Free The Storm by Shelley Thrasher Page A

and a one hundred fourteen-inch wheelbase. I like its sliding-gear transmission but prefer the more expensive models with sleeve valves.”
    Mr. James looked like he might fall off the porch. “Uh, very impressive, Miss Jacqueline.”
    She made the swing glide again because she always felt more comfortable in anything that moved—the faster the better. “I prefer the Model T. Mr. Henry Ford’s new mass production has left the competition in the dust. It’s the wave of the future.”
    Mr. James rubbed the back of one of his large ears. “I hate to disagree with such a pretty little lady, but Mr. Ford’s mass-production scheme will never pan out. The type of careful workmanship you see exemplified in yonder fine automobile sitting up on blocks will rule the future. You can mark my words.”
    She kept her mouth shut about Mr. James’s prophecy but wanted to say, “If we survive this war and have a future. And if we have enough gasoline to fuel it.”
    Instead, she stopped swinging and focused on Patrick, who seemed wrapped up in her disagreement with Mr. James. As she finally snapped pictures of him, Mr. James, and them together, she hoped they’d turn out well.

Chapter Ten
    Cooo, cooo, cooo , a mourning dove called from a pine tree near the frog pond. Molly stood in the kitchen—her hands warm in the soapy water—and automatically washed the goblets they’d drunk their monthly treat of iced tea from.
    The dove made her think of her mama, who never let her wash dishes or even work in the flower beds with gloves on. “Here, let me do that. You might hurt your hands,” she would murmur in her gossamer voice. “Why don’t you run practice the piano?” Mama’s blue eyes always gleamed like dew on a sunlit web as she smoothed her black hair back into soft waves that framed her cheeks.
    Dear Mama, usually so tired from taking care of all of us, she thought. Yet she knew how much my music means to me and never let me help much around the house unless she was sick. She’s a saint, nothing like Mother Russell—Oh, my goodness. Patrick’s still out on the porch.
    She dreaded venturing out there. It reminded her of a war zone, with Mother Russell in command. Her teachers had always stressed that ladies shouldn’t discuss such crude, worldly subjects as politics and war.
    Patrick was as curious about the War as Mr. James, who’d fought his biggest battle to date with a balky mule in the cotton field. That and his ongoing war with his mother, though Molly was sure Mr. James didn’t consider it a war. An unwinnable situation, to which he succumbed long ago.
    Most of the year, the front porch served as their entertainment center, but she stayed in the parlor with her piano. As a girl, however, she’d loved to sit out with her parents and listen to her elders reminisce about the old days. The stories about her spirited maternal grandmother, who died ten years before she was born, especially fascinated her. She’d heard them a hundred times.
    Grandmother had wanted a home in the country for her and her children and traveled by wagon from Austin to somewhere near Abilene to look for acreage. One Sunday afternoon as she and her husband walked up a hill east of their camp, she stopped and said, “I want to live on this piece of land for the rest of my life.”
    The next week she developed pneumonia. While a friend rode from their camp to the nearest town to find a doctor, Grandmother died. Ironically, they buried her where she’d earlier chosen to live.
    Molly often mused on this story. Her grandmother left six children behind, including Molly’s mama, only twelve years old. Still a child herself, she’d had to rear four younger siblings ranging from eighteen months to ten years. Then she’d married and borne five children of her own, only to lose her oldest daughter to diphtheria.
    Molly picked up a