“I can do homework later. We have to go grocery shopping, first. I say ‘we,’ because you’re going with me.”

  A shiver of excitement ran up Margaret’s spine. She dipped her toast in her egg’s yolk and took a bite.

  “The grocery store isn’t far, so we’ll walk there. I’ll give you my phone again, but when we get there, we’ll choose a spot to meet, in case we do get separated.”

  “May I draw up a list of items for dinners I’d like to prepare?”

  “Sure.”

  She was quite looking forward to the outing. “Is it a big shop?”

  “Yeah. It’s a superstore. But don’t panic. Like I said, we’ll choose a meeting spot. It’s a contained space, so as long as you don’t leave the store without me, I’ll eventually find you.”

  Then Margaret had nothing to worry about. She wouldn’t dare step outside by herself, not yet.

  “We should take our time walking the aisles. It will be a good learning experience.” Robin popped the last of her toast into her mouth and chewed. “I usually hate grocery shopping, but this is going to be fun.”

  Wouldn’t people wonder why Robin had to explain to a grown woman what should be common knowledge? “Will it be safe to speak freely?”

  “We won’t be shouting. And people are usually distracted, pushing their carts around and talking on their phones. Then there’s the music . . .”

  Carts? Music? It sounded like a carnival.

  An hour later, she gazed in amazement at the large building Robin pointed to as they stood waiting for a light to change.

  “You all right?” Robin asked.

  Margaret nodded. Her second outing into 2010 hadn’t intimidated her as much as the first, perhaps because she knew she was here to stay and was paying more attention to her surroundings. Rather than being frightened, she’d discovered that, while the illusion of change was great, not much was actually new. Strolling along a sidewalk in 2010 wasn’t very different from strolling along one in 1910. Everything looked more modern, but was still recognizable, though occasionally a sight did surprise and bewilder her, such as the woman they’d passed with blue hair and a cattle nose ring.

  The light changed and she crossed the road with Robin, her curiosity growing as she spotted people pushing metal carts—the grocery carts Robin had described, she presumed—into the building, which seemed to swallow them up behind a pair of glass windows. “They’re doors,” Robin said as they approached them. “They’ll open automatically.” And so they did! Worried that they’d squash her, Margaret hurried through them, then felt foolish when Robin chuckled. “They won’t close on you,” Robin said. “And if they do for some reason, they’ll quickly open as soon as they touch you.”

  She’d rather not find out what they’d do, thank you very much! She glanced around and gathered that they were in some type of lobby area, not in the shop itself. Margaret watched as Robin pulled a cart from a long chain of them and dropped the bags she’d carried from home into the basket, then walked behind her as Robin steered the cart into the shop. The lights, music, clattering carts, people . . . no wonder Pam had resorted to meditation!

  For the first fifteen minutes, Margaret followed Robin around in a daze, overwhelmed by the number of choices that faced them. There were dozens of varieties of something as simple as a potato. “What’s an organic potato?” she murmured.

  “Um, a potato that’s been grown naturally,” Robin replied.

  How else would they be grown?

  “Without pesticides.”

  That, she understood.

  “And they’re not genetically modified, but we haven’t talked about genetics yet. I’ll add it to our list.”

  Lord, even the potatoes were more sophisticated here. Her wonder at the number of choices only increased as Robin pushed the cart through the aisles. How did people decide what to buy? She felt paralyzed when Robin asked if she wanted biscuits and swept her arm toward the cookie and biscuit section that stretched from one end of an aisle to the other. There weren’t just different flavours; there were twenty different choices for the exact same type of biscuit! Similar foods were often priced differently, and Margaret cringed at the prices. How could Robin afford to eat and feed her? “I can do without biscuits.”

  Robin frowned. “You snack on biscuits all the time, and you haven’t said no to chocolate chip cookies.”

