So Faux, So Good Read online

  I sat down heavily on a Bedemeir chair I keep by the front door. Mama’s picnic basket was lighter than ever.

  “A nun?” I asked, stunned.

  Mama nodded and sat down on an ornately carved bishop’s throne. She was, perhaps, getting ahead of herself.

  “Ever since your daddy died I’ve been asking God what I should do with my life. Then I sort of set God a deadline. Well, wouldn’t you know the next time I turned on the TV there was Julie Andrews singing her head off on a mountaintop in Austria.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Ah, so you were just kidding before. You’re really going on a tour to Europe.”

  Mama gave me a sympathetic look. “This isn’t the Dark Ages, dear. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you called in an emergency. You know where I am if you need me.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “As serious as a librarian with hemorrhoids, dear. My flight leaves in just under three hours.”

  “But seeing Julie Andrews on the tube is not a revelation from God,” I wailed. “You need to ask for a backup sign.”

  “The sisters wear blue habits,” Mama said happily. “I look good in blue, don’t I?”

  I thought fast. “What about your house?”

  “I’ve already listed it with Coldwell Banker. I’m selling it as is. Fully furnished. Which reminds me, didn’t you say you wanted that sideboard I got from Grandma?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, take it now then. Take anything you want.”

  “Your car?”

  “Sorry, Abby, I already gave that away. My friend Miriam in Charlotte is going to pick it up at the airport after I leave.”

  “Your pearls?” I asked, hoping against hope.

  Mama’s last gift from Daddy was a string of eight-millimeter pearls that she never takes off. I fully expected to bury her in them someday. The truth be known, it isn’t sentimentality over Daddy that makes her pearls de rigueur, but her firmly held belief that American culture stopped advancing on January first, 1960. Mama dresses like June Cleaver, with a tightly cinched waist, and full-circle skirt floating on layers of starched crinolines. While the convent might possibly permit Mama to take the odd phone call, they most assuredly frowned on postulants in pouffed petticoats pridefully parading their pearls.

  Mama blanched and her hands flew reflexively up to her neckline. “I hadn’t thought of my pearls. Well, I—uh—”

  “I could keep them for you, Mama.”

  “Not for a moment, dear,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “I gave you a coral necklace once, and you destroyed it within the hour.”

  “I was five!”

  “Never mind. I’ll figure out something. Maybe I’ll wear them under my habit. Do you want to see your presents, or not?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Please don’t give me a hard time and just open them, Abby. I want to see the expression on your face. Convents may be more liberal these days, but I doubt if they’ll let me out for the wedding. I won’t have taken my final vows yet.”

  Ever the dutiful daughter, I placated Mama and unwrapped the first present. Even on her worst days, the gift-wrap lady at Belk can’t touch one of Mama’s creations, but this time Mama had really done herself proud. I felt sinful just untying the elaborate bow.

  Finally, with the paper neatly folded, I tackled the plain brown box. It was heavy. Perhaps it was a vase she made in ceramics class. Lord have mercy if it was another cookie jar. A single woman living alone does not need cookie jars shaped like Snow White and all seven dwarves. As it was, Happy and Doc remained empty, while Bashful sat half full of stale snickerdoodles.

  “Open it,” Mama ordered. She was about to burst with excitement.

  I opened the box. If there had to be a dwarf inside, at least let it be Grumpy. I could relate to him.

  Mama does not cut corners when it comes to packaging. I had to dig through several inches of Styrofoam peanuts, and I touched my gift before I actually saw it. The cold feel of metal sent a shiver of pleasure up my spine. Mama knew nothing about metalworking. What I was about to receive was clearly store-bought.

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” I squealed as I pulled my gift from its box.

  “Do you really like it?” Mama asked, her face glowing.

  I answered her by fainting.

  3

  It wasn’t a dead faint, mind you, but more of a swoon. Luckily my bottom connected to the Bedemeir, so I didn’t hit the floor. I was even able to lay my present down rather gently. But I felt sufficiently lightheaded so that my eyes rolled back and my mouth hung open like a nightjar in mosquito season. Or so Mama says.

  “Abby, what is it?” she demanded. “Do you have the flu?”

