The Ming and I (9 page)

“Why the nice act?”

“Because I’m a lady.”

The doorbell chimed again, and a couple of guests glanced over, no doubt wondering what was going on.

“Say anything to anyone and you’ll be sorry,” he hissed.

I flung open the door.

I
t was the Roach, the third board member, which put her smack-dab in the middle of the totem pole. I honestly endeavor to be a good Christian—or at least a proper Southern lady—but I have to get this off my chest. From the very first moment I lay eyes on her, I could not stand Gloria Roach. She brought out the worst in me.

Maybe it was her name, maybe it was her occupation, maybe it was the weight lifter’s body crowned by the ferret face, but I just wanted to slap her. Almost as much as I wanted to slap a mime once in Charleston. That man followed me for three blocks, despite my demands that he get out of my face. Then he had the nerve to ask for money—in mime language.

“Good evening,” I said cheerily. If hypocrisy in the name of decency is an art form, then Mama is Michelangelo. I had studied at her feet.

Gloria gave me a swift, appraising look. “Well, well, we’re a bit of a sycophant, aren’t we?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It means one who is fawning and obsequious.”

“I know what it means, dear; I just can’t believe you said it.”

“Miss Lilah is not going to be impressed by your
dress. It’s a bit too much for a soiree of this sort, don’t you think?”

I glanced at her dress. It was knee length, navy with white piping, and had cap sleeves. Even with long sleeves, there would have been no way to disguise those bulging muscles. But physique aside she was more appropriately attired.

“I’m going to another function later,” I felt compelled to say. “A reception for the Prince of Wales.” If one is going to embellish, do it in a grand way, I always say.

“Here?” Only a dog could tell her laugh from a bark.

“No, in Charlotte.”

“Funny, but I don’t recall hearing anything about it. It wasn’t in the papers.”

“It’s all very hush-hush. For security reasons.”

“I have many clients in Charlotte. Important people. I would know if there were any royals in town.”

“This is an unofficial visit. Charlie is just visiting some close personal friends.”

That part wasn’t a lie. My son, Charlie, was spending the weekend with a buddy.

The ferret face was awash in skepticism. “Would you swear to that under oath?”

“I have sworn many oaths,” I said, and left her standing at the door. I had other guests to attend to, and a quick glance at my watch told me that Mama was about to make her second appearance.

No matter who was at the Charlotte party, it was not going to be a night
sans
royalty. Anne Holliday showed up right on cue, placing her fourth from the bottom on the pole. She was dressed in a pink-and-blue pastel floral dress, a pink hat the size of a basketball hoop, matching shoes, and a blue purse every bit as large as an attaché case. She came alone. Apparently there was no prince consort.

“Miss Timberlake?” she shrilled.

“Yes, ma’am. We met at the interview, remember?”

“I haven’t the foggiest recollection,” she said. “All I know is that Mozella asked me to come. Is she here?”

“Yes, ma’am. Please come in.”

She staggered in and stood blinking while I breathed in her fumes. It took me a minute, but I figured it out. Anne Holliday was a tippler. Mama must have had a hard time holding her tongue on that one.

“There is some nonalcoholic punch over there,” I said kindly, pointing to the dining room, where the crowd had gathered around Mama’s treats. “Would you like me to get you some?”

She was staring at me. “You look familiar. Are you and Mozella kin?”

“Yes, she’s my mama, and we’ve met before.” I reminded her of where and when.

“That’s right,” she said. “And I told you we didn’t need an appraiser, because there is nothing out there worth appraising.”

“Bingo.”

“No thanks, but I play bridge. Do you need a fourth?”

“We’re not playing bridge tonight, dear. This is a party for the docents.”

She looked like a sheep that had been asked an algebra question.

“The Upstate Preservation Foundation docents,” I said patiently. “The guides at Roselawn.”

She swayed, but not dangerously so. “That’s right. And you wanted to be one.”

