Nightmare in Shining Armor

by Tamar Myers

  “Perhaps you underestimate the woman.”

  “I think not! Her shop is called Wooden Wonders for a reason. Virtually everything in it is wood. She doesn’t even like to stock tables with marble tops.”

  “That may be, but I called several of the best museums in the country, and everyone agreed she was the woman to do the job.”

  “But that’s impossible. Wynnell is my very best friend in the entire world—even better than the Rob-Bobs. If she was expert on armor, believe me, I’d know.”

  “Perhaps it’s just something you’ve never discussed.”

  “She’s my best friend,” I wailed. “We discuss everything. Okay, so maybe not everything. Otherwise I would have known that Ed was diddling Tweetie, if I may be so vulgar as to use that expression.”

  Corie stood. She wasn’t much taller than I. Then again, she had a number of years on me. By the time I was her age I was going to have to wear stilts whenever I went out, or risk being mistaken for a first-grader by the nearsighted. Thank heavens for wrinkles.

  “Mrs. Timberlake,” Corie said, her voice colder than a brass bra, “as I said earlier, I have a tea to attend.”

  I hopped to my feet, too late remembering my ankle. The yelp that escaped these lips was enough to make the stud muffin come running.

  “Corie, you all right?”

  The grande dame blushed at her consort’s public familiarity. “I’m fine. Mr. Jenkins, please see Mrs. Timberlake to the door.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Caleb made the mistake of grabbing one of my elbows. A swift kick to his right shin rectified that.

  “Hands off, buster!.

  “I didn’t touch her, Mrs. Saunders.”

  “You’re a liar,” I snarled.

  “Hey, you’re not worth touching.”

  “How rude! But then again, you don’t know any better, do you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that not only do you look like Adonis, but you have the brains of a statue to boot.”

  “Bitch.”

  I gasped. “Did you hear what he just called me?”

  The venerable Widow Saunders fixed us both with a look that could have frozen tomatoes to the ground in July. If she ever tired of Genoa, I’m sure Buckingham Palace would be happy to take her in.

  She looked pointedly at me. “I am not amused.”

  I lowered my eyes. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “You, Mr. Jenkins,” she said addressing her lover, “you and I will talk about this later.” With that she sailed regally out of the room

  Caleb glared at me. “See what you did?”

  “Me? You started it!”

  “If that old bat dumps me, you’ll pay for it.”

  “I’m scared stiff, dear—not! And just for the record, I hope she does dump you. There have got to be a thousand other gigolos in Charlotte willing to take your place. Although if I were her, I’d wait until I got to Genoa to pick a new one. A nice Italian stallion. Hmm, I might consider a trip myself.”

  Caleb had the audacity to laugh. “Ha! Well, I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last woman on earth.”

  So much for the power of stray pheromones. I hobbled from the room in a huff. I would have slammed the front door behind me when I exited the house, except for one minor detail. As I was passing through the foyer I noticed in my peripheral vision—which is excellent, by the way—that the dining room was to my right, and that the massive table in the middle was loaded with silver. Gobs of silver. I don’t recall ever seeing so much of the shiny stuff in one place before. Cutlery, chalices, chafing dishes, candelabra—and not just the C words, either, but sconces, tea sets, picture frames, you name it. I felt like Ali Baba in the forty thieves’ favorite hiding place.

  I was admiring my reflection in an English punch bowl when I heard footsteps approach from the foyer. What was a greedy gal to do? There were two options as I saw it: I could duck under the table and make like a pedestal, or I could slip into the kitchen. I chose the latter.

  Mercifully the institutional-size room was empty of people and I managed to thread my way through the maze of stoves and refrigerators and sundry counters undetected. As I was closing the kitchen door behind me, however, a long black luxury car turned into the driveway and approached the house. I can sometimes think fast on my size fours, if I say so myself, and this was one of those times.

  As the car neared, I smiled and waved. Then just as calmly as if I owned the place, I limped down the edge of the driveway, past the car, and out to the street.

