I had three goals for my visit to the Paper and Fiber Arts Crafting Expo, and I was already failing at priority number one: keeping my friend Ava from buying more craft supplies than any ten people could use.

In their entire lifetimes.

We were only four booths inside the doors of the exhibit hall—a big, high-ceilinged barracks of a place—and I was already weighed down with bags full of Ava’s impulse buys. On the other hand, my own oversized reusable shopping bag was still empty.

“Ava, do you have a plan for all these supplies?”

Ava didn’t look up from sorting through paper packs. “Not yet. But you never know when an idea might strike.”

Calling Ava my friend wasn’t precisely correct. She was more a legacy: She’d been a critical care nurse who’d gotten my grandfather through his triple bypass surgery and recovery. She’d relocated to Portland with her family after her husband retired, but when he passed and her adult daughter moved out of state, Pops asked me to look out for her. “She’ll be alone in a new place, Tashie. She’ll need a friend.”

My bestie, PJ, claimed Ava didn’t need a friend so much as an intervention, but he loved Pops as much as I did and both of us would do anything for him.

So I’d reached out, and Ava had joined my circle of crafting friends about two years ago. She’d promptly remodeled her empty nest—including adding a state-of-the-art craft room—even though at that point, she’d never crafted a thing in her life. Since then, she’d filled the room to bursting with supplies and started dozens of projects, only to abandon them when they didn’t match up to her vision. But her belief that the next one would be The One never faded.

“You know, Tash,” she said, poking at chipboard embellishments, “sometimes I don’t think you’re serious about crafting at all.”

I blinked at her—or rather, at the pilled back of her pink cardigan, which was all I could see since she’d dived headfirst into a bin of washi tape.

Me? Not serious? Yes, all my crafts were hobbies, since my job as a technical marketing manager was what paid the bills. But my friends called me the Craft Whisperer. They teased me constantly about my ability to produce a project suited to almost any occasion on demand.

“What makes you say that?”

She stood up and jerked her chin at me. “Well, just look at you. You haven’t bought a single thing, and we’ve already been here for twenty minutes.”

“I like to walk the whole show before I make any purchases.”

“But somebody else could grab the treasures first. You’ve got to strike early.” She pounded one fist into the opposite palm. “Beat the crowds.”

“Beat the crowds, huh?” I peered around the vast, cement-floored hall. For some reason, the place was practically empty. Heck, there were more security personnel roaming the aisles than customers. Granted, it was a sunny day in early June—unusual in Portland, where we expected clouds and drizzle at least until the end of the month—so folks might be out soaking up a little bonus vitamin D. But this show had always been packed before.

Ava patted me on the shoulder. “I know you mean well, Tash, and your little projects generally look lovely, of course, but you need to stop limiting yourself. Think bigger. Think more.” She pointed to a display of Swarovski crystals. “More bling! More colors! More flair!”

Flair? Really?

“But don’t you think you ought to pace yourself? You’re three hundred dollars down, and we’ve still got an acre of booths to visit.”

Her mouth twisted in disdain. “Thanks to Charles’s hefty life insurance policy, three hundred dollars is nothing. Let me tell you, the best thing that man ever did for me was die.” Her gaze slid past me and her eyes lit up. “Oooh, Tash, look. Ribbons!” Her topknot of graying locs bounced on her head as she beelined to the neighboring booth. I sighed and followed in time to have her stack ten spools of ribbon in my hands. I fumbled them, but smooshed them against my stomach in a last-minute save before they could tumble to the ground.

Ava tsked. “Careful, there, Tash. These cement floors are always grimy. If you drop something, it could get dirty.” She peered around as the vendor ran her credit card. “Where’s your little friend, anyway? What’s his name? Pretty? Party? Putty?”

I hid a wince. “Purdy. PJ Purdy.” PJ just rolls his eyes whenever Ava gets his name wrong since she seems to do it just to get a rise out of us, but he’d have taken strong exception to being called little. Was he smaller than me? Yes, but then so many people were. He always insists that five-nine is absolutely average for a man, declaring, “I’m not small. I’m medium.” Besides, what PJ lacks in size, he makes up in attitude.

“Purdy, then. I thought he was supposed to meet you here with a hand truck.” Ava thrust a pair of sleeved scissors at me without looking to see if I’d grabbed it before she let go. “It’s not very thoughtful of him, making you carry all this stuff around.”

“I’m sure he’s got a good reason.” And I was starting to get worried. PJ was many things, but late wasn’t one of them. “He’s bound to be here—”

“Ooh, look, Tash. Alcohol inks!”

And she was off again in a patter of pink orthopedic sneakers, leaving me to collect her bag of ribbons. At this rate, I’d be trailing her all day and never accomplish my second goal—to learn at least two new techniques I could use as fresh content for the classes I taught at local craft stores.

I scanned the nearby exhibits while Ava cooed over the ink display. All my favorite vendors had booths here—Graphic 45, Bo Bunny, Tim Holtz, Copic—as well as a lot of independent suppliers. I gazed yearningly at the Blue Moon Scrapbooking booth. Maybe if I steered Ava in that direction…

“Did you see this?” Ava tugged on my elbow, and I nearly dropped all her bags. To be safe, I set them on the floor at our feet. “When you buy the whole set, they give you this neat special edition storage and carrying case. For free!” It was more likely that the cost of the completely unremarkable toolbox was buried in the set’s pricing structure, but I doubted Ava would believe me.

