Your Dream and Mine by Susan Kirby

the children. “It was the brainstorm of a young man I taught the first year I was there. Don’t think that doesn’t make me feel old, seeing my students return to take up the work!” she concluded, and smiled even as she sighed. “That’s the whole purpose, of course.”
    “Making you feel old?”
    Deidre laughed. “No. Preparing others.”
    “Sounds as if you’re working yourself out of a job.”
    “That’s the general idea.” Deidre smiled and got to her feet and stretched a hand to him in that wordless way she used to do when she wanted to dance.
    Reluctant, he said, “You sure? I’m kind of rusty.”
    Deidre’s lips curved. “I’ll watch my toes. Come on.”
    They crossed the floor hand in hand and found space on the dance floor just as the band swung into a tune from the past, one they’d thought of as “their song.” Trace reacted instinctively and drew Deidre close. She tipped her face and smiled.
    Trace saw the laundry room light burning and let himself in the back door. Thomasina was on the stepladder humming to herself as she peered into the cupboard over the washing machine. She rose on tiptoe and stretched a hand up to pat down the top shelf.
    “Looking for something?” asked Trace.
    Thomasina spun around so fast, the rickety ladder threatened to collapse. Trace leapt to steady her and got his hand slapped away.
    “Don’t ever do that again!”
    “I was trying to keep you from breaking your neck.”
    “Not that, ” she said, scrambling down off the ladder, her face aflame. “I meant don’t sneak up on me.”
    “I didn’t sneak. I walked right in. What’re you so allthe-time jumpy about, anyway?”
    “I’m not jumpy. I didn’t hear you coming. I thought you had a date. I wasn’t expecting you for hours.”
    Expecting him? Trace couldn’t say why that pleased him. “Tell you what. Next time I’ll just keep going and not speak. That suit you better?”
    “What would suit me is a hammer,” she said without much grace. “Have you got one?”
    “Yes. But I’m not sure I trust your frame of mind.”
    Thomasina swept a hand through her hair. Heat rising, she fought an impulse to retreat and countered, “I’m not sure I do, either.”
    He chuckled. Retrieving a hammer from its resting place between the water softener and the wall, he asked, “What is it you’re building?”
    “I’m not. I’m hanging rods for curtains,” Thomasina explained as the hammer changed hands.
    “The yard sale curtains fit, did they?”
    “Yes. I never did thank you for measuring the windows for me.”
    “I was glad to.”
    “Still, it was the second mile.”
    Trace wasn’t up to speed on his Sunday school parables. It took him a moment to realize what she meant. By then she was on her way into the kitchen. Reluctant to let her go, he said, “Need some help?”
    “No thanks,” said Thomasina.
    “Your dad teach you how to swing a hammer, did he?”
    She nodded and smiled and was about to close the door when Winny stumbled into the kitchen with a storybook.
    “I heard you, Trace.”
    Surprised, Trace asked, “What’s she doing here?”
    “Antoinette’s father had to go to the hospital.” Thomasina leaned closer and whispered, “Chest pains. It sounded serious.”
    Winny yawned and blinked sleepy eyes and said, “Know what, Trace? We called Dr. Jesus to take care of Grandpa.”
    “Good thinking,” said Trace.
    Winny looked up at Thomasina, then back to Trace. “You wanna look at a book with me?”
    Trace arched an eyebrow. Thomasina countered with a downturned mouth. “No, thanks,” Trace said.
    “Why not?” Winny asked.
    “Because I’m going to bed. Which is where you should be.”
    “I can’t. I don’t got a bed here,” replied Winny. She watched as he took his door key from his pocket. “Hey! Where ya going?”
    “Home.”
    “You are home.”
    “No. This is Thomasina’s home. My home’s through there.” Trace pointed out the opposite door leading off the