Baroque and Desperate (3 page)

Greg blinked but said nothing.

“Ooh, Abby!” C.J., I knew, would have been glad to shed eight inches and forty pounds just so she could crawl into my skin.

“A weekend trip?” I croaked. “Which weekend?”

“This weekend. I'm headed down there tomorrow. My grandmother is hosting a little treasure hunt and, well, to be frank, I need an expert's assistance if I'm going to play.”

“What kind of expert?” Greg growled, and then seeing me frown, revealed his pearly whites.

Tradd smiled charmingly. In the war of dental brilliance, it was definitely a standoff.

“I need an antiques expert.”

“Ooh,” C.J. caught her breath, “I know almost as much as Abby.”

I faked a patient smile. “Of course, you do, dear. But you have a shop to run. Whereas I…”

Tradd nodded encouragingly. “We play these games from time to time. It's a family thing, I guess. This time it's grandmother's turn, so she gets to set the rules. She's calling this one ‘Find My Missing Antique.'”

“How bizarre,” Greg muttered.

“Who is your grandmother?” I asked. Mama has some distant relatives down along the coast, whom she visits from time to time. Although Tradd and
I are clearly not of the same social set, Mama may have heard of his family.

“Grandmother is Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III,” he said, the pleasure evident in his voice.

C.J. and I both gasped. We had just read an article on the Latham estate in
Architectural Digest
. Or was that
Art & Antiques
? At any rate, the article claimed that the Latham family maintained “one of the most significant collections of antiques in America today.” I remembered that phrase, if not the magazine, because I fantasized for a week that Robin Leach burst into my shop with his camera crew and bellowed the same thing about me for all the world to hear.

“
The
Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III?” C.J. asked weakly.

Tradd shrugged modestly. “I suppose there could be another, but I don't know her.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Let me get this straight. Your grandmother has lost some valuable antique and you want our Abby to come down and help you find it?

Our
Abby indeed! Where was
our
Abby when Greg decided he needed to go grouper fishing down in the Florida Keys and ended up groping some groupies instead? And where was
our
Abby when Hooter Fawn cast her doelike gaze upon Greg's handsome features and I didn't see him for almost a week?

“Oh, no, she hasn't lost it,” Tradd said, his voice as smooth as a California chardonnay, “she hid it. I just need to find it.”

“How is our Abby supposed to help?”

“Well, since she is an expert on these things—you see, Grandmother won't be telling us what the item is. It's up to us to figure it out from clues.”

“I still don't get it. What's in it for our Abby?”

I wanted to leap into the air and slap Greg silly, but breeding and geography prevented me. “Yes, what's in it for me?”

Tradd grinned, causing folks a block away to pull down their shades. “Well, besides the obvious—I mean, you know—I'll pay you five thousand dollars, whether we find the piece, or not.”

C.J. clapped her hands. “Hot damn! You go, girl!”

It was definitely tempting. No, it was downright seductive. I would gladly
pay
to see the Latham estate—if I had any money, which of course, I didn't. But to be driven there by a handsome man in a Jaguar,
and
have the opportunity to spend two nights in those surrounds—well, it was all too good to be true. Don't forget that Mr. God's-Gift-to-Women had stiffed me for two drinks on the plane.

He seemed to read my mind. “Bring a friend, if you like.” He nodded at C.J. “My brother Rupert is about her age, I'd guess, and he's flying in from Houston Friday afternoon. The two of them could make a team.”

C.J. grabbed my arm and buried her nails to the quick. “Oh, Abby,
pleeeeeease
!”

“It's a very tempting offer, dear,” I said reluctantly, “but five thousand dollars is one Federal sofa in so-so condition. You know that. It isn't going to restock my shop.”

C.J. moaned.

Ginger-brown fingers raked back a shock of vanilla-icing hair. “Oh, didn't I mention that the winner gets to keep the piece? I'm prepared to split its fair market value fifty-fifty.”

“No, thanks, Mr. Burton, I don't have time for games right now.”

“Perhaps I forgot to explain that the minimum value of this piece is one hundred thousand dollars.”

“Well—”

“All right, you drive a hard bargain. You can have the damned thing. After all, it's who wins that counts.”

“That's very generous of you, but I just have one little problem.”

“Would that be me?” Greg said hopefully.

