“Yes, we all know Hud,” said Irene, waggling her eyebrows.

“But did you know Margot hired Betsy to work in the store?”

“She did?” Irene had worked a few hours in Crewel World, and wanted to work more.

“And Betsy doesn’t know anything about running a store, or all that much about needlework, for that matter. She asked the dumbest questions.”

“No!” said Irene.

“Yes. But she’s trying really hard to pick up on things. And she’s fun to have around, she really seems to like talking with the customers. She sold a whole lot of yarn to this woman by asking her questions about knitting. It was so funny to watch.”

By her face, Irene didn’t get the joke. “I hear she used to live in San Francisco.” Her expressive voice turned the name into a synonym for depravity.

Shelly shrugged eloquently. “Yes, she mentioned that. And London, and New York. As if none of us ever go anywhere. She’s been married a few times, too. But no children.” Her face was disapproving of both those facts, though she herself was divorced—once—and had no children.

Irene said, “Of course, Margot never had children, either. Though I always understood it was Aaron’s fault.” They shared a slightly different expression this time, then smiled to show it was all just in fun. Each considered herself very close to Margot.

Shelly glanced at her watch then quickly stood and began gathering the remnants of her meal. “Lunch break’s about over. I have to get back.”

“Yes, you only get forty-five minutes, don’t you?” said Irene, also rising. Her job as a supervisor in the shipping department of a local manufacturer wasn’t as prestigious as Shelly’s, but they gave her an hour for lunch. “So,” she went on, walking Shelly to the trash barrel, her voice hopeful, “if Betsy doesn’t know much, it seems Margot will still be in the market for a part-timer to help out in the shop?” Irene Potter’s ultimate goal in life was to own a needlework shop, and meanwhile to gain full-time employment in Margot’s. When she’d heard Margot’s sister was coming to stay, she had trembled for the few hours of work Margot would give her.

Shelly, secure in her summer hours in Crewel World, smiled. “Probably not, but why don’t you go talk to her? Meet Betsy, too. Maybe you two would get along. Got to run. Bye-bye.”

Irene stood on the sidewalk in the bright sunshine, staring after her. Irene had a tendency to see everyone as a rival or potential rival, so Shelly’s parting remarks gave her an idea that was positively brilliant. Know thine enemy, that was biblical, wasn’t it? Or was it Shakespearean? Never mind, if she went over there and made friends, then she might see how to sabotage this Betsy person. Who, after all, knew next to nothing about clerking in a needlework store, while Irene knew everything; that alone might nullify the blood connection.

She hurried to scoop up the remains of her muffin and the paper coffee cup and toss them into the trash container. She dusted crumbs off herself with her napkin, then inspected herself in the window of the bakery. Dark slacks, white blouse, gray vest hand-crocheted herself with cotton thread in a pineapple pattern, and her favorite earrings, shaped like tiny scissors. She patted her dark curly hair, cropped close to her narrow head. She looked neat and competent. She smiled at the reflection, admiring the whiteness of her teeth. Perfect!