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settlers’ household goods, and the merchandise intended for the frontier merchants had been lost. The passengers had trudged in their sodden high-buttoned shoes to the nearest town and started life over with nothing.
    Nina Lane had been fascinated by the
Western Settler.
The manuscript left unfinished at her death, while set in her fantasy universe, was based on the riverboat’s story.
    “You’re going to
dig
the boat up?” Tess asked. “But isn’t it underwater?”
    “Not anymore. The river’s changed course over the years. It’s now under a cornfield. So as soon as the crop is in, we’ll start.”
    “That should be interesting.” At least it would be real history. He was looking for something that had actually been there, not just something that Nina Lane had imagined. Tess approved of that. Sheslipped the brochure into her purse, nodded farewell, and followed his advice, moving toward the water tower. A few minutes later she found herself at a chain-link fence with a gate wide enough for a tractor-trailer truck. The gate was tied open.
    “Are you here for the bus?” someone asked. “We just missed it.”
    “That happens, doesn’t it?” Tess said lightly. She didn’t mind waiting.
    There were benches on either side of the gate. She sat down and looked at the brochure the man had given her. The steamboat had been carrying both freight and passengers. The cargo was merchandise destined for little frontier towns, and the majority of passengers were from the French communities in Louisiana, having transferred from another steamboat in St. Louis. The brochure went on to describe the technology and funding of the new excavation project, providing considerably more detail about its dewatering system than interested Tess. She folded up the brochure. There was still no sign of the bus. So she took out her tatting shuttle and the piece of lace she was working on.
    A shadow fell across her work. She looked up. Oh, no. It was that woman from the herb table.
    The woman spoke. “You’re making lace?”
    Apparently they were about to have another “connection.” Reluctantly Tess spread her work so the woman could see it. “My grandmother taught me.”
    “She did? It’s lovely. What do you do with it? Do you wear it?”
    Tess shook her head. “I’m not the type.” Tess’s style was too simple for much embellishment. Sheloved lace. She loved looking at it, owning it, making it. Its beauty restored her, bringing her serenity, but she didn’t wear it.
    “Do you sell it? No”—the woman anticipated Tess’s headshake—”it must be so much work that you can’t think about doing it for money.”
    That was true. Tess had to give her credit for the insight.
    The woman touched the lace. “Lace—it’s like a metaphor for a woman’s soul, isn’t it? It looks so fragile, yet it is really quite strong, although it gets its strength from tight little knots.” Behind the lens of her glasses, her eyes were intent. “And the patterns are made of holes; it’s beautiful because of the holes.”
    Tess did not consider herself, or any other woman she knew, to be “made of holes.” Nor did she think her strength came from tight little knots.
    “Think of herbs,” the woman went on, “the way some of the least lovely ones will hold their scents the longest.”
    Tess supposed that was a metaphor too.
    Tess was a nice person. She knew that about herself. She was an art therapist, working in a retirement home, and the residents liked her. You have to be nice for that to happen. She was also a patient person. People who were in a big rush about things did not make lace. And like most women, she wanted to be liked, she wanted to make a good impression, she didn’t want unnecessary conflict.
    But she also had a core of self-reliance that came from being a child raised by grandparents, a child who could never be like the other children. She knew how to be alone; she liked being alone. She looked atthe woman directly.