I glared at him. “Actually, it's my cat, Dmitri. As you well know, Tradd, I've just come back from a cruise. Poor Dmitri has been penned up at the Happy Paws Pet Motel for five days, and I don't want to leave him there any longer.”

“Can't your mama keep him?” C.J. cried.

“I don't think so, dear,” I said crisply. “Mama is allergic to cats.”

Tradd cocked a sun-bleached eyebrow. “Is that all that's keeping you from coming?”

“Yes.” If it was indeed kismet, a kitty wouldn't stand in the way.

“Heck, then your problem is solved, because grandmother loves cats.”

“She
does
?”

“She's absolutely passionate about them. Her last one—Mr. Tibbs—died last month. I'm sure she'd be delighted to see a new set of whiskers around the old place.”

Broke and desperate as I was, it was finally an offer too good to refuse. “Okay, I'll do it. I'll go. But no hanky-panky, you hear?”

C.J.'s whoops of joy failed to drown out the sound of Greg slamming the door behind him.

M
ama picked up before the phone could even ring. “Abby, is that you calling to apologize?”

I swallowed my pride. It was the first solid food I'd had all day.

“Yes, Mama.”

In the ensuing silence permanent peace came to the Middle East, and Congress voted themselves a salary cut. “Then, say it, dear.”

“I'm sorry, Mama.”

“What is it you're sorry for, Abby?”

“I'm sorry for—uh—well—”

“You can't bring yourself to say it, can you, dear?”

I clenched my left fist and bit the bullet. “I'm sorry that I ridiculed you, and yes, I was too stupid to see the angel on the wall, although now it's just as clear as vodka.”

“You're looking at it now?”

“Uh—yes, Mama.” In for a penny, in for pound.

“Can you really see it, Abby, or are you just mocking me?”

I glanced around the room. I was at home, in my own little house where I live alone, except for Dmi
tri, my cat. I could definitely see
things
, just not angels.

“Yeah, I see it, Mama.”

“But Abby, dear, your shop doesn't have a phone anymore, remember? It doesn't even have a phone jack.”

“Uh—I'm using Tradd's cell phone.”

Mama jumped on that before Congress could vote themselves a pay hike. “Who is Tradd?”

“Tradd Burton. His grandmother is Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III. Her given name is Genevieve. She has a place down there near Georgetown. Have you ever heard of her?”

I had to wait while Mama retrieved the receiver she dropped. “The name sounds familiar,” she finally said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I've been invited to join the family for the weekend down there. Tradd wants to drive me down tomorrow.”

“
And
?” Although Mama sings soprano in the church choir, she seldom hits notes that high.

“I'm thinking about it.”

Mama sucked her breath in so sharply I felt the receiver press against my head. “You better think fast, dear, because you're getting a bit long in the tooth, and now that you no longer have a penny to your name—well, you get the picture. It isn't any fun to grow old alone.”

“I thought you liked Greg,” I wailed.

“Greg, shmeg—the man couldn't commit to his shadow if he had the choice. You take my advice, dear, and reel in the first good man to tug on your line.”

“You mean I shouldn't follow your example?”

“Don't be rude, dear—you'll just have to apologize again. Besides, I'm beyond the age of roman
tic involvement. For you, however, there is still a glimmer of hope.”

Somehow Dmitri, who had been rubbing against my legs, got his tail tangled in the phone cord. It took only a few seconds to extricate him, but during that time he caterwauled like a pair of toms on a backyard fence.

“What was that?” Mama demanded.

“What was
what
?”

“Abby, you're not at the shop, are you?”

“Stay away,” I hissed at my darn cat.

“What did you say?”

“I said, of course I'm at my shop. I'm looking at your angel right now.”

“Ah, yes, the angel,” Mama said, thankfully distracted. “It's going to bring you good luck, Abby. You just wait and see.”

“All the luck in the world won't put this Humpty Dumpty together again,” I muttered, and then immediately felt guilty for being such an ungrateful and pessimistic daughter.

 

Oh, what a difference a day makes. Friday morning I woke up just as broke as I'd been when I went to bed, but I was much richer in spirit. Not only did I feel determined to climb out of my financial hole, I felt strangely optimistic about my chances of doing so. Perhaps
that
was the good luck Mama had predicted.

“Rise and shine,” I said to Dmitri, who was lying on my stomach. “You and I are taking a trip to the coast.”

