“Is he Larkspur Smith or Bob Larkspur?" Shelley said, smiling.

“I have no idea. He refuses to be called anything but Larkspur. It takes a little getting used to."

“I wonder what Pre-Raphaelite cheekbones are," Shelley mused.

“I don't know, but you've got a couple of them, it seems.”

They hung the first quilts. "We need one of those old-fashioned tennis racket-like things to knock the dust off," Shelley said.

“A carpet smacker?"

“I'm sure that's not the technical term, but I know what you mean," Shelley said. "Another arrival.”

A rather old red compact car came up the drive and a young woman got out. "Is one of you ladies Mrs. Jeffry?" she asked in a soft voice. She was lovely — with a slim body, long legs, and a mass of dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She was dark-skinned. Perhaps part Indian or Spanish, Jane thought, but had startlingly blue eyes. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt with the tails tied at her waist.

“I'm Jane, and you have to be Layla Shelton," Jane said.

“How could you know?" the young woman said with a smile.

“I've seen your dress. It couldn't possibly fit anyone else. It's done, except for the fringe on the shawl. Don't worry. I have Mrs. Crossthwait here under lock and key to make sure they get done in time."

“Are you sure? I felt bad when you called and I tattled that she didn't seem to be getting along very quickly."

“I'm glad you did tattle. We'll have everything done in time," Jane said, hoping she wouldn't have to eat her words. She introduced Shelley and then said, "There's supposed to be a handyman to help with your bags, but I think he's run away from home."

“I don't need help," Layla said. "But it looks like you might. You're airing those quilts?"