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exactly. And the stitching is so beautifully done, every stitch exactly the same—that will be hard to imitate.”
    “We can do it,” Godwin said with his usual show of confidence.
    Doris smiled at his assumption of a share in the project. “Good luck.”
    She went upstairs to her apartment and put the little towel into her bathroom. Then she continued with the placement of her souvenirs. Elephant-headed Ganesha had been easy to place, he sat on the desk next to her laptop. The hat would make a nice lampshade; she’d take it to Leipold’s tomorrow. She went through her apartment holding up the silks, changing her mind every five minutes as she tried to decide on which wall to hang them, smiling to herself. Her little apartment was going to look like an upper-class Thai home when she was through.

Three

    THE next day was Saturday, and Crewel World was crowded with customers. Almost all of them were knitters, there for the yarn sale. This was just the second time Betsy had tried a one-day-only sale. The turnout was terrific, far more than had turned out for the first sale. The doorway was crowded with at least a dozen customers when Betsy unlocked the door at ten, and more kept arriving. Unfortunately, she hadn’t considered that this might happen, and so hadn’t enough employees on hand. By eleven, there were thirty-five customers in the shop, and the number never dropped under twenty the whole day. Betsy called her list of part-timers, but none was available on such short notice.
    So many customers, each demanding attention, meant there wasn’t time to have a friendly discussion with those who needed help—deciding whether to buy wool or a blend, what quantity was needed if the sweater to be knitted was two sizes bigger or what color might go really well with the plum. These discussions were a big reason people went to an independently owned store rather than a chain.
    Betsy, Godwin, and Krista worked as hard and fast as they could. Betsy had inherited the shop several years ago, and although she’d started from almost total ignorance, she was now nearly as efficient and swift as if she’d founded the shop herself. Krista was new to retail work, but she had begun knitting at age four and had recently taught her first class in knitting a shawl. She had been a stitcher almost as long as she’d been a knitter and claimed she had learned to read and count by following knitting and counted cross-stitch patterns. Godwin, of course, knew everything about the shop and the use of its products.
    But even this accumulation of expertise and experience couldn’t keep up with demand, and by two in the afternoon they were all feeling frazzled.
    When the phone rang, Betsy, hoping someone else would get it, let it ring six times before grabbing the receiver. “Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?” she said all in a rush.
    “Miss Devonshire?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m calling on behalf of the Minneapolis Art Institute.”
    Oh God, a fund-raiser! “I’m very sorry, but I can’t talk right now. I’m at work, and we’re very busy.”
    “On a Saturday? Oh, of course, you’re the one who owns that little shop in Excelsior! Oh, I am sorry! I don’t suppose you remember me, I’m Joe Brown, I’m on the board of directors of the institute.”
    Betsy summoned a vague image of a tall man in a black felt hat. “Oh, yes, I think I do remember meeting you.”
    “But please don’t spend another second chatting with me—I’ll call you back some other time. Good-bye.”
    Well, that was a pleasant surprise, Betsy thought as she replaced the phone on its charger. Normally, getting rid of people out to raise money was like peeling wallpaper with your fingernails. Maybe the rules were different when it was a member of the board calling. Betsy had raised her pledge to the institute considerably in the past two years. Maybe that warranted a higher class of money-grubber.
    “Hey, Betsy, how come you have the green