Cutwork by Monica Ferris Read Free Book Online Page B

Dakota? Is it near Mount Rushmore?”
    “No, it’s a little north of Sioux Falls, where I went to visit some friends. There’s no needlework shop in Sioux Falls, but there’s a nice one in Dell Rapids. And the owner carries baskets made by a local woman, Marcy Anderson. I bought this one and a double-rim.”
    Shelly gave Betsy the name of the owner of the needlework shop, and the owner in turn kindly gave Betsy Marcy Anderson’s address so Betsy could deal with the basket weaver directly.
    And so the box Betsy was unpacking held a big round wool-drying basket on short legs, two double-rimmed baskets, an egg basket whose bottom was shaped like a human bottom, and a mitten basket.
    She enjoyed making displays and soon was deep in design mode, humming to herself, loading the baskets with goodies, and trying out places to put them, when someone tapped on the door to her shop. The sound was as if the person was using a key or coin, and Betsy knew before she looked around who it was. She saw a pair of long, darktrousered legs and a light blue shirt standing at the door. The head was hidden behind her needlepointed CLOSED sign, but Betsy grimaced. It was Jill, all right.
    She went slowly to the door and lifted the sign to see if she could tell how angry Jill was. There was no expression at all on the woman’s face, but Jill had a way with her face—the less it showed, the more she was thinking. Betsy braced herself and unlocked the door.
    “Hello, Jill,” she said. “Come on in.”
    Jill came in, removing her police cap as she did so.
    “I thought when you got to be sergeant, you didn’t have to work nights anymore.”
    “I’m just coming off duty, not going on,” said Jill.
    “Then you’ll have time for a cup of coffee, or tea?”
    “No. I just wanted to say . . . how disappointed I am in you.”
    Betsy nearly put on a surprised face, but caught herself in time. “I’m disappointed in me, too. I’m sorry I broke a confidence, Jill. It won’t happen again.”
    “I’m glad to hear that. Good night.” Jill put on her cap and turned for the door.
    “Jill?”
    She turned. “Yes?”
    “Are we still friends?”
    Jill’s expression had not changed throughout this conversation, nor did it now. “Of course.” She left the shop.
    Betsy turned back to her task, but her heart was no longer in it.
    At home, Jill sat down to her dinner of beef stew over a big biscuit. Jill never dieted; she wasn’t particularly slim, but hadn’t gained or lost an ounce since she was twenty. Tonight, however, she skipped the additional treat of frozen yogurt with strawberries she had planned on.
    Though her surname was Cross, Jill was seven-eighths Norwegian, and had been raised in the cool-tempered traditions of that culture. Except to cheer at Twins and Viking games, she had never heard her parents raise their voices. When disagreements arose, the household settled into a frosty silence until someone was willing to apologize; and even then, there was a distinct chill until hurt feelings healed.
    Jill used to envy people who shouted at one another over trivialities, then quickly got over it and embraced as warmly as they’d quarreled. She was pleased when she started dating an Irishman raised in that kind of family. But she quickly came to dread the no-warning flare-ups and found she had to fake the hasty, easy, sentimental making up that followed. She let the Irishman go and started dating Lars Larson, whose dogged, low-key emotions matched her own.
    Lars had been asking Jill to marry him for well over a year, but Jill knew he didn’t just want a wife: Lars wanted children, lots of them. He once confessed that he hoped Jill would get pregnant on their honeymoon.
    This would have been fine with Jill, except that she was a patrol cop. It was very difficult to chase fleeing suspects or handcuff angry, struggling drunks while pregnant. So Jill had wanted to wait until she got a desk job.
    Well, now she had the desk job, or anyway