“How long will it take?”

“I could have it for you by Christmas.”

“I’m sure that’s a reasonable time allowance, but could it just possibly be sooner than that? We’re spending Thanksgiving at our winter home in Honolulu, and I’d like to take it with me.”

Margot closed her eyes and thought. As the Christmas season began to loom, her finishers wanted more and more lead time. On the other hand, the bolero jacket was all but done and she had nothing else urgent on her own horizon. If she started right away ...

“I’ll pay you a thousand,” coaxed Mrs. Lundgren.

“Yes,” Margot said. “Yes, I can do it that quickly for a thousand dollars.”

“Oh, wonderful, I’m so pleased! Do you want something down on it?”

“No, but payment in full on delivery.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Lundgren.”

When the door closed on Mrs. Lundgren, Shelly said, “You were waiting for her to up the offer.”

“No, but I should use that tactic more often.” Margot touched the frame of the horse, adjusting its position very slightly. It had come back from the framer only four months ago, and was Margot’s finest effort at an original needlepoint to date. “Mrs. Lundgren knows a lot of women with time on their hands and money to pay for ways to fill it. She may not hang that picture in her Edina house, but she’ll show it around before she takes it to Honolulu. A thousand-dollar price makes the artwork more attractive to some people, who may come in looking for something to hang on their own walls. But it might also bring customers wanting to save money by doing the needlework themselves.” Margot smiled and Shelly laughed out loud. There were women, wealthy women, who shorted their families on groceries in order to buy more canvases, more silk floss, more gold thread, more real garnet beads for the endless stream of needlepoint and counted cross-stitch work that had become an obsession. Margot sometimes felt like a dope peddler.

When Shelly finished the window, she started dusting. She paused when she came to an old rocking chair with a cushion on it, the cushion almost hidden under an enormous, fluffy white cat with tan and gray patches along its spine, sleeping on the cushion.

“Is Sophie nice and comfy?” cooed Shelly, stroking the animal. Sophie lifted her head to yawn, displaying teeth absurdly small in a cat her size. Then she put her head back down as if to sleep again, but a loud purr could be heard.

Margot had found the cat bedraggled and hungry in her shop doorway one morning and took her in. She had meant for her to live in the apartment over the store, but Sophie had followed her down one morning and been so quietly ornamental—and friendly to anyone who stopped to stroke her—that Margot had allowed her to stay.

Margot picked up her knitting and made an exclamation. She’d done two rows instead of one.