Beading seemed innocuous and apolitical enough.

I had to admit, Ariana had a point in wanting me to expand my horizons by meeting Henley townsfolk who weren’t part of the college community. With a full load of classes, plus office hours, faculty meetings, and research, sometimes it was hard to get off campus until late in the evening. Bruce Granville, my dark-eyed boyfriend, kept even stranger hours. A former Air Force pilot, now flying a medevac helicopter, he worked seven days on, from nine to nine, and then had seven days off. We’d settled into a routine that excluded nearly everyone except my students, a few colleagues, and Ariana.

“Your world is too small,” Ariana often told me. On those occasions, invariably, she’d form a circle-a planet, I figured-with her arms. “You need to get out more. And even if you don’t fall in love with everyone in the beading class, you’ll end up with something useful,” she’d added, appealing to my multitasking, goal-oriented personality. She’d held up, in turn, a beaded basket, a bead-fringed bookmark, and a ballpoint pen covered with multicolored seed beads. I thought it was a stretch to call them all useful.

After a couple of classes I found I liked the craft and the crafters more than I’d expected. All the other stresses in my life disappeared when our conversation focused on the best gauge wire to use for each kind of bead. Or when I had to concentrate on picking up tiny beads with a needle and thread and keeping them from rolling off the other end. I was a novice at the hobby, however, and doubted I’d ever be as good at it as I was at making and solving puzzles.

Ariana wasn’t finished with me this afternoon. As the six other women, all more advanced beaders than I was, turned in my direction, Ariana asked, “Were you engaged in some high-level mathematics, Professor? Or were you tied up in the backseat of a helicopter with a Colin Farrell lookalike?”