  I struggled back into full consciousness. “No, ma’am,” I slurred.

  “Oh my Lord!” It was Mama’s turn to faint, but she often misses her cues. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  “Mama!”

  “Don’t you Mama me. You’re the one who’s going to hear the patter of little feet. You know I never interfere in your life, Abby, but how’s it going to look for me, an Episcopal nun, to have a daughter pregnant out of wedlock?”

  I tuned her out and picked up the gift. It was a silver teapot, identical to the one I purchased at auction the day before.

  “I-it’s a t-teapot,” I stammered.

  “Of course, dear. But if I’d known what I know now, I’d have given you some saving bonds for little Mozella to use when she goes to college. Tuition costs are going to be out of sight by then, or haven’t you thought of that?”

  I ignored her accusing tone. “I’m not pregnant, Mama.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m absolutely positive.”

  Mama sighed. “I suppose it was too much to ask for a little Mozella. I would have named you that, you know, but your father wanted you named Abigail, after his mama. Then when you had a daughter I got my hopes up, but you named her Susan—Susan Timberlake—what kind of a name is that?”

  With shaking fingers I turned the teapot over to examine the bottom. “Where did you get this?”

  “What a rude question, Abby. And you haven’t opened the other presents yet.”

  I opened the remaining presents. There were two more, a silver cream pitcher and a silver sugar bowl. Like the teapot, they were William Cripps originals. One of a kind.

  But of course that was impossible. There can’t be two one-of-a-kind tea sets. The one I purchased was locked safely in the trunk of my car, awaiting delivery to the Kefferts as soon as I closed my shop for the day. The instant Mama left I would compare the two sets side by side, but I would be willing to bet my shop that the sets were identical. Trust me, I had all but taken my first set to bed with me the night before. I knew what it looked like.

  “Mama, you have to tell me where you got these.”

  Mama’s face looked like a jarred soufflé. “You haven’t even thanked me.”

  I got up and gave my mother a tight squeeze. “I am absolutely stunned,” I said. “I simply can’t believe my eyes.”

  “Believe them,” Mama said. She looked at me expectantly.

  “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  Mama gave me a skeptical look.

  “I mean it, Mama. I’m overwhelmed.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it. I hope what’s-his-name does too.”

  “Don’t be silly Mama, you know his name is Greg. And I’m sure he’ll be stunned too.”

  “Just don’t tell your brother Toy. He’ll have conniptions if you do. He still thinks I like him best.”

  I wanted to ask her if it was true, but I had more pressing business. “Mama, did you buy this in Charlotte?”

  Mama gasped. “Oh, heavens, no. You have to go to Atlanta to get something that nice. I found this last week when I went to visit your Aunt Marilyn.”

  “Where in Atlanta?”

  “On some place on Peachtree. But this was the only one they had, Abby”—her
face clouded—“you’re not think of selling this in your shop?”

  “Of course not. I just thought it would be fun to trace its history. I mean, it is a genuine William Cripps, isn’t it?”

  Mama giggled happily. “It better be for what it cost. It’s a good thing that where I’m going I won’t need any money.”

  I swallowed hard, willing the most impolite of all southern words to come out. “Just out of curiosity, how much did you pay for this?”

  “Abby!”

  “I just want to know how much you care, Mama. Do you care five hundred dollars’ worth?”

  To my surprise Mama laughed. “Try five thousand dollars’ worth.”

  “Five thousand?”

  “You’ve been a good daughter, Abby. You bought me a donut cushion when I had that hemorrhoid operation back in ’86, and last year you told me how to make my ficus plant stop dropping its leaves.”

  My face stung with shame. A four-dollar pillow and a tip from Indoor Gardener were the sum of my altruism? I deserved to be in the pickle in which I found myself. A good daughter would help her mother with the yearly garage sales, have her over for dinner at least once a week, and perhaps gently tell her that the Macarena was no longer “in.”

  “Did you keep the receipt?” I asked humbly.

  “Why, Abby, where are your manners? One should wait at least until after the wedding to return gifts. Besides, I didn’t get it in a shop.”

  “What?”

