by Vicki Vass
The doorbell rang. Bandit danced around her feet, barking as she opened the door. Tony was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt that accented his deeply tanned chest. His ocean blue eyes sparkled. He was holding a bouquet of wildflowers and a bottle of his homemade wine. “Am I late?” he said.
CC smiled and said, “You’re perfect. You’re right on time. C’mon on in.”
Bandit gave Tony a good sniff over and concluded he was okay to enter the house. Tony squatted down and gave Bandit’s soft fur a massage. Bandit thanked him with a kiss and a head butt. This guy was okay.
Tony walked into the kitchen where CC was filling a Waterford vase with water and sugar. She arranged the wildflowers in the vase. “These are beautiful,” she said not turning around from the kitchen sink.
“Can I help?”
“You can open the wine.” She looked over her shoulder and nodded toward a kitchen drawer. “The corkscrew is in there.”
Tony opened the wine and grabbed two glasses from the cabinet above the sink, filling them. CC brought the vase to the dining room table. “I hope you’re hungry,” she said.
“I’m starving,” he said. “It smells really good.”
“Please sit.”
He sat at the dining room table and watched CC go to the sideboard and bring out her Limoges china and Reed and Barton flatware. She bent down to the lower cabinet to find her napkin rings. She pulled out two sterling silver napkin rings and two linen napkins. Reaching around Tony’s shoulder, she placed one next to his plate, her soft brown hair fell against his cheek. She took longer than was necessary to place the napkin and the holder just right. Tony sat silently, enjoying the show and took a sip. He drank both CC and the wine in. CC fluttered off to the kitchen. She carried the crepes back to the table, setting one plate in front of Tony. She sat down folding her napkin on her lap.
Tony leaned over the plate and inhaled deeply. “This smells great, CC.”
“It’s a recipe I picked up when I studied in France.”
“Did you go to culinary school?”
“I was in college and did a semester abroad. I took cooking classes at a French college.”
“It smells delicious. Do you mind if I say grace?” Tony asked.
It had been a while since CC had prayed. She was used to eating meals by herself. It was nice to share the ritual of dining. He took CC’s hand in his, said a short prayer in Italian and concluded with Amen.
“Amen,” CC repeated.
Tony looked at her. “Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve said grace in English. The translation in Italian means ‘Thank you for the harvest and for the company.’”
After enjoying the meal and light conversation, Tony asked, “Tell me about your blog. How’d you get started?”
“It started as a whim. My friend, Anne, and I enjoy going to estate sales and we wanted to share our experiences with other enthusiasts. That’s how I met Ida. After the story about Ida and the bear appeared in the paper, we started receiving a lot of requests.”
“Requests?”
“Like your ship bell. People looking for items, childhood memorabilia, special gifts for loved ones. Items that are hard to find. The list is getting overwhelming.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“Ooh, wait.” She jumped up, got her laptop and brought it to the table. Scrolling down the list, she read. “I remember seeing this Kristin from Iowa. Her husband’s retired. He was an insurance broker. His hobby is woodworking. He’s built a whole shop in her garage. He’s very much into handcrafting furniture using antique tools. She hasn’t been able to find any woodworking tools.”
“I’ve got a whole ship full of them. I’ve got irons that I’ve made, miter boxes, Italian handsaws, chisels, more than I can use.”
“That’s great. Maybe you can send me some pictures, and we can see if that will help her out. Of course, I’ll give you whatever she pays us.”
“Pay?”
“Yes, we’ve been charging for the item plus a small finder’s fee. It was Anne’s idea.”
They finished the bottle of wine. CC led Tony out to the gazebo in the backyard. The sweet smell of the peonies wafted in on the warm summer breeze. The full moon lit the backyard. The crickets serenaded their lonesome tune. They sat on the cedar glider bench and rocked instinctively to the crickets’ song.
Chapter Forty
Anne sat in her favorite chair staring at the Phoenix glass vase she’d grabbed from the warehouse. Rising from the ashes, she thought. After a five-minute examination, she knew right away it was a fake. A very good fake, but a fake nonetheless. What really bothered her was that she remembered seeing the vase before but couldn’t remember where. When it came to antiques, she had a pretty good memory of everything she’d bought, wanted to buy or was going to buy. Her French ormolu mantle clock struck 9 p.m. She marveled at the gold leaf clock for a moment and then realized she hadn’t eaten dinner. She was starving. She was on her fifth fad diet. With all the recent stress in her life, she decided to cheat just this once. For some reason, she had a craving for pancakes. Unlike her best friend, Anne didn’t like to cook. She went to the freezer, pulled out some frozen pancakes and put them in the toaster oven. While they were heating up, she grabbed some butter and syrup. “Buttersworth!” she cried out loud, dropping the syrup bottle to the floor. “Betsy Buttersworth was carrying it at the Whitmore estate sale!”
For the first time in a long time, CC couldn’t think of anything to say. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the opposite. It was a very comfortable silence. She was enjoying just being with Tony. Nothing could ruin this moment. “CC! CC!” she heard a voice screaming from the kitchen. Anne came flying out the back door, waving her arms madly, the vase precariously balanced in her arm.