After all, I wasn’t serious about crafting.

I sighed. That ridiculous ink holder did not look light—it was probably made from particle board, for Pete’s sake—and I had few illusions about who would be carrying it around for the rest of the day. Or until PJ got here with the hand cart, at any rate.

As Ava zeroed in on a mini paper craft sewing machine in neon green—no, please no—I spotted a booth beyond the Blue Moon exhibit, tucked in the corner behind a giant fiber arts display. From what little I could make out through an enormous macrame sunburst, their inventory looked interesting. I’m a big believer in supporting local businesses whenever I can—and when I can keep Ava from getting distracted by the next shiny object.

I glanced at her. Yup, she was adding that hideous sewing machine to her purchases. Could I sneak away to check out that tempting display?

I hmmmphed, glancing down at my outfit, and heard PJ’s voice in my head: “LaTashia Danielle Fredericka Van Buren, you are a six foot tall, plus-sized, tawny-skinned goddess, and you’re wearing a navy crinoline dress decorated with huge white scissors, and a cocktail hat with feathers. You are incapable of sneaking anywhere.”

Of course, since I’d completed my look today with my navy and white platform Chuck Taylor’s, I was more like six foot three—not counting the feathers—but I’d learned to embrace my height a long time ago. Besides, I’d purposely dressed to attract attention today since my third priority was to drum up interest in the class I was teaching tomorrow at Central Paper and Supply.

Nevertheless, Ava was so intent on buying the totally unnecessary sewing machine that she didn’t spot me sidling away, and I escaped undetected, at least by her. The corner booth—Dianne’s DooDads—was a mixed-media dream, all about ornamentation. It was laid out like a candy store—tilted wide-mouthed jars full of miscellaneous bits and bobs, sold by the ounce and arranged by color. Little scoops were attached to each jar with bejeweled chains so patrons could serve themselves. More elaborate embellishments hung in small bags above the jars. A woman in a Dianne’s DooDads apron was listlessly transferring the by-the-ounce tchotchkes into mini mason jars and slotting them into wooden bins in strict color spectrum sets. Since her name tag read Dianne, I figured she must be the owner. She perked up when I leaned over the table to pick up an apothecary bottle full of mixed red crystals and buttons.

“Wow.” Her eyes widened as she took in my dress. “Your outfit is fabulous!”

“You like it?” Okay, I admit that I preened a little, swishing my skirt back and forth, because I loved the outfit too, and now that I was pushing forty, I’d stopped apologizing for my style and begun to celebrate it. “It’s one of my favorite fit-and-flare dresses.”

“The little scissors in the hat really pull the look together.”

“Thanks.” I touched the fascinator, securely pinned to my natural curls. “They’re only a temporary addition, but it’s the details that matter, right?” I wandered past her tables. “You have some truly lovely and unique things here. Are you local?”

“Thanks. Yes, I am. Well, I live in Tigard, but I do most of my business at shows like this.” Dianne sat on a tall stool, her shoulders slumped. “I should have paid more attention to my booth placement.” She gestured to the macrame monstrosity suspended between her and the rest of the hall. “Nobody’s going to see me back here. You’re only the second person who’s stopped by. Even the police almost missed me.”

I blinked at her. “Police?” I checked out a uniformed guy striding down the aisle. Yep, he was a cop. “Usually these events don’t warrant official law enforcement. What were they looking for?”

“They didn’t say. But they scared away my only customer. Not that she bought anything. She only had a chance to poke around in the embellishment jars for two minutes and flip through a handful of craft papers before, you know, the law arrived. I have a feeling I won’t break even on this show when it’s been my major income stream over the last few years.”

I checked on Ava, whose stack of ink merchandise had doubled since I’d left her. “Trust me. You’ve got nothing to worry about. In fact, today might be your best sales day ever.”

Hope flickered across Dianne’s open face. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. I’m not sure why the crowd is so thin, but that’s bound to change. In the meantime—” I put the jar I was still holding on her cash stand. I didn’t need it, but Dianne could use the morale boost. “I’ll take these. I can use them in the Christmas Card class I’m teaching tomorrow. It’s never too early to start your holiday crafting.”

“Really? You teach?”

I shrugged. “It’s a side gig for me. I’ve still got a day job that pays the bills.” I made some rapid mental calculations. I could add more jewels and buttons to my card set project, give Dianne a bit of business, and maybe promote her to my students. “In fact, why don’t you give me a jar of white snowflakes and a bag of gold stars.”

Dianne jumped off her stool and started gathering the supplies. “Thank you. You have no idea… Do you have a flyer for your class? I can plug it during the show”—she wrinkled her nose—“assuming I get more traffic.”

How about that? A new local craft supply connection and a check mark next to goal number three. Now all I needed was to work on goal number two, and—

“Crap!” I’d forgotten goal number one: Ava.

Dianne paused with my jars halfway in a red paisley bag. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, sorry. Not with you. Not with these. But I’ve got to go. It’s kind of an emergency.” I backed away. Ava wasn’t at the ink booth anymore—although all her bags were. “Can you hold those for me?” I fumbled a business card out of my crossbody purse and handed it to Dianne. “I really want to chat with you some more as soon as I… well…”

Dianne smiled and tucked the card into her apron pocket. “Deal with the emergency?”

“Exactly! I’ll be back. I promise.”