“And you didn’t want me. Now how about that punch? Or would you prefer some nice strong coffee?”

She swayed again, and in an attempt to steady
her, I was nearly decapitated by the brim of her hat. It was with risk to life and limb that I got her seated in the nearest armchair, whereupon she immediately began to snore. I have very little experience with drunks, and none at all with women drunks of a certain age. Mama was going to have to hustle her bustle out of the kitchen and take over.

I tried to slip away discreetly, but was able to take only one step before finding myself jerked backward like a toy on a string. Somewhere along the line Her Majesty had managed to grab the skirt of my gown and was clinging to it with a bony talon.

“And you didn’t find anything out there of value, did you?” she demanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“At Roselawn, child!”

I peered under the hat brim and found her eyes. She was definitely wide awake now, and full of fire.

“Well, actually there are a number of nice pieces. No—make that excellent pieces. Upstairs.” I wasn’t about to confide my horrible discovery to her until I had had a chance to speak with Miss Lilah.

“Liar!” she croaked.

Everyone except Mama, who was still in the kitchen, looked our way. What’s a gal to do at a time like this, except to lie through her teeth?

“She said she passed a big fire on the way here,” I called out.

Several folks nodded, but that was it. Frankly that ticked me off. It might have been their own houses burning to the ground for all they knew, but they couldn’t tear themselves away from the food long enough to ask questions.

“I didn’t say anything about a fire,” Her Majesty said, but her eyes had closed and within seconds she was snoring again. I tilted her hat so that it hid her face and muffled the snores. Then I found Mama.

“Of course she drinks,” Mama said as she triumphantly took a cookie sheet of golden brown sausage rolls out of the oven. “Everyone drinks.”

“Not some Methodists,” I said. I reached for a sausage roll, but Mama slapped my hand.

“What do you want me to do, Abby?”

“I don’t know—call her a cab, put her to bed. What does one do with drunks?”

“Tsk, tsk,” Mama said as she slid a new sheet of snacks—cheese puffs, I believe—into the oven. “Anne Holliday is not a drunk. She’s just fond of drinking. And you’d drink, too, if your husband had neglected to write a will.”

“She was his mistress, Mama. You said so yourself.”

Mama cringed. “So I did, but she stood by that old goat for thirty years. Kept house for him. Helped him nurse his wife through the last years of her Alzheimer’s. He should have left her something.”

“Nonetheless, she’s sitting out there in your living room, sawing logs. We’ve got to do something.”

Mama wiped her hands before removing the crisp white apron that covered the lap of her black velvet dress. “Okay, Abigail, I’ll go out there and do something, but you watch those puffs. Check them every couple of minutes or so. As soon as they get as dark as the back of your hand, yank them out and put them over there to cool. Then pop those salami roll ups in. Think you can handle that?”

I rolled my eyes.

And I would have done a fine job, too, if Shirley Hall hadn’t strayed into Mama’s inner sanctum.

“Can I help?” she asked sweetly.

I shook my head, despite the fact that Shirley obviously knew her way around a kitchen. “How’s the food holding out in the dining room?”

She held up an empty tray. “Your mother’s a good cook. Did you help her?”

I suppose I could have taken credit for watching the cheese puffs and said yes, but I didn’t. I gave Mama all the credit.

“You know, you two look very much alike,” she said. “Almost like sisters.”

“My mother thanks you.”

“My mother and I don’t look alike at all.”

“My father was six foot and blond. If I didn’t know Mama better, I’d suspect the milkman. Although come to think of it, my brother, Toy, is six foot four and looks like a Viking.”

She laughed. “Family traits are funny things, especially given the mix of genetics we have in this country. My grandmother was pure Cherokee, but I don’t think I look Native American at all, do you?”

I shrugged. It seemed like half the people I knew claimed to be part Cherokee. Why was it nobody claimed to be part Navaho? Or Sioux? Perhaps it was a regional thing. At any rate, if all the part Cherokee in the eastern half of the United States were given full tribal membership, the Native Americans could have their country back in a flash.

