It was a welcome change to have a project—something other than kids and work and worry and uncertainty. There was a feeling of mission, too, something Caroline wished she had embraced long ago. She wanted to create a safe place for women like Echo Sanders and Lindy Bloom. And perhaps for the foolish girl she’d been long ago, the night before Sierra’s wedding. Her commitment to the project was pathetically too little too late to be of any help at all to Angelique. Maybe, just maybe, it would help someone else, a woman like Lindy, who had suffered alone for so long with no one to turn to.

The notion of actually making a difference in someone’s life was probably too idealistic. But lately Caroline was feeling disillusioned, and doing something good would be good for her, regardless of the outcome. Sometimes she paused in the middle of whatever she was doing—reaching out to the local paper, reserving the meeting space, printing flyers—and pondered the changes in her life. Not so long ago, she’d been a New York designer on the cusp of a breakthrough. Now she was looking after two young children, reserving domain names for a new business enterprise, and researching domestic violence.

She laid into the project with a vengeance. She ticked things off her list. Assemble a team. Get the word out. She could do this.

“I need your help,” she said to Sierra, regarding her across the table at Star of the Sea, where they’d met for coffee.

“Help with what?” Sierra asked.

“The Oysterville Sewing Circle.” She grinned at her friend’s expression. “That’s what I’m calling my women’s group—the one I told you about.”

Virginia joined them, sliding into the booth. “What’s up?”

“The Oysterville Sewing Circle,” Sierra explained. “Caroline’s on a mission.”

“And you’re going to help,” Caroline declared.

“A sewing circle?” Virginia looked astounded. “I can’t even sew on a button, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Can such things be?”

“Well, it’s not really about sewing, and it’s not really a circle.”

Virginia leaned back in her chair as realization dawned on her face. “The group, you mean. That’s what you’re calling it?”

“Yes. We’re going to meet at the police station annex down in Long Beach.”

“I want to be the first official member,” Sierra declared.

Virginia stared at her. “Wait a minute. Do you mean . . . Jesus. Did Will—”

“God, no.” Sierra waved away the unspoken question. “Will’s a saint.” Her voice held a bitter edge. “You both know that. I want to support you. It’s a good thing you’re doing.”

“If we manage to get it done. Georgia’s in, by the way,” Virginia said.

“My God,” Sierra said. “Then is Georgia . . . ?”

“Oh hell no.” Virginia waved her hand. “Who would ever mess with Georgia? I appreciate you asking, though. To tell you the truth, I’ve learned that anyone can be sucked into domestic violence. It’s a factor in so many of the cases I investigate for the county. It’s not limited to women who are uneducated or poor or who had troubled childhoods. It can be women like you and me and Georgia—people with good families and resources and education.”

“Yeah,” Sierra said. “So creepy.”

“Something happens—the guy needs to control and dominate because he feels inferior. Or he’s reenacting something from his own past. A lot of times, he becomes a drunk. So we’d better be prepared to meet all kinds.”

Caroline flashed on a memory of Angelique—regal and poised, commanding attention as she controlled a room full of high-powered fashion professionals with the slightest gesture or narrowing of her eyes. She simply had not looked like a victim—but as Virginia pointed out, women knew how to wear masks that made them seem put-together, successful, confident.

She opened a folder of printed material and showed them the flyer she’d designed. The logo was a stylized pincushion with needles and thread and the phrase Mend Your Heart, with contact information and a meeting schedule. “I wanted an innocuous-sounding name for the group, one that isn’t likely to attract the kind of people who beat up their partners.”

“And you picked sewing.” Sierra smiled. “Of course you did.”

“How many wife-beaters do you suppose are interested in sewing?” Caroline asked.

“Good point. Most men run from sewing.”

“I’m glad you like the name. It’s a tribute to the Helsingør Sewing Club, a little footnote in World War Two history. That’s what a gang of resistance fighters called the fishing fleet in Denmark during the war to hide their real purpose from the Nazis. Right under the Germans’ noses, they ferried boatloads of Jews from Denmark to Sweden. Said they were going to their sewing club.”

“Cool,” said Virginia. “I’m glad that you’re doing this, Caroline. So proud of my sister.”

“I had another idea. One of the biggest hurdles for survivors is finding work. And thanks to the PTA, I need help with every part of my fabrication operation. Because guess what? A school district in Seattle and another in Portland saw the superhero T-shirts and ordered some. Echo is already sewing for me. I can only offer minimum wage at this point, but if this works out, I’ll need to hire more workers. And then I started thinking of other places that could employ women . . .”

“Georgia will be all over that,” Virginia said. “She can train people in restaurant work.”

Caroline thought about Nadine, the waitress. She’d reached out to her—a tentative overture. I’m starting a women’s group . . . But Nadine had regarded her with a blank expression. Not everyone was going to embrace the idea. Maybe no one would. “So anyway, I’m going to book the police station annex for our first meeting. I need to make sure Mom’s okay with me leaving the kids.”

Not so long ago, she didn’t have to check anything with anyone. And she’d liked it that way. Now she couldn’t make a move without thinking of the children. They were the first thing she focused on when she woke up each day, and her last thought each night.

“Well then, let’s get started,” Virginia said.

Everyone pitched in. Caroline’s mother used the restaurant menu printer to duplicate the flyer and a supply of business cards. Within days, they were placed all over town—the restaurant, the library, public restrooms, shops, schools, and churches. Caroline fielded a few calls—one from a shaky-voiced teenager who hung up on her. Another from a tourist staying in a bungalow near the dunes. There were a couple of emails. Maybe, she thought, just maybe this thing was going to work out. She hoped it would. One day the kids would be older and they’d have questions. She could only hope that she would have answers for them.

On the evening of the inaugural meeting, Caroline and Virginia arrived at the police station and parked in the annex lot. Sierra was already there, checking her makeup in her car mirror. Caroline posted a neatly lettered sign with an arrow directing people to the meeting room. The three of them brought in boxes of literature.

“Good choice of meeting space.” Virginia looked around the plain, spare room. Folding chairs, a long service table, a bulletin board, and a sink and counter prep area. Beige walls, linoleum floors—a blank canvas.