Threaded for Trouble Read Online Free Page A

clomped up the aisle and stood beside me at the railing enclosing the prize Chandler Champion.
    The SUV’s doors opened, and children poured out. They arranged themselves and processed—that was the only word for it—into In Stitches.
    Everyone in the chairs craned around as if to see a bride. Everyone except Russ, that is. He slumped lower.
    A little girl came first. A chorus of oohs and aahs burst from the audience. The child was about three and looked adorable in a pale blue dress under a ruffled white organdy pinafore. The pinafore was embroidered with blue flowers and birds to match the dress. Golden curls tumbled to her shoulders. She was wearing stage makeup.
    The next child was about eight. Her dress and themachine-embroidered flowers on her pinafore were pale yellow. Her hair was darker, but curled like the first girl’s, and she also wore makeup. She gasped for breath, and no wonder. That pinafore was so tight it wrinkled across her middle.
    The third girl scowled. She appeared to be about twelve. Her dress was candy pink. It and the pink-embroidered white pinafore over it were much too short, showing off bony knees, coltish legs, and pink ankle socks teamed with black patent leather Mary Janes matching the younger girls’ shoes. The twelve-year-old’s makeup was a slash of purple lipstick that she must have slapped on without the aid of a mirror, possibly during the ride in the fire chief’s SUV. Her hair was dark and straight, and a lock fell across her forehead, like Russ’s.
    Exactly like Russ’s.
    Felicity called out, “Come right up here, girls, and let everyone see your mother’s winning entry in the Chandler Challenge!” The two younger girls followed her orders, but the bigger girl climbed over two Threadville tourists, fell into the chair next to Russ, and glared. Elbows on knees, Russ hid his face in his rawboned hands.
    More children followed the first three. A girl who looked about fifteen came inside in jeans and a tank top. Showing what I was beginning to think of as the family sneer, she held hands with two little boys, one about four and the other about five, each wearing white cowboy shirts. The yokes of the shirts were piped in pastels and decorated with embroidery motifs matching the designs on the little girls’ pinafores. The fifteen-year-old let the two boys go, gave them shoves that propelled them to follow the two youngest girls, then clambered over her sister and Russ to sit on Russ’s other side.
    Another boy, a slightly younger replica of Russ, complete with the sneer, torn jeans, T-shirt, and uncombed hair, slouched in behind his siblings. With a sardonic toss of the head, he held up a white cowboy shirt trimmed in mint green for the audience to see, then bunched it betweenhis hands and stumbled into the row to sit beside the girl in the unfortunately tiny dress.
    “And now,” Felicity announced in her nasal voice, “the winner of the Chandler Challenge, Darlene Coddlefield!”
    It should have been a proud moment for Darlene Coddlefield, but as she marched into my shop, she frowned down the row of seats at her older offspring. She tossed what looked like a white cowboy shirt trimmed in candy pink onto Russ’s lap. I couldn’t hear her words, but the meaning in her attitude was obvious. “Put it on.”
    Darlene Coddlefield was nearly as wide as she was high. Her eyes were bloodshot and baggy, as if she’d spent the night finishing her beautifully tailored ivory silk pants suit and ironing the children’s dresses and shirts. She trundled up the aisle and straightened the smallest boy’s collar before shaking hands with Felicity and me. Darlene’s hands were clammy.
    “My, my,” Felicity said with a brightness I didn’t expect, “now we understand why Darlene won Mother of the Year back in—when was it, Darlene?”
    Darlene waved her hand in front of her face as if driving smoke away. “Many years, and six children ago.” The audience laughed. “It was easier