Lars’s Stanley was built in 1912, an era when twenty-five miles an hour on the road was remarkable. But F. E. and F. O. Stanley, identical twin speed demons, looked ahead to a period when forty miles an hour sustained road speed would be desirable, and built their car for that foreseen time. And just as they refused to consider the assembly line, they refused to acknowledge planned obsolescence. When someone ordered a Steamer from their factory, he had to wait for it to be built by hand-and then was expected never to replace it. That’s why, as late as the mid-1950s, pioneer Stanley boilers were still in outdoor use, lifting, cutting and grinding stone in a New England gravel pit.

Currently, having acquired some understanding of his Stanley, Lars was in a mood to manipulate it. While he wouldn’t dream of taking his Stanley on the Interstate, he did sometimes get out on the state and county highways, where forty miles an hour was slow. He wondered if there was some way to adjust the flame under the boiler so fifty or even fifty-five miles per hour could be attained without having to stop even more often for water.

So when Betsy stopped in to see him around midday on Thursday, he had the burner disassembled and was consulting his owner’s manual for advice.

“Oh, no!” she said, and he looked around to see her standing dismayed in the doorway to his barn.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, putting down the vaporizing coil and reaching for a towel to wipe his hands.

“That’s what I was about to ask you,” said Betsy. “How bad is it?”

“How bad is what?”

“Are you going to be able to repair it by Saturday?”

He grinned. “It doesn’t need repair,” he said, to her obvious relief. “I was trying to figure out how to get a bigger head of steam without having to stop even more often for water.”

Betsy began to giggle. “You sound like Tim Taylor on ‘Home Improvement’: ‘More power!’ ”

“No, I sound like the Stanley twins that morning on Daytona Beach in 1907.”

“Just be careful you don’t become airborne. The run this weekend isn’t a race, remember.”

“I’ll remember,” he promised, without a hint that his fingers were crossed behind his back.

“So when are you going down to New London-tonight or Friday?”

“If I can figure out this burner business fast enough-or decide I can’t figure it out soon enough-I thought I’d take ’er down this evening. Otherwise I’ll leave here early in the morning. What, are you looking for a ride?”

“Oh, no, I’m leaving this evening after we close. I’m driving down. You do know a lot of drivers are already there, terrorizing the countryside with their infernal machines?”

Lars grinned. “I hear the populace turns out to wave as they go by. But I had to work yesterday.”

“Do you have a motel reservation?”

“Naw, there’s room for a bunk in the trailer, so I thought I’d camp out with it. It’s only two nights. You?”

“I let it go too late. Every room in New London is taken, so I’m staying at the Lakeside Motel in Willmar, and commuting. But it’s not far. So, I’ll see you there. Oh, here’s your sponsor’s banner.” Betsy handed over a twenty-four-by-ten-inch rectangle of plastic-coated canvas with the logo of her shop printed on it: CREWEL WORLD worked in X’s as if it were cross stitched. On the corners were pockets holding powerful magnets, so Lars could put the banner anywhere on the vehicle he chose.

He took it, looked at it, then smiled shyly at her. “I want to thank you-” he began.

“It’s all right, really,” she interrupted hastily. “I was glad to do it.” Golly, she thought on her way back to her shop, I’m really turning into a Minnesotan, embarrassed to be thanked.

The door went Bing! and Betsy came out from the back of her shop.

Charlotte stopped short when she saw Betsy. There was a tall man with her-Betsy suddenly realized it was Marvin Pierce, AKA Friend of the Family. “Oh, I thought you were in New London already,” said Charlotte.

“No, I’m going up as soon as I close this evening. I had hoped to see you up there.”

“No, no, I’m not going. The funeral has to be planned, though we still don’t know which day that will be, the medical examiner hasn’t, er, released Bill’s body. Anyway, I couldn’t face… those people. Not right now.” Once the surprise drained away, her face showed the stress and sorrow of a new widow.

Marvin put a sympathetic hand on Charlotte’s shoulder, and Betsy said, “Yes, of course, I understand. So what brings you out here?”

“I understand you have a very competent finisher.”

“Yes, Heidi’s wonderful. Do you have that Christie piece ready?”

“Yes.” Charlotte came to the checkout desk and put a plastic bag on it. She opened it and lifted out a square wrapped in tissue paper.

Betsy came to unwrap it, saying, “You take such good care of your work. I had someone come in last week with a piece that looked as if she’d washed the car with it.”

Marvin snorted his amused surprise. Charlotte said, “My regular finisher won’t take a piece that’s dirty.”

“I can’t afford to be very picky. I even have a woman who will go over pieces and fill in missing stitches, or repair torn or moth-eaten pieces. Sandy has rescued lots of heirloom pieces. But this looks perfect.”

“It’s as good as I can make it, and if there’s some mistake in it, I don’t want it fixed. This work is all mine. I found the original, photographed it, scanned it and made the pattern, and stitched it all by myself.” She glanced up from it to meet Betsy’s eyes and said, “Oh, all right, Grace Christie designed it, so it’s essentially a copy. But I made some changes to her original pattern, worked some areas in different stitches from the original, and even altered the colors a little.”

Marvin said, “She won’t admit it, but I think what she does is equivalent to real art.”

“Oh, tosh, Marvin,” said Charlotte with a little frown.

Betsy’s smile appeared. “Have you heard about Irene Potter?”

Charlotte said, “I read an article about her in one of our little weekly papers, yes. She stitches Impressionistic patterns, right?”

“Yes, but her first piece was almost a copy of a painting she admired. She did just about what you did, altered the pattern a little, changed some of the colors. So don’t apologize.”

Charlotte’s spine straightened. “All right, I won’t. I think this piece is great, and I’m proud of it.”

“So you should be,” said Marvin.

Betsy said, “I believe you wanted this made into a pillow?”

“Yes, that’s right. But-well, can you give me an estimate of the cost?”

“Oh, never mind the cost,” said Marvin. “If it’s something you want, then go ahead and buy it.”

“And who’s going to pay for it?”

He looked at her, confused, and she looked away with a pained expression.

Betsy said, “Speaking from experience, it takes a long time to settle an estate. Things can get tight during that interim.”

“Plus there are taxes and fees and all kinds of expenses,” said Charlotte.

Marvin said, his voice showing he was still a little puzzled, “I understand all that. But how much can it cost to get someone to sew this into a pillow? Twenty-five or thirty dollars?”

Betsy said to Charlotte, “He’s not familiar with finishers, is he?”

Charlotte smiled. “No.”

Betsy said to him, “I’m estimating this at about a hundred and fifty, minimum.”

Marvin’s eyebrows went high. He turned and looked around at the fibers, fabrics, and esoterica of needlework. “I had no idea. Cute little hobby you picked, Char.” He turned back to show a very charming grin. “Of course, it isn’t as pricey as antique cars.”

Betsy said, “Do you own an antique car?”

“Whoa! Not me!” Marvin raised both hands. “I’d like to acquire some champagne tastes despite my beer budget, but not that one. What I like is for my cars to be as up to date as possible, with all the bells and whistles, thank you very much.”