Too Hard To Handle. Rita Rainville

in there. If she was lucky, she might even comprehend what Tillie considered a reasonable explanation.

      “And you were only five minutes old.” Charmed by the memory, Tillie smiled. Then silver brows drew together in thought. “Ten at the most.”

      “And from that—”

      “Oh, yes.” Tillie gave a decisive nod. “I knew.”

      “But, how?” No, Christy thought with resignation, it wasn’t going to work. No amount of time would help her understand. Aunt Tillie’s thought process was as tangled as her conversation. She didn’t know the meaning of linear thinking, didn’t have a nodding acquaintance with the normal give-and-take in dialogue. She communicated on some mystical plane that resembled the descending spiral of a corkscrew.

      “The color,” Tillie prompted.

      “Oh, yeah, the indigo.”

      “Precisely. You know what it means, of course.”