Dmitri rolled over and purred, waiting for his chin to be scratched.

“Up, you flea-bitten feline!”

He yawned and then resumed purring. No doubt
I would have given in and scratched him into heights of ecstasy, had the phone not rung. As it was, I was lucky to take the call with my innards intact.

“Abby's Love Palace,” I said breathlessly.

“Abby?”

I sighed. “Yeah, it's me, Greg.”

“What the hell kind of way is that for you to answer the phone?”

“This is my house, dear. I can answer any way I want.”

“What if I'd been someone else?”

I paused long enough for the Senate to eliminate pork from the legislative menu. “If you were someone else, odds are you wouldn't be grilling me like a weenie.”

As usual, Greg misinterpreted what I said. “
Is
there someone else?”

“That really isn't any of your business, is it?”

“Damn it, Abby, you're not really planning on going down there with that guy, are you?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't.”

“Because you hardly know the dude.”

“Bzzzz. Wrong answer—you lose.” I hung up.

 

Tradd said he would pick us up at my house in Charlotte, North Carolina, but I told him to meet us at Mama's house down in Rock Hill, South Carolina. It was on the way to Georgetown, and I had a few things to straighten out south of the border.

Rock Hill is not only my childhood home, it's home to lovely and prestigious Winthrop University, where both my children are in attendance. I was driving down Oakland Avenue when I saw Susan sitting in the sprawling shade of a live oak tree in front of the Tilman Administration Building.
She was not alone, and from what I could see, her companion appeared to be of the male persuasion. I strained to see more.

It pains me to say this again, but it
is
therapeutic; my daughter has terrible taste in men. I suppose I am to blame for that. Just look at the example I set for her. It would be nice to blame it on genetics, but Daddy was a wonderful man, and so were both my grandfathers. No, it all goes back to that fateful day when I met Susan's father on a water slide, and didn't have the sense to realize that the slide wasn't the slipperiest thing around.

I found a place to park behind the music department and by the time I hoofed it around to the front lawn the young man was gone. I know his disappearance was incidental, because the second Susan looked up and saw me, her eyes grew wide as magnolia blossoms.

She jumped up. The one good thing her daddy gave her was six inches of height. At five feet three she towers over me.

“Mama!”

“Hey, Susan—”

“Didn't Nana tell you I was sorry? I was going to mail the check, I really was—”

I hugged her. I imagine a gazelle being hugged by a python has a similar reaction. We were, after all, in the open, in broad daylight, and I am her mother. At least the gazelle has a chance of escaping.

“Mama, don't,” she gasped, “there are people looking.”

That was nonsense, because at the moment we were completely alone, if you didn't count the couple intertwined next to the bushes fifty yards away.
Their eyes were certainly not on us. I let go anyway.

“I just don't want you getting away before I have my say.”

She sat down glumly.

I sat cross-legged, facing her. “I'm not mad, dear.”

“You're
not
?”

“No. These things happen. I forgot to mail my insurance in once myself.”

“You
did
?”

“Yes, but—well that was a long time ago. The point is, I understand completely.”

“You
do
?”

I nodded. It's harder to spot a growing nose on a bobbing face.

“I really was going to mail it, Mama. In fact, I was on my way to the post office when a friend asked me if I'd help him look up something in the library for a quiz.”

“Is that the same friend you were talking to a few minutes ago?”

She turned the color of a ripe pomegranate. “Were you spying on me?”

“Of course, not, dear. It's just that when I drove up I saw you talking to a young man. Is he your boyfriend?”

“Mama!”

“Be coy if you want, dear. Just don't expect me to tell you about the hunk with the Jaguar who's taking me to the beach.”

I seldom drink, I don't smoke, and I haven't done you-know-what for ages. One of the few pleasures I get out of life is shocking my kids.

“Get out of town! I don't believe it!”

“It's true, dear. Well, we're not going to the
beach exactly. But close enough. His grandmother has a house down near Georgetown.”

“His grandmother,” she said and sniffed. “Sounds like a lot of fun. Does he really have a Jaguar?”

“You bet. And a tan like you wouldn't believe.”

“What's his name?”

“Unh-unh. You first.”

She rolled her eyes. “Geez! All right, his name is Randy, and he's just a friend.”

“Is he a student here?”

“Yes, he's a student. Now, can we drop him and talk about your hunk?”