  “We have to talk about money.” A topic that weighed on Margaret’s mind as she ate Robin’s food, wore Pam’s clothes, and slept in Pam’s house. Back in 1910, that would have been expected, if Robin was her husband. Here, women depending on their husbands seemed to be frowned upon, and Robin wasn’t her husband. Margaret didn’t know what Robin was—just that she loved her and hoped to eventually marry her. But Robin wouldn’t be a husband, and Margaret didn’t want to ask what Robin would expect of her. She was afraid of the answer.

  “Don’t worry about money,” Robin said.

  “You’re taking care of me.”

  “Because I want to. And I’m not doing it alone.” She smiled at Margaret’s confusion. “You’ll see. Now, what biscuits do you want?”

  She chose the same ones they already had; perhaps that was how everyone did it. But how had they known what to choose the very first time? “I always buy what my mother did,” Robin said when Margaret voiced the question. But how had her mother known? Something to ponder when she contemplated similar mysteries, such as “Who created God?”

  By the time they reached the last aisle and Robin placed the final item in the cart, Margaret was exhausted. The number of cashiers amazed her, and she noted the modern cash registers with their computer screens—no surprise there. As Robin unloaded the cart by placing items on a moving belt, Margaret stayed out of the way and observed. Automation seemed to be the way of life here. God forbid that anyone had to push items along using their arms!

  She almost slapped her ears when the cashier announced the total. It was half of what some people made in a year—where she came from. Robin pulled out her billfold and handed the cashier a plastic card, then hunched over a small machine and looked as if she were punching in a phone number, though Margaret knew she wasn’t. She added another question to the ever-growing, seemingly endless list.

  “Why did you bring bags when they have them here?” she asked Robin as they carried their groceries from the store.

  “You have to pay for plastic bags. Remember we talked about the environment and landfill?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Robin turned to her. “So, what did you think about the store?”

  “What surprises me most is that nobody talks to each other.” It was the same out here. People strode by without so much as a glance. No smile, no, “Good morning,” or, “Hello.” Heads down, hands in pockets or holding a phone, and when someone did meet her eyes, they quickly looked away as if they’d committed a social gaffe.

  “That’s the big city for you. Nobody trusts anybody.”

  It must be lonely. How would she make friends when she felt brave enough to take that step? She whipped to her left when Robin grasped her arm. “Let me get some money,” Robin said, pulling open a door and entering a small lobby. She stepped up to a machine—Margaret should have guessed—and plopped her bags on the floor. “This is an ATM. It pretty much does what a bank teller does.”

  Margaret’s bags joined Robin’s as she leaned in for a closer look. “This,” Robin said, pulling a plastic card from her billfold, “is Pam’s bank card. I used it to pay for the groceries, too. See? I’m not the only one taking care of you.” She inserted the card into a slot, and it disappeared.

  Margaret’s hand went to her throat. “Oh my goodness!”

  Robin’s mouth turned up at the corners. “It’s okay. That’s supposed to happen.”

  “Why are you pressing those numbers? You did the same thing in the grocery shop.”

  “I’m entering what’s called a PIN. Remember Pam’s letter?”

  She vaguely recalled mention of a number.

  “You need the card and the PIN to access the bank account. Otherwise if you lose your card and someone finds it, they could use it to dip into your funds.”

  Dealing with an actual teller who knew you would solve that problem, she thought as she watched Robin grab the bills that emerged from the machine, then the card that slid back out. “Is everything automated?” Margaret asked. “Do you ever have to speak to another person?”

  Robin chuckled. “Yes, you do, though I bet you could survive without ever having to deal with anyone in person—for the most part. I wonder if anyone’s tried it.” She bent down to pick up her bags.

  “If everyone did it, that would be a quick end to the human race,” Margaret pointed out as she slipped her fingers through her bags’ handles.

  Robin pushed the door open with her shoulder. “I don’t know. You’d be surprised what you can order online.”

  Oh, dear. Margaret didn’t want to think about it.

