Weave of Absence Read Online Free PDF

right by there. I could drop it off on my way. But I don’t want to cause an argument. If Bruce wants—”
    â€œNo, you’re right,” Marnie said, cutting in decisively. “Bruce won’t mind. In fact, he’ll probably be happy he won’t have to make the drive.” She repackaged the flag and handed it to Matthew. “Please be careful with it.”
    â€œI promise.” He gave me a peck on the cheek, patted Winnie on the head, and walked out. A minute later he was gone, the roaring of his car engine fading in the distance.
    Marnie looked at her watch. “Is it already eight forty-five? I’d better get going.”
    â€œWhere are you off to?”
    â€œI’m having breakfast with Bruce at the Longview,” she said, naming a local bed-and-breakfast that had recently expanded into a boutique hotel, complete with an adjoining fine-dining restaurant. “Don’t worry,” she continued, heading for the entrance, “I’ll be back before ten o’clock.” The door swung shut behind her.
    She walked away with new energy, her flaming red hair bouncing with every step. Damn that fiancé of hers. If he broke my friend’s heart, he would have to answer to me.
    â€œDo you know what I think, Winnie?” He looked up at me. “I have a feeling something bad is about to happen.” Good grief. Had I really just said that? That proved it. I was spending way too much time with Jenny. I was beginning to have woo-woo feelings. Next, I’d be seeing auras.

Chapter 3
    M y paper was spread open and I was sipping my coffee and reading an article about yet another museum robbery. There seemed to have been a string of them all across the state over the last couple of years. Every month or so, another priceless painting or historical artifact went missing. This latest one had occurred two nights ago at the Charlotte Museum of Art. So far, all the police would say was that a thief, or thieves, had broken into the museum during the night and escaped with a collection of contemporary paintings by local artist Herb Jackson.
    Before I could read any more, the same group of Jenny’s customers who had come in a short time ago walked through my shop on their way out.
    â€œI love that shirt you’re wearing,” one of them called to me.
    â€œI’m glad you like it,” I said. “I made the fabric myself, right here on my Irish wide-width loom.” I pointed across the store to the huge loom, which I hadn’t used in a few months.
    â€œReally?” the woman said. She and one of her friends came over for a closer look. “It’s gorgeous.” She looked around. “Do you sell these shirts?”
    I hadn’t even considered stocking them, but quickly I said, “I haven’t got any ready-made. They’re special-order items. If you place an order, I’ll be happy to whip one up for you.”
    â€œHow much would that be?”
    We discussed price, and I explained the labor involved. Before she left, I had her measurements, plus a deposit. Luckily, I had recently completed a large order of yard goods for Bunny Boyd, a famous interior designer. The commission was the largest I’d ever had and one of the most interesting. She was restoring a historical mansion and wanted all the period fabrics replicated. I had yards left over, and it wouldn’t take me more than a few hours to sew a shirt. Since I’d been getting so many compliments on mine, I would use the rest of the fabric to make extra shirts. The women left, and just as I noticed my cup was empty, Jenny appeared in the doorway with a fresh pot.
    â€œReady for a refill?”
    â€œI’m beginning to think maybe you do read minds after all.”
    â€œI never claimed to read minds. I read auras.”
    I grinned. “And palms, and tarot, and tea leaves.”
    â€œYou’ll see. One of these days you’ll be a convert,” she