Threads of Hope: Quilts of Love Series by Christa Allan

know the difference between Sunday and Monday,” she said to him.
    He pranced off and jumped on the chair opposite where Aretha sat, using a pillow as a laptop desk, her legs crossed underneath. “I have to finish this paper, plus I have that meeting tonight.”
    Nina tied her neck scarf. “Meeting? On Sunday?” She looked in the mirror, muttered, and re-tied it.
    “I told you about it, but you don’t listen to anything that involves the word ‘church.’ Our women’s group is deciding on our community outreach. We’re just yakking over dinner.” She winked at Manny, then said to Nina, “You could come with me.”
    “Not any more likely than you doing the same.” She loosened the scarf. “Do I look like I’m wearing a neck brace? Tell me now because if you don’t, she will.”
    “I like it. It softens you.”
    “So, are you saying my face looks hard?” Nina looked in the hall tree mirror, turning her head side-to-side. “Is my eyeliner too severe?”
    “Sister, you are exhausting. That’s not what I’m sayin’ and you need to get over yourself. Just because you’ve revved up your career engine doesn’t mean you start rolling over your friends.”
    “Sorry. Sorry. I have Sunday-dinner anxiety.”
    Aretha eyed Manny as she opened her laptop. “Well, now that’s your own fault for saying ‘yes’ when you mean ‘no.’ ”

    To avoid thinking about the torture that awaited her, Nina shut off her usual driving music and started planning the stories that would land her in New York. The one she was putting together now had potential. If a local county official was sabotaging how contracts were being awarded, that had legs. And, with some digging, maybe even arms. When it came to graft in government, she had to follow the roots and figure out who was on the other end. And if the ambulance service contract truly did turn out to be a political favor, that meant the mayor was willing to risk the lives of everyone in the county to stay in the good old boy network.
    She’d have to be careful with documenting, verifying sources, and corroborating evidence. If the hard-hitting story came back and hit the magazine hard because of sloppy work, Elise would not be happy, and Nina could stop worrying about New York because her career would be in the dumpster.
No kids, no husband, not even a hint of one. Now’s the time to make the push
.
    Still no word from Daisy, which continued to concern her. That and knowing if she didn’t return, Nina would be stuckgoing to that benefit. She had Daisy’s number. It’s not like she couldn’t call her. But if she wasn’t contacting Nina because that “it” was serious, then Daisy didn’t need to be fielding calls either.
    Nina exited the freeway that led to her parents’ neighborhood. At least they moved to a town outside of Houston that didn’t have a weapons buy-back program every other month like where they used to live. They bought a garden home, about which her mother complained to the point of calling the real estate company and threatening to sue for false advertising. “Six bushes and a tree aren’t a garden. I have a throw rug bigger than the back yard,” and on and on and on. When the real estate agent offered to send over boxes, movers, a for sale sign, and promised they could have them out in under twenty-four hours, she stopped the phone calls. After that, she blamed her husband and her daughter for moving her someplace she couldn’t plant a decent-sized shrub.
    By the time she parked in the driveway, there were enough knots in her stomach for a hammock, which, clearly, would not fit in the backyard. As always, she rang the doorbell. It sounded more like a cattle prodder on steroids. Nina fiddled with her scarf, dusted off the threat of something she might not have seen on the front of her emerald green silk dress, and checked the toes of her platform shoes for scuffs. She swiped her front teeth with her finger in case of lipstick bleed and hoped