“Here, sit beside me,” she said to Betsy. “And you, too, of course,” she added to Charlotte.

Charlotte sat on Mildred’s other side. She picked up a corner of the quilt and said, “Oh, it’s embroidery, not appliqué. That’s so much more work, isn’t it? How many of you worked on that quilt?”

“It varies from year to year. Five of us did it this year. We start right after each run to work on next year’s. I hope you noticed that every car on it is a car that has actually been on the run. When we started out, we didn’t know much about antique cars. We got a book from the library and made photocopies of cars that we were interested in, and Mabel turned them into transfer patterns and put them on the squares, and we stitched them. The center square is always the emblem of the club-the Merry Oldsmobile.”

Betsy said, “Oh, like from the song,

“Yes, that’s the one,” said Mildred, with a little smile. “Though I think the theme of the run should be ‘Get Out and Get Under.’ You know,” she started to sing in a cracked soprano,

Betsy said, “I remember my grandmother singing that song!” She looked up the street. “Looks as if things haven’t changed much with those old machines.” The driver who’d been under his car earlier was still under it.

Adam put in, “That’s why the run isn’t a race. Just getting across the finish line is enough of a challenge, and anyone who makes it has earned his medallion. By the way,” he added, holding out a clipboard, “here comes the Winton.”

“Oops!” said Betsy, grabbing it. “Come on, Charlotte, time to get to work!”

The cars were spaced about three minutes apart-except when, as sometimes happened, a driver couldn’t get his started, and there was a wider gap while another car was waved into its place. This happened with Bill Birmingham’s Maxwell. A thin crowd stood on the sidewalks to cheer and clap as the gallant old veterans putt-putted, or whicky-daddled, or pop-humbled their way out of town. Bill finally got his Maxwell started after all the others had left. Charlotte blew kisses at the car, which despite Bill’s efforts still went diddle-diddle-hick-diddle down the road. “Happy trails, darling!” she called, then turned to Betsy. “Whew, am I glad I’m not going on that ride!”

5

Betsy checked on Crewel World one last time before leaving for St. Paul. Godwin seemed to have come out of his funk, and was assisting a customer trying out a stitch under the Dazor light. Betsy caught his eye and told him she’d try to be back before closing.

Then it was through the back into the potholed parking lot with Charlotte to Betsy’s car.

Betsy’s old Tracer had never recovered from a winter incident involving sliding off a snow-covered road into a tree. In seeking a replacement, she considered several high-quality used cars, envied the mayor his amusing cranberry-red Chrysler PT, but had at last bought a new, deep blue Buick Century four-door, fully loaded. It was the nicest new car she’d ever owned and she was very proud of it.

But Charlotte was obviously used to a better variety of cars. She simply laid her duster and big hat in the back seat with her stitchery bag, hiked the bottom of her antique white dress halfway up her shins, and climbed in the front passenger seat.

They took 7 to 494, up it to 394, then skirted downtown Minneapolis on 94 to St. Paul, taking the Capitol exit.

Crossing over the freeway put them on a street leading to a big white building modeled on the U.S. Capitol-except the Minnesota version had a very large golden chariot pulled by four golden horses on top of the portico. There were cars parked in slots in front of the capitol, but no people standing around.

Betsy said, “Looks as if we beat everyone. Even the booth is empty.” A twin to the booth in Excelsior stood on the wide street at the foot of the capitol steps. They drove around back and found a parking space. After the air-conditioned interior of Betsy’s car, the moist heat was again almost insufferable. Nevertheless, Charlotte donned her hat, draping the veils carefully around her head and shoulders-“It’s easier than trying to carry it,” she remarked. She did carry her duster and a handful of pamphlets she’d scooped out of the booth in Excelsior. Betsy brought her and Charlotte ’s stitching. She noticed that by the worn appearance of Charlotte ’s carpet bag, it was another antique. Its nubby surface was scattered with “orts,” what stitchers called the little ends of floss. They walked around the blinding white building and across the broad paved area to the booth, where they collapsed on folding chairs.

“Whew!” said Betsy, fanning herself with a pamphlet. “How did people stand this back before air-conditioning?”

“It’s not so hard to bear if you don’t keep going in and out of air-conditioned spaces. People survived much worse weather than this before there was air-conditioning. Think of St. Louis -or Savannah -back when what I’m wearing was a marvelous improvement on the much heavier Civil War era clothing.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right. You know, we didn’t have air-conditioning until I was about fourteen, and while I remember how much I loved having it, I don’t remember suffering like I am now without it.” She looked out across the shimmering heat lake of the parking area to the trees lifting tired arms in the sun. “Hard to believe we had our last snow just two months ago.”

“And that in three months we may have another one,” said Charlotte. “But that’s why we love it here in Minnesota.” Her tone was only a little dry. She reached into her carpet bag and pulled out a square of linen tacked onto a wooden frame. On it, in a variety of stitches, was a flowering plant with caterpillars on the leaves and two kinds of bees and a ladybug hovering among the flowers. She saw Betsy’s eye on her work and said, “It’s from a hanging designed by Grace Christie back in 1909. I’m going to work more of the squares and have them made into pillows.”

Betsy said, “Do you know what that plant is? It looks familiar, somehow.”

“Someone told me it’s borage, an old medicinal herb.”

“Oh, of course, ‘Borage for Melancholy.’ ”

Charlotte looked at the nearly finished piece. “Does it work, I wonder?”

“I understand St. John’s Wort does. So perhaps borage does, too.”

Two tourists in shorts and sunglasses-a man and a woman-came up. Pointing, the woman said, “What a crazy hat!”

Charlotte laughed and said, “You’re too kind.”

The man said, “We came to see the old cars.”

“They’re on a round trip to Excelsior,” said Charlotte.

“Who drove to Excelsior?” asked the woman, frowning.

“The owners of the antique cars,” replied Charlotte.

“So where are the cars?” asked the man.

“The owners drove them to Excelsior.” An element of patience had come into Charlotte ’s voice.

“Why did they do that? The paper said they were going to be here.”

“They were here,” said Charlotte more patiently. “But they drove to Excelsior to put on a display there.”

“But I thought the paper said they’d be on display here!” said the woman.

“They were here, early this morning,” said Charlotte, speaking very slowly now. “Then they drove to Excelsior. And now they’ve started driving back. At”-she consulted her watch-“four-thirty or so, they should be back from Excelsior.”