Free Killing Thyme by Leslie Budewitz Page A

the original Starbucks—started in the Market in 1971—stretched all the way up the block. The coffee wasn’t any better there than in any other location, or in any other espresso shop, but we humans relish our landmarks, and it’s a big one.
    Ten minutes later, I’d spoken to half a dozen vendors at the long craft tables, and word had begun to spread. Their cheeks were pale, and more than one hand trembled after hearing the news, as it held out a silver pendant for closer inspection or returned a credit card after a purchase. The Market artists are fiercely independent, yet deeply connected. We all feel a camaraderie with those who share our commitments, who make similar choices. Especially the choices that other people in our lives don’t understand.
    Like making art and selling it, practically on the street, practically outside, in a city where rain is more common than shine. Even with the occasional help of a sales assistant, it’s a tad bit crazy.
    Like buying a spice shop with zero experience. With nothing but guts and a small-business loan.
    The kind of craziness that keeps a woman up late at night and gets her going early in the morning. The kind of craziness I hope everyone finds, at least once in their lives.
    â€œI dreamed of owls last night.” The fused glass artist folded her arms over her heart and bowed her head. “Told myself it didn’t mean anything, but I knew better.”
    The soap maker squeezed into her neighbor’s space and folded her into an embrace.
    â€œBonnie hadn’t been here long,” the Rasta-haired photographer in the next booth said, “but she did good work. She’d have done well.”
    â€œShe mention any problems, any worries?” I’d vowed to not investigate. But in a brief moment between surges of thecrowd, when I had the vendors’ attention, I couldn’t help myself.
    â€œNot to me.” The soap maker slipped back to her own stall where a customer fingered heart-shaped goat’s milk soaps.
    â€œOh, remember? She and some woman were yelling—what day was that?” The glass artist held her hand below eye level. “Short, gray-brown hair, great tan. But I don’t know who she was. Or who started it.”
    Wednesday
, I didn’t say, and,
That was my mother
.
    The jewelry maker beckoned me over. I’d given her the five-gallon bucket full of rusty hardware my builder and I filled during the loft build-out. The necklace she made of tiny locks and keys is one of my favorites. “She was worried that she might have to move. She had a sublet, and the woman was making noises about wanting the place back.”
    Hannah? Bonnie hadn’t mentioned that to me. But then, she hadn’t said much last night. “What did she say?”
    The jeweler’s expression grew distant, one small hand fingering her chin. “She said she felt like she’d been on the move for thirty years. I said, you need a place of your own. We’re not like people who work regular jobs. We can’t just pick up all this”—she swept a hand over her display of earrings, bracelets, pendants, key fobs, and more—“and our materials and equipment and move on a whim.”
    I pictured the shelves of greenware, the boxes of clay, the wheel, the kiln.
    â€œYou have to protect your art and your space, I told her,” the jeweler went on. “But she said—how did she put it? She said that was a trap. You put down roots and you get stuck, and before you know it, your creative spirit dies.”
    Ah, humans. We don’t always make the best choices, despite thinking we know what we need. On the other hand, the Universe doesn’t always offer us the best options. In recent years, Seattle rents had rocketed higher than the Space Needle.
    â€œThose are cut from the passenger door of a 1957 Hudson.” She spoke to a woman holding a pair of robin’s egg blue earrings in a