Baroque and Desperate

by Tamar Myers

  “He’s yours for the duration,” I said, in a voice loud enough to wake the dead two counties over. Dmitri didn’t even open his eyes.

  Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III looked like she’d been handed the ten-million-dollar sweepstakes check. “I promise to take good care of him.”

  Without further ado C.J. and I bade a temporary farewell to the family and followed the flouncing Flora up a sweeping staircase. Call it intuition, or bad shrimp, but I had a gut feeling that something was about to go wrong with my weekend near the coast.

  “Check it out!” C.J. twirled, her arms above her head. “Can you believe this place?”

  “It’s something else.” That was, of course, an understatement. I was trying to sound cool and professional, when in reality I was lusting in my heart. Jimmy Carter would have understood, although it wasn’t flesh I was lusting over, but an eighteenth-century four-poster bed with inlaid satinwood posts. Around the top of the canopy was a pierced and gilded cornice, much like a tiara, from which hung pink silk taffeta drapes.

  “It’s more than just something, Abby. It’s awesome!”

  I sighed. “There are times when I would gladly trade my firstborn for a bed like that.”

  “I thought you decided to forgive her, Abby.”

  “I have. But I could be persuaded to change my mind. Especially if you throw in that Bergamo rug you’re standing on.” I have a particular weakness for rugs and beds, and it has nothing to do with sexual deprivation, no matter what Greg says.

  C.J. nodded. “It is a beautiful rug, but I prefer the silk Tabriz you’re standing on.”

  I looked at my feet. “I’ll throw in my secondborn as well.”

  “Abby, this is like the Biltmore, isn’t it? Or Hearst Castle in San Simeon. I’ve never been to those places, but people who have, tell me that it’s like dying and going to heaven.”

  I was afraid to ask C.J. how many dead friends she had. “Yeah, it’s like those places, but they’re in public hands now. All this, however, belongs to one old lady downstairs.”

  “Who has two unmarried grandsons. Abby, do you think Rupert likes me? I mean, he hardly said a word to me.”

  I shrugged. “You haven’t even been alone. Just don’t be surprised if Rupert is—well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t. What do you mean?”

  “Like the Rob-Bobs,” I said patiently. Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben are two dear friends of ours, fellow dealers in Charlotte, but they would no sooner be interested in C.J., than would I.

  “You mean gay?”

  “That’s what I mean, dear. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, of course.”

  “Ooh, Abby, you’re just jealous because Rupert is cuter than Tradd. You want to rub your hands all over that nice, smooth head.”

  Rupert cute? I’ve seen boiled eggs with more attractive pates. And that cleft chin! Lord only knows what Michael Crichton might find living in a crevice that deep. I considered telling my young friend that I’d sooner eat liverwurst ice cream than rub Rupert’s head. Wisely, however, I bit my tongue.

  “Come on, Abby, admit it!”

  “Okay, I admit it,” I said. C.J. can be as relentless as a tick on a dead hound. Sometimes it pays just to give in.

  C.J. beamed. “Finally, I feel like life is going my way. Of course, I owe it all to you, Abby.”

  “Well—”

  “I always wanted to stay in a place this nice. You know, to kind of pretend it was mine. I can’t wait to crawl into that four-poster tonight. Hey, Abby, which side do you want?”

  “The right.”

  “Good, I’ll take what’s left.” She laughed with sheer joy.

  Perhaps my gut feeling was wrong. Perhaps this weekend was going to be the beginning of good things for both of us. Perhaps Calamity Jane was finally going to leave the calamity part of her behind.

  “The Biltmore might be larger than this house,” I said generously, “but it doesn’t have a rosewood writing table as nice as that one.” I pointed to a little desk with clean lines, positioned near the window. An Abby without scruples might have considered lowering it to the ground with a velvet drape after dark and having an accomplice pick it up.

  C.J. grinned. “I know it’s a wild fantasy, but what if I married Rupert, and his grandmother asked us to move in with her? I’d want to have this very same room.”

