At precisely 7:59, PJ sailed through the door and struck a pose. He was wearing a vintage black double-breasted suit, a black fedora, and his boa. “Hello, ladies,” he said, trying—not very successfully—to match the voice of that yummy man in the Old Spice commercials.

I was helping a customer choose a Christmas-themed die. She edged toward me. “Is he somebody?” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “He looks like somebody.”

“Oh, he’s somebody, all right.” The best friend I’d ever had, but I doubted that’s what she meant. PJ would be thrilled with her reaction, though. Bemoaning his thirty-something white-guy averageness—medium brown hair, medium brown eyes, medium size—he always tried to counter it with a little extra flair whenever we went out, although he never went too far overboard. He claimed there was no point: “LaTashia Danielle Fredericka Van Buren, there’s zero chance of anyone noticing me, even if I were stark raving nude. Not when you sashay in wearing one of your swing skirts and a beehive wig.”

Not that I’d be wearing that particular wig tonight. It didn’t go with my black Breakfast at Tiffany’s cocktail dress, plus that wig would never fit in Moocher. I’d have to cut a hole in the roof and PJ certainly wouldn’t want a permanent sunroof in rainy Portland.

“Hi, PJ,” Evy caroled. “Come see my scrapbook. Tash helped me.”

PJ flung the end of his boa over his shoulder—Graciela shook her head at the teal feather fallout—and sauntered over to the table. His eyes widened behind his glasses when he saw the puke-poo-purple monstrosity on the corner of the table. “Tash helped you with that?”

Evy chuckled. “Oh, not that one. But my niece graduated from OSU last month. It’ll do for that, don’t you think?”

“Charming,” PJ murmured faintly.

Oh, lord. Adding OSU orange and black to puke-poo-purple? Somehow I’d talk her out of it, or her niece, a perfectly lovely girl who’d attended several of my classes, would never forgive me.

As Evy displayed the wedding album for PJ’s somewhat pained inspection, I helped the customer gather the last of her supplies and escorted her to the cash register. There. That made the eighth person I’d walked through a project. Six of them—three birthday cards, a celebration of life memorial poster, and a Cuttlebug sale to a bride-to-be—had all happened in rapid succession. I hadn’t finished my own pages, but I’d contributed to Graciela’s bottom line for the day, which was more important.

As I’d played a combination of docent, craft counselor, and supply upseller, though, I’d kept an eye on Nikki. She’d spent most of the evening digging through her kit, although not very constructively since she never seemed to take anything out of it. The rest of the time, she’d watched Virginia put together another of her technically perfect but artistically bland genealogy pages.

Graciela bagged up the customer’s purchases and sent her out the door with a smile. Then she hustled out from behind the counter and gave me a hug. “I should pay you a commission. You sold three Cricuts, that Cuttlebug, and an easel that’s been gathering dust for months, not to mention all the paper, adhesives, and embellishments. Thank you.”

I patted her back. “I like helping people. No need for thanks.” Just please keep the store open.

“You help so many. Who helps you?”

“Oh, everyone does. I’ve got no complaints.” Well, other than wrangling Ava, or when Neal showed up at quitting time with one of his quick questions.

PJ joined us at the counter. “Do you really intend to wear business attire to Martini Blues? That is so not like you, LaTashia.”

“You know I don’t. You helped stow my garment bag in Moocher this morning.”

He clasped both hands under his chin. “Please tell me you brought the Breakfast at Tiffany’s one.”

“Absolutely.”

“Excellent.” He waggled the end of his boa. “It will go perfectly with my neckwear du jour.”

I quirked one eyebrow. “You’re wearing a tie and a boa. Isn’t that a little overkill? Or is this the latest trendy look?”

He reared back in mock outrage. “It’s not trendy. It’s style.”

Graciela and I both chuckled. “Oh, pardon me.”

“Go.” He took my arm and aimed me for the back room as the door chimed behind me. “Change. Hurry, or we’ll miss all the best olives.”

“You’d better contain your stylish neckwear or you’ll end up with feathers in your martini.”

“A small price to pay for fabulousity. Now shoo.”

When I got back to our tables, Nikki’s workstation was clear. “Did Nikki leave already?”

Virginia looked up from packing her kit with mathematical precision. “Yes. I’m surprised she didn’t say goodbye. She walked right past you.”

That must have been the door chime I’d heard. Drat. I’d wanted to make sure she was okay. Oh well. I’d give her a call later to check in on her.

