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down the street to her shop.

      Uncommon Threads was tucked into the heart of the historic business district, which ran for several blocks along the waterfront. At one end was the ferry terminal. At the other, a small park with benches and a fishing dock that jutted into the bay.

      Even though Pauline had probably walked down Harbor Avenue thousands of times, the flavor of the bygone era never failed to draw her attention. She glanced up at the tall buildings with their elaborate architecture and blank upper-story windows. Today they failed to distract her, as did the colorful hanging planters suspended from the old-fashioned streetlights.

      Absently she waved at the city worker who watered the baskets and window boxes each morning, and at the meter cop who cruised by on her scooter. When the shops opened in less than an hour, the parking spaces along both sides of the street would all be taken. During theArts Festival this weekend, the sidewalks and streets would be jammed with tourists from Seattle and beyond, who came to visit the galleries, buy souvenirs and tour some of the restored Victorian homes along the top of the bluff.

      Pauline probably shouldn’t even consider meeting Wade when she had so much stock to unpack and put out, but getting him started on the roof before another storm front blew through was important, too.

      She paused in front of Uncommon Threads to admire the display of colorful pillows in the front window. Each one had been embroidered by a member of the local needlework guild using supplies from the shop. Because there was always room for improvement, she studied the grouping with a critical eye while she dug her keys from her shoulder bag.

      When she opened the door, the scent of peach potpourri welcomed her into the shop’s cozy interior. An old-fashioned glass display case and a service counter ran along one wall of the deep, narrow space that she had brightened with sunny yellow paint. On the other wall were shelves and pigeonholes full of fabric samples and threads from all over the globe. A row of circular display racks holding pattern charts and kits filled the middle of the main floor. Every bit of wall space was covered with a variety of finished projects: cross-stitched pictures, bell pulls, afghans, bookmarks and everything else that could be decorated with threads. Stairs led up to an overhead half loft she used for classes and extra storage.

      The solid wood floor and the high ceiling were original. The water pipes in back rattled like chains on Halloween. The furnace was cantankerous. Summer business was crazy, winter nearly dead, ordering the right stock a crapshoot and staying in the black an ongoing challenge. Despite everything, Pauline dreamed of expanding.

      After she put her purse and laptop in the tiny office tucked behind the staircase, she called Bertie Hemple-mann, an older woman who worked part-time in exchange for floss and fabric. Bertie agreed to fill in for a couple of hours so Pauline could leave.

      With that problem solved, she counted money into the register and finished unpacking a carton of British cross-stitch books. While she worked, she hummed a jingle that had lodged into her brain on the way to work.

      For the last five years, Uncommon Threads had been hers. She loved every square inch of space and each moment she spent here. With each sale she made and each month she turned a profit, she took another small step toward regaining her self-respect and putting the past further behind.

      At ten o’clock sharp she unlocked the front door and flipped the hanging sign from Closed to Open. When she wasn’t helping the customers who trickled in, she unpacked cartons of kits, restocked the swivel racks and opened her morning mail. Along with a stack of invoices and bills was a brochure from a big needlework show in the Midwest that made her salivate. Someday, she promised herself as the bell over the door jangled merrily, signaling a new arrival.

      “Hi, Paulie,” called out the tiny woman who owned the import shop next door. Lang, whose name meant “sweet potato” in Vietnamese, had elbowed open the door while she’d balanced a cardboard holder with two steaming lattes.

      “Is it that time already?” Pauline asked, startled. She and Lang had gotten into the habit of sharing their morning break while Lang’s husband, Dao, minded their shop next door.

      Pauline bit her lip. “I’m going to be gone later, so I shouldn’t take a break,” she said after she’d thanked Lang for the hot drink.

      “You want me to leave now?” Lang asked. “You need Howie to mind the store for you?” Howie was her American-born son who helped out in the family business part-time when he wasn’t in school.

      “No, stay,” Pauline replied, blowing on her coffee to cool it. “It’s okay. I called Bertie.”

      “You aren’t unwell, are you?” Lang asked, perching on the spare chair behind the counter. It seemed as though the only times she or her husband ever missed work were to see the doctor or, once in a while, to watch Howie play baseball for the local high school team, the Bobcats.

      Pauline was tempted to say she was going to see the insurance agent, since Lang knew about the damage to her garage roof. Instead she explained as briefly as she could about her new boarder.

      Lang tipped her head to the side like a bird, her black eyes twinkling with mischief. “And this Mr. Wade, is he handsome?” she teased.

      The heat that warmed Pauline’s cheeks had nothing to do with the steam from her latte. “Um, I suppose.” Her attempted nonchalance was ruined when she shrugged and almost spilled the contents of her cup onto her dress.

      “You didn’t notice?” Lang shook her head. “What am I going to do with you?” She refused to believe that Pauline enjoyed the independence of being single. For Lang, family was everything.

      Face flaming, Pauline ducked her head. “I noticed,” she admitted, annoyed at her inability to lie convincingly.

      She was—quite literally—saved by the bell when the front door opened to admit Harriet Tuttle, president of the needlework guild, matriarch of local society and self-appointed keeper of the town’s morals.

      Immediately Lang got to her feet. “Good morning, Harriet,” she said with a polite smile.

      Harriet acknowledged the Vietnamese woman with a chilly nod before switching her attention to Pauline. Behind Harriet’s back, Lang rolled her eyes.

      “I must get back,” Lang said.

      “See you later,” Pauline replied before meeting Harriet’s beady-eyed stare with her best shopkeeper’s smile. “What can I do for you today?”

      “I heard that a tree fell onto your carriage house during the storm,” Harriet said.

      “Bad news travels fast,” Pauline replied, wishing the phone would ring. Not only was the older woman one of the worst gossips in town, but her husband was one of the Crescent Cove city council members who would be vetting Pauline’s application. “Actually it was a limb that fell, not an entire tree.”

      Harriet sniffed as though she didn’t care to be corrected, even by the primary witness. “Who have you contracted to fix the damage?” she persisted as she glanced around. “Not that Steve Lindstrom, I hope?”

      For a moment, Pauline was puzzled by Harriet’s apparent hostility. Blond, blue-eyed native resident Steve should fall within her narrow parameters of who was an acceptable member of their community—even though he was divorced, which probably earned him a black mark in her book.

      Suddenly Pauline recalled hearing that one of Harriet’s sons had recently started his own construction business. Was that why she had stopped by—to drum up work for him?

      “The repairs are really pretty minor,” Pauline explained, fingers crossed behind her back. “My new boarder is actually going to do them.”

      Harriet’s bushy white brows arched above the silver frames of her glasses. Her upper lip curled with scorn, drawing attention to the thin mustache that adorned it.

      “You hired a female contractor?” As someone who prided herself on knowing everything that went on in the town, she was well aware that Pauline only rented her rooms to women.