Free Stitches in Time by Barbara Michaels

repeated. “So, Rachel, I understand you and I are in the same business.”
    â€œHardly.” Rachel let out a gasp of embarrassed laughter. “I’ve read your books, Dr. MacDougal—”
    â€œPat.”
    â€œUm…Thank you. They’ve been very helpful, especially the one on superstition, psychology, and folk medicine. But what I’m doing—hoping to do—is far less impressive.”
    â€œTell me about it.”
    If she had met him in his professional capacity she might not have had the courage to talk at such length. His was one of the biggest names in the field, with a reputation that already equaled that of such icons as Malinowski and Fraser, and he was clearly not the kind of man who suffered fools gladly—or in any other way. He looked less formidable sprawled across the sofa with one long arm draped over the slim shoulders of his wife and a beer can in his other hand.
    â€œInteresting idea,” he said finally. “Female subcultures haven’t received their proper attention—”
    â€œThat’s because until a generation ago anthropologists were all men,” Rachel said.
    â€œLay off me, kid,” MacDougal said. “I’m already surrounded by hard-nosed feminists, including my own wife.Meade and Benedict, to name only two, were of your grandparents’ generation, and there were others before them. Snubbed and ignored, most of them, but not by me.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Rachel began.
    â€œDon’t apologize,” Ruth said. “He’ll only despise you. He loves an argument. You’re right, and he knows it.”
    MacDougal blandly ignored this put-down. “Interesting idea,” he repeated. “I don’t know that anyone’s ever tackled it from quite that perspective. Sewing was employed in the most important and magical aspects of life—shrouds for the dead, clothing for newborn babies, wedding garments. What—” He broke off with a grunt as a small body toppled over the back of the couch and landed on his stomach. “Goddammit!”
    â€œDon’t swear in front of the child,” Ruth said, removing Jerry’s left foot from her lap.
    â€œSwear, hell, I’m going to give him a good hiding.” Pat righted the child. “You ought to be in bed, you little monster.”
    Jerry grinned at the face that scowled hideously at him. “I’m not going to bed for a long time,” he announced. “A long, long, long time.”
    By nine o’clock everyone had left except the family, and the younger children had been carried up to bed. Jerry went tucked under Pat’s arm like a bundle of old clothes. He let out a few howls as a matter of principle, but he clearly enjoyed the process. Megan, looking like a Christmas fairy in a ruffled pinafore and a silver coronet, eluded capture for a full ten minutes before she was discovered in the coat closet sitting on a pile of boots and eating cookies. Once caught she went without protest, smiling angelically at the exasperated adults over her mother’s shoulder.
    His own friends having departed, Joe politely excusedhimself and went upstairs, though probably not to bed. Television was more interesting than adult conversation. The adults lounged in various stages of collapse. Rachel had started collecting glasses, plates, and crumpled napkins, but was driven back to her chair by a unanimous outcry.
    â€œDon’t do that or I’ll feel as if I have to help,” Ruth said. “And I don’t feel like it.”
    â€œWe’ll all pitch in later,” Mark added lazily. He had returned from Europe that evening and come straight to the house; now his suitcoat hung over the back of a chair and the head cat, a huge tabby named Figgin, was chewing on his discarded tie. “This is the best part, after everybody’s gone home except us.”
    He smiled at his wife. Instead of responding, she said