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in fact, catered to the rest of us. He was one of the vendors who sold all the paraphernalia collectors depended on: the awls we used to punch the heavy paper stock we mount our buttons on, those heavy-card-stock pages, plastic sleeves, wire, cleaners. Always impeccably dressed and soft-spoken, he was a pleasure to do business with. After we exchanged greetings and hugs, he introduced me to his partner (business and personal), a younger man by the name of Elliot, who had the flair of an artist and the face of an angel.
    “Wait until you see what Elliot has been up to.” Langston’s eyes gleamed. He stepped forward and took white glass plates from the stack on the buffet table and passed them down to me and Helen before he grabbed his own. I followed him on one side of the buffet table, with Helen and Elliot on the other, and together, Langston and I piled our dishes with mixed green salad, lemon chicken, horseradish-encrusted grilled salmon, and roasted seasonal vegetables in all the glorious colors of the coming fall.
    “He’s not just a woodworker, you know,” Langston said, with a quick smile at Elliot and one hand poised above slices of cheesecake and the sugar cookies shaped like buttons. “Elliot is an artist.” He took two of the cookies and put themon his plate. “He’s making awls with hand-carved handles. Cherry, mahogany, oak. They are magnificent. You are going to be so impressed, Josie. I’m going to make a prediction—before this week is over, you’ll be carrying a full line of his tools in that sweet little shop of yours.”
    I had no doubt of it, and told Langston so. We crossed the room together chatting about the different woods Elliot was experimenting with and took our places at one of the tables near the window. I’d gotten exactly one bite of lemon chicken into my mouth when I heard Thad Wyant’s voice rattle the chandeliers.
    “You call that rare? Shucks, that little ol’ piece of beef could be used fer a doorstop. I said rare. You know, as in red. Mooing.”
    That bite of chicken felt like a brick going down my throat, but I managed to choke out “Excuse me” to my fellow diners and got up from the table so I could hurry over to the buffet, where Thad was nose-to-nose with a man in a tall white toque.
    Thad didn’t miss a beat. He took one look at me and poked his chin in the direction of the server, who was shaving thin slices of beef from a prime rib the size of my button shop. “You see what this here fella is trying to pass off as rare? I told him rare. Josie, sweetie, you understand that, don’t you? But this guy here—”
    I took a look at the tag the server was wearing. “I’m sure Jorge is doing his best,” I said, and tossed the server a smile that I hoped would count as enough of an apology until I had a chance to slip him a little extra tip. “You know how restaurants are these days, Thad. They even have that little disclaimer on their menus. About how they can’t serve undercooked meat because of the risk of contaminants.”
    “Horse hockey!” Thad swept off his Stetson and ran ahand through his salt-and-pepper hair, which hung over his collar. “They don’t want to take responsibility for how their food is cooked so I should eat meat that’s better thrown out to the coyotes? I don’t think so. And another thing—”
    This was pretty much when I became aware of the fact that the gentle buzz of conversation that had filled the dining room earlier had pretty much come to a halt, and a couple hundred pairs of eyes were trained on us. I knew I couldn’t waste another second. Over the last few months, I’d worked with Micah, the banquet manager, to put this dinner together, and I scanned the room, spotted him, and caught hold of Thad’s arm. One more apologetic smile at Jorge, and I ushered our guest of honor over to where Micah was standing.
    “We need a steak,” I told Micah.
    Thad stepped between me and Micah. “A filet.”
    Don’t ask me how, but I