“Is that a friend of yours?” Tony asked, looking at CC.
“Sometimes,” she whispered back.
They both stood up. Anne ran up to them, huffing and puffing, giving Tony a onceover. “You’re Tony,” she said.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m Anne, CC’s best friend.”
CC rolled her eyes.
Tony shook Anne’s hand. “Is everything okay?” he asked
“Yes.” Anne inhaled deeply. “I must talk to CC immediately. It’s of the utmost importance.”
Tony turned to CC, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. “I had a really nice time. Dinner was great.”
“You don’t have to go. I can get rid of her.”
Anne crossed her arms and hpmhed.
“I have to drive to New Buffalo tonight. I have to open the shop in the morning,” he said.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Oh, no; this seems really important. I can find my way out.”
They stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at each other before Tony walked out the cedar back gate.
“Okay, Anne, thanks for ruining my night.” CC turned and gave Anne a glare.
“CC, this is really important.” Anne sank down onto the edge of the glider. “I grabbed a Phoenix vase when we left the warehouse. It’s fake like the rest of the stuff in the warehouse.”
“Ok. And?”
“I was making pancakes.”
“Pancakes? I thought you were back on the low carb diet.”
“Not now, CC, this is important. Anyway, I was making pancakes, and I went to get some syrup. I remembered Buttersworth. Betsy Buttersworth was carrying a vase exactly like this one at the Whitmore sale. We have to find out if her vase is real.”
“How are we going to do that? We’re not exactly on speaking terms with Buttersworth.”
“I checked her blog. She’s giving one of her tours of the Wright house tomorrow in Oak Park,” Anne said, recalling that Betsy Buttersworth was on the board of preservationists for the Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio in Oak Park. She felt it her responsibility––no her duty––to make sure that the public was educated on Wright’s Prairie Style architecture and that she should be
the one educating them.
Chapter Forty-One
“C’mon, Anne, we have to go! The first tour’s at 10 a.m. We’re never going to make it,” CC yelled out the car window to Anne. She’d pulled up at Anne’s house so they could go to Oak Park for the Frank Lloyd Wright tour.
“Just a minute!” Anne held up a finger. She pulled a towel out of the back seat of her car and wrapped the fake Phoenix glass vase in it. Grabbing her large orange Prada bag, she got into the passenger seat of the car.
CC found parking on the street in front of the Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio. Anne jumped out of the car and flew to the courtyard which was the gathering place for tours. “I’ll go get our tickets,” CC said, walking up behind Anne.
CC went into the gift shop and purchased two tickets for the home and studio tour. When she came back to the courtyard, she didn’t see Anne. She gazed around the small garden but there were no hiding places. Looking through the stained glass windows, she could see Anne’s head bobbing along with the tour group. “Anne,” she hissed through the slightly open window.
Anne gave her a look, holding her finger up to her mouth.
“Anne,” CC hissed again, louder.
Anne walked out of the house. “What? I’m on the tour,” Anne said.
“We’re not on this tour. I’ve got tickets. We’re at 11:15 a.m.,” CC said, holding up the tickets.
Anne checked the time on her phone. 11:15? That was almost 45 minutes away. She didn’t like to wait. She looked back at the tour that was heading into the house. There was definitely room. “There’s room on this tour,” Anne insisted.
“Anne, there will be more room on our tour. I want to be able to take pictures. I paid an extra $5.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to pay $5 extra to take pictures.” She held up her wristband. “I bought you one, too.”
“Bet that was Betsy’s idea,” Anne said, putting the wristband on.
“I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” CC said, walking back to the gift shop where the bathrooms were. When she came back to the courtyard, she saw Anne’s blonde head bobbing along with the Japanese tourists. For the first time, she towered over a crowd. She gave a deep sigh. “Anne,” she hissed insistently.
Anne turned around with a surprised look on her face.
CC motioned for her to come back outside.
“What now?”
“It’s only 11 o’clock. Look at the tickets. It’s 11:15. Our tour’s at 11:15.”
“This one had an open space.” Anne pointed back at the group that had kept moving without her.
“It doesn’t matter. We paid for 11:15 and that’s when our tour is.” CC stopped talking when she saw the blank look on Anne’s face. She just didn’t get it.
When 11:15 finally arrived, Anne was the first in line. “Tickets, please.” Betsy was collecting tickets from the tour group at the same time she was carrying on a conversation on her Bluetooth headset. “Hillstrom,” Betsy said with a surprised look.
“Buttersworth,” Anne said, passing her her ticket.
Betsy stared at it, making sure that the time was correct. “Hillstrom, you’re on this tour. Go on in.” Betsy clicked her headset and went back to her phone conversation.
Anne and CC shuffled by, filing into the entryway. CC took many photos of the individual details in the home as they waited for Betsy to start the tour. The room soon became crowded as their fellow ticket holders joined them.
“Wright believed that homes should live in harmony with nature, and he brought that design aesthetic to this–his first home. Every element is designed for form and function.” Betsy started the tour by describing the architect’s vision.
