promptly peed on the table, reminding Gretchen of Ronny Beam's health violation threat.
"No, no," Nina said, whipping a tiny pad out of her supply bag and shoving it under Sophie. "You go pee-pee on the wee-wee pad. Gretchen, get Nimrod. He can show her how it works. That's the best way to learn. By example."
Gretchen handed Nimrod over and snuck back to her table. Nina desperately needed a male companion to take her attention away from all those animals.
Gretchen propped her newly lettered repair sign on a stand and opened her toolbox.
April came rushing in, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and her arms filled with doll valuation books. A white paper bag dangled from her fist under the pile of books.
"The parking lot's filling up," she said, dropping everything on her table. "The ticket takers are letting them in. I almost didn't get through the mob. Have a donut." She dug in the bag, handed one to Nina, and held one out for Gretchen.
Gretchen shook her head no and glanced at her watch. Ten minutes till showtime. Her stomach was doing little flipflops. Until the show was under way, she couldn't think about eating anything.
Where did I put the stringing nylon? She dug through the toolbox in a moment of panic, then remembered she had stowed it in a separate plastic bag in her purse. She pulled it out with relief and considered her future as a doll restoration artist if she didn't improve her business and organization skills. Her new career didn't look promising. At this rate, she'd run the business right into the ground if her mother didn't hurry back.
The large hall was filled with stocked tables and lively exhibitors. She scanned her own collection of dolls marked for sale. Usually her mother sold an eclectic grouping, but since this was Gretchen's first show, she planned to focus on just one type of doll: Ginnys, which were extremely popular at the moment.
She wished again that she could have added the dolls from Chiggy's auction. If she ever saw that guy who had cheated her out of those dolls again, she'd chase him down. She'd keep an eye out for Duanne Wilson. Maybe he'd attend the show, if he was really a doll collector and not a scam artist.
Her mother's hard-plastic Ginny dolls were lined up on small stands, waiting for buyers. Gretchen knew she would have her hands full all day, answering questions about the Ginnys and repairing whatever came her way.
"Look at this," someone said, approaching the table. "A Goldilocks Ginny."
"This one is called Doctor Scrubs," someone else said, reading a tag. "Booties, a mask, green scrubs. Isn't it cute?
Can you knock ten dollars off the price of this one?"
The doll show had begun.
Nina's table, as Gretchen had predicted, was a huge hit. Everyone stopped to watch Nimrod ride in his embroidered purse on Nina's shoulder, his tiny face a study in sweetness.
"Nimrod, hide," Nina commanded. And the teacup poodle ducked down inside the purse to appreciative cheers. Bonnie Albright breezed by with a group of collectors at her heels. She stopped abruptly, as though Gretchen were an afterthought, and circled around to approach the table.
Gretchen lowered the antique ball-jointed doll she was attempting to restring. This one was challenging because of the small holes that the stringing nylon had to pass through, so she was glad for the distraction.
"Gretchen, there you are." A chunk of red lipstick graced Bonnie's front tooth. "This is Helen Huntington, president of the Boston Kewpie Club."
Gretchen rose and shook the older woman's hand. The contrast between the two club presidents was striking. Bonnie looked like a clown with her harsh red wig and painted features. Although well into her seventies, Mrs. Huntington had a face the texture of a newborn's belly. Plastic surgery, Gretchen guessed. And silver hair expensively bobbed. A Chanel suit. Svelte figure. Probably ate nothing but celery and carrots.
Bonnie continued the introductions.
"Eric Huntingon is accompanying his mother," Bonnie said.
Flabby, with a weak chin, the son had obviously indulged in a few too many pastries, making up for his mother's healthful habits. "What a turnout," he said. "I had trouble parking the car."
Bonnie frowned in concentration, apparently never having heard the often-mimicked "pahk the cah."
"Yes, well," Bonnie said, hesitantly. "Yes. And this is Milt Wood and Margaret Turner."
Milt Wood grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. He was fortyish and built like a linebacker, all shoulders and solid girth. "It's exciting to be here. A