  When the going gets tough, the tough get going, and the weak go home to their mamas. Especially if the weak are afraid to return to their own homes. My mama lives in Rock Hill, South Carolina, which is over the state line, and used to be a city entire unto itself. It still maintains a strong identity, but during my lifetime the geographical boundaries have blurred; Charlotte has spilled over into Pineville, which in turn has, save for the Anne Close Greenbelt, merged with Fort Mill, which now sits in the lap of Rock Hill. A goodly portion of Rock Hill’s population works in Charlotte, and virtually everyone shops there.

  At any rate, since Mama is only three inches taller than me, there was a chance one of her dresses might fit. Besides, she has a decent shower and enormous towels of fluffy white Egyptian cotton. And last, but not least, Mama can, if the mood suits her, be downright comforting.

  The mood seemed to suit her, and Mama threw her arms around me, and then threw me into the shower. I smelled like a high school kid back from a class trip, she said. While I took advantage of her suds and electric bill, Mama hemmed one of her ubiquitous Donna Reed frocks to fit my shorter frame.

  Clothed in a peach and white plaid dress with a full circle skirt poofed up by crinolines, peach pumps, with matching peach hat and gloves, I looked like a mini-Mama. Yes, I know there is an age difference, but Mama colors her hair, and mine has yet to turn. Besides, we both stay out of the sun. Sure, Mama still has a few more wrinkles, but to the casual observer, and from a distance, of say, twenty feet, we looked like two tiny peas in a pod. Petite Seour, if you will. The only thing I lacked to make my transformation complete was Mama’s signature strand of pearls.

  Mama beamed when she saw the slightly smaller version of herself. “I knew it, Abby! I just knew the potential was there. Wait until the ladies at church see the new you. Then we’ll see who gets the last laugh.”

  I frowned in annoyance. “Mama, the ladies at the Episcopal Church of Our Savior will not—over my dead body—get a chance to see me in this getup. This is strictly temporary, until I figure out what to do about my clothes. About my house in general. And what’s this about getting the last laugh? Who’s laughing, and why?”

  Mama turned her pink-and-white back on my peach and white front. “No one’s laughing, Abby, but Dorothy Redfern does keep asking when you’re going to grow up and start acting like a lady.”

  “A lady? When have I ever not acted like a lady?”

  Mama turned just enough to look at me with one eye. “Dorothy says she saw you wearing shorts in Carolina Place Mall. Without hose.”

  “Well, hush my mouth and hope to die. Did she call the fashion police? Because if she did, Dorothy would have been arrested herself. Blue hair and blue eye shadow have been out for years.”

  Mama faced me. “Go ahead, Abby, and make fun of my friends.”

  “I’m not making fun of them, Mama. I’m trying to make the point that we each have our own styles, and just because I don’t dress like you do, doesn’t make me any less of a lady.”

  Mama sniffed. “Maybe. Oh, Abby, I don’t want to argue. Not when we have more important things to talk about.”

  I hugged her at arm’s length. Trust me, I’m not at all adverse to giving Mama a proper hug, but our respective crinolines made it impossible for us to get any closer. An expert on starched slips, she understood.

  “Yes, we do have a lot to talk about. For instance, Mama, you’re not going to believe this, b
ut I was just in Corie Saunders’s house.”

  Mama blinked.

  “The Widow Saunders,” I said slowly, so the words could sink in. “Mrs. Gavin Lloyd Saunders.”

  Mama’s first reaction was to turn the color of a perfectly ripe avocado. I’m talking about the inside of the avocado, of course, not the peel. Her second reaction was to gasp so hard she deprived her bedroom of its oxygen and I felt myself go light-headed. Mama’s voice, when she finally found it, sounded like it was come to me through a tin can tied to a string.

  “Abby, you wouldn’t lie to your poor old mama, would you?”

  “Of course not, Mama. Why would I do that?”

  Mama hung her head. “Because of the Mel Gibson thing.”

  She was referring to the fact that Mel Gibson filmed a portion of the movie The Patriot right here in York County, South Carolina. The production required hundreds of extras, most of whom played the part of Colonial era infantrymen. There were very few roles for women, but Mama claimed she got one of them, as a mature British housewife who seduces Mel in the steamy opening scene.