“Are you into genealogy?” Shirley seemed to have an agenda.

“Not much, but Mama is. She did a thorough job of researching her family tree to see if she could get into the DAR.”

“Did she?”

“No. Mama won’t join any group that will have her as a member. Except for church. She sings in the choir every Sunday, but if you ask me the only reason she really goes is because her granddaddy’s name is on one of the windows.”

She laughed again. “Anyway, I find genealogy fascinating. It’s a form of history, you know. Take Miss Lilah, for instance—”

“Damn!” I shouted.

She recoiled in surprise.

“Not you,” I cried, and flew at the oven.

They weren’t smoking yet, but Mama’s puffs had browned to the color of my hair.

It wouldn’t even begin to cross Mama’s mind to throw a hissy fit in public. With lips as tight as a clam at low tide, she went to work on a new batch of cheese puffs while I mingled with the guests and awaited the arrival of the grande dame. Miss Lilah Greene, the real queen of Rock Hill, showed up at precisely seven o’clock, one hour late. Given her position, however, she was exactly on time.

We pecked cheeks and complimented each other on perfume choices—we had, after all, spent an entire evening together in a plantation house. After she had made her courtly rounds and was comfortably ensconced in one of Mama’s easy chairs with a plate of sausage rolls and a glass of cranberry punch, she got down to business.

“Have you had a chance to look things over more carefully?”

I braced myself to tell her the awful truth of my discovery. “Yes, ma’am—”

“Well, I think it’s a stupid idea!” Red’s voice drowned my words like rain on a corrugated tin roof.

“They do it at Brattonsville.” Shirley Hall was referring to another plantation and historic site near Rock Hill. “They even have Civil War reenactments there.”

“The War Between the States,” Red corrected her. “And the NAACP isn’t going to sit still for folks dressed up like slaves parking cars.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Shirley said calmly. “The white docents would dress up like southern belles and the black docents—”

“We don’t have any black docents.”

“But that’s my point; we should. Plantation life is
their history, too.” She looked appealingly at Miss Lilah.

Miss Lilah took a sip of the cranberry punch but said nothing.

“Fine,” Red said, “let’s advertise for black docents, but we can’t have them dressing up like slaves. Nobody will stand for it.”

“We can’t keep revising history,” Shirley said firmly. “Roselawn had black slaves, and if we’re going to show it as a working plantation, we need to be as authentic as possible.”

“With whips and slave auctions? It won’t fly for one thing, and for another thing it just isn’t right.”

I must confess that I was stunned. As despicable as he was, Red was apparently not a racist.

“What do the docents wear?” I asked Miss Lilah.

“Why, whatever they like, dear.” She meant that while dresses were mandatory, style, within reason, was up to the individual.

It was a generous policy, and I told her so. I also sided with Red on the issue of adopting costumes, particularly slave costumes. Frankly I belabored my points, anything to delay delivering the truth. But Miss Lilah did not maintain her position on top of the cream by being stupid.

“What are you not telling me, child,” she said bluntly.

“Well, Miss Lilah, uh—I—”

She stood up. “Out with it, dear.”

“You know all those lovely pieces you have stored upstairs?”

Her back stiffened, and the empty punch cup trembled. “Yes?”

“At least half of them are reproductions, Miss Lilah.”

She took the news calmly, then fainted.

I
t takes a great deal of panache to appear calm and collected when the grande dame of Rock Hill is lying spread-eagle (modestly, of course) across one’s living room floor.

“More canapés?” Mama said brightly, proffering a silver tray to her guests that was almost as large as a surfboard.

In the meantime I set about reviving Lilah Greene. Not having smelling salts handy, I removed my right shoe and held it, sole side up, over her nose. It worked like a charm. In no time at all I had her fully conscious and sitting in a chair. Some folks, like Anne Holliday for instance, weren’t even aware of a disruption.

