Page 2 of Your Soul to Keep

“You can hang your bag up on the hook if you like.”

“I’ll be keeping my bag, thank you very much,” she retorted as she marched upstairs.

I snickered as I filled the kettle. The first time I made her a cup of tea, I followed her instructions to the letter. Twice she sent me back for more sugar. Now I dumped one and a half teaspoons in the cup and heard not a word of complaint.

But God help me if I accidentally added an extra drop of milk.

An hour later, her face drawn and deeply lined, she came downstairs to the kitchen where I sat staring into space with my own cup of tea gone cold. Without a word, she covered my hand with hers and bowed her head.

Her unexpected tenderness stole my voice and breached my defenses. I could do nothing but nod. I bit my bottom lip to distract my brain from facts I was wholly unready to face.

“Sometimes it flies, other times it crawls.” She sighed deeply. “Either way, Shae, life’s too short to muck about.”

With a gentle pat, she turned and left.

Swallowing the sob in my throat, I blew out a harsh breath and took myself back upstairs to Nan.

My voice barely quavered as I asked, “Did you enjoy your visit with Mrs. Wemberly?”

She twinkled. “I always do.” Wagging a finger, she continued, “Don’t let that old bat fool you. Mind in the gutter and a heart of solid gold.” Her brow furrowed. “Though she is a mite grumpy.”

“She makes you laugh.”

“Aye, that she does.” Her gnarled, arthritic finger traced the faded stitching of her quilt.

“Hard to believe these old hands were once capable of creating such beauty,” she murmured. “I made this for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, did you know that?”

I did know. It was that quilt that inspired me on my own journey.

Christmas of the year I moved in with her, she set a box filled with swaths of satin and the most beautiful array of silken threads I’d ever seen down in front of me.

Embroidery gave my mind something bright and beautiful to focus on when the darkness swallowed me.

It had been years since I’d picked up a needle.

Would it come back to me?

At the thought, my mind slammed shut as tight as the door to my rarely entered craft room. Because the last embroidery project I started lay folded and unfinished in a box under my bed.

She smiled. “Ach, but I loved the old fool. You know I had to hunt down his wallet and keys for him every single morning?”

I grinned. “I remember that, Nan.”

Her face softened as she stared into space, lost in the sweetest of memories. “I made this for him for our 25thwedding anniversary.” She looked up at me, her eyes shiny. “I figured if he could put up with me for the first 25 years, I could trust him with the next.” She paused. “It wasn’t easy for me to trust him, but he earned it.” Her chin trembled. “That man knew me better than I knew myself.”

I swallowed hard and gave her my standard response which was the truth. “He was the best, Nan.”

Her eyelids fluttered as she dozed in and out.

I sat sentinel beside the bed, her fragile hand in mine.

An hour later her eyes popped open, and she continued without missing a beat.

Smiling into my eyes, she reminded me gently, “Two people shorten the road, pet.”

I ducked my head. “I know, Nan.”

Her deep sigh garnered my attention. I raised my head to find her eyebrows lowered as she looked me over appraisingly.

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