  Why Mama thought she could get away with that claim is beyond me. I happen to think Mel Gibson is a hottie, and I was the first in line to buy a ticket when it premiered in Charlotte. I dragged Mama to the theater with me, kicking and screaming, and complaining of a migraine headache. I should have known something was wrong then, because Mama thinks Mel’s hot, too. Imagine my smug disappointment, not to mention her embarrassment, when the opening scene unfolded to reveal very little steam, and not a trace of Mama.

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s the Mel Gibson thing. Can you blame me?”

  “Of course not, dear.” Mama risked squishing her crinolines and grabbed my hand. “Abby, were you really in her house? Did you get to meet her?”

  “Indeed, I did. And Mama, guess what? She sold her armor collection to Buford! And she used Wynnell as her appraiser!”

  “That’s nice, dear. What was she wearing?”

  “Mama!”

  “Abby, don’t keep me waiting. Is it true she doesn’t wear slips?”

  “I didn’t see her underwear!” I wailed. “I was there on business.”

  Mama’s expression was identical to the one she wore the day my brother Toy left to seek his fortune in California. “Abby, does it always have to be about you?”

  I sighed. “Okay, Mama. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know the old biddy has a boy toy named Caleb, and that the two of them will be running off to Genoa, Italy, any day now.”

  Mama stamped a pink pump. “Shame on you for making fun of your Mama. I endured thirty-four hours of excruciating labor to bring you into this world, and this is the thanks I get?”

  “It was thirty-six hours, Mama.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Mama, I was there, remember? Okay, so I made up that stuff about Widow Saunders and her boy toy. The truth is, I didn’t even get to see her. I only met her secretary, who happens to be a woman older than God.”

  “Really. Oh Abby, describe the secretary!”

  I thought of my seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Turnipseed. “Well, she has thick tortoise shell glasses and she wears her hair in a bun.”

  Mama shuddered. “What color was her dress?”

  “Gray like her hair. Incidentally, Mama, she uses brown bobby pins to hold that ugly bun in place. Can you imagine that?”

  Mama smiled. “Oh, Abby, it’s going to be so much fun having you live right next door.”

  “Say what?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Oh dear, I must have forgotten.”

  15

  Forget the crinolines. I would have grabbed Mama by her lapels, had she been wearing any. The last time she “forgot” to tell me something was shortly after I was divorced from Buford. Mama had put a full-page ad in the Observer, advertising for a husband—not for her, which would have been bad enough, but for me. Little did either of us know that the newspaper is available at specialty stands in every state, and that in every state there resides at least one kook.

  “Mountain Man from Montana” wanted to know if I shave my legs, a reasonable question given that he proposed I join him in his unheated cabin at a nose-bleed altitude. “Arnie in Alaska” invited me to run with his dog sled team—in the traces! And just so you don’t think all the kooks are from the wilder, or more open, states, “Nick in New York” proposed we get married on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Nick would dress as King Kong, and I as Faye Wray. And by the way, did I mind being his thirteenth wife?

  “What have you so conveniently forgotten to tell me?” I demanded.

  Mama smiled coyly. “Louise Melton is selling her house. Plans to move to Texas to be near that no-good daughter of hers. Amber. You remember her, don’t you, Abby? Anyway, if you ask me, Louise should have washed her hands of that girl years ago. This is her third drug conviction, you know. Still, I guess somebody has to look after the grandbabies. Lord knows Freddy—that’s Amber’s husband—isn’t fit to take care of the little ones. Last month he was arrested for impersonating a policewoman. A policewoman.”

  I borrowed from tomorrow’s patience. “That’s all very interesting, Mama, but what does that have to do with me?”

  Mama’s eyes were a study in innocence. “Abby, didn’t I tell you?”

  “Out with it!” I shrieked.

  “Okay, dear, but there’s no need to get yourself in a state. This is good news. I convinced Louise to sell it to you direct, which saves her a bundle in Realtor fees, which means a savings for you as well. Plus I got her to agree to a generous allowance for window treatments. Even she knows that those so-called drapes in her living room are uglier than homemade sin.”