  Chapter Seven

  Pam moistened her dry throat with some tea and surveyed the curious faces peering at her. Now she knew how prisoners must feel under the bright interrogation light. The well-to-do neighbourhood ladies, whom she now knew as Abigail, Rosalie, Charlotte, and Clara, had peppered her with questions, pausing only to daintily bite into finger sandwiches and sip their tea. Since they’d mainly asked about her and Jasper’s flight from Toronto, their engagement, and their future plans, Pam had managed to flub her way through the answers. If they’d grilled her about her background, she might have confused the details she and Jasper had rehearsed. As it was, she’d almost had a heart attack when Rosalie said, “You must know my uncle.” Then Rosalie’s brow had furrowed and she’d added, “Oh, but he’s been in England for several years now, so perhaps you don’t.” Pam’s heart had stopped racing.

  Doris had remained silent, not asking a single question, but every time Pam glanced her way, Doris was staring at her. Pam couldn’t figure her out; Doris ran hot and cold. Yesterday they’d spent a lovely day shopping and chatting, but today Pam seemed to be persona non grata again. At first she’d thought Doris wanted to give everyone else a chance to get to know the new kid on the block, but those intense eyes . . .

  Charlotte clapped her hands together. “Well, I just want to say that you’ve chosen right, coming to Halifax. We’re glad to have you.” Everyone smiled and nodded in agreement. “Now, how about a bit of embroidery?”

  What?

  “Oh, yes, that sounds lovely.” Abigail lifted a burlap bag onto her lap, pulled out a wooden hoop, and handed it to Charlotte. “Here’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said.

  Pam had wondered what was in the bag Abigail had carried into the drawing room. Out came more wooden hoops, fabric, cotton, scissors . . . Abigail must be the official carrier of the embroidery supplies.

  Doris rose. “Mine’s upstairs.” She turned to Pam. “I’ll bring down a hoop for you. But I don’t think I have any fabric with the pattern traced—”

  “I have plenty extra.” Abigail beamed as she held out a piece of fabric to Pam. “Use this, Margaret. It’s probably easier than you’re used to, but I traced it for my daughter.”

  “I don’t want to take your daughter’s fabric.” She didn’t want any fabric! She hadn’t embroidered since . . . ever!

  “Nonsense. Take it. Take it!” Abigail thrust it toward her. “Go on, take it!”

  Pam accepted it, worried that behind Abigail’s smile was a crazed embroidery enthusiast who’d go berserk if Pam refused to participate. She examined the pattern of a dog, then lifted her head and watched closely as the other women mounted their fabric in their hoops. Okay, embroidery was sort of like sewing, right? All she had to do was follow the pattern. Cripes, she’d seen a man walk on the moon and knew about DNA. Surely she could embroider. How hard could it be?

  She managed a sick smile when Doris returned and handed her a hoop, then congratulated herself for being an observant and quick learner when she attached her fabric to it without much trouble. Oh, wait. Where was the pattern? Shit. Fortunately everyone else was focused on their hoops, including laser-eyed Doris. Pam quickly loosened the hoop and shifted the fabric until the pattern was in the middle.

  Clara had pushed a small round table to within everyone’s reach and unrolled a cloth on it. Yikes, those needles looked big! Pam had never thought of embroidery needles as deadly weapons before, and patted herself on the back for not refusing Abigail’s offer. She pulled one of the needles from the cloth and picked up some thread. Charlotte had split her thread, but Pam wasn’t about to get fancy. She threaded the needle, grasped the hoop, pushed the needle through, and—Fuck! Get your goddamn finger out of the way, already! She curled the fingers on her left hand so they weren’t dangling underneath the fabric and tried again. Okay, not bad, she’d done a stitch. Oh look, another one. She could get the hang of this!

  Proud of herself, she managed to stitch what appeared to be part of the dog’s ear. Maybe purple hadn’t been the best colour choice. She stuck her needle through a point outside the pattern, then lifted her head to see if there was any brown thread, and caught Doris staring at her—again. Pam ignored her, but couldn’t help glancing at her after she’d lifted brown thread from the table. Doris’s eyes bored into her—again. Jesus. Pam sighed and looked down at her fabric. Okay, what was she supposed to do with the purple thread? Tie it off? She unthreaded the needle and tried, but . . . Oh, Charlotte was tying her thread using the needle. Pam decided to just let hers hang loose. She wasn’t embroidering for a competition or a crafts shop or anything.

