Illinois Winters

By Mary A. Allen

Illinois Winters is running from a shameful past, from one coast to the other. With sheer determination to hide her secrets she attempts to trim off her past and sew together a successful future as a fashion designer. Her shot comes after a chance meeting with a woman who offers to help make Illinois' dreams true.  While Illinois wants to stitch together a new life, she struggles with the concept unconditional love, generosity, forgiveness and the contrast between the patterns of her old life, and the designs of her present life. She wonders if she will ever find a place to call home. Will Illinois cut and run when things begin to unravel and tear apart at the seams or will she pull it all together and discover the beauty in God's plan?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strong Tower Press
• Release date: Dec 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781942320227

Mary A. Allen

Mary Allen lives with her husband Bob, the love of her life. They’ve been married a whole bunch of years. They have a wonderful ordinary family they love with an extraordinary love. Mary loves to sing, read, laugh and make people smile. She hates high tech gadgets, but puts up with them. Just barely. She’s hoping she’ll inherit a million dollars from a long lost relative so she can quit the job she loves as a home health nurse to stay home and be a full time writer. But she’s not holding her breath. When she speaks about God at an event, a hand full of people listen, but when she prays, the God of the universe hears every word.

Book preview

Chapter One

Illinois jumped when the fire trucks raced passed the Alhambra Grocery store with ear piercing sirens. Beyond the storefront window, dark smoke rose angry, billowing clouds blocking the sunrise. She shivered. It was close. Could she get around the emergency vehicles to get home?

She checked the time on her cell phone. She forced herself to refocus on her job. It needed to be finished before her shift ended. These shelves had to look just right. Like her childhood babysitter Mrs. Murray always said, any job worth doing was worth doing right. Illinois agreed. She straightened the cans, turning all the labels to the front. Everything had to be just right. It gave her a sense of satisfaction. Pride. . . well, maybe not pride. After all, she’d been told, Pride cometh before a fall. Okay, then just accomplishment and satisfaction.

Another siren. Screeching tires. What was going on out there? Forgetting her time constraints, she dashed to the front entrance and peered down the street. Where was all that smoke coming from? She strained to see down Alhambra Boulevard toward Capitol Avenue, but without success. Too many buildings in her way. She twisted the ring on her finger.

The fire was somewhere close to her apartment though, which meant she’d probably pass it on her way home. For now, her shift had ended, and she was on her way home to her much loved but tiny apartment. Loved, not because it was tiny, but because it was hers. Not her mother’s, thankfully. Not Mrs. Murray’s. She sighed and smiled. She loved living on her own. Dealing with her mother’s warped sense of right and wrong had always been so exhausting.

Grabbing the empty boxes, she headed toward the baler to crush them. She tossed the boxes in, and stretched the kinks from her back. Her shifts were boring and long enough for dust to settle on her shoulders yet she was grateful to have a job, even if it meant working nights. Besides, it gave her more opportunity to create her designs. She touched the small sketchbook in her pocket. Her sketches were not bad for someone with no formal training. Her fashions were stunning, with beautiful colors and fabrics. The dress with the gently flowing skirt brought a slight smile. She drew the dress yesterday after work. As soon as she could afford the fabric, she’ll start sewing it. Illinois shrugged. Maybe enough money could be squeezed from her next paycheck to buy the few notions needed. Her smile brightened. Sewing was her life. She sprinted toward the front door.

Bye, Illinois. Pick you up tonight. Kate said as Illinois sped by.

See ya. Illinois waved.

It was creepy walking to work at night, even if it was only half a mile. Although she was thankful to Kate for the ride to work, Illinois preferred walking home. Even in the rain, the walk started her day with feelings of possibility despite her dull daily routine. It had the added benefit of waking her up enough to squeeze some sewing or sketching in before she needed sleep.

As she exited, she winced. Even at seven AM, the temperature in Sacramento could fry bacon on the asphalt. Where was she anyway? Sacramento? Or the Mojave Desert?

Illinois’ eyes stung from the thick smoke hovering like an evil presence. Several more fire trucks screamed toward the plume. She frowned, but still couldn’t pin point its origin. A building on M or N Street?

A deep red Lincoln Town Car turned into the parking lot. Illinois’ turned from the rising smoke. The car slid into a space near the entrance. It may not have been her style but she wouldn’t mind owning a car like that. She smiled at her own whimsy. Frankly, a beat-up old Honda would suit her just fine. Taking the bus everywhere got old.

A smartly dressed driver got out and walked around the car. What sort of man wore a tie to the grocery store? A government worker on his way downtown? A doctor at the nearby hospital? He opened the back door. Illinois nodded her head. A chauffeur.

A petite woman appeared from the back seat and placed her feet on the ground with deliberate, graceful movements. Her stunning white hair framed her face like a halo, and her smile broke easily across her well-worn face as she spoke with the driver. She was dressed in simple black linen slacks and a soft pink blouse with an embroidered collar. Such a stylish woman. A bright pink scarf made from sheer fabric would be the perfect accessory for the woman’s outfit. Illinois squelched a laugh at her own fashion commentary.

