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Authors: Monica Ferris
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us any good holed up like this.”
“I won’t ask you to pay me for the time.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Godwin, that’s not what I mean! Go over to Shelly’s house, you idiot!”
“I know what you mean. I just wish—”
“What do you wish?”
“I wish I could stop feeling sorry for myself.”
“Here’s an idea. Come out of there and take a walk down Lake Street. You should see these wonderful old cars! They are so beautiful and exotic, just the sort of thing you’d love. And some of the people who ride in them are in period dress.” Godwin loved costume parties.
But he only said, “Uh-huh,” in a very disinterested voice.
“All right, then go down to the art fair. See if you can find Irene.” Irene Potter was sitting with Mark Duggan of Excelsior’s Water Street Gallery. Irene’s blizzard piece was supposed to be prominently featured, its price a breathtaking six thousand dollars. It was not expected to sell; this was Mr. Duggan’s way of introducing the art world to Irene. Irene had done several more pieces and been written up in the Excelsior Bay Times , and was behaving badly about being “discovered.”
“It’s too hot to be walking around in the sun,” said Godwin pettishly, though he’d been telling everyone that he was the first to see her potential as a Serious Artist.
“Well, then how about I take you and Shelly out to dinner tonight? It’ll probably be late, I don’t know how long I’ll be in St. Paul, but if you can wait, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
There was the sound of a nose being blown. “Well,” said Godwin in a voice not quite so disinterested, “how about Ichiban’s, that Japanese restaurant where they juggle choppers and cook your shrimp right in front of you?”
“Fine, if we can get in without a reservation. Because I really don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
“We can call from Shelly’s before we leave,” suggested Godwin, giving up his struggle to sound sad.
“Fine.” Betsy went back out into the shop. Shelly was talking to a man trying to pick something for a birthday present. “All I know is, she pulls the cloth tight in a round wooden thing, and then sews all over it,” he was saying. And Caitlin was helping a woman put together the wools she needed for a needlepoint Christmas stocking.
A woman in an ankle-length white cotton dress trimmed in heavy lace was looking around and not finding whatever she was wanting. “May I help you?” asked Betsy.
The woman turned. “Oh, hello again!” She smiled at Betsy’s blank face and said, “You clocked us in just a few minutes ago. The 1910 Maxwell? I was wearing a big hat?”
“Oh!” said Betsy. “Yes, now I remember you! Wow,you went costumed all the way, didn’t you? First that big coat and hat, now this wonderful dress! Who do you get to make them for you?”
“The coat is a replica, but this dress and the hat are originals.” She did a professional model’s turn.
“They are ?”
“Oh, yes. I collect antique clothes. I like to wear them, so it keeps me on my diet.” She laughed and brushed at the tiny bits of floss clinging to her skirts. “I’m also a stitcher, as you can see. Do you know if this store has the Santa of the Forest?”
“We did, but I sold the last one yesterday. I’ve got more on order, but they won’t come in for a week or two, probably.”
“ ‘We’? You work here?”
“Yes, ma’am. In fact, this is my shop. I’m Betsy Devonshire.”
“Well, how do you do? I’m Charlotte Birmingham. I’d be out there helping Bill with the Maxwell, but I don’t know one end of a wrench from another. I see you have knitting yarns as well. I used to knit, but that was a long time ago. Things have changed a great deal since my time.” She shook her head as she glanced around at the baskets of knitting yarn. “Back in my teens, there was embroidery floss and there was wool for crewel, and wool or acrylic for knitting.” She picked up a
“I won’t ask you to pay me for the time.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Godwin, that’s not what I mean! Go over to Shelly’s house, you idiot!”
“I know what you mean. I just wish—”
“What do you wish?”
“I wish I could stop feeling sorry for myself.”
“Here’s an idea. Come out of there and take a walk down Lake Street. You should see these wonderful old cars! They are so beautiful and exotic, just the sort of thing you’d love. And some of the people who ride in them are in period dress.” Godwin loved costume parties.
But he only said, “Uh-huh,” in a very disinterested voice.
“All right, then go down to the art fair. See if you can find Irene.” Irene Potter was sitting with Mark Duggan of Excelsior’s Water Street Gallery. Irene’s blizzard piece was supposed to be prominently featured, its price a breathtaking six thousand dollars. It was not expected to sell; this was Mr. Duggan’s way of introducing the art world to Irene. Irene had done several more pieces and been written up in the Excelsior Bay Times , and was behaving badly about being “discovered.”
“It’s too hot to be walking around in the sun,” said Godwin pettishly, though he’d been telling everyone that he was the first to see her potential as a Serious Artist.
“Well, then how about I take you and Shelly out to dinner tonight? It’ll probably be late, I don’t know how long I’ll be in St. Paul, but if you can wait, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
There was the sound of a nose being blown. “Well,” said Godwin in a voice not quite so disinterested, “how about Ichiban’s, that Japanese restaurant where they juggle choppers and cook your shrimp right in front of you?”
“Fine, if we can get in without a reservation. Because I really don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
“We can call from Shelly’s before we leave,” suggested Godwin, giving up his struggle to sound sad.
“Fine.” Betsy went back out into the shop. Shelly was talking to a man trying to pick something for a birthday present. “All I know is, she pulls the cloth tight in a round wooden thing, and then sews all over it,” he was saying. And Caitlin was helping a woman put together the wools she needed for a needlepoint Christmas stocking.
A woman in an ankle-length white cotton dress trimmed in heavy lace was looking around and not finding whatever she was wanting. “May I help you?” asked Betsy.
The woman turned. “Oh, hello again!” She smiled at Betsy’s blank face and said, “You clocked us in just a few minutes ago. The 1910 Maxwell? I was wearing a big hat?”
“Oh!” said Betsy. “Yes, now I remember you! Wow,you went costumed all the way, didn’t you? First that big coat and hat, now this wonderful dress! Who do you get to make them for you?”
“The coat is a replica, but this dress and the hat are originals.” She did a professional model’s turn.
“They are ?”
“Oh, yes. I collect antique clothes. I like to wear them, so it keeps me on my diet.” She laughed and brushed at the tiny bits of floss clinging to her skirts. “I’m also a stitcher, as you can see. Do you know if this store has the Santa of the Forest?”
“We did, but I sold the last one yesterday. I’ve got more on order, but they won’t come in for a week or two, probably.”
“ ‘We’? You work here?”
“Yes, ma’am. In fact, this is my shop. I’m Betsy Devonshire.”
“Well, how do you do? I’m Charlotte Birmingham. I’d be out there helping Bill with the Maxwell, but I don’t know one end of a wrench from another. I see you have knitting yarns as well. I used to knit, but that was a long time ago. Things have changed a great deal since my time.” She shook her head as she glanced around at the baskets of knitting yarn. “Back in my teens, there was embroidery floss and there was wool for crewel, and wool or acrylic for knitting.” She picked up a
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