  “But you haven’t even seen the other bedrooms, dear. They might—”

  I may as well have been speaking to my fictional accomplice. C.J. was pirouetting around the room like an oversized ballerina, a look of rapture on her face.

  “I could live in this room, and never leave!” She stopped in midturn. “Oh, look at this inlaid commode with the acanthus-leaf motif. There isn’t a scratch on it. Hey, Abby, are we supposed to put our clothes in this?”

  “I guess.” I scanned the striped silk wallpaper. “I don’t see a closet.”

  C.J. draped her lanky frame over a Chippendale armchair next to the commode. An authentic Chippendale. “Oh, man, now what am I going to do. I can’t hang my gowns from the cornice, can I?”

  “Do so and die,” I said sweetly. Anything can happen, you know? There was an off-off chance I would marry Tradd and move into this bedroom myself. If that was the case, I didn’t want any hanger marks messing up the gilded cornice.

  “Abby, didn’t Tradd tell you? His grandmother likes everyone to dress for dinner.”

  “Of course, he told me. I brought that little black dress I bought last fall, the one you can scrunch in a ball, yet it shows no wrinkles.”

  “Ooh, Abby, you’re not serious, are you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because in this case, dress means long skirts.”

  “How long?” The scrunchable dress stops mid-thigh. Okay, so maybe it really is a spandex blouse I wear as a dress, but you just try and buy something sexy in my size. Besides, I have great gams for a woman my age.

  “Long. To the floor, Abby. Tradd said the women wear gowns to dinner. Didn’t you bring a gown, Abby?”

  I hung my head. “Not even a nightgown—but don’t worry, I brought pajamas.”

  C.J. stroked her chin. “Well, I brought two gowns—that green one you hate so much, and a red sequined formal from the fifties that I bought at Metrolina Antique Expo. You’re welcome to take your pick.”

  “Thanks, dear, but they’re not going to fit. And I never said I hated that green gown. I just said it looks like pond algae.”

  C.J. got up and rummaged through an oversized bag. It was large enough to stuff a body in. Who would have thought that one girl would need so many clothes for a weekend? I, on the other hand, was traveling with one tote bag the size of a bedroom pillow.

  “Hey,” she said, holding up a black half slip, “there’s this. If we tie it up with a belt or something—under your armpits—it should just reach the floor.”

  “What good will that do without a gown?” I wailed.

  “But that will be the gown, don’t you see? It has plenty of lace and splits at the side. Who’s to know it’s not a designer gown? You don’t mind showing a little shoulder, do you?”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  She shook her head so vigorously, the stringy blond hair was a blur. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Of course, I could tell everyone that you’re sick.”

  Thank God I had taken the time to shave that morning. And I don’t mean my shoulders.

  “I’m all yours,” I said ruefully. “Deck me out and make me beautiful.”

  Trust me, it didn’t look as bad it sounds. Neither of us had a belt that fit around my upper thorax—hers was too big, mine too small—but one of the velvet drape tiebacks fit the bill perfectly. So what if it was scarlet? It added a jaunty splash of color, and the tassel, which we could not remove, we managed to position directly between my bosom.

  All right. So I didn’t look like a million doll
ars. I looked like a Kmart half slip and a drapery tieback. But my shoes were black, and if your shoes match your outfit—or so Mama says—you can get away with just about anything. Not that Mama would be caught dead with fewer than three crinolines and her ubiquitous pearls.

  While I wasn’t expecting a standing ovation when I swept into the salon, I was at least expecting a curious glance. But even my C.J. creation could not account for the frozen faces of the Burton-Latham clan.

  6

  “Aw, come on,” I wailed, “it isn’t that bad.”

  “It’s pretty awful,” Tradd said, grabbing my elbow and steering me aside.

  “Okay, so the tassel is a bit much, but—”

  “Abby, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “My dress, of course. Look, I didn’t—”

  “Your dress is fine.”