The lady strolled toward the store, her cane moving with her as if it were an additional appendage. On her arm hung a tiny black handbag, her face brightened by her smile. Not a clown smile. A content-to-be-alive smile.

The chauffeur got in the car, picked something up and began to read. What a life. Driving people all over and reading while they do their business. Illinois couldn’t do that. Not unless the car contained a sewing machine to pass the time.

Remembering her childhood babysitter’s words, ‘staring is rude’, she turned back to the smoke. As the delicate lady approached, Illinois glanced back, and their eyes met. The woman slowed. Her contented expression changed. She nodded slightly at Illinois then continued passed her. Illinois swallowed, worried the woman may think her rude for staring.

Illinois’ gaze followed the woman as her coworker Melinda ran out.

Good, I caught you, Melinda said, gasping for breath.

Illinois stepped closer to her. What’s up?

I need tomorrow night off. You willing to work for me if I work for you tonight?

Sure. Same hours? Start at ten?

Yes. Great. I’ll let Jenny know.

I’ll tell Kate not to pick me up.

The dark smoke overhead caught Melinda’s eye. Whoa, something’s on fire down there, she said, pointing toward the rising smoke. It’s close. Hope it’s not the post office. I gotta mail a package after work. She stared for several seconds. Man, if it’s the post office, it really messes up my day.

Illinois’ eyes rolled. If it was the post office, it would mess up a lot of people’s day. Illinois shifted her weight. Was Melinda done talking? Illinois raked her hand through her hair as she calculated how difficult it would be to walk home in this smoke. She waited. Maybe she should say goodbye.

Melinda turned abruptly, flashed a garish grin, twirled toward the store, barely missing the elegant little lady exiting. The woman teetered, and repositioned her cane.

Oh, wow, I almost ran into you. Melinda whizzed by the startled woman.

The woman managed to regain her balance, and with some effort began to walk again. She struggled with her grocery bag in the wake of her near collision with Melinda.

Let me help you. Illinois took the bag.

The woman smiled at her. Thank you, my dear. She looked intently into Illinois’ face.

No problem. Sorry about my coworker. Guess she’s in a hurry.

Yes, it would seem so.

They continued to the car. The woman’s eyes twinkled as she periodically glanced at Illinois. Her skin prickled.

When they arrived to the car, the driver looked up from his newspaper then got out and took the package from Illinois with a slight bow. His smile pulled slightly to the side in a straight line and he narrowed his eyes slightly.

She gave him a tight smile. Even with a crooked smile, his handsome face appealed. His deep auburn hair glistened in the morning sunlight. He had dazzling hazel eyes, but his gaze lingered uncomfortably and Illinois averted her eyes and shifted her weight. The prickling ramped up.

This is a beautiful car. Great. Could she think of anything more lame to say?

The woman nodded. I find it most comfortable.

Such a wonderful shade of red. Illinois’ face grew warm. I mean, I love colors, especially the subtle shades within a color. I mean― Her face was now in competition with the weather. Where was she going with this?

Are you an artist, my dear?

Not in the sense of painting. I love fabrics and colors and textures.

The driver opened the back door and the woman paused before climbing in. Fascinating, my dear. Am I right in assuming you work here? She nodded toward the store.

Nights. Not super exciting, but it’s a job. Illinois shrugged.

The woman nodded her thanks to the driver and said, This is Patrick O’Neil. He works for me.

Hello, Illinois said in barely a whisper, and again shifted her gaze. Whoa, Mrs. Murray appeared in her head again. What would her old babysitter think of Illinois not looking someone in the eyes when she addressed them? Sorry, Mrs. Murray.

The woman touched Illinois’ hand. What’s your name, my dear?

Illinois Winters.

A broad grin spread across the woman’s face. My, my, your mother must have a fine sense of humor.

Her muscles twisted at the mere mention of her mother. She managed a half smile through her tight jaw. Yeah, I suppose.

Well, Miss Illinois Winters, I’m Marguerite Sinclair. Won’t you please allow Patrick and me to give you a lift home?

No need. It’s only a few blocks from here. I can walk.

It’s quite warm this morning and the air is filled with smoke. You really should limit your exposure to all this soot, dear. Please join us.

The plume of smoke seemed to mock her. Should she go with these two people? She seemed friendly enough. Maybe too friendly. They’d both looked at her funny. Could that be her gut telling her to be careful? Exhaustion lurked nearby and the heat made things worse. It added to her paranoia. Their facial expressions replayed in her mind as if from a scene in a B movie. Maybe she was just being smart, careful. The sky drew darker. Her legs were rubber and she strained to stand.

Okay, I guess. She couldn’t retrieve the words now. She hated her impulsive nature.

She climbed in next to Mrs. Sinclair and sat bolt upright, her hands clasped in her lap. Relax. Just relax. Her fingers, however seemed to have a mind of their own, tightening, and loosening.

Illinois said, I live on O Street. ’Bout half mile down Alhambra. Then turn right.

Mrs. Sinclair relaxed back into the Towne car’s seat and looked at Illinois. Do you live with your family, dear?

