CHAPTER TEN
Selma Masters closed the small, fat, green book in which she had been jotting notes, lifted the tray of her private sewing caddy, and tucked the book in the bottom compartment. She got the tray replaced just in time. Morton Benedict's second knock jarred open the small door inset in the wardrobe van's larger unloading door, and he looked directly in on the sewing-table area where she was standing.
"Sorry, Morton. I guess I was concentrating too hard," she said, gesturing with the cotton plaid shirt she had grabbed up in a hurry.
"For a moment, I thought you didn't love me any more, Sel," he said smilingly. He advanced toward her worktable and pulled up a folding chair where he could sit near her and watch her sew the old bone button on the authentic period garment.
"Silly.
