“You’re nicer than I’d be about him,” said Hud. “But who knows? Maybe this will soften him up. And even if it doesn’t, we might find his hardheadedness useful. He’s got a good business sense, even if he keeps his heart in cold storage.”

Shivering under her shawl, Betsy smiled. “I should think in Minnesota, you don’t need cold storage; just put things out on your back porch.”

Hud laughed. “Wait till next July, you’ll change your tune.” He turned to Margot. “That’s when we had summer this year, right, Margot? July seventh and eighth, as I recall.”

Margot chuckled. “I think you’re right; that was the weekend you took your Rolls off its blocks, right? Hud, I’m coming to the art museum on Wednesday to take a new look at the T‘ang horse. It’s for another needlepoint project. So long as I’m in the city, I’d like to stop by your office and talk about some board business. How’s your schedule?”

“Pretty tight, but I can make a hole Wednesday morning, I think. About eleven, say?”

“Thanks. It won’t take long.”

Mayor Jamison came over then to ask Margot what she had done with the Founders’ Day parade sashes, and from there the talk wandered to other things.

4

Shelly Donohue sat at the white plastic table on a white plastic chair outside the Excelo Bakery shop on Water Street. She was eating a “wicked” sandwich—so designated on a hand-lettered placard—consisting of sprouts, tomato, avocado, two kinds of cheese, and green-goddess dressing on herb-flavored foccacio bread baked on the premises. Her own designation of it was “messy but interesting,” as in, “Will you make me one of those messy but interesting veggie sandwiches?” Shelly would not describe anything as wicked except murder and child abuse.

She also had a cup of cranberry juice, not further designated.

She was feeling frazzled, and looking a trifle frazzled as well; her hair was coming out of its bun and tendrils of it were lifted up here and there by a cool, vagrant breeze. An all-day preschool session was under way, and there were new laws and regulations to master, new textbooks (one with several egregious errors of fact) to study, and a new principal full of new ideas. And retirement was twenty years away.

But the morning’s harsh edge was being smoothed away by a bit of friendly gossip. She was sharing her table with Irene Potter, a fellow needleworker, who was not drinking her coffee and was pulling fragments off a poppy-seed muffin with her lean, nimble fingers in lieu of eating it.

Irene’s shining dark eyes encouraged Shelly to go on with what she was saying.

“You know, you’d hardly think they were sisters at all,” Shelly continued. “Margot’s such a dainty little thing, so sweet and ... and ... oh, I know the word’s not considered nice anymore, but she’s a lady. A real lady. Betsy’s nice, too, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not just that they don’t look very much alike; I mean, that sort of thing happens in any family that doesn’t marry one another’s cousins. But Betsy’s ...” She paused to think of the right words. “She’s ... more so,” she said with an air of having at last put her finger on it. “You should have seen her putting the moves on Hudson Earlie Saturday night. And Hud was moving right back—you know Hud—but Margot couldn’t say anything right there in front of him.”