Free Threading the Needle by Marie Bostwick

soup-and-salad luncheon, and a silent auction. It’s going to be a lot of fun, and since we’ll be having it on the peak fall foliage weekend, we’re hoping to attract a lot of tourists. . . .”
    â€œAnd tourist dollars,” the reverend added. “We’re hoping to raise six thousand dollars over the weekend. Would you be willing to donate an item for the auction?”
    â€œAbsolutely!” I said. “What a wonderful idea.” I started looking around the shop, searching for items that might attract high bids.
    â€œHow about another Lavender Luxury Basket?” I asked, pulling one off the shelf without waiting for an answer. “And you said there will be children? I’ve got a cute basket with bubble bath and shampoo, a terry cloth towel, and a rubber duck.”
    â€œOh, that is darling!” Margot exclaimed, her eyes laughing. “Are you sure you can afford to donate two items?”
    â€œSure. It’s all for a good cause. Candles are always popular, especially in the fall. What if I put together a whole basket of those?”
    By the time Margot and Reverend Tucker were ready to leave, I’d promised three baskets for the silent auction, as many gallons of peppermint iced tea as they’d need for the luncheon, and a bushel of vegetables for making soup. I was sure Lee wouldn’t mind.
    â€œSee you on Sunday,” Margot said as I walked them to the door. “You know, we really should get together for lunch sometime.”
    â€œWe should.”
    â€œThank you again,” Reverend Tucker said as he shook my hand. “And tell your husband I said thank you to him as well. I hope we’ll see him in church sometime.”
    â€œYes,” I said, knowing it would never happen. “That would be nice.”

6
    Madelyn
    I am not a big drinker. Not anymore.
    Many years ago I learned my lesson the hard way and haven’t overindulged since. I do enjoy a glass of wine, two at the most, with dinner, but I haven’t had a hangover since I lived in New Bern.
    Ironic, isn’t it? The first hangover I’ve had in thirty-eight years occurred on my first morning back in New Bern, the scene of my last hangover. There’s got to be some sort of deep celestial significance to all that, but as the sun beamed through the bedroom window and directly into my eyes, I was too groggy to figure out what it might be.
    I rolled on my side and tried to go back to sleep, but the movement made my head pound. My eyeballs were a size too large and my tongue felt like it was made from dryer lint. I groaned aloud before rolling onto my back again, my arm flopping against the mattress and raising a flotilla of dust motes into the column of sunlight.
    Moving slowly to minimize the jostling of my throbbing head, I got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and scooped water in my mouth with my hands. I took four aspirin tablets from the bottle in my cosmetics bag and washed them down with a few more scoops of water. The aspirin would soon dull the ache in my head, but it wasn’t going to do a thing for my queasy stomach.
    It seems counterintuitive to put quantities of greasy food into a nauseous stomach, but the experiences of my misspent youth had taught me that was exactly what I needed to do. But there was no food in the house. That, along with hatred for my husband and an extended wade in the wallow of self-pity, was part of the reason I was in this condition.
    After furiously tearing off strip after strip of ugly brown wallpaper from the foyer yesterday and screaming a few more choice words at the absent company who I felt most deserved them—Sterling, the ghost of Edna Beecher, Eugene Janders, the entire federal government, God—I felt no better. Seeking relief, I pulled a bottle of Delamain Extra cognac out of my luggage and poured myself a drink, a big one.
    While I was packing my things under the watchful eyes of the federal agent who was there