"It's too late to worry about that now,” Aunt Beth said, and handed her a ring of keys. “And if I'd given you time to think about it, you'd still be sitting alone in that house in Oakland, mourning for a man who isn't coming back. These open the door to your studio,” she continued, ignoring the raw wound she'd opened in Harriet's heart.

Harriet wasn't mourning. Not by a long shot. She was angry. If Steve hadn't died, she'd have killed him herself-with her bare hands, too. And alone was just how she liked being. If you can't trust anyone then alone is the safest way to be.

"This one is for the outside door to your house, and this one your storage shed out back,” Aunt Beth continued, pointing out individual keys. “You were one of the best young stitchers Foggy Point has ever produced. It's like riding a bike. It doesn't leave you, even if you do move away for ten years.” She plopped a garish Hawaiian print hat she'd bought for her trip on her short white hair. “Don't forget to water the pansies in the window box. They dry out pretty easily even this time of year. And try to visit Avanell. She says she's fine, but there's something going on. She looks worn down, and it's not from working. She's always worked a lot. No, something's bothering her. And all of a sudden she's doing all kinds of odd color combinations on her projects, too. A person doesn't change like that without some reason."

Avanell Jalbert was Aunt Beth's best friend in the world and had probably had a hand in Aunt Beth's plan to have Harriet run her business while she was gone.

"I've been gone fifteen years, not ten, and I will check on Avanell. But if you come back and I've lost all your customers for you, don't say I didn't warn you."