Illinois’ hands continued the relax-and-clench dance in her lap. She twirled the ring on her finger several times. Remembering her manners-thank you Mrs. Murray-she sought Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes. No, ma’am. I have my own apartment.

Mrs. Sinclair nodded. Lovely, my dear

Mrs. Sinclair glanced down at Illinois’ dancing hands, but her smile never faded. The familiar discomfort emerged in Illinois’ gut. Why did these people look at her as if she were some strange alien?

The car neared O Street but couldn’t turn right. Fire engines and rescue trucks dominated the street, barricading the entrance to the short block. Patrick inched his way over to a small opening beyond the engines.

Illinois stared out the window. Her sharp gasp barely audible. Prickling on her skin resurged and she gasped for breath. An apartment building smoldered in total ruin, thick, black smoke rising from the drenched remains. Firefighter’s hoses showered the rubble as paramedics loaded an older woman into an ambulance. Not sweet Miss Maggie. She had enough problems. Her meowing cat stood by, watching her leave.

Illinois’ hoarse words fogged the window with condensation.

My apartment . . .

She was homeless. Again.

Chapter Two

Patrick, please take us home. Mrs. Sinclair reached over to touch Illinois’ shoulder.

No, wait, my sewing machine— Illinois opened the door and dashed toward the smoking building. She just needed to run in long enough to retrieve her precious sewing machine.

A fireman intercepted her. Whoa, ma’am. You can’t go in there. It’s not safe.

But—

No ‘buts’, it’s not safe.

The tears forced their way up from some deep place in Illinois’ heart. They erupted with such force Illinois could no longer stand. She fell to her knees sobbing. A gentle hand touched her shoulder.

Come with us, Illinois. We can drop you off at your family’s home, if you want.

Illinois choked and tried to speak. She shook her head wearily.

Mrs. Sinclair guided her up. We’ll help you sort things out.

Illinois sat silent and motionless through the drive to Mrs. Sinclair’s house, tears streaming down her face. Thoughts played ping pong in her mind. Her dreams were gone. All her sketches, her sewing machine, all her meager possessions were lost, burned, dead. She twisted the ring on her finger in a constant motion.

As they pulled up to the house on the corner of 39th Street, she slumped against the soft leather seat. All her words were stuck somewhere between the knot in her stomach and the lump in her throat. What could she say anyway? Who was this woman? How could she share her story with a stranger?

She focused on the house. Where were they? This looks like some kind of hotel. She’d never been to this neighborhood, and she couldn’t stop staring. Were other houses on the block two family homes? Or apartments? Illinois had never lived in a house. She’d always lived in some small apartment with her mother. Mrs. Murray had told her many times to be grateful for that apartment – it could be worse.

This house loomed beyond big. This house was a mansion.

Let’s go around to the back, Patrick.

Patrick drove into the driveway and all the way to the back. Through her numbness, she stared at the beautiful house with its three imposing stories and grand porch.

Come in the house, my dear.

Illinois followed Mrs. Sinclair mindlessly. Why not? She had nowhere else to go.

As they stepped through a door, Illinois stopped. Tall windows allowed the light to stream through the spacious sunroom, bathing Illinois in warmth. Still, she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the rising fear threatening to swallow her.

Where would she sleep tonight? Who could she call? She had a pathetically small list of friends. Kate might let her sleep on the couch a night or two, but eventually she would end up back in that cockroach-infested motel she stayed in before the apartment became available. And what would she wear tomorrow? All her clothes were in her apartment. What would she do now?

Come, Illinois. Let’s share a good cup of tea. Mrs. Sinclair brushed her hand with a baby’s breath touch.

She followed the woman through the sunroom and into the house. Fear dripped from every pore. Was she more frightened of what she’d just lost or what she was walking into?

Mrs. Sinclair took her through several rooms on the first floor. Her surroundings pulled her attention like a magnet. It reminded her of a set in a Hollywood studio. Nobody really lived like this, did they? The fabrics and colors. . .

They passed through the large dining room, with a long table reflecting a shiny finish. Illinois could almost see her face mirrored in it. There were four chairs on each side and one on each end. Gosh, how many people lived in this house? They walked through a pantry with enough storage space for a year’s worth of food. Eventually, they ended up in the kitchen, where an intimate breakfast nook surrounded by windows looked out onto a huge backyard. She’d walked into the pages of a home interior magazine. Mrs. Sinclair invited Illinois to sit with a slight nod to the chair.

A beautiful dark-haired woman placed two teacups adorned with dainty flowers on the table.

Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair, she said.

Good morning, Anna. Meet my new friend, Illinois.

It is nice to meet you, Miss Illinois. Anna’s smile spread easily.

You, too. It’s just Illinois.

Anna cocked her head slightly.

Illinois nodded. She’d explained this many times before. "My first name is Illinois. So, no ‘Miss’ needed."

"Oh yes, of course. Then it is nice to meet you, Illinois. Anna reached her arm out to formally shake her hand. I have poured chamomile tea for you ladies."

How’d you know to have two cups? Illinois’ brows furrowed.

I am magic. She laughed, her face glowing with delight. Actually, Patrick called from the driveway after Mrs. Sinclair got out. Anna