In addition to their work, she and Maureen have a few ready-made, overlapping interests. They both love the same TV show, about a married couple of undercover KGB agents. They’ve started talking about a trip—Maureen’s treat—a small-ship cruise to the Inner Hebrides. Now, though, there is the sister to factor in. Maureen has arranged for the three of them to meet up this afternoon at Kopi; she loves the hippie atmosphere of the place.

Because of the storm, the place is underpopulated. She sees Maureen with a woman quite a bit blowsier, but definitely bearing a family resemblance. They are sitting at a back table, by the travel store that occupies the rear third of the place—racks of hemp clothing, shelves of Lonely Planet guidebooks, a stand of jaunty felt hats. As Cate approaches, Maureen’s sister stands and opens her arms. Frances is from Oregon; Cate has noticed a north-coastal (both coasts) phenomenon of unwarranted hugging. She tries to duck the incoming embrace.

“I’m afraid I’m a little wet for hugging.”

“Nonsense,” Frances says, a little too loud for how close she is to Cate’s ear. “Where I come from, this is a sprinkle.”

Maureen says, “We’ve been on the couch last night and today.” Cate can see she doesn’t mean for this remark to be alarming.

“We watched two seasons of Mad Men, which I never saw before,” Frances says.

Frances is in Chicago on her way south and east. She sells quilts as well as restores them. This expedition is a search for hidden troves, mint-condition quilts tucked away in hope chests for a hundred years, saved for “good,” a day that never arrived. Arkansas and Pennsylvania have been high-yield states for her on earlier scouting missions.

Frances is what Cate would describe as recently pretty. Her long hair, brown as opposed to Maureen’s red, is pinned up with clips of silver and feathers, then falls in other places onto the shoulders of a wraparound sweater. Everything about her clothing is complicated, swaddling. It’s hard to see where one garment leaves off and another begins. Vaguely spiritual jewelry is also involved, a shimmery shell on a leather string around her neck. Deep purple shoes with turquoise laces, and the ends of the laces have charms dangling from them. She appears to do most of her shopping at Renaissance fairs. Cate was expecting someone else entirely, someone sullen with something about her that could, with the right lighting, be irresistible. Patti Smith maybe.

Frances is very different from Patti Smith, also very different from Maureen. Cate thought maybe Kopi would be a little too corny. But it turns out to be perfect for Frances; she even orders one of the teas Cate and Maureen make fun of. Femininitea. She laughs at herself for ordering it. She’s a good egg. It’s hard not to like her.