Four
Thursday afternoon, I was sitting at one of the outside tables at The Perfect Cup, finishing up my coffee and one of their famous chocolate croissants, when I heard my name. I turned just in time to be embraced by a flood of fabric.
“I thought that was you,” the flood said. Engulfed in a paisley hug, I caught a familiar whiff of incense. I knew who it was.
“Hello Bethany,” I said as I returned the hug.
After a moment she broke the hug and kissed me on both cheeks. Bethany Grabble had always been physically demonstrative, a heady combination of earth-mother and shrewd business woman. She was artistic, but not artsy. She took her art very seriously, and made sure she was well paid for it. She was probably very comfortable, but her outfit looked like it had been thrown together