  “You what?”

  Mama, who has mastered the art of selective hearing, patted her pearls proudly. “Abby, there’s no need to thank me, dear. Never mind that I saved you a good ten thousand dollars. How does November thirty sound as a closing date?”

  I found myself literally gasping for air. It felt very much like the time Buford held me under the waterfall on our honeymoon. He claimed later it was a joke, but he wasn’t amused that the only way I could free myself was to punch him in the family jewels.

  “You didn’t!” I finally managed to say.

  “Oh, Abby, I knew it would thrill you. But I never dreamed you’d be speechless with joy. By the way, while I’m thinking of it, Louise wanted five thousand down as earnest money, so I wrote her a check.” Mama put up her hands in a stopping gesture. “There’s no need to pay me back right now. Just whenever you get around to it.”

  “I’ll pay you back all right—”

  Mercifully, for Mama, the phone rang. I could tell by the delight in her voice that the caller was Greg. After my son, Charlie, Greg is Mama’s favorite male, and she dotes on his every word. I had to goad her with the heel of my peach pump—it was a size too big and slipped off easily—to get the phone.

  “I want to speak to him when you’re done,” she said reluctantly and handed me the heavy black rotary phone. The instrument, incidentally, is not a replica, but the real thing.

  I flattened my ear against the receiver and turned away from Mama. “Greg?”

  “Hey, Babes. You feeling better this morning?”

  “As well as can be expected. Under the circumstances.”

  “Good. Abby, are you sitting down?”

  “No, I’m in mama’s bedroom. If anyone sits on her bed she gets upset. You know that. Just hates wrinkles on her spread.”

  “Abby, sit.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Abby, sit on your mother’s bed.”

  “Greg, you like Mama. Why do you want me to tease her?” Lord only knew why I was arguing. Mussing up the woman’s covers was the least I could do to pay her back. Heck, that would be only the tip of the iceberg.

  Greg couldn’t read my mind. “Sit, damn it.”

  I sat. “Greg, what is it?”

  “It’s the Widow S
aunders,” he said gravely.

  “What about her? I was just there, you know—”

  “That’s what I thought. Abby, Mrs. Gavin Lloyd Saunders is dead.”

  “What? When?”

  “Abby, can you meet me for lunch?”

  “Well, I suppose—”

  “I’m at Bubba’s. Get here as quick as you can.”

  Mama got her phone back.

  Bubba’s China Gourmet on Pineville Mathews Road may not serve up the best food in the Charlotte metropolitan area, but its dishes rank among the most interesting. Where else can one find stir-fried collard greens, sweet and sour okra, and moo goo gai grits? Adventurous diners may wish to sample General Tsao’s possum, or perhaps the Thousand Year Old Crawfish (make sure they’re fresh first!). Finicky eaters need not dismay. There is always the dynamite salad bar with all the iceberg lettuce you can eat, and if you’re really lucky, Bubba will have gotten it into his head to make lime gelatin squares that day.

  Parking is always at a premium, thanks to Bubba’s low prices, and I had to the circle the lot for at least ten minutes before finding a space. But since I spotted Greg’s car right off, I wasn’t worried. Finally a Buckeye family of five waddled out and crammed themselves into a mini-van, leaving me with plenty of room, along with the smug satisfaction that Bubba was beginning to get famous above the Mason-Dixon line.

  A faux Asian waitress with bottle-black hair and a Japanese-style kimono pounced on me the second I pushed the greasy door open. “I’m your hostess, Kimberley,” she said in far too eager tones. “How many in your party?”

  “Two, but it doesn’t matter, dear. My boyfriend’s already seated.”

  “Oh, but it does matter. Your name, please?”

  “Timberlake,” I said crossly. “Look. My fiancé is the hunk sitting right over there, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just join him.”

  I started toward Greg, but Kimberley grabbed my elbow. “You need to be seated,” she said.

  “And you need to let go of my arm.”

  Kimberley did as she was bidden. “I’m only trying to keep my job,” she whined. “Bubba—I mean, Mr. Jenkins—said I have to take everyone’s name and seat them in order of arrival.”