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seen the signs of Steve's condition. And if she'd seen the signs, maybe she could have found some new treatment or therapy that would have saved him.
    Eventually, she'd agreed to see a therapist; and now, most of the time, she believed what had happened was out of her control. Steve had suffered from Marfan's syndrome, an inheritable genetic disorder that was often fatal without aggressive medical intervention. Until as recently as 1977 there was little that could be done to reverse the damage to connective tissue it caused, particularly in the heart. Perhaps if his parents had sought medical intervention when he was younger things could have been different; but by the time she'd met him the die had already been cast.
    She opened the refrigerator door and reviewed her options. Aunt Beth had disapproved of the pounds she had gained over the last five years. In spite of her own comfortable bulk, Aunt Beth had insisted Harriet was using her weight as a way to stay disconnected from the world. To this end, she had binge-proofed the house before she left on her cruise. There wasn't a chip, cookie or sweetened fat nodule of any kind. The refrigerator was filled with cleaned carrot sticks, pickled beets, tomatoes, cucumbers and precooked boneless, skinless chicken breast meat in several flavors.
    Harriet pulled out a plastic bag and poured herself a bowl full of romaine lettuce pieces. She tore up two slices of chicken breast and added them to the lettuce. Her hand skimmed past the fat-free Italian salad dressing in the refrigerator door and settled on the bottle of creamy organic sesame, clearly an oversight on Aunt Beth's part. She promised herself a trip to the grocery store when she got all of the show quilts done.
    She had a smaller project to finish this afternoon before she could start Sarah's—she had hoped to get Sarah's call last night. The deadline for receiving quilts to stitch had been yesterday morning, but Sarah was bold. When the call didn't come, Harriet had started a baby quilt one of Aunt Beth's regular customers had asked her to fit into her schedule.
    Sarah was a good customer, but her lateness this time wouldn't allow Harriet to use the kind of care she had on the other show quilts. It couldn't be helped, and besides she was confident that if Sarah's didn't win a prize it wouldn't be because of her stitching.
    She finished her salad under Fred's watchful eye and returned to her quilting machine.
* * * *
    It had been dark for more than an hour. Harriet had finished the baby quilt and had about a foot left to stitch on Sarah's quilt when the brass bell tied to her studio doorknob jingled.
    "Anyone home?” a male voice called. Aiden Jalbert stepped into the room. “Oh, good, you're still here,” he said.
    Harriet pushed the needle-down button and walked to the reception area, where he was pacing in great agitation.
    "Of course, I'm here,” she said. “I live here. Is there something I can help you with?"
    She couldn't help but stare at those eyes. He was probably used to that.
    "I'm sorry to bother you so late.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “But I've got a bit of a problem, and I was hoping you could help me out."
    Harriet took a good look at him. His white shirt was smeared with what looked like blood. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his left arm had a long scratch down its length.
    "What happened?” she asked.
    "I'm staying in a studio apartment over the vet clinic,” he explained. “My mom was working late, so I took her Chinese food from that Rice Bowl place on Fourth Street, and since I was driving right past here on my way home, Mom asked if I would drop her quilt off. I guess she finished putting the trim on it at work this afternoon."
    "Binding,” Harriet corrected. “She finished binding it."
    "Whatever,” he said.
    "If she finished binding it, where is it?"
    "That would be the problem part,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I was on