  Mama’s sigh would have blown out a candle at twenty paces. “Oh Abby, you always make things so difficult. I knew you wouldn’t approve, so I fudged a bit when I told you I bought it in a shop on Peachtree. The truth is I bought it through an ad in the Atlanta Constitution.”

  “What?”

  “Well, the paper wasn’t selling it, of course. I found it in an ad in the classifieds—you know, when I was there visiting your Aunt Marilyn last month. We had to drive to someone’s house to pick it up.”

  The door opened and two middle-aged women walked in. They were obviously quite well-to-do, a judgment based not on their clothes, but on the amount of plastic surgery they’d undergone. The skin on their faces was so tight that each bone created its own plane. They looked like puppets. I waited until they had passed us before continuing.

  “Do you remember where?”

  “I remember we had to drive halfway to Marietta. Oh, and there were pine trees in the yard.”

  That was like telling me there was sand on the beach. I’m not sure if it’s true, but I read someplace that there is a Georgia state law requiring all homeowners to be in possession of at least one pine.

  “Well, you got a name,” I said. “It’s a start.”

  Mama’s pearls made a nervous lap around her throat. “Of course I didn’t get his name, dear. I never exchange names with strange men in Atlanta.”

  “Do you think Aunt Marilyn might know where he lives?”

  Mama rolled her eyes. “Lord, Abby, where is your memory? Your Aunt Marilyn couldn’t find her way around the block if she had a string tied to her car. That woman is geographically challenged.”

  Truer words were never spoken. I had to run with what she’d given me.

  “You said it was a man, Mama. Was he black, white, fat, thin?”

  “It was a man, but I can’t remember what he looked like. Just sort of regular, I guess.”

  “Regular?” I wailed. “He wasn’t a grade of gas, Mama. You have to remember something.”

  Mama shrugged. “I think he was white.”

  “I’m calling Aunt Marilyn,” I said irritably. “She might not be able to find her way out of a paper bag, but she never forgets a man. She’ll at least have a decent description.”

  Mama sighed. “Suit yourself, but your Aunt Marilyn didn’t see him. She broke a nail getting into the car, and she refused to get out when we got to his house. She wasn’t about to let a strange man see her without a fully manicured set. And anyway, what difference would it make if she had seen him? Abigail Louise, you tell me this minute—do you, or do you not, like my gift?”

  I picked up the silver sugar bowl. It was exquisite, fake or real. The most miserable dinner party could be salvaged by bringing out this tea service at the conclusion.

  “It’s the most beautiful present I’ve ever gotten,” I said quite honestly.

  Mama beamed. “Use it in good health, dear. Now I’ve got to scoot, or I’ll miss my plane to Dayton.”

  A good daughter would have found a way to stop her mother from charging off into a nunnery. A good daughter would have at least asked her mother if she had remembered to forward her mail and cancel the paper. But oh no, all I could think about was getting the William Cripps tea set out of the trunk and comparing it with the one I had just received.

  After I compared the two sets I sat down on the Bedemeir again. This time I cried.

  The woman who took my call at the Atlanta Constitution was very helpful. She took my name and number and within ten minutes she called back with the phone number from the ad.

  “We’re not responsible for the veracity of the ads,” she said warily.

  I complimented her on her vocabulary, hung up, and dialed the number. After the third ring a machine informed me that the number I had reached was no longer in service.

  There was only one thing to do next. It was imperative that I close my shop and immediately seek an expert’s advice. Preferably Rob’s. Unfortunately, the puppet ladies were still on the premises. I found them earnestly inspecting a nineteenth-century spinning wheel from the mountains of North Carolina.

  “Good morning ladies,” I said. For my children’s sake, in the months leading up to my divorce, I learned how to fake civility.

  The taller of the puppets turned to me. “Does that thing really work?” she asked, without moving her lips.

  “Actually it does, ma’am, and I’d be happy to show you how sometime.”

  “Show us now,” her short companion said.

  “Well, I’d like to, but you see, something’s come up and I have to close the shop for a while.”

  They both stared at me, then I saw the smaller one’s lips move, although I could have sworn it was the taller woman’s voice I heard.

  