Is there a point to this—”

Aimi cut her off. “Obviously, there’s a fucking point, woman!” With a flourish, Aimi ripped a crumpled piece of paper out of her oversized shoulder bag and slapped it onto the counter. “Look!”

Syve looked down at the paper, read the header and then snatched it up to keep reading. It was an ad for a state grant, specifically for women owned small businesses with less than ten employees.

“Is this legit?” Syve asked as she flipped the paper over and back, looking for a big “SIKE” to be written across the page.

After the accident, Syve had gone close to six months without even so much as unlocking her front door once.

The state of Montana had cut a check—one that took a month to cash after Aimi had dragged her to the bank drive-thru.

Thanks to that money, the bills were being paid—usually with egregious late fees attached and only when the cloud of grief would dissipate long enough to tease her with a breath of clarity, but it wouldn’t last forever.

She was starting to dance the line of financial ruin.

Eight women across the entire state would be chosen to receive a sum of money to invest into their business—a sum hefty enough to, say, dig a small business out of debt and completely fund its rebirth and expansion with a few zeros to spare.

All she would have to do was present a business plan—outlining how she would use the grant money to make more money.

Syve would need to prove she was worth the investment, and show the board what she could do if they backed her.

Securing the grant would change everything , both for Sew It Seams and for her .

“I know you’ve put the brand on hold.” One last pause as she pulled her hat off her head, leaving her long, sleek, split-dyed hair in a static, black and blonde mess.

“And I don’t blame you for doing it. But if you got this—if you had this money—you could really finish what you started and get your clothes out there. ”

It was true. The grant would be more than enough to cover the production costs and personal expenses until she could start earning from the clothing line itself. Not to mention, the publicity would be great for marketing—which would in turn be great for sales.

One year ago, three weeks before Christmas, Syve had been struck by the idea to produce her own clothing line.

She was annoyed that the only clothes you could find any more were trendy, impractical pieces—less comfortable than they were useful.

After a three-hour brain-storming session at her kitchen table with her husband and her best friend, Syve had shaped her idea into a realistic dream.

An entire line of Men’s, Women’s and Children’s clothing that was casual, yet practical.

Pants with pockets that could actually hold things, shirts long enough to cover your ass when you bent over, reinforced knees for the kids, and everything would be machine washable.

That was just the tip of the iceberg. She had an entire notebook full of notes and sketches.

A few days later, Syve and Aimi braved the weather and made the eighty-mile drive north to Bozeman to raid the fabric store. But when they returned, Syve’s entire world had ended.

She had left her home to the tune of laughter and came back to the sound of sirens. Every penny she owned had gone toward repairing the loft and funeral expenses. Any cent left after that didn’t matter anymore.

The day after the funeral, she had tossed her notebook into the closet under the stairs and put herself on autopilot. Her dreams went untouched as her life changed forever— frozen in time. It never even crossed her mind to finish the project.

“Do you still have the plans?” Aimi probed.

“They’re…in the closet…” Syve sat down on the loveseat by the window. “Do you think I should? I mean, the main reason I was doing this was for them …” She placed her head in her hands and sighed.

“I think they would want you to try.” Aimi smiled, then clapped loudly. “Right, you need to drink on this! Now let’s lock this shit up so we can go get drunk like we’re still twenty-one. Cam will be here any minute—”

Syve cut her off. “Cameron is likely already upstairs, since she uses the loft entrance like a normal visitor.” She gave her best friend a pointed look as she reached for the broom.

“Ha! Girl. You know I’m anything but normal.” Aimi laughed, skipping away when Syve swung the broom at her.

Once the floor had been swept, counters wiped, trash taken out, and the door firmly locked, they migrated to the loft. As Syve had guessed, Cameron was already there, with various bowls overflowing with snacks and three large cups filled to the brim with what she could safely assume to be red wine.

Weekly girl’s days had been mandatory for the entire eight years Syve and Aimi had been friends.

Cameron had only been in the fray for two and a half years—ever since she met Syve through their shared midwife.

After Noah was born, Syve quickly determined that when it came to breast milk, she was an overproducer.

One chat with the midwife about donating led to a meeting with Cameron, an underproducing mother whose daughter, Kayla, was born a week after Noah.

Syve successfully fed both babies for an entire year, and the two mothers had been friends ever since.

“K-drama, Dukes, or Doctors?” Cam asked, tossing the remote to Aimi.

Though none of them could likely explain when or why it happened, this one question had always served as the bottle breaking—sending the ship to sea.

The ship being a twenty-minute debate over which series was the best choice to turn on—regardless of the fact they never actually watched the TV—and always ended with Aimi turning on Twilight.

By the time Aimi started arguing about how a purple bedspread was , in fact, a safe choice, Cam would have a basket of nail polish out and be well into painting all of their nails.

Before the night was over, Aimi would have Syve’s laundry in the dryer, Cam would have the loft cleaned up and Syve herself would be asleep on the couch.

“You should totally see if there’s a way to lock the thermostat so it can’t go any higher than sixty-nine degrees!” Cam laughed, throwing herself back into the couch cushions.

“Gunther would blow a gasket if he couldn’t set the temp to match his throne down in Hell,” Aimi added, making mock explosions with her hands. “Also, sixty-nine, nice.” The two women shared a high-five, giggling like teenagers .

“You are both forgetting he’s a total dick and would break it just trying to bully it into working.” Syve sighed and threw a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

“Babe, I know he’s Erhard’s cousin, but you don’t have to put up with his bullshit,” Aimi chided.

“I know, but he’s grieving too. Just...in his own way—isn’t this what family does? Tolerate each other’s bullshit?” Or was it just what she thought she deserved? Who was she to complain about being annoyed? At least she was alive…

Aimi rolled her eyes, waving dismissively at Syve with a fist full of Cheetos.

“Okay, okay,” Cam chided, “enough about Gunther and his… antics— grieving or not.” She aimed the last bit at Syve, who had opened her mouth again to correct her. “Have you still been having that weird recurring dream?”

Syve winced and then slid off the couch onto the floor with a dramatic exhale. “Yeah, every single night still. Why?”

“Because I love you, but you look like hell. I can tell you’re not sleeping—more than you already weren’t. I’m worried about you, is all.” Cam stretched a long leg out and nudged Syve with her foot.

“I’m fine, thank you for worrying, but please don’t. No, I’m not sleeping great, but I’m sure it’s just stress.” Stress—as if you could put a label on the feeling that came with the first anniversary of your family’s death. “Maybe I need to lay off the caffeine…”

Aimi gasped and began choking on her wine.

“Decaf, Aimi! I could still drink coffee! Just, decaf!”

The guttural whine that followed let Syve know that actually only made the matter worse.