Chapter 22: North Light

The studio opened on the first Saturday of December, at ten in the morning.

There was snow on the sidewalk and a line out the door.

I had not expected a line.

June stood at the register in a clean flannel shirt and a bolo tie she called formal wear.

Eight carpenters in their good boots stood beside the display shelves they had built on their own time.

The foreman stood in the doorway handing out cups of cider.

The sign over the window said LOOM & LANTERN in plain black letters, and under it, smaller: Designs by Bethany Morrow.

I stood in the center of the room and looked at the north windows and the white winter light on the floor.

The walnut wall stood on the back partition.

The grain ran sideways.

At ten past ten the sun came around the corner of the building and slid across it, slowly, and the whole line of strangers said "Oh" together.

The silver-haired woman from the third row stood in front of the throws with her coat on, holding two of them against her chest.

"I came back for these," she said. "I've been thinking about that sunset since October."

"Take both," I said.

"I'm paying for both."

"Then take them with my thanks."

She paid.

She took my hand across the register and held it a moment, and she said, "Whoever taught you to stand up there taught you well."