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was a frigid, windless morning. Stillwater snuggled in a bowl of wooded hills and limestone bluffs that pressed it close against the placid waters of the river. It appeared, at first glance, a city of rooftops-steeples, mansards, peaks, and turrets-all of them dropping toward the small downtown that rimmed the west bank of the river.
    Bess drove down
Main Street
, a half-mile strip of commerce. Its buildings were of another century-ornate, red brick, with arched second-story windows above, old-fashioned streetlamps out front, and narrow alleys out back. Cobbled sidewalks led down the steep side streets on their way to the riverfront, one block beyond.
    Bess had her usual English muffin and coffee at the St. Croix Club restaurant, then headed for her shop. It was on Chestnut Street, two doors off Main -an ancient building with two blue window boxes, a blue door, and a sign that read BLUE tats, aoME -SCNPE’S, with a likeness of the flower underscoring the words.
    Inside, it smelled of the potpourri and scented candles she sold. The walls were papered in a cream that matched the painted woodwork, and beneath the molding ran a border strip of blue irises. Bess’s grandmother had grown blue irises in her yard. Even as a child, Bess had dreamed of owning her own business, and way back then had known what it would be called.
    Bess picked her way through the maze of lamps, art prints, easels, brass picture frames, and dried botanicals to a steep stairway that climbed to a tiny loft. Cluttered with swatch and wallpaper books, the loft was an inadequate office by any standard. Yet every time she considered giving up the store to get a bigger one, it was the loft that kept her there. It had character and history, and both appealed to Bess.
    She did paperwork and filing, made phone calls, and got some design work done before Heather arrived at
nine thirty
and called upstairs, “Morning, Bess!”
    “Morning, Heathen How are you?”
    “Cold.” Bess heard the basement door open, and close as her clerk hung up her coat. Then her footsteps made the loft stairs creak. Heather stopped near the top of the stairs-a forty-five-year old woman with stylish tortoiseshell glasses, garnet fingernails, and strawberry-blond hair glazed into fashionable disarray.
    “You have a
ten-o’clock
appointment, you know,” Heather said. “And a
twelve thirty
and a
three o’clock
.”
    “I know, I know”. Bess handed Heather various notes, gave her instructions about ordering wallpapers and checking on incoming freight, and left the store confident that things would run smoothly while she was gone. It was a hectic day, as most were. Three house calls left her little time for lunch. She drove from Stillwater , across the river to Hudson ,
Wisconsin
, then to
North St
. Paul, and got back to the Blue Iris just as Heather was locking up for the night.
    “You had nine calls,” Heather said.
    Bess flopped onto a wicker settee, exhausted. “Okay. And thanks, Heather. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    When Heather was gone, Bess headed for the loft.
    Upstairs, she dropped into her desk chair and opened a turkey-and-sprout sandwich she’d picked up. She was staring at a stack of furniture catalogues when the phone rang. “Good evening. Blue Iris.”
    “Mrs. Curran?”
    “Yes?”
    “This is Hildy Padgett, Mark’s mother.” A friendly voice, neither cultured nor crude.
    “Oh, yes, hello, Mrs. Padgett. It’s so nice to hear from you.”
    “I understand that Mark and Lisa had supper with you last night and broke the news.”
    Bess set down her sandwich. “Yes, they did.”
    “I want you to know right up front that Jake and I couldn’t be happier. We think the sun rises and sets on your daughter. When they told us they were getting married, we were just delighted.”
    “Why, thank you. I know Lisa feels the same way about you.”
    Hildy Padgett continued. “Well, we’ve given them our blessings, and they want very much for all of us to meet, so