  “What?”

  “All right, it’s more than fine. You’re a knockout in it.”

  I let that percolate for a minute. “Then what’s so awful?”

  “Grandmother’s little surprise, that’s what.”

  “Which is?”

  “Sorry, sworn to secrecy. Hey, you want something to drink?”

  “Got a Bailey’s?” Okay, so maybe Irish cream whiskey is more of an after-dinner drink, than a cocktail, but it is a favorite of mine, and what was there to lose? How any more déclassé can one get than to wear a friend’s half slip to dinner?

  The second Tradd left to get my drink, Sally floated over in a peach chiffon number. “Love your dress, dear. Where did you get it, Bergdorf’s in Atlanta?”

  “The Cox collection in Charlotte.”

  The blue-gray peepers appraised me again. “It’s really exquisite. Such understatement in design. Perhaps I saw one like it on a runway in Milan. It looks somehow familiar, you know?”

  “Does it?” I twisted my torso just enough to set the tassel in motion. “Well, I assure you, it’s one of a kind. Cox is a personal friend, and made the gown just for me.”

  She nodded. “I hope you won’t be offended, dear, but I must have one just like it for the Art Guild dinner next month. Do you suppose that’s possible?”

  “I guarantee it. Say, why was everybody looking so grim when I walked in?”

  Tradd’s arm shot through the space between Sally and me, and the Bailey’s materialized under my nose.

  “I got it on the rocks,” he said. “You didn’t specify.”

  “Rocks are preferred. Thanks.” I glanced around, but Sally had slipped behind me and was engaged in conversation with C.J. If ever my pal were to come down with a case of lockjaw, would that it be then. I mean, considering all the times she’d stuck her foot in her mouth, she was bound to have scratched her gums on a rusty grommet at least once.

  I took a step backward, the better to eavesdrop, when an obnoxious-sounding gong sounded inches from my ear. I whirled.

  “Dinner,” Flora mouthed. At least that’s what I think she said. The gong noise was still reverberating in my ear.

  Tradd grabbed my elbow again. “Let the others go first.”

  Flora shot me a look capable of piercing a rhino’s hide, wheeled, and marched from the room. The others departed without drama.

  “So, Abby,” Tradd said, when we were alone, “did you see anything?”

  “Besides a faux-French maid who has the hots for you?”

  “Not that. Flora’s old news. I mean in your room.”

  I blinked. “I saw lots of things in my room. Beautiful things. And they’re all still there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course!” I fully intended to return the tassel, so it was only a lie from a technical point of view.

  “But how can you be so sure?”

  “Well, uh—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Like she has all the bedrooms crammed with things. You know, beds, dressers, whatever. How would you know if something was missing? By the difference in wallpaper shades?”

  “Could be. Or from marks in carpets, or dents in floors. But if it’s a small item, something that sits on a dresser top or commode, well—then there wouldn’t be any way to tell.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense, you know? Something that’s missing, but still in plain sight.”

  I sipped my cream whiskey. “It could be as simple as something out of place. Something out of order. Which means it could be anything.”

  He squinted at a painting across the room. “Well, not anything. It has to be something you can hide something in.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Uh—”

  A snort from the doorway announced Flora’s presence. “Mrs. Latham said to come. Y’all are holding things up.”

  Tradd all but jumped for the door. I scurried after him, holding my slip aloft so that I wouldn’t trip.

  “Slut,” Flora whispered as I brushed past.

  “Tramp,” I murmured behind me.

  “Whore.”

  I stopped and turned. That was going too far.

  “Listen here, you—”

  “Abby!” Tradd called from down the hall.

  I waggled a threatening finger at Flora. “I’ll tell Mrs. Latham.”

  Flora shrugged insolently. “Nice slip,” she said, and ducked into the salon.

  Everyone was seated when we arrived. I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Even the time Mama showed up at a Charlotte reception for an English countess, with Stan, her muscle-bound houseboy, paled in comparison. All eyes were on us, Mrs. Latham’s in particular, which glittered like black plastic buttons from across the room.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Tradd said. “Abby had to use the powder room.”

