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Standing, Pat and I were about the same height. She had dark brown hair that was graying slightly at the temples, dark eyes, a quick, infectious smile—a laugh to match, I was soon to learn—and an energetic voice and way of moving. She was comfortably dressed in a denim shirt, jeans, and sandals. “Maxie McNabb,” I offered with my hand, smiling back. “And this is Stretch. ” Stretch, sitting at my feet and hearing his name mentioned, was looking up at her, assuming approval. “Not at all,” she assured me.

And this is Bettye Sullivan,” Pat said, pausing beside the woman who had handed up the piece to the weaver on the ladder. ” Bettye was an attractive gray-haired woman with a hundred-watt smile that made you want to smile in return. Behind the glasses she was wearing, her eyes looked as blue as the shirt she had on. ” I questioned, impressed. “They’re fabulous. ” “Well, come out to the mesa on a day when I have some to do and I’ll be glad to show you,” she offered. “I dye in large batches, in big hot-water tanks, but not every day.

She was calling out urgently, “Where’s Pat? ” At the sound of her shrill, excited voice, everyone hesitated with what they were doing and turned to see what was happening. The woman glanced around, spotted Pat, and trotted across to where we stood. ” she asked. ” Pat asked, frowning. “Is it Shirley Morgan, you mean, Connie? ” From the frown and tone of her question, my intuition told me, she did not particularly appreciate the woman in front of her—or her demand for attention. It seemed disruptive and offensive to have Connie thrust herself into the pleasant, creative atmosphere of the gallery—making herself significant with what was obviously a sharp bit of gossip.