“What do you mean they’re reproductions?” Miss Lilah managed to ask, gasping between each word.

I explained that they were, in fact, very good reproductions, and that as such, they were still worth a good deal of cash, although of course not nearly as much as the originals.

“But,” I added, “don’t take my word alone for it. By all means, get a second opinion. Rob Goldburg and his partner, Bob Steuben, at The Finer Things in Charlotte are the area experts on antiques. And there are lots of others, too. I won’t be at all insulted if you bring in someone else.”

Good breeding will tell, as Mama often says, and during my brief explanation Miss Lilah had managed to compose herself. Except for a few hairs that had managed to escape the confines of her chignon, she appeared as cool, calm, and collected as ever.

“I appreciate your candor, Miss Timberlake.”

“Please, call me Abigail.”

“Thank you, Abigail. But it won’t be necessary to get another opinion. I have taken the liberty of doing some background checking, and I am quite satisfied with your knowledge and, most importantly, your ethics. Everyone I spoke to thinks very highly of you.”

I was both flattered and annoyed. The idea of someone doing a background check was reminiscent of my college days during the Vietnam War. My best friend, Lorrie Anderson, took part in an antiwar demonstration in Washington, D.C., and as a consequence the FBI opened files on us and for months followed us around the Winthrop campus in their gray suits and fedoras. It was a horrible and humiliating experience. Actually I have no proof that the FBI even heard of us, much less harassed us, but Lorrie swore it was true.

I frowned to show that I was annoyed. “Do you mind if I ask who these people were?”

“Oh, just everyone. The two gentlemen you just mentioned, a Miss Wynnell Crawford, and a delightful young woman who tells the most fascinating stories.”

“That would be C.J.”

“No, I thought her name was Cox, or something. Yes, that’s it, Jane Cox. Oh, and a Mr. Frank McBride.”

“Frank? What did he have to say?”

Miss Lilah’s aristocratic lips pressed briefly together in an approximation of a smile. “Well, of all
the people I spoke to, he was perhaps the least effusive in his praise.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Now, that wouldn’t be ethical of me, would it Miss—Abigail?”

“Indeed not. I’ll ask him myself.”

She gently placed a reproving hand over mine, and I nearly jumped. Her hand felt just like the pet lizard Charlie used to keep. Cold-blooded, that’s what she was. It was about seventy-three degrees in the room, and that’s exactly how she felt.

“He just said that you exhibit a tendency to jump to conclusions.”

“I do no such thing! And I categorically deny his other charges as well.”

She produced a genuine smile. “There were no other charges, Abigail. Anyway, I would like to continue to use your services, for a fee, of course.”

“But why?”

“It would still be useful to have an inventory, don’t you think? You did say those are quality reproductions, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. The best.”

She shook her head ever so slightly, barely more than a tremor. “I don’t understand it. It wasn’t like the Roses—even Jimmy—to decorate with reproductions. Well, it just goes to show you that the old cliché is right. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Indeed it does,” I said smugly.

Had I known what lay ahead, I wouldn’t have bothered to turn any more pages.

It wasn’t just wishful thinking on Mama’s part. She did have a date with a guy from Scrub A Tub-Tub, and he was a hunk. Unfortunately his brain seemed to be a hunk as well. Concrete maybe.

“Hey, I’m Stanley,” he said when I opened the door. “You ready to party, babe?”

“Yes, but not with you, dear,” I said gently. I glanced at my watch. It was five until eight. At least he was on time.

He stuck his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “But you said we was going to party. You was going to show me the time of my life.”

“That was my mother. She’s in the kitchen. Why don’t you go on in and surprise her.”

He stared at me, obviously bewildered. “But you said—”

“We look alike,” I said kindly, “but Mama is twenty-one years older. You sure you still want to go on this date?”

“Oh man! She’s your mother?”

I nodded.

“Far out. I ain’t never been out with no one that old before. How old is she?”

“Eighty-two, but she’s well preserved,” I said.