  I could feel myself flush. “And a beautiful room it is too, ma’am.”

  “Sit,” she said, nodding at the two open places.

  She sat at the head of the table, and unfortunately both vacancies were on either side of her. I sat down obediently, next to Edith Burton Jansen. From the look of things, our hostess didn’t follow the old boy-girl-boy rule. And instead of a male at the foot of the table, there sat C.J., resplendent in her slime-green dress.

  The old biddy smiled thinly. “Well, now that we’re all here, let’s say grace. Edith, dear, do you mind?”

  Edith immediately launched into the longest extemporaneous prayer these Episcopalian ears have ever heard. We Frozen Chosen tend to stick to prayers found in the Book of Common Prayer, but Edith seemed to gather her inspiration from everywhere. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the Kama Sutra referenced. Finally, after a verbal meandering through world literature, Edith settled down and blessed the food for ten minutes.

  There followed a chorus of amens, and a few genuine sighs of relief.

  “I thought y’all were Episcopalians,” I said casually, when the sighs subsided.

  “We are,” Mrs. Latham said, the pride evident in her voice. “Edith’s prayer is an old family prayer. We add to it with each generation. Each member gets to add a line when they turn eighteen. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It’s awesome.”

  “I used to be able to recite all of it, but I can’t keep up anymore. We’ve had so many birthdays lately.”

  “Our son just turned eighteen,” Albert said proudly. “He added the line about the doughnuts.”

  “You don’t say.” I am a doughnut addict, and was about to suggest that the next natal celebrant eliminate everything except the doughnut clause, when Flora appeared once more, bearing a tray of salads.

  She served Mrs. Latham first. “Cook’s gone home,” she whispered as she set down a bowl.

  “What?”

  “Cook’s gone home,” Flora said louder.

  “Speak up, child. You know my hearing’s not what it used to be.”

  “The damn cook’s gone home,” Flora shouted.

  “But why?”

  “Cut her finger slicing tomatoes, ma’am. But don’t worry, I rinsed them off.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,�
�� Edith moaned.

  “Cook was,” Flora said dryly. “That’s why there’s no soup.”

  Rupert leaned forward and raised his hand. “Grandmother, can we skip to the main course?”

  Flora snickered, but said nothing.

  “Speak up, child,” her mistress snapped.

  “Uh-well, ma’am—uh, I was helping cook, taking the roast out of the oven when she screamed. I guess I kind of dropped it.”

  “You guess?”

  “Okay, I dropped it. But it’s all right now. I picked most the glass off. I even rinsed it under water. Only it’s not as brown as it was.”

  Edith moaned again.

  I rolled my eyes behind closed lids.

  Mrs. Latham put her napkin back on the table. “Well, I guess we have no option then but to send someone in to Georgetown for takeout. Any volunteers?”

  Beautiful, reserved Alexandra cleared her throat before speaking. No doubt she needed to clear the cobwebs out that accumulated between usage.

  “Grandmother, if you don’t mind, I’d like to try my hand in the kitchen. I saw some eggs and a little cold chicken in the refrigerator earlier. And I think a jar of artichokes. I could make some omelettes if you like.”

  Our hostess beamed. “Bless you, child. I always disliked those burger things. Combos, jumbos, juniors—it doesn’t make sense. But an omelette now, that would be lovely. And Flora here can help you.”

  Flora scowled. “I ain’t paid to do no cooking,” she muttered. “Clean the house, that’s it.”

  “Oh, stop it now, and hurry along. You’re more capable than you think. You did just fine serving the punch and canapés yesterday.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but like I told you, I dropped the roast.”

  “Flora!”

  The maid muttered something unintelligible. Much to my disappointment the old lady did not ask her to repeat it, neither did she respond. She just stared at Flora with those bright black eyes, and after a few seconds Flora wilted.