Antique Car Run committee.
In vain the Antique Car Run president had argued that people who came to see the horseless carriages would then wander over to the fair so temptingly nearby.
Deb had argued that people who came to look at old cars were not the same kind of people who visited art fairs. She had suggested a parade of old cars up Excelsior’s main street, all the way up to the far other end, where there was plenty of room and no competition from fair goers. “Besides,” she’d pointed out in a reasonable voice, “there’s the car dealership down there, which is probably more in tune with the kind of people who turn out for an event like yours.”
But Mayor Jamison had sided with the antique car event planners. “There are all kinds of car people,” he had said, “hot rod people, classic car people, new car people. But horseless carriage people are different. They’re not interested in tires and cubic-inch measurements of engines, but the history and unique beauty of these early machines. Such people see their antiques as works of art rather than mechanical devices, and so might more properly be classed among the art seekers who come to the fair.”
Betsy, who had endured much ear-bending from Lars about main burner jets, valve plungers, and cylinder oil, had not slipped into prevarication by so much as a nod of agreement with the mayor. Instead, she bit her tongue, while Deb Hart, all unknowing, succumbed to the mayor’s argument.
Now, on this beautiful June morning, she looked at the empty street and said, “No, the art fair is not happy with us.” Then she went back to the shop, unlocked the door, and stood a moment, thinking how she was going to accomplish her next task, which was to get the quilt stand just inside her door out onto the sidewalk.
Last night, a little before closing, an elderly woman named Mildred Feeney had come in asking for Betsy. She said she was associated with the Antique Car Run and asked if she might store a quilt that was to be a prize in a raffle in Betsy’s shop “just for tonight,” and Betsy had agreed. She had also agreed to bring it out in the morning. But that was before she’d seen the quilt and the stand on which it was to be displayed. She’d been busy in the back while it was brought in, apparently by a big crew of husky men, because now, looking at it, she wondered how on earth she was going to bring it out again all by herself.
The quilt, a queen-size model, was draped over a large wooden frame shaped like an upside down V. The frame was large enough to accommodate the quilt unfolded, holding it several inches clear of the floor on both sides.
And the stand wasn’t on wheels. Betsy took one end with both hands, tried to lift it, and decided the wood of the frame was at least oak, if not ironwood. The frame wasn’t exactly top-heavy, but without someone to steady it at the other end, it would easily tip over. Betsy’s shop was cozy, not spacious, and her front door was of an ordinary size. She hadn’t realized there was so sharp a curve from right inside the door to between the white dresser and the counter. How was she to get the long, inflexible frame and its clumsy burden to the door?
By pulling and shifting and, at one point, climbing up onto the counter and down the other side to adjust the angle of the frame.
But the door opened inward, and so the frame had to be moved backward again. And then the door must be propped open-no employee had propitiously turned up, of course-and the struggle begun again.
At last Betsy got the stand most of the way out the door and was beginning to fear there wasn’t enough sidewalk. She was pausing to consider this new complication when the quilt suddenly slid away, like a giant snake heading for the underbrush. Betsy grabbed for it, then saw it was being draped over the arms of Mildred Feeney, who was smiling at her. “If we take the quilt off,” she said, “the stand folds up and we can carry it to the booth quite easily.”
“Oh? Oh, yes, I should have thought of that,” said Betsy, blushing at herself for also thinking, even for an instant, that the quilt had made an attempt to escape. Even if the frame didn’t fold, which it did (the hinges being clearly visible once the quilt was off), it would have been lighter and easier to manage without all those thick yards of fabric on it.
The naked V, folded, was not hard to manage, especially with Mildred, who was stronger than she looked, helping.
Mildred had already put a cash box and an immense roll of double tickets in the booth. After Betsy helped redrape the quilt, Mildred fixed Betsy with a look. “They’re a dollar apiece,” she said in her sweet but firm old- woman’s voice, “six for five dollars. How many shall I tear off for you?”
Betsy sighed and bought twenty dollars’ worth, asking in her own firmest voice for a receipt so she could record the money as a charitable donation. It never occurred to her that she might win-Betsy never won raffles.
Perhaps, she reflected on her way back into the shop, she had been a little too quick to promise her sponsorship of Lars and his Steamer. Between the parts he had had to order-very expensive and one all the way from England-and the strange, also expensive, requirements in cylinder and gear oil and kerosene for the pilot light, and the lousy mileage it got on gasoline-
She began the opening-up process in her shop. She was going to be in and out today, so Godwin was going to be helped by Shelly Donohue, an elementary school teacher who worked for Betsy during the summer months. Betsy turned on the lights, put the start-up money in the cash register, and tuned the radio to a classical station with the volume barely audible. She was just plugging in the old vacuum cleaner when Shelly came in.
“Did you hear the latest?” asked Shelly breathlessly.
Shelly was an inveterate gossip, and her “latest” was usually exceedingly trivial, but Betsy politely delayed turning on the machine so she could hear whatever the silly tidbit was.
“John threw Godwin out.”
Betsy dropped the wand. “Oh, Shelly, are you sure?”
“How sure do you want? Godwin slept at my house last night.”
“Is he very upset?”
“We sat up till two this morning, and he never stopped crying for more than five minutes at a time. He’s a real mess.”
“I suppose that means he won’t be in today?” Betsy felt for Godwin, but she really needed two people in the shop on weekends. Especially this weekend, with two attractions bringing lots of visitors to town.
“He said he’d be here, but to tell you he’d be late, because he had to go get his clothes. He got a call from a neighbor that they’re in a big pile along the curb outside John’s condo.”
Betsy sat down. Godwin’s clothes were enormously expensive: Armani suits, silk shirts, alpaca sweaters, handmade shoes, all bought by John, of course-Godwin couldn’t have bought the sleeve of one suit on the salary Betsy paid him. John loved to ornament his handsome boy toy and had taught Godwin to treat the clothes with respect. If they had been unceremoniously dumped out in the street, this wasn’t a mere lover’s quarrel; John must be serious about the breakup.
“This is terrible. I feel so sorry for Godwin! And I can’t imagine him coming in after having to pick his beautiful clothes up off the ground. How cruel of John!”
“I agree. Goddy is so upset that even if he does turn up, I don’t think he’ll be much use. So what are we going to do? With you out most of the day, we have to have another person.”
“All right, call Caitlin and see if she’s available. If she isn’t, go down the list. If you get down to Laverne, you’ll want a third person.” Caitlin, a high school senior, had been stitching since she was six; Laverne, a retired brewery worker, barely knew linen from Aida and was afraid of the cash register. “Meanwhile, I hope he comes before I have to get back out to the booth. I really want to talk to him. Has he got someplace to go? I mean, besides your place?”
“I don’t think so. He was crying that John made him give up all his real friends, except me and you. But he can stay with me for as long as he wants. I’ve got a spare bedroom. And Goddy doesn’t mind the dogs.”
“Is that what the fight was about, John’s jealousy?” asked Betsy.
“Something like that. Goddy says John accused him-falsely, Goddy says-of flirting with Donny DePere at a party. But John is very jealous, he won’t let Goddy have any male friends, even straight ones.” A smile flickered
