Free Skin Deep by Marissa Doyle Page B

a piece of yellow fabric. “I cut out shapes from pieces of cloth and sew them back together in patterns, and then make layers of cloth with more stitching to hold them together. They’re called quilts. I haven’t made any for a long time, but I used to be good at it.”
    She shook out the cotton lengths—mostly the tone-on-tone batiks she loved, in rich, vibrant colors—and folded them quickly and neatly. They’d have to be ironed again before she worked with them, of course. It had driven Derek crazy when she ironed. “That’s what the housekeeper’s for, you silly darling,” he’d always said when he found her pressing fabric lengths. The words “silly darling” had never sounded as loving and patient as they should have. “Why do you think we’re paying her?”
    A piece of fabric ripped as she shook it out. She stared at it gripped in her fists, then relaxed her tensed shoulders and smiled ruefully at herself. She wasn’t married to him anymore—at least, she wouldn’t be come May when the divorce would be final. It was high time she put him out of her mind and picked up the pieces of her life, just like the fabric the movers had dropped. Picked them up and ironed them smooth, so that she could rearrange them into a new pattern. Look at this turquoise, printed with waves and swirls like the grain of wood from a fairy tale tree. It had made her think of a summer storm when she bought it, the color rich and beautiful but electric with energy. And this dark blue batik, printed in a spatter pattern that reminded her of raindrops on a quiet pond. The truer blue made the greenish turquoise sing when she set them side-by-side. Could it be that after a year of barely touching fabric she was feeling the urge to create again?
    Something touched her shoulder. She whirled. Alasdair stood there in his robe, looking pale but very determined.
    “What—?” She stared up at him. God, he was tall. She’d been so distracted yesterday on the beach that she hadn’t noticed. The top of her head would probably just tickle his chin. He’d have to bend to kiss her properly, and she’d have to lean back, far back, to meet his lips, her body stretching and open to him—
    “I wanted to see your—this,” he said, reaching a tentative hand toward the pile of fabric.
    Garland tore her gaze away from his mouth and hoped he couldn’t read minds. “You could have asked. What if you’d fainted or something? Back into bed with you. And don’t do that again till the doctor says you can.”
    “One moment, please.” He touched the topmost piece of fabric with the tip of a finger as if he were afraid it would burn him. Then he stroked it, and finally ran his hand down the whole pile, touching each piece. He frowned at them for a few seconds then ran his fingers down the front of his robe, over the appliquéd symbols.
    “It’s not the same,” he murmured, then looked at her keenly. “So it must be you.”
    What must be her? “You mean the kanji on the robe? Yes, I sewed them on—they’re not part of the fabric.”
    “You made the…the—” He seemed to be groping for words. “What are they? Do they have…are they—?”
    “ Kanji —Japanese ideograms. They have—or had—meaning. This one”—she pointed at a symbol on the left side of his chest—“is love. This one is longevity. These are protection, devotion, and companionship. And here are honesty and fidelity.” Ha. Maybe that was why Derek never wore the robe. Even if he couldn’t read the symbols, maybe their meaning still came through. Honesty and fidelity were definitely concepts he’d struggled with.
    Alasdair looked solemn. “I can feel them.”
    “Oops, did I leave a pin or two in there?” She couldn’t help smiling at his seriousness. He was looking at her again with that strange expression, as if he wanted to say something further but didn’t quite know how. It was disconcerting. “Come on,” she said. “You shouldn’t be on those