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sealed carton. I offered a wheeled dolly, but Russ refused.
    “He can carry it,” his mother said, marching out my front door. “He’s only sixteen, but he’s strong.”
    She was right.
    His face taut and his muscles straining, Russ hauled the box outside and set it carefully into the back of an old pickup truck, maroon with a wide white band around it.
    But that was the end of the boy’s caution. As soon as his mother climbed into his passenger seat, he peeled away, tires spewing billows of smoke.
    In a small black sedan, Felicity pulled out behind Russ’s truck. I hoped she’d be able to keep up. If she got lost, she might return to In Stitches.
    “Good riddance,” said Rosemary, one of my hardest-working students and also the Threadville tour bus driver. “That Felicity was unpleasant.”
    Mimi, who had stayed to attend my embroidery class, hid a cough in her elbow. “I hope she does corners better in her car than she does in her sewing.”
    Everyone laughed, and I felt fine again. Life in Threadville could go back to normal.
    My students paid rapt attention to the rest of my lesson, then trooped out for lunch at Pier 42.
    Shortly after one, Susannah came back so I could have my break, and the dogs and I went downstairs to our apartment. The building was on a steep slope, one story in the front, but two full stories in the back, so most of the apartment was above grade, and very bright and airy. Side yards let light into the bedroom windows.
    I hadn’t entertained any guests in my second bedroom yet. Maybe, eventually, my parents would make the trek from South Carolina, but my mother, who had given up her practice as a physician to go into politics when I was a teenager, was now a member of the South Carolina House of Representatives, and claimed she needed to stay near her constituents. My father was content with his puttering and inventions. They hadn’t visited me when I’d lived in New York City, and the northwestern corner of Pennsylvania was even farther away.
    My guest room was ready, though, just in case, and decorated in embroidered white-on-white linens. Each bedroomhad its own bathroom and walk-in closet sandwiched between the bedrooms. A small laundry room faced the other half of the apartment—one large room with kitchen, dining, and living areas. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sloping backyard and the quaint little house known as Blueberry Cottage. Someday, I would renovate the cottage. I hoped that Clay would keep his promise to be my contractor.
    I ate my lunch outside while the dogs played in carefree joy. Tall cedars hedged both sides of the yard. The entire area, including Blueberry Cottage, was fenced for the safety of the dogs. At the top of the hill, a gate led to my front yard. At the bottom of the hill, another gate led to a hiking trail on the banks of the Elderberry River. Leaves on trees prevented a good view of the river and the state forest on the far bank.
    The dogs and I returned to In Stitches. The afternoon class went well, too, and then I was free to spend the evening romping with the dogs and fiddling with embroidery.
    Like many of my students, I wanted to enter a contest for machine embroidery, the International Machine Embroidery Competition, known fondly as IMEC, which we all pronounced “I make.” Recently, I’d won an honorable mention with my machine-made version of a centuries-old method of embroidery known as stumpwork.
    Next, I wanted to emulate another type of antique embroidery, candlewicking, named for the candlewick cord substituted for embroidery floss to add texture. Often, the wicks were knotted, creating largish bumps. Several sewing machine manufacturers provided “candlewicking” stitches, but they were almost flat. I wanted to create something thicker and more authentic. The contest deadline was looming.
    And before that, I wanted to display my students’ and my entries at the Harvest Festival. The Threadville proprietors were going to