"Sorry I don't have more," the potter apologized. "I really tried to pack the kiln this time, using miniatures to fill up the corners."
As the purchasers stood in line to pay, voices filled the small shed with social hubbubexulting over their finds, greeting friends, sharing local gossip. Qwilleran overheard two women saying:
"Did you hear about Tiptop? Some crazy fella with a big moustache and a lot of cats is renting it for $2,000 a week!"
"Is he a Canadian or Japanese or what?"
"Nobody knows. The Lessmores made the deal. He's supposed to be a writer."
"That could be a front for something else."
"Anyway, it doesn't sound good."
Qwilleran hustled away with his mugs wrapped in newspaper and stashed them in the trunk of his car before joining the parade up the wooden sidewalk. He stopped to watch a man making sandals and a woman caning chairseats. Then, hearing the ring of hammer on metal, he followed the sound to the smithy. Within a barn with doors flung wide there was a glowing forge, and red hot metal was being hammered on an anvil by a sinewy young man with full beard and pigtail. He wore a leather apron and a soiled tee with the sleeves cut out.
"Howya," he said when he saw Qwilleran watching intently. Picking up a rod with tongs, he thrust it into the glowing coals, checked it for redness, fired it again, and finally hammered it into shape. When the hot iron was plunged into a tub of water to cool, the sizzle added to the show of sights, sounds, and smells.
Qwilleran examined the hand-wrought objects for sale: hooks, tongs, pokers, spikes, and cowbells, but his eye was taken by an item in a shadowy corner of the barn. It was a wrought-iron candelabrum, seven feet tall and branched to hold eight candles. An iron vine twisted around the main stem and sprouted a few tendrils and leaves. "Is that for sale?" he asked.
The smith looked at it dubiously. "Guess so," he said.
"How much are you asking?"
"Jeez, I dunno. It was just somethin' I hadda prove I could do. Mosta the time I'm a mechanic down in the valley."
"It's a spectacular hunk of iron," Qwilleran said, thinking of it for his apple barn in Pickax. "Set a price and let me buy it."
"Uh . . . two hundred?" the blacksmith suggested hesitantly.
"Sold! If I pull my car up, will you help me load it? How much does it weigh?"
"Plenty, man!"
By reclining the passenger seat they were able to pack the candelabrum lengthwise inside the car. Next, Qwilleran amazed the candle dipper by buying three dozen handmade, twelve-inch beeswax candles. Pleased with his purchases and hoping to find a cup of coffee, he trudged up the hill. He had a few words with the quiltmaker and a woman making cornhusk dolls, and then he spotted a building that looked like an old schoolhouse, with a sign saying: THE BEECHUM FAMILY WEAVERS. An old army vehicle was parked alongside.
The open door revealed a veritable cocoon of textiles: shawls, scarfs, placemats, pillows, tote bags, even hammocks hanging from the ceiling. Two customerstourists, judging by their sunglasses, sunhats, and cameraswere fingering placemats and asking questions about washabil-iry and price. They were being answered curtly by a tall young woman with hollow cheeks and long, straight hair hanging to her waist. She turned around, caught sight of Qwilleran's moustache,, hesitated, then turned back to the shoppers.
At the same moment he heard soft thumping and beating sounds at the rear of the shop. A woman with gray hair pulled severely into a bun at the back of her head was sitting at a loom, rhythmically operating the heddles, throwing the shuttles and pulling the beater. He watched her workwatched her with fascination and admirationbut she never looked up.
Examining the products in the shop, Qwilleran found it difficult to believe that they had been woven, thread by thread, on that loom. One was a capelike jacket, incredibly soft, in the new brighter blue that Polly now liked. The pricetag read $100, and he made a quick decision to buy jackets for four other friends as well. His chief joy in having inherited money was the pleasure of giving it away. During his days as an underpaid journalist, generosity had been a luxury beyond his means, but now he was enjoying the opportunity to be munificent. Buying capes for Polly, Mildred, Fran, Lori, and Hixie in Moose County would also be a way of expressing his gratitude to the aloof young woman who had rescued him the night before.
He heard her say to the shoppers, "These are woven by hand on that loom. If you want two-dollar placemats you'll find them at Lumpton's Department Store in Spuds-boro." She made no attempt to be tactful, and they walked out.
"Hello again," Qwilleran said amiably.
"Howya," she said in a minor key without smiling.
"Is this all your own handwork? It's beautiful stuff!"
"My mother and I are the weavers," she said, wasting no thanks for the compliment.
"I'm very grateful to you, Ms. Beechum, for steering me to the right mountain last night. I don't know what I'd have done without your help."
"We aim to be good neighbors in the mountains." There was no trace of neighborly warmth in the statement.
"I'd like to buy this bluethis blue"
"Batwing cape."
"I'd like to send it to a friend of mine up north. Do you have any others? I could use four more in different colors."
"They're a hundred dollars," she informed him, as if he might have misread the pricetag.
"So I noticed. Very attractively priced, I would say. May I see the others?"
The weaver relaxed her stern expression for the first time. "They're not here. They didn't sell well, so I took them home. Most of the shoppers are looking for things under five dollars. But I could bring the capes to the shop if you want to come back another day." She looked at him dubiously as if questioning his sincerity.
"Are you open tomorrow?"
"Sunday's our biggest day."
"What hours?"
"Noon till dusk."
"Very well. I'll be here first thing. My name is Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. And what's your first name, Ms. Beechum?" She told him, and he asked her to spell it.
"C-h-r-y-s-a-1-i-s."
"Pretty name," he said. "I met a Dewey Beechum this morning. He's going to build a gazebo for me."
"That's my father. He's an expert cabinetmaker," she said proudly. "He was one of the best hands at the furniture factory before they automated. He's looking for work now. If you know anyone who wants custom-made furniture"
"I'll be glad to recommend him." As she wrapped the blue cape in tissue and a Five Points grocery bag, he said, "Pardon my ignorance, but why is this called Potato Cove? I've just arrived in these parts. What is a cove?"
"A cove is smaller than a valley but larger than a hollow," she said. "Are you going to live here?"
"Only for the summer."
"Alone?"
"No, I have two Siamese cats."
"What brought you here?" she asked suspiciously.
"Some friends from up north camped in the national forest across the river last summer, and they recommended the Potatoes. I was looking for a quiet place where I could do some serious thinking."
"About what?" Her blunt nosiness amused him. He was nosy himself, although usually more artful.
"About my career," he replied cryptically.
"What do you do?"
"I'm a journalist by profession . . . Tell me about you. How long have you lived in the mountains?"
"All my life. I'm a Tater. Do you know about Taters? We've been here for generations, living close to nature. We were environmentalists before the word was invented."
"If you'll forgive me for saying so, Ms. Beechum, you don't talk like a Tater."
"I went away to college. When you go into the outside world, you gain something, but you also lose something."
"Can you make a living by weaving?" he asked. If she had license to pry, so did he.