Timeless Read Online Free Page B

was a night for strange happenings.
     
     

Chapter Two
    "Plunging In"
     
     
    Between melting and freezing
    The soul's sap quivers.
     
    T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”
     
    Sleep eluded me, so I picked up the sampler
I’d begun a week ago. Sewing calmed me, and for some inexplicable
reason, anything related to sewing had always fascinated me.
Neither Mom nor Aunt Jo had understood it when I’d announced my new
passion at age ten. “In this age of feminism,” Mom had once begun,
shaking her head, “why would you want to go back to the dark ages?”
But she had laughed, glad I’d found a hobby that could make me
happy.
    I couldn’t explain my desire to sew or the
calming feeling that came over me when I threaded a needle. It was
as much a part of me as my innate fear of drowning. When I’d
learned some basic skills at camp one summer, I knew that it felt
more natural to have a needle in my hand than a pencil. Mom, who
couldn’t sew a button on a shirt, had nevertheless paid for lessons
for me, and once I discovered needlework, I never looked back.
    After her death, I’d had little patience or
interest in sewing and had only recently decided to begin it again.
Though I’d always enjoyed a challenge before, now I preferred the
monotony of cross-stitching, an easy and mindless pastime that
helped when I was upset. Before Mom died, I’d made all of my
clothes and many of hers, many of them designed from older
patterns—often frilly, feminine gowns we both liked to wear.
Neither of us cared about current trends, preferring our own style
to those found in magazines or movies.
    Whatever interest I’d had in clothes had
vanished since her death, however. It wasn’t just that I didn’t
want to sew; I literally couldn’t do it for the first few months
following her death. It was only recently coming back to me, as I
remembered the happy times I’d spent with Mom, her weeding the
garden, me sewing a dress or quilt for us. The less grief I felt,
the more able I was to resume the life I’d lived before she
died.
    I worked quietly, not putting the sampler
down for several hours and realizing, as I did, that I dreaded
going to sleep. Who knew what kinds of dreams I’d have?
    My eyes finally refused to stay open, and I
climbed into bed. The Duchess jumped on the bed, curling around the
blue and green patchwork quilt I’d made several years ago. She
seemed to understand my need for company, and I was glad to have
her there.
    I woke up around nine the next morning,
relieved that I hadn’t had anymore nightmares. I still had an hour
before Ben’s swim meet began—time enough to get a pop-tart on my
way to the school. I was picking Annie up on the way in Aunt Jo’s
old car, which I hoped would still run. It was a red, antique, 1940
Chrysler Saratoga—a stylish car for its day—but a real pain to
learn to drive. Aunt Jo felt sentimental about it because it had
been her father’s prize car. Since we weren’t exactly good at
keeping it in tip-top shape, it wasn’t in the best condition. We
lived close to downtown, however, so the grocery store, post
office, and cleaners were right around the corner. I usually ran
Aunt Jo’s errands for her—literally.But school was too far away for
that.
    I grabbed the keys from one of the hooks in
the laundry room and went out the back where we kept the car. After
three tries, I finally got it started, shifted gears, and backed
out, making sure the Duchess wasn’t anywhere near the tires.
Driving the Saratoga was always an adventure.
    Annie lived across town and was waiting for
me on her parents’ front porch, an umbrella tucked under her
arm.
    “Hey,” I said as she got in.
    “Hey,” she mumbled sulkily. Usually Annie
flooded me with a stream of the latest gossip when I saw her. I
must have been more out of it than I’d realized last night.
    “So what are you and Zack doing later?” I
asked, hoping to lighten her mood.
    “Oh, nothing much,” she muttered.
    I took a