The Ming and I

by Tamar Myers

  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 thro
ugh 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.

  “Only an earl’s ransom,” she said, reading my mind. “They belonged to Harry’s mother, but I made him give them to me as part of the settlement. You wouldn’t believe the hell that man put me through.”

  “Oh, yes I would!” I told her all about Buford and the angst I was still experiencing as the mother of young adults.

  We both learned far more than we ever needed to know about Mama, too.

  “What about that deeply tanned man you came in with?” Caroline asked me in a wise attempt to turn the conversation away from my mother.

  “Oh, that’s Frank McBride. He’s a friend of our hosts.”

  “Ah yes, the antique dealer I’ve heard so much about.”

  “You have?”

  “He is practically all Bea and Jerry ever talk about. This Mr. McBride and the wonderful deals he gets them. Ancient treasures from all over the world. Tell me, do all Americans have this fascination with old things?”

  “Not if his name is Stan,” Mama said bitterly. “And to think I almost let him use my toothbrush.”

  “Mama!”

  “Oh, it’s not what you think, Abby. It’s just that I fed him lunch one day, and he brushes after every meal.”

  I think it should be permissible to clamp a hand over your mother’s mouth, don’t you? Not as retribution for all the times she did it to you when you were a little kid, but merely as a means of preserving your sanity.

  “I can’t take her anywhere,” I said, shaking my head sadly.

  “Oh, but she’s absolutely delightful,” the countess cried. “You both are. As a matter of fact I’d like to arrange dinner with you two before I leave this wonderful city.”

  “At my house,” Mama said. “I make a beef Wellington that is to die for. And not your wimpy English version, either. I put Tabasco in mine.”

  “Mama, please!”

  “Have you ever tasted better, Abby?”

  “No.”

  “It sounds delicious,” the countess said, showing me far more gum than I cared to see.

  “Beef Wellington it is,” Mama sang out victoriously. “How about supper tomorrow night? Say seven?”

  “Wonderful!”

  “It’ll be casual,” Mama said a little too casually.

  The countess fingered her emeralds. “Casual?”

  Mama patted her pearls. “Well, not too casual, of course.”

  I wandered off while Mama gave the countess directions to our house. I couldn’t believe she had the nerve to invite an English aristocrat to visit her on Eden Terrace down in Rock Hill. How did she expect the countess to get there? Turn a pumpkin into a coach?

  Rock Hill was going to be emerald green with envy. The minute they found out about Mama’s coup, the shakers and movers were going to beat a path from the ’burbs to her door. Come Christmas, Mama’s house would undoubtedly be featured on the candlelight tours, and the chair in which Countess Caroline sat would have a red cord strung across the arms to protect the seat.

  Well, let Rock Hill be impressed by an English countess. I was impressed with Bea and Jerry. Not by them personally, because they had yet to say a welcoming word to me, but by their house. It was exquisitely, if not authentically—I am certainly not an expert on fifteenth- and sixteenth-century furnishings—appointed.

  The walls were hung with monstrous unframed tapestries, the likes of which I had only seen in museums. I guessed them to be Flemish. The floors were bare, polished wood—carpets used daily would not last that long. The furniture was predominantly English, but here and there, adorning the tops of tables, commodes, and various stands, were objects d’art from around the world.

  A bigger woman would have wept for joy; whereas I merely lusted in my heart. Although I’m a God-fearing Christian, I might wel
l have lifted one or two items had my purse been larger—that and the fact that I didn’t want to share a cell with a woman named Brunhilde who called me her girlfriend. After all, there is only so much temptation a body can stand.

  Then I saw the ewer. It was Chinese. Blue underglaze porcelain with polychrome overglaze, looking for all the world like a first cousin to the Ming vase that had found its way into my shop. It wasn’t the same piece, of course, since the ewer had handles, and it was perhaps only three quarters the size of my Ming. But—and this is going to sound very unprofessional of me—it had the same look.

  I found Frank and dragged him away from our rude hosts and the even ruder jokes about the duchess.

  “Is that a Ming?” I asked, pointing to the ewer.

  Frank had the audacity to chuckle. “Oh, Abby, how clever. Anyone else would think you were serious.”

  “But I am.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “What is it?” I snapped.

  “You’re not kidding, are you? Oh, my, my.” Frank shook his head in pity, and the brown wattles at his throat flapped from side to side. “That, my dear, is from the Yüan dynasty.”

  “I see.”

  He laid a flabby arm across my shoulder. “Oh Bea,” he called, “oh Jerry! Guess what just happened here?”

  I ducked the flab and fled.

  I was ready to split long before Frank and Mama. Antique gazing aside, there wasn’t anything for me to do. Frankly the food wasn’t nearly as good as Mama’s, and with the exception of the countess, the people were either obnoxious or boring. After ten minutes it wasn’t even fun watching the courtship of Stan and the butler. As for that bald man in a banker’s suit who offered to suck my toes, I told him to go straight to hell. What did I care if the duchess had rated him a ten?

  So it was that I was bone tired and perhaps a bit cranky by the time our threesome (Stan had elected to stand by his man) made it to the door. But I was raised to be a true lady, a southern lady, so I graciously thanked my rude and obnoxious hosts. I also bade adieu to the delightful, but now slightly cloying, countess.