I suppressed my urge to jump up and do a little soft-shoe victory dance. Or maybe burst into a rousing rendition of Beethoven's “Ode to Joy”.

“Well, my hunk—his name is Tradd Maxwell, and—”

“Ooh, sick! Tradd Maxwell is too young for you, Mama. That's disgusting.”

I felt as surprised as the python, had the gazelle hugged him back. “You
know
him?”

“Sure. He hangs around with my friend Caitlin. She's going to puke when she hears about this.”

“Maybe it's not the same Tradd Maxwell,” I said hopefully. “This one is blond, and wears a gold chain around his neck that could wipe out the national debt.”

“Give it up, Mama. He's half your age.”

“So you do know him?” I would have dug a hole and crawled into it, except that the venerable old oak had a plethora of roots and my only tool was a nail file.

“Stick to someone your own age, Mama. Somebody old, like Greg.”

I told Susan I loved her, despite her poor man
ners, and that if she ran into her brother, she should tell him the same thing. The love part, I mean. Charlie is as selfish as any nineteen-year-old boy, but he is seldom rude.

Then, feeling like a balloon that has been deflated, chewed on by a slobbering puppy, and dragged through the dust, I went over to Mama's.

 

Mama opened the door wearing a pink dress with a full skirt pouffed to ballet proportions by a trio of starched crinolines. Since it was the week after Labor Day, her shoes were black patent leather. Her pearls, as always, were white. Judging by her outfit, it could have been any day of the week.

“Come in, dear, come in!”

“I can't, Mama. Dmitri's in the car and—”

Mama grabbed my right arm and yanked me into the foyer. “He's just a cat. He'll be fine if you parked in the shade.”

“Mama, is that a pork roast I smell?”

She patted her pearls innocently. “I don't smell anything.”

That was like the pope saying he'd never been to church. Mama can smell what her sister Marilyn is cooking for supper over in Atlanta, and that's a five-hour drive. She claims even to be able to smell trouble. I will admit to having a pretty good sniffer myself, but I am nothing like her.

“Mashed potatoes, pan gravy—black-eyed peas, and let's see, peach cobbler for dessert. Am I right?”

Mama shrugged, pulled me in, and closed the door behind me. “Please, dear, there's no reason for the neighbors to hear.”

“Am I right?”

“You forgot the garden salads.”

Unlike my mother, I have a hard time smelling lettuce across a room. “This better not be for me, Mama. I told you I'd be stopping by for only a minute.”

“Everyone has to eat lunch, Abby. And besides I thought that nice C.J. could join us.”

For a fact, Mama is fond of C.J. For some strange reason the two of them giggle together like schoolgirls. But this was not the sort of lunch Mama fixes for single women. This was her snag-that-rich-handsome-bachelor-for-my-poor-divorced-daughter special.

“So you have heard of Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III, haven't you?”

“Abby, dear,
everyone
in the low country has heard of Genevieve Latham. Old Money Bags they call her down in Georgetown. But not me, of course—I would never say such a rude thing.”

“Of course not, Mama. It would be foolish to gossip about prospective bridegrooms for your desperate daughter.”

“Why, Abby, how you talk!”

“Mama, don't you have better things to do than to meddle in my life?”

“Not a darn thing,” Mama sniffed and headed for the kitchen.

The doorbell rang and I rushed to get it, but Mama beat me to the foyer. It's amazing how fast she can run in high-heeled pumps.

It was Tradd and C.J. He was just as handsome as ever, having ridden down from Charlotte with the top down—perhaps a bit more tanned even—but C.J. looked like something my Dmitri might have dragged in from under the back hedge.

“Hey, there,” Tradd said, flashing his set of
pearls at Mama. “Is your mother home?”

“This
is
Abby's mother,” C.J. said dryly.

Mama was beaming. “Come in, dear,” she cooed. “I thought y'all might like a little lunch before y'all leave.”

“It would be a pleasure, ma'am.”

I glared at my progenitor.

“Sweet tea or plain?” Mama chirped obliviously.

“Sweet.” Tradd's golden eyes were already busily scanning the living room, no doubt judging Mama, and by extension me, by her 1950s decor.

Mama seated us at the dining room table, Tradd on her right. C.J. on her left. I was, of course, at the opposite end, far out of kicking range. In all fairness, it was a delicious lunch and my mother behaved herself admirably until dessert.