  She started to stitch the outline of the dog’s head, and after ten minutes of intense concentration, she surveyed her handiwork. Were the stitches supposed to zigzag like that? She snuck a peek at Abigail’s work, and frowned at the elegant and smooth arcs. And the stitching . . . she wasn’t simply sticking her needle in and pulling it out. Sometimes she wrapped the thread around the needle several times, or pushed the needle in underneath the fabric, or inserted it where it had just come out. Deflated, Pam gazed at her work with a critical eye and knew Abigail’s daughter would embroider the skirt off her.

  Charlotte and Clara chattered away as they stitched. Pam would have gladly joined in—if she could talk and embroider at the same time. Twenty minutes later, her heart leaped into her mouth when Abigail tucked her hoop down the side of her chair cushion, rose, and peered at Charlotte’s work. “Lovely, dear,” she murmured, and moved on to Clara’s. Freaking hell! Inspection time. Pam gulped and tried not to cringe as she viewed the beginnings of a pathetic dog that looked in dire need of a vet. If she didn’t know it was supposed to be a dog . . .

  She tensed when Abigail stopped in front of her. Abigail’s smile wilted. “Oh, that’s, um . . . well, it’s not quite what I had in mind when I traced the dog.”

  The others curiously looked on. Doris was probably staring at her; Pam didn’t dare glance her way. She cleared her throat. “I’m not used to embroidering, uh, real objects.”

  “What do you mean?” Abigail asked.

  “Objects you can recognize. Over the past few years, I’ve been quite taken with, uh, abstract embroidery.”

  “Abstract embroidery?” Charlotte said excitedly. Rosalie and Clara leaned forward.

  “Yes. This is my, um, interpretation of this particular dog. Don’t you have that here? It’s all the rage in Toronto.”

  “Really?” Charlotte squealed. “Did you hear that, Clara? All the rage in Toronto!”

  “Trust Toronto,” Rosalie muttered. “They can’t just do what the rest of us do, they have to make it all hoity-toity and la-di-da-like.”

  “Oh, hush, Rosie,” Abigail said. “We must try it. Evelyn and Victoria would love this. Let’s arrange an afternoon. Would you be so kind as to guide us, Margaret?”

  Pam stifled a snort.

  “Guide us?” Rosalie waved a dismissive hand. “From the looks of it, all you have to do is ignore the pattern. Stick your needle in wherever you want and don’t bother to worry about your stitching.”

  “Rosie!” Abigail hissed.

  Rosalie was starting to seriously get on Pam’s nerves. “Rosalie’s right,” she said, hoping that pandering to the woman would shut her up. “Expert embroiderers like yourselves don’t need guidance. In fact, guiding you would run counter to what abstract embroidery is all about. When you’re given a pattern, you can either follow that pattern, or you can expand your mind.” Gaining steam, Pam swept her hands through the air. “You can embroider the abstract representation of the pattern that’s uniquely and utterly you, a one of a kind creation that represents your inner self.”

  “Oh, I suppose I can give it a try,” Rosalie said, “though I don’t see the point of creating something that nobody can recognize.”

  “It’s for you, Rosalie,” Charlotte said. “Didn’t you hear what Margaret said? Uniquely and utterly you.”

  Abigail clasped her hands against her chest. “It’s almost spiritual, isn’t it? Let’s try it. New patterns, everyone. We’ll work on these another time. You continue what you’re doing, Margaret.”

  Pam had every intention of doing so, and watched the other women crowd around Abigail’s bag and choose new patterns. All except Doris. Her face lacked the animation that lit everyone else’s, and she remained seated, her mouth pinched and her eyes hard.

  *****

  Margaret was so tense that she almost cried out when Robin grasped her arm outside the café where they were to meet her friend, Cathy.

  “Now remember, no matter what you say, Cathy will never guess that you’re from the past,” Robin said.

  “She may think me simple.”

  Robin smiled. “I’ll be right next to you. If I think you’re in trouble, I’ll help. You ready?”

 

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