day before still occupied most of Gretchen thoughts. That, and the show she didn't feel prepared for. She dabbed a doll repair hook with nail polish labeled Poodle Skirt Pink.
"I love the color," her aunt said, observing the splash of pink on the repair hook. "But when I bought the polish for you, I thought you'd wear it on your nails, not waste it on your tools."
"I'm trying to organize my new toolbox." Gretchen picked up a clamp and steadied her polishing hand. "I'll be restringing dolls tomorrow, and I need everything organized."
"That doesn't explain the polish."
"I'm personalizing my tools so they don't disappear. With all the traffic through the exhibit hall, I have to be careful."
"Well, at least color-coordinate your ensemble by painting your toes the same color. And since when are you worried about order?" Nina looked at the surrounding disorder.
"Self-improvement. I'm determined to put some organization into my life. I'm tired of spending so much time looking for things. My mind is scattered, but I'm going to change."
Nina looked skeptical.
Nimrod, Gretchen's black teacup poodle, looked on from his bed in the corner. Wobbles, the three-legged cat Gretchen had rescued a year earlier in Boston after a hitand-run, cleaned himself in the doorway, running a moistened paw over his face, one watchful eye on the activity in the doll workshop.
"I've inherited a menagerie," Gretchen said, holding the hook in the air to dry.
"You love every minute of it." Nina twirled around in a full circle. "The animals are good for you. Admit it."
Gretchen blew on the wet polish to hasten its drying and considered Nina's observation. Did she enjoy Wobbles and Nimrod? Absolutely. Would she admit it? Never. Her aunt claimed psychic abilities. Let her figure it out on her own. Nimrod yawned leisurely from his bed, and Gretchen gave him a tender look in spite of her frayed nerves. Thanks to Nina's experienced guidance, the puppy had quickly adapted to his traveling purse and accompanied Gretchen most of the time.
Nina was a purse dog trainer, teaching miniature puppies to ride in their owners' shoulder bags. Leave it to her aunt to come up with a one-of-a-kind occupation that included unlimited freedom of movement, a unique expertise, and a great deal of patience. Purse dogs were now all the fashion among the local doll collectors.
Nina leaned closer to study Gretchen's polishing technique. "Maybe you should go back to graphic design work. Look how good you are."
"Very funny."
"Do you miss it?"
"Not at all. I'll never go back to the corporate world. This . . ." Gretchen looked around the workshop, ". . . is where I belong."
It took all her willpower to keep her hand steady, her heart rate even, and her words light. As if the pressure of her first show and the abrupt demise of the auctioneer's assistant weren't enough. She had another problem.
"You just missed that clamp and globbed polish on your fingers."
Gretchen jammed the cover on the polish and dropped her chin into her hands. "He's here, you know."
"Who? Who?" Nina said with wide, rounded eyes. She dipped a tissue in polish remover and swiped at Gretchen's fingers.
"Steve Kuchen," Gretchen whispered. She tensed at the thought of coming face-to-face with her former boyfriend. Steve, who had cheated on her. With a summer intern, no less. What a cliche. A very young summer intern, at that.
"It's about time he showed up. For a while I thought he didn't care. How long has it been?"
"Two months." Could it really have been that long since she had packed up and fled from Boston and from him?
"How can you walk away from a seven-year relationship without at least talking it over?" Nina asked. "Even if he did deserve it." She caught the look in Gretchen's eyes and made a hasty revision. "Which he did. No doubt about it. The cheating pond scum."
Gretchen stared at the nail polish.
"Not," Nina added, quickly, "that I don't support you in your decision. I love having you here."
"My life certainly has changed since I left Boston."
"That's true. You turned thirty--"
"Don't remind me."
"--and you have a new home and a new job."
Gretchen didn't want to point out that she was, at thirty, living with her mother, or that her mother had offered her a partnership in the doll repair business out of pure pity. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Her mother's business had taken off with the publication of her first doll collecting book, and she'd actually needed Gretchen's help. The fact remained though: Gretchen