“Wow!” He seemed absolutely delighted at the prospect of dating an octogenarian.

“This is a double date,” I said sternly.

His face lit up like a sheep who’d answered his algebra question correctly. “Cool.”

“You do not understand,” I said, enunciating each word. “There will be another person on this date. A man.”

“I ain’t never dated no man, either.” He shrugged. “What the hell.”

I sent him into the kitchen. I have to admit it: when Mama picks a man based on his physical appearance, she does a damned good job. This man had everything she said he had, and a pair of buns so perfect, they didn’t need caraway seeds. He was dressed, of course, but I can barely remember what he wore. A tux, I think, but without a shirt, because I remember seeing a swath of hair rising above the cummerbund and spreading across a massive chest. He was blond, blue-eyed, and either had caps or his
parents had married each other because of their teeth. If I’d been of breeding age, there’s no telling what kind of a fool I would have made of myself.

Except for Miss Lilah, all our guests were still there, and believe me, every female head turned to watch those buns disappear behind the swinging doors. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few male heads turned as well.

“Who was that?” Gloria Roach demanded. It is hard, however, to appear imperious when one is drooling.

“Just one of my mother’s students,” I mumbled.

The ferret face regarded me suspiciously. “I didn’t know your mother taught. What does she teach?”

“Well—”

“None of my students ever looked like that,” Shirley Hall said, and giggled.

I smiled at her gratefully. “Well, it was very nice having y’all here. Thanks for coming.”

They were slow to take a hint, or maybe it was us. At any rate, it wasn’t until after we yanked all the food off the table that they began to trickle out. Even then, it was almost eight forty-five before the front door closed on the last of them. Even with Stan’s help—he really was sweet—we were barely able to get things squared away before Frank arrived.

I introduced Frank to Mama.

“Who’s this?” he asked pointing to Stan. Frank lives up to his name.

“This is my mother’s date, Stan A Tub-Tub,” I said.

Mama glared, but Stan smiled sweetly.

“Where are they going?”

I smiled winsomely up at Frank. “They’re going with us, of course. You said the more the merrier.”

Frank frowned. “I didn’t mean gigolos.”

I looked him in his faded eyes. “Now who’s jumping to conclusions.”

He winced and opened the car door for me, which prompted Stan to do the same for Mama. If Mama was confused by Stan’s wince, she didn’t let on.

I wouldn’t say we were a congenial foursome, but I had been on double dates that were far less pleasant. At least no one threw up, and to my knowledge there was no urinating from open windows.

I will admit to being just a mite nervous when we pulled up in front of the pseudo Tudor house. There was valet parking, for one thing. And on the way over, Frank had confirmed that the duchess was indeed expected.

At the door it became apparent that she was already there. A tall, thin man with a walkie-talkie in his right hand took our names, and then started patting Mama down with his left hand.

“Touch me there again, and you’ll need headphones,” Mama said sweetly. She wasn’t kidding. My mother has an orange belt in karate, thanks to a burglar who paid her an unwelcome visit the year after my father died. She would, no doubt, have her black belt by now, if they had only seen the light and relaxed the rules a little. Pearls, if properly strung, are not a hazard in the martial arts.

Tall and thin stared at Mama. “Identification,” he snapped in a heavy British accent.

Mama opened her black velvet clutch bag and whipped out her South Carolina driver’s license. The man recoiled, and understandably so. I hear that only the Pennsylvania DMV is capable of producing pictures more ghastly than those taken in the Palmetto State.

“Blimey!”

“You’re not so much to look at, either,” Mama said peevishly. “If I had two of you, I could string some clothesline and hang my sheets up to dry.”

Tall and thin got on his walkie-talkie and had a
long, tiresome conversation with an unseen party. Every now and then he glanced down at Mama, as if he fully expected her to attack. At last he shut off the damn walkie-talkie.

“Go ahead,” he said grudgingly.

