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"Come on in.” I ushered her in front of me.

"I'm Darline Laske." She said it like it should ring a bell, and then, reading my expression, added helpfully, "My son Dane bought me the beautiful sculpture for my birthday? You sent a birthday card."

“I remember.” Well, I remember now, that is.

“My son is a doll, isn’t he?”

“He sure is something,” I said. I couldn’t very well tell his mother that his son was a creep, now could I? “I hope you liked what he picked out.”

“Oh, it was wonderful. I was wondering if I could get the contact information for the sculptor. I want to send him a card to let him know how much I prize his piece.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Laske⁠—”

“Call me Darline.”

“I’m sorry, Darline. We don’t give out the contact information of our artisans, but you’re welcome to give me a card and I’ll pass it along.”

“That would be wonderful. I’ve already written it.” She opened her purse and pulled out a stamped card with Henry Sharp’s name on it. "I just wanted to tell you in person," she said. "It's in my sitting room where I can see it every morning. I think it's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me." Her eyes were bright. "Dane said you helped him choose it. I wanted to thank you."

"That's entirely Henry’s doing," I said. "I just pointed your son in the right direction."

"Well." She squeezed my hand. "You pointed him well."

She stayed for another ten minutes, looking at the new pieces from Miss Laughton, asking questions about the pressed wildflower process with the genuine curiosity of someone who actually wanted to know. By the time she left, I'd wrapped up two smaller prints and she'd promised to come back in December.

Three more customers came through the door before I'd finished entering Mrs. Laske’s sale into the register.

I glanced at my iWatch. Eight forty-seven. Ernie had a dentist appointment and wouldn't be in until eleven. It was just me.

I tied on my apron and got to work.

This was the part of owning Gathered that nobody saw in the spreadsheets—the part where a woman drove across town because her son had listened, where three strangers wandered in and one of them stood in front of Bertha Conners' strawberry rhubarb preserves for so long I knew she was going to buy two jars. The part where I got to tell the story of every maker behind every piece, where the shop was full and warm and doing exactly what I'd imagined it doing when I was sixteen on a mountain watching Judy pull a rug off a loom.

I loved this. Even on the spreadsheet days. Even when I was cross-eyed with reconciliation errors and mismatched weights.

Weights.

I paused mid-transaction, the thought surfacing from wherever I'd filed it.

The cashmere throw. Six pounds, but the shipping weight had been six pounds, eight ounces. I'd written it off as a scale calibration issue, because that was the simplest explanation, and then the Pacific Rim situation had taken up so much space in my head that I'd let it sit. But I'd never actually checked the scale. I'd never looked at any of the other recent shipments to see if there were other anomalies.

Tonight. I'd go to the warehouse and look tonight. I didn’t want to be spending more on shipping than I needed to. That sort of thing added up.

I finished the transaction and turned to the next customer with a smile.

Ernie arrived at eleven with a numb jaw but a determined expression. He wanted to prove the Novocaine wasn't slowing him down so I handed him the register and retreated to the back to check weights versus shipping costs but then Adam called.

"Hey." Something in his voice was off.

"Hey. What's going on?"

"I have to cancel tonight."

"Okay." I waited.

"I can't talk about it right now. I'll explain the next time we see each other."

"Adam." I kept my voice even. "Are you okay? Is James okay?"