Page 30 of Stolen Time

“Oh, of course,” he said, his tone way too casual. “I need to remember that you’ve forgotten a great deal. Perhaps when your memory returns, so will your cooking skills.”

“Perhaps,” I allowed, fighting back a smile. If he’d only known that all I was good at when it came to cooking was picking up a phone and ordering takeout — or maybe nuking something in the microwave when I was trying to be frugal.

Luckily, Molly returned right then with the sewing needles and the soap and the baking powder. “I’ll just go see about those clothes,” she told me before turning to her son. “Charles, could you please go into the stock room and fetch me a pair of those new flat shoes we got in yesterday? Size eight.”

He didn’t look too thrilled about being sent on such an errand, although I couldn’t tell for sure whether it was because he didn’t like having his mother deliver orders in such a way, or simply because he wasn’t very happy about his family handing out more freebies to the amnesiac who’d landed in town a couple of days ago.

However, it also seemed that he knew better than to argue, since he headed toward the back of the store, threading his way past the bins of flour and seed, and disappeared into the space that was still the stock room in the twenty-first century.

With him gone, Molly headed over to the shelves on the opposite side of the store, one section of which was taken up by clothes, folded stacks of shirts and trousers and underthings. I couldn’t really tell what was what, since all the individual items were wrapped up in brown paper rather than the clear plastic common in my day for sellers of shirts and underwear, but she seemed to know what she was doing, briskly pulling from a pile here and a stack there, until she had a fairly impressive collection to deposit in front of me where I waited at the counter.

“This should do it,” she said, sounding pleased with herself. “Two more dresses, and three blouses and three skirts. And, of course, more stockings and underclothes. I would have gotten you a coat or at least a shawl, but I generally don’t stock those sorts of things at this time of year.”

“I don’t think I’ll need either,” I replied after a glance out the large front windows, where the scene was as bright and sunny as only a June day in northern Arizona could be.

“Possibly not,” Molly said. “But when the monsoons come and we have a good storm, the temperature can drop as much as twenty degrees in only a few minutes. However, I’m sure Ruth has something she can loan you if the weather should take a turn.”

Probably. I’d only been at the house for three days, but I could already tell my hostess was fond of pretty clothes, since I hadn’t seen her wear the same thing twice. For all I knew, that was part of the reason why she’d been so dead set on making sure I had nice things to wear. Maybe buying herself a bunch of new clothes would have seemed far too extravagant when shehad so many dresses of her own, but by getting me outfitted, she could experience the thrill of shopping vicariously.

“I’m sure she must,” I said.

At that moment, Charles returned, carrying a shoebox and still wearing that slightly disapproving expression on his face. “Here they are,” he said, and set the shoebox down on the counter next to all the clothing his mother had gathered.

With the addition of the shoes, the pile looked worryingly large. How in the world was I supposed to get all that stuff back up the hill to Paradise Lane?

I must have looked alarmed, because Molly said in reassuring tones, “Oh, I don’t expect you to carry all that. Charles, give Miss Rowe a ride up to Ruth’s house, won’t you? I’ll keep an eye on things here while you’re gone.”

At once I stammered, “Oh, he doesn’t need to do that — ” but she shook her head.

“It will only take him away for ten minutes, probably less. And that is far too much for one woman to manage, especially when you have to carry everything up that steep hill.”

Charles’s expression was now so neutral that I knew he must be irritated with his mother, even if he had no intention of contradicting her. “It’s not a problem,” he said, sounding almost wooden. “I’ll need to pull the truck around to the front. You can wait here.”

Without further comment, he turned away from us and walked toward the back of the store for a second time. I guessed he must be headed to the rear door of the building, which opened up on a small parking area for the shop owners’ and residents’ use. In the present day, those spaces were so in demand that Rachel had finally paid for an electronic gate and key card access to keep the tourists out, but I had a feeling that wasn’t as much of a problem in 1926, when far fewer people had cars.

“Let me get a bag for all this,” Molly said, then stepped away to retrieve a large crochet-looking contraption that unfolded to hold a lot more of my goodies than I’d thought it possibly could. The only thing that wouldn’t fit was the shoebox, but I knew it would be easy enough to carry now that the rest of my new wardrobe and Ruth’s purchases had been safely contained.

Just as Molly was handing everything over to me, Charles came back into the store. “Ready to go?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. He still wore that far too neutral expression, which sure seemed like a signal to me that he wasn’t happy but was far too well-mannered to get into an argument with his mother about playing chauffeur for me. I turned toward her, adding, “Thank you so much for finding all those pieces. I just realized that Ruth didn’t give me anything to pay you with.”

Molly waved a hand. “Oh, it will all go on her account. Don’t worry — she’ll take care of it at the end of the month, just as she always does. Enjoy your new clothes!”

“I will,” I said, which was no more than the truth. I couldn’t wait to get back to Ruth’s house so I could pretend it was Christmas morning and I could open up all the packages Molly had given me.

She smiled, and I followed Charles out to the curb, where a big dark green pickup truck was parked. It was very shiny, leading me to wonder how often they washed the thing. Even I knew cars could get dusty pretty fast in Jerome, what with all the general particulates and pollen in the air. I had to imagine it must be even worse here in 1926, with the big open-pit mine farther up the hill spewing all sorts of waste into the atmosphere.

To be fair, he did open the door for me and wait until I had settled myself and the packages in the passenger seat before he went around to the driver’s side and climbed in. A roar from the big engine as he turned the key, and then he shifted expertly right before pulling out onto the street.

It was about as different an experience from the self-driving cars of my own day as I could possibly imagine. The motor was so loud, I didn’t think we could hold a conversation without practically yelling at each other — probably a good thing, since Charles and I both remained studiously silent — and the shock absorbers seemed to be almost nonexistent.

Then again, this was a work vehicle with an internal combustion engine from more than a hundred years before my time, not a silky electric car that you could barely even tell was running.

At least it was a short trip up the hill, only a couple of minutes. Charles stopped in front of Ruth’s house and asked, “Do you need any help with those packages?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’ll be fine. But thank you very much for the ride.”

He only tilted his head in assent, and waited silently as I grabbed the shoebox and big string bag of other goodies before getting out of the truck. A pause of a minute or so to make sure I made it safely up the front steps, and then he pulled away, going toward the end of the cul-de-sac so he’d have a place to turn around.

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