“In 1899, when Wright came to Oak Park from Chicago, he said it was because of the greenery here,” Betsy continued, leading the group into the living room which featured the famous stained glass windows.
“You know, Anne, Oak Park was experiencing a growth boom during the entire 1890s,” CC whispered to Anne.
“Sssh,” Anne hissed loudly.
Betsy turned and gave Anne a pointed look.
Entering the dining room, she pointed out the furniture that Wright had designed. “Notice that high-backed chairs were used and scaled so that when guests would enter and exit, it created a sense of a room within a room.”
They climbed the stairs to the second floor barrel-vaulted playroom where Wright’s six children acted out plays on the small stage. Anne marveled at the architect’s use of light. A keyboard floated in the air, its base hidden under the stairs of the balcony.
“You know, Anne, the balcony and domed roof is supported by a system of robust chains, similar to those used by St. Paul’s Cathedral in London,” CC said, looking up.
“That’s very interesting, CC,” Anne said.
Going back downstairs, they headed through the passageway that led to Wright’s studio. A tree was growing up through the center of it. “In Wright’s day,” Betsy said, “this was a willow tree; however, when that tree died, the preservation society replaced it with a honey locust tree.”
Entering the studio, CC stared up at the octagonal ceiling. Drafting tables were set up throughout the room and light poured in from sliding wood-encased windows. “This is where Wright played out his design details, collaborating with fellow architects and artisans,” Betsy said.
“You know, Anne,” CC said. “Oak Park has the world’s largest collection of Frank Lloyd Wright designed homes.”
“CC, please; I’m trying to listen,” Anne whispered back to CC.
Frustrated, CC turned around and continued her conversation with the nice Japanese tourist standing behind her. “Wright was involved with every aspect of his homes. After building a home for one couple, Wright instructed the wife to wear a green dress to match the home’s décor during the open house,” CC whispered.
The tourist nodded politely and smiled, not understanding a word.
“This concludes the tour,” Betsy said. “As President of the Preservation Society, I’d like to thank you for your donations today. Please visit our gift shop and come back soon.”
After all the other tour goers filed out of the studio, Ann and CC walked up to Betsy. “Buttersworth, we need to talk to you. It’s important,” Anne said.
Betsy peered over Anne’s shoulder to look out the window at the crowd gathering for the next tour. “The next group is starting. I don’t have time for this now.” She rushed past them.
“Buttersworth,” Anne called after her. Betsy ignored her, and clicked on her Bluetooth headset.
“Let’s do the walking tour,” CC said to Anne. Entering the gift shop, they paid for the walking tour of Wright’s historic Oak Park homes and picked up the recorded tour headphones. The tour took them around nine houses in downtown Oak Park, describing architectural details. Anne listened intently. CC wandered up and down and around the yards to get a closer look at the various design elements. After dropping the headsets back at the gift shop, Anne said, “My feet are tired. That was a lot of walking.”
“Let’s get lunch and take a break,” CC said. They enjoyed lunch at Hemingway’s French Bistro, an old Oak Park landmark. Anne had the ham and Gruyere crêpes and CC had the warm goat cheese salad with julienned beets and a fresh chive dressing sprinkled with last year’s ghost peppers from her private reserve hidden in her white Coach purse.
Chapter Forty-Two
Anne sat at her kitchen table staring at the fake Phoenix vase. Just the fact that it was a fake was enough to irritate her. On top of that, the fact that Betsy wouldn’t give her the time of day infuriated her. Betsy came from Chicago just like the rest of us, Anne thought. Just because she married rich and moved to Oak Park doesn’t make her any better or worse than me. “If you stand on the east side of Austin Avenue in Chicago, you can toss a pebble across the street and it will land in Oak Park. It’s not really that big of a deal,” she said, looking up at Sassy who was perched on th
e shelf above the table. Sassy purred in agreement. Anne got up and looked in the fridge. Nothing there worth eating.
Anne sat back at the kitchen table and held the vase in her hands. She wasn’t going to let this rest. She drove the short 20 minutes to Betsy Buttersworth’s home in Oak Park, a restored Frank Lloyd Wright home on the national register. Anne had only been to the house one time before for a mutual friend’s engagement party. Betsy loved to show off her money. This was much too important to worry about that.
Anne pulled into the long, narrow driveway. Betsy’s periwinkle blue Aston Martin was parked in front of the detached garage. Anne was careful not to park too close to it. The landscaping was very neat but uninspiring. The showcase was the Wright home and the brass plaque that told you so, placed right above the doorbell so you couldn’t miss it. Anne’s temperature rose a bit glancing at the plaque.
She rang the doorbell and tapped her foot impatiently. Betsy opened it, wearing yoga pants and drinking Smart water. “Anne Hillstrom, so nice to see you. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Betsy, I know it’s late but this is really important. I have something to show you.”
In her mad dash over, Anne had forgotten that she was wearing “the pants.” She didn’t want to feed the fire with the flowered pants she had “taken” from Betsy, but it was too late now.
