Stitches In Time Read Online Free PDF

but she was an auction freak and couldn't resist a bargain. Usually there would be one or two items in the collection that justified the price she had paid; she and Cheryl sold the rest to other dealers. Vintage fabrics, even fragments, were in demand by quilt makers, doll collectors and craftspeople.
    Joe, the eldest of Cheryl's three children, arrived home from school in time to help Rachel carry the bag to her car. He wasn't Tony's son—Cheryl's first husband had died when Joe was four—but Tony treated him like his own, and Joe adored his stepfather, though of course he would never have been unmanly enough to say so. He was twelve, a skinny towhead with an enormous appetite and a serious view of the world. As he polished off two sandwiches and a glass of milk, he lectured Rachel and his mother about recycling and the wickedness of using plastic trash bags.
    Cheryl had obviously heard it before. Her response was automatic. " I only use the biodegradable kind, honey, you know that. Rachel, don't bother dropping those scraps off tonight. Georgetown is so far out of your way, and it's later than I thought; the traffic will be terrible. Kara doesn't need the things right away."
    "I don't mind."
    "It will be dark by the time you get home," Cheryl persisted. "If you get home. Did you buy a new tire like I told you to? There wasn't a speck of tread on—"
    "For gosh sakes, Mom!" Joe rolled his eyes. "She'll be even later if you don't shut... if you don't stop talking."
    "Just promise you'll go straight home," Cheryl said anxiously. "Maybe you should spend the night. It looks like snow."
    "Mo-om!"
    "I'll take it to Kara tomorrow morning," Rachel said, seeing that Joe was about to violate the rules about being rude to his mother and/or using profanity in the presence of "ladies." Tony was strict about such things, and Joe tried to conform. He did pretty well; if Rachel hadn't happened to overhear him talking to a buddy on the telephone, she'd have feared he was being repressed.
    "Drive carefully," Cheryl called after them.
    "She always says that," Joe muttered. "Even to Dad. Like, he doesn't know how to drive?"
    Rachel laughed and gave him a man-to-man slap on the back. "Thanks, Joe. Take care ... I mean, so long."
    It was later than Rachel had realized, and traffic was already heavy. Washington's rash hour starts at four P.M.; the suburban areas between Leesburg and the Capital Beltway had grown too fast for the roads that serviced them, and the Beltway itself was rapidly becoming notorious. Nervous drivers would go miles out of their way to avoid it, and there were legends about hapless tourists who had circled the city for days before they were able to exit. Traffic was no worse than usual that evening; it was about the same, bumper-to-bumper, and moving in fits and starts.
    Rachel was used to it, but for some reason it got on her nerves that evening. She knew the reason, though. That incident had unnerved her, not only because encounters with slimy people are unpleasant, but because the scenario had all the elements of a banal romance novel: the leering villain, the wounded hero coming to the rescue.
    The flare of brightening lights caught her eye, and she slammed on her brakes. An accident ahead? No; just the usual mess at the 270 interchange. Her neck muscles ached with tension. Spots of moisture appeared on the windshield. Great, she thought sourly. Washington drivers go completely to pieces when it rains. At least she wouldn't have to drive all the way through the city into Georgetown and all the way back to College Park. At that time of day it would have added an additional two hours to the trip. Cheryl was so considerate, always thinking of other people, offering help without having to be asked. Not that her mothering instincts couldn't drive a person crazy sometimes . . .
    "Bitch," Rachel said, softly and savagely. She was referring to herself, not to Cheryl, and she sometimes wished she could cultivate the