4

      A long slice of light shone into the dark shadows of the quilt shop. For a moment, Jillian thought she was in the wrong place. No soft ribbons of fluorescent bulbs twenty feet above. No laughter from the quilter’s corner. No smell of coffee drifting from the tiny kitchen.

      Only a long-legged girl dressed in black, staring at her as if Jillian had just interrupted a demonic ritual.

      The backward lettering of A Stitch in Time circled across the front window. Right place. Jillian was in the quilt shop. Squaring her shoulders, she moved forward.

      “Hi,” Jillian managed as she widened the opening of the door. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to see the invader better or simply wanted to enlarge her escape route.

      The strange girl swung one leg so it bumped against the side of the counter in a heartbeat rhythm. Her hair was so light it appeared white, and hung straight past her shoulders. A dozen bracelets, all appearing to be made out of rusty bolts, clanked on her arms as she turned toward the back of the store.

      “Dad!” the intruder yelled. “Someone’s drifted in.”

      Rows of lights began to click on, starting from the back and finally reaching the front. All the beautiful colors of the store returned, but the escapee from the Addams Family remained. Her black peacoat, with batwing shoulder pads, was ripped in several places. Black eyeliner extended almost to her ears and charcoal, lace gloves covered her hands.

      Jillian studied the girl carefully. On the bright side, the coat and leggings matched. Both black and ragged. She appeared to be wearing three blouses, the last one a lace nightgown. Silk, holey as if moth-eaten, and spotted with what looked like bloodstains. Her skirt, with several chains hanging off it, reminded Jillian of a midnight plaid kilt.

      They both turned as footsteps stormed from the back. “Sorry,” Connor Larady shouted. “I usually have the place all opened up by this time.”

      He didn’t seem to notice the girl still perched on the counter. “I’ll have a key made for you so you won’t have to wait for me if I’m running late.”

      When Jillian turned her gaze to the girl, Connor finally acknowledged the goth in the room. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jillian, this is my daughter. Sunnie, this is the lady who is helping Gram organize the shop.”

      Jillian offered her hand, hoping the strange girl wouldn’t try to suck her blood. She was so thin and pale she probably hadn’t eaten in days.

      The girl reluctantly took Jillian’s offered hand, but her handshake was limp.

      If there was a prize for someone born with the wrong name, Sunnie Larady would win. Stormy might be better. Or Scary.

      She slid off the counter. Six feet of pure adolescent rebellion. “I need to get to school, Connor.” She said her father’s name louder than the rest of the sentence.

      “Right.” Connor turned to Jillian. “Will you be all right here? Gram should be dropped off any minute.”

      “I’m fine. I’ll watch for her.” Jillian smiled at Sunnie. “Nice to meet you.”

      The girl shrugged and walked out.

      “I’m sorry about that.” Connor sounded as if he’d said the same thing often lately. “She’s just going through a stage. The doctor says it’s normal for kids who lose a parent in their teens. He claims Sunnie is mad her mom died, and I’m the only one left to take it out on. Hating me keeps her mind off death.”

      “When did your wife die?”

      “Three years ago. Sunnie was thirteen.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his baggy pants and rounded his shoulders forward as if trying to seem smaller, or maybe hold his grief inside. “Sunnie wanted to meet you. I don’t think she’d ever admit it, but she’s protective of Gram. I told her she could maybe help out after school now and then. But don’t look for her until she’s at the door.”

      Jillian thought of screaming No!, but she simply smiled and said, “I’d appreciate the help.”

      He nodded, then hurried out.

      Jillian stood by the front window, watching the town come alive. This street reminded her of a beehive. Everyone seemed to have their job and all were working frantically to get the day started. She almost wanted to tell them all that it didn’t matter how many flags or sandwich boards the shops put out—this one street would never draw much of a crowd.

      The old warehouse buildings across the creek hung over the cute main street like death’s shadow. The stillness just across the water was a constant reminder that a few blocks away, half of the town had been abandoned. Jillian wondered if the people who lived here even saw the crumbling buildings anymore.

      When the Autumn Acres bus pulled up, she went outside and waited for Gram to come down the steps.

      The lady, still tall for her age even though her shoulders had rounded, was dressed in a very proper wool suit with lace on her white collar. Her shoes might be rounded and rubber, but she hadn’t forgotten her pearls.

      “Hello, dear,” Gram shouted. “How nice of you to come help me again.”

      “I had so much fun I just had to return. You don’t mind me hanging around?”

      “Oh, no. I love the company and there is always plenty to do.”

      They walked in with arms locked. Jillian wasn’t sure Eugenia remembered her name, but the Southern lady seemed to assume she knew everyone, and she treated all, old friends or strangers, the same.

      “Let’s make a cup of tea first this morning,” Gram suggested. “That will start the day right. I do love tea in the spring.”

      Jillian followed her back to a small kitchen, without mentioning it was still winter. They talked about the tea and the day as if they were old friends.

      The morning passed like a peaceful river. Customers came in, mostly to talk. Jillian made note of the ones who had lived their entire lives in this town. A long-retired teacher named Joe Dunaway, most of the quilters she’d met yesterday, the mailman named Tap. As she settled in, she did what she often did in little towns: she’d ask if they knew a Jefferson James who might have lived around here thirty years ago. The answer was always no, a dead end. She’d found a few Jameses over the years, but none knew a Jefferson. Her father never allowed anyone to shorten his name.

      Joe Dunaway said he thought the name might be familiar, but after forty years of teaching, all names sounded familiar.

      While Joe watched the store, Gram took the time to show her around the tiny office after Jillian explained for the third time that she was there to make a record of all the quilts.

      “Someday,