“How come they’re driving from Excelsior?” said the man. “The paper said they’d be here.”

Betsy started to make a low humming noise, and when the woman looked at her, she coughed noisily, eyes brimming.

“They were here,” said Charlotte, ignoring Betsy, “and they’ll be back here in a couple of hours.”

“I don’t understand why they aren’t here now, when the paper said they would be,” said the woman.

Charlotte, speaking as if to a first grader, said, “The paper said they’d be here early this morning, then that they’d be driving from here to Excelsior, then that they’d return here to be on display again.”

“Oh,” said the woman, looking curiously at Betsy, who, hands cupped over nose and mouth, was trying unsuccessfully to contain that cough. “Thank you. Come on, Lew,” she added, taking the man by the arm and leading him away. “I don’t remember reading all that stuff about them being here and not being here and being here again.”

As they trailed out of sight, Betsy could at last release the laughter. “Why didn’t you just give those two a map and suggest they go meet the cars en route?” she asked.

“And have them run someone into a ditch?” retorted Charlotte.

“Never fear,” said Betsy. “Those two couldn’t possibly follow that map. They would have ended up back across the border in the place of their birth: Iowa.”

“A distinct improvement to the gene pool in both places,” said Charlotte in a dead-on Hepburn drawl.

Betsy laughed some more and Charlotte joined in. Insulting Iowa is a peculiar Minnesota custom-and while Iowans are happy to reciprocate, their jokes aren’t considered half as clever. In Minnesota, anyway.

A woman drove by in a Land Rover, slowing to wave from inside the vehicle at Betsy and Charlotte. Betsy recognized Ceil, one of the women in the Excelsior booth. The Rover went on around to the parking lot in back of the Capitol building.

She came back on foot to say, “What, Adam isn’t here yet?”

“Not yet,” said Betsy and turned to greet another pair of tourists.

“My uncle once told me his grandfather owned a 1914 Model T Ford,” said the man. “But we were here before the cars left on their run, and there was a 1910 Ford the driver said was a Model T. Who was right?”

“I-I don’t know,” said Betsy, and listened for Charlotte ’s cough.

Which kindly didn’t come. Instead, she stood and said, “The first Model T appeared in 1908, and wasn’t replaced by the Model A until around 1928. Of course, Henry Ford made constant changes and improvements as the years went by, but it was always called the Model T.”

“Why Model T?” asked the woman.

Ceil came over to join the conversation, “Well, every time he reinvented his car, he gave the model the next letter of the alphabet. By the time Tin Lizzie came along, he was up to T. I don’t know why he stuck to T so long; the 1912 model was very different from the 1908 one, and the 1927 Model T was a very different car again. The car that replaced it was the more expensive and sophisticated Model A, which is apparently why he decided to start over.”

The couple asked a few more questions, took a brochure on the Antique Car Club, and drifted away. Betsy said, “I didn’t know any of that!”

Charlotte smiled. “I only cling to my ignorance when it comes to actually working on restoration and repairs. I prefer to let Bill pack the wheels or replace the transmission bands.” She held out her slender, long-fingered, and very clean hands, regarding them complacently.

“Be glad Bill didn’t get a Stanley Steamer,” said Betsy, “or dirt might not be the worst that can happen. My friend Lars has one, and the places on him that aren’t dirty are blistered.”

Ceil laughed. “Has he still got both his eyebrows?”

“Well, he has now, since the right one grew back.” She sat down beside Charlotte and resumed stitching. Betsy was working on a counted cross stitch pattern worked on black fabric. It had pale green cats’ eyes and the merest hint of paws. In crooked lettering down one side it said, Sure Dark in Here, Isn’t It? Betsy was adding whiskers in back stitching, counting carefully to make sure they were placed properly.

“Where are you going to hang that?” asked Charlotte.

“Six, seven, eight-in my bathroom,” replied Betsy. “The thread glows in the dark.”

“Hang it next to the light switch,” advised Charlotte. “I’d hate to try to find the… er, by the light that thing will give off.”

Ceil giggled.

“I don’t see Mildred,” said Betsy. “Perhaps I should have volunteered to bring the quilt, too.”

Charlotte said, “But it wouldn’t be any good unless you could sell raffle tickets for it, and Mildred won’t let anyone take custody of that roll of tickets or the money jar. That’s a job she’s very jealous of.”

“Speak of the devil,” said Ceil, and they looked up to see Mildred, driving a large old Chrysler, pull up beside the booth. She put her car in park, got out, and opened the passenger door. The big heap of quilt engulfed her as she tried to get it out without letting it touch the ground. Betsy and Charlotte hurried to help. The frame was in the back seat, and Betsy wondered how she’d gotten it in there; even with their help, it was a struggle to get it out again. But Mildred again proved stronger than she looked, and was experienced in handling the thing. Under her crisp directions, she and Charlotte set it up in the booth and helped Mildred drape the quilt over it.

Mildred said, “Thank you, Betsy. Now, I’ll be right back,” and went to park. When she came back, she had the money jar and the big roll of raffle tickets in her arms. Evidently Mildred had hidden them in the trunk.

About twenty minutes later, Ceil said, “Look, here comes Adam at last.” Betsy hadn’t noticed him drive in, but he was walking from behind the Capitol building, where they-and apparently Adam-had parked.

“What kept you?” demanded Ceil.

“There’s an accident in the tunnel,” said Adam, meaning a long, curved underpass on 94 in Minneapolis. “It’s down to one very slow lane in the eastbound side.” He held up a large paper sack. “Plus I stopped for sandwiches.” He handed them around.

He’d barely finished his tuna on a whole wheat bun before the first antique car came up, a 1909 Cadillac. Betsy grabbed the board Adam quickly held out, and Charlotte again helped Betsy clock the cars in.

As before, the 1902 Oldsmobile was last-except for Charlotte and Bill’s Maxwell.

“Did you see Number Twenty, a rust-brown Maxwell, along the road?” Charlotte asked the driver of the Olds.

“No, when I left Bill was still trying to get it started. And it never caught up with me.” Betsy thanked him and waved him through.

“Well, this is a fine thing!” grumbled Charlotte. “I wonder where he broke down?” She went to talk to Adam, Betsy trailing behind her.

“He was having trouble with it, remember?” she said.

“Yes, but he just waved me off when I went to ask him if he wanted to cancel his return trip,” replied Adam. “And it seemed to be running only as ragged as it was when he came into Excelsior.”

“I know, I know. That darned machine-and he would insist on driving it even though he has other cars that don’t misbehave!”

Betsy turned to Ceil and Adam. “Didn’t you mention a truck that follows the route looking for breakdowns?”

“No follow-up truck for this run,” said Adam.

“Anyway,” Ceil said, “doesn’t Bill have a cell phone?”

“Yes, he does,” said Charlotte, frowning. She went to her old-fashioned carpet bag and rummaged in it for her own very modern cell phone. She turned it on and punched in some numbers.

“That’s funny,” she said a minute later, the frown a little deeper. “He’s not answering.”

“Maybe he’s gone to find someone to help get his car started,” said Betsy.

“Wouldn’t matter,” Charlotte replied. “He carries that thing with him in his pocket.” She dialed the number again, listened awhile, and shut her phone off.