We sailed on into the mansion without further incident, which was really disappointing, if you ask me. I could have been a terrorist carrying grenades in my bra, or maybe even a land mine in my panties.

I was even more disappointed when Frank immediately abandoned our little group to engage in some dirty gossip with the host and hostess. From the few snippets I overheard, I managed to gather that the duchess had just left through the back door. Apparently there was a lot more to the story, but the three backs turned to us made it quite clear that if we wanted to learn more about the latest scandal, we would have to read about it in the tabloids. Either that or bribe one of the kitchen staff.

Missing the duchess was a bitter disappointment for me. And by only a matter of seconds! If Mama hadn’t put up a fuss at being frisked, I would have had the opportunity to practice my curtsy.

“You see,” I hissed. “I knew I shouldn’t have brought you. I can’t take you anywhere without you making a scene.”

Mama was not amused. “Don’t you get fresh with me, Abigail. You burned the cheese puffs, remember?”

“How perfectly charming,” said a female with a very British accent.

I turned around, then did a double-take. Right behind me stood a woman who appeared to be regarding us with amusement. She was tall and angular, with a horsey face and a mane of coarse dark blond hair. Her overbite would have been a challenge to even the best orthodontist, but she didn’t mind exposing it in a broad, gummy smile. It
wasn’t her body or her face that captured my immediate attention, however, but her dress. She was wearing a black velvet gown identical to the ones Mama and I had on. Her gem of choice was emerald.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I suppose we’re out of sorts because we missed the duchess. She’s a good friend of ours, you know.”

“I’m Caroline,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “and I’m talking about your dresses. R. K. Belmont of Trafalgar Square?”

I shook my head shamefully.

“Don’t tell me! Off the rack at Harrods?”

“Jacque C. Penné of Rock Hill,” Mama said without missing a beat.

“Tell Mr. Penné he has my compliments,” she said quite seriously.

“Oh, I will,” Mama said without cracking a smile. “Tell me, dear, which one is the Countess—”

Mama was interrupted by a liveried butler with a tray of goodies. Think of us as simple folks, but it has always been a fantasy of both Mama and me to be waited on by someone who looks like Jeeves. Apparently it was a fantasy shared by Stan, because he immediately began making goo-goo eyes at the butler. It must have been lust at first sight for the butler as well, because he almost dropped the tray of canapés. As it was, I ended up with three stuffed mushrooms and one pâté-spread cracker down the front of my dress. A fourth stuffed mushroom rolled between my meager cleavage and lodged in my bra.

Caroline gasped on behalf of the butler, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off Stan.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Think nothing of it,” I said graciously. “It happens all the time.”

“You Americans are such a delight, always taking things in stride.”

“Not always,” Mama said as she shot daggers at Stan A Tub-Tub, who had clearly forgotten she even existed.

“Rawlings!” Caroline said sharply to the butler.

Rawlings, suddenly realizing where he was, snapped to attention. “Yes, your ladyship?”

“Circulate, Rawlings. But first bring this lady some club soda and a serviette.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rawlings bowed slightly and left at once. Without so much as a by-your-leave to Mama, Stan trotted off after him.

“You’re the Countess of Worchester?” I asked, no doubt a bit wide eyed myself.

“Yes, but please call me Caroline.”

I crudely attempted my curtsy. Unfortunately my nervous brain short-circuited, and I gave her an Episcopalian genuflection instead.

The countess laughed heartily. “Please, introductions all around.”

We did as we were bade, and in a few minutes the three of us became fast friends. I realize that may sound absurd to men, but we women have a way of establishing intimacy in a heartbeat, particularly if there is a crisis to deal with. In the time it took to dig the mushroom out of my bra and sponge the stains off my dress, I learned that Caroline had suffered from scoliosis as a girl, was deathly afraid of spiders, was divorced, and was deeply in love with a married Anglican priest.

The countess fingered her emeralds. They were lovely, remarkably clear stones, the kind found only in Muzo, Colombia. They were undoubtedly worth a king’s ransom.