Jane looked over at a nearby table laden with an appalling assortment of crocheted potholders and lap blankets and other yarny items that were less easy to identify. The woman selling the stuff was seated behind the table in a green and white webbed lawn chair clicking long knitting needles. She looked as needy and earnest as everyone else here and had on a long crocheted vest with panels from—was it beer cans?—worked into the design. Two points for the efforts at recycling, but not a fashion statement that was likely to catch on. Still, she was undoubtedly another worthwhile cause, not to mention that she was geriatric, which meant you could excuse the shoddy workmanship.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Jane said, picking up an orange and brown . . . something from the table. She beamed at her with her kindest smile. “The sun is so welcome this time of year.”

The woman looked at Jane through milky blue eyes. It was a warm day and Jane had worn a chartreuse tank top and a pair of purple shorts and white sandals. The knitter took in her outfit and seemed to form an opinion. “It’s not so welcome if you’ve got skin cancer.”

Oops. “No. Well, I imagine not.” Don’t Engage. Toss Her A Bone. “You do lovely work,” Jane said. “I wish I could knit.”

“Everybody wishes they could knit, but no one wants to take the time to do it. You have to work at it.” She held up her gnarled, arthritic hand. “You wish you looked like this?” She frowned with disgust. “I didn’t think so.”

Don’t Engage. “What is this?” Jane asked, indicating the orange and brown socklike thing she’d picked up.

“Hold it up!” the woman ordered. “Goes over the ketchup bottle to make it look prettier at the table.”

“Ah ha.” If you were out to make a mercy purchase, it probably helped to buy something truly useless and support a wretched, ill-tempered hag like this. “How much is it?”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

Jane somehow managed to prevent herself from screaming “You must be joking!” but astonishment evidently showed on her face.

“It’s an original pattern,” the woman defended. “And it takes me ten hours to make one of them.” This was an outright lie. In ten hours, Jane could make a sock for every bottle in the house and the last time she’d picked up a pair of needles had been in high school home ec class. “You want bargain basement, go down to Wal-Mart.”

Upon hearing mention of the enemy, the woman selling pressed leaves at the next table looked over.

“It’s just that we don’t eat much ketchup at home, that’s all,” Jane said. Do Not Engage. “I’m allergic to tomatoes.”

The woman shook her head with undisguised revulsion. “Everybody’s got an excuse. All right, go ahead, take it for five.”