Evy surveyed the shambles on the table in front of her. “Oh, dear. I don’t understand how you two always manage to stay so neat.” She sighed and began shoving her supplies haphazardly into her totes. I forced myself to turn away. Not my projects. Not my problem. I couldn’t fix all of Evy’s missteps, and I shouldn’t really try. After all, the point of doing handcrafts was to do handcrafts. Evy truly enjoyed the process, and even if her end products weren’t something that I’d create, they made her happy, and that was all that mattered.

I retrieved my garment bag from where I’d draped it over a chair but didn’t even bother with the tiny first floor washroom. This dress needed some extra special wiggling, so I headed upstairs to change in the larger restroom next to the classroom.

I unzipped the bag and—I admit it—I squealed. I couldn’t help it. I loved how this black sheath hugged my curves and showcased my back and shoulders. I silently thanked heaven for the invention of adhesive bras and Spanx as I slid into my dress. The thigh-high slit made stockings a moot point, but my legs were one of my best features anyway—or so PJ said. “You’ve got legs that look like they do something, LaTashia. Smooth, shapely, and sturdy, like an Amazon general.”

I fluffed out my natural curls so I’d have dramatic big hair and clipped a rhinestone-encrusted barrette to one side. The diamond stud earrings I’d bought myself to match the tennis bracelet added a classically elegant touch. A quick touch-up of my makeup with a glossy red lip tint and I was almost ready for the evening.

I had to take off Bjorn’s apology bracelet to work my fingers into my black satin cocktail gloves. Then I couldn’t fasten it again—the gloves looked fabulous, but they severely limited my dexterity. So I packed my work clothes into the garment bag, picked up the bracelet, slipped on my heels, and glided downstairs.

PJ was standing in the middle of the stock room, frowning at the awful orange sofa, but he looked up when I was halfway down. “Ooh la la.”

I handed him the bracelet. “Fasten this for me?”

“Ah, the Diamonds of Despair. A nice touch.” He bent his head over my wrist, the brim of his fedora brushing my bare shoulder.

“If you’re suggesting that I regret kicking Bjorn to the curb—”

“Not your despair, darling. His. Because this little token of his affection didn’t result in you throwing caution—not to mention your wits, your joy, and your self-respect—to the wind and agreeing to date him again.” He patted my wrist. “There. And the next time you wing off on vacation without me, remember: Never date anyone named for somebody in ABBA.”

He turned in a flurry of fluff and stalked out of the room, humming “Waterloo.” He collected my totes and kit. “Nobody wearing that dress, not to mention the Diamonds of Despair, should carry anything as mundane as a craft tote.” He peered at the pink embroidery. “Not even one as fabulous as this.”

Graciela locked the door behind us when we stepped out into the cool June evening. It was still light—the days leading up to the solstice were long up here north of the forty-fifth parallel—although it would be dark by the time we reached the club. My black patent stilettos weren’t made for long hikes, but luckily Moocher was parked in the spot nearest the sidewalk.

“I still can’t believe we fit all my stuff in Moocher. It’s not like it has a cavernous trunk.”

“It’s not a trunk. It’s a tonneau.” PJ lifted his chin. “And I’ll have you know that Moocher is quite spacious.”

“Uh-huh. Tell that to my beehive wig. If I hadn’t skootched down in the seat last weekend—which was not comfy—it would have been mooshed beyond recognition.”

“Let me rephrase. Moocher is quite spacious for reasonable use.” He opened the double doors to Moocher’s hind end—trunk, tonneau, or whatever. “Your wig collection is many things, LaTashia, but I doubt anyone would characterize it as reasonable.”

I was about to sling my garment bag on top of my totes when I saw it. “Drat. I forgot we still had Ava’s kit.”

PJ frowned at it. “I’d have thought she’d have summoned me to return with her prrrrecious the instant she spied the whites of your eyes.”

I shrugged. “She wasn’t here.” Come to think of it, I still hadn’t heard from her. It was probably just as well she’d been a no-show—she wouldn’t have been able to resist commenting on Evy’s puke-poo-purple page, and her snide remarks always made Nikki even more nervous. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drop it off at her place on the way to Martini Blues. It’s not far.”

He eyed me. “The chances of you escaping from Ava in under half an hour are precisely nil—if you escape at all. Let the record show that I think this is a terrible, no good, very bad idea.” He closed up the back and stalked to the passenger door to open it for me. “And if I’m right, the first round of drinks is on you.”

I patted his shoulder. “I promise. I’ll only take a minute. You can even leave the car running.”

“Excellent.” He held my elbow to steady me while I lowered myself onto the seat. “One of my boyhood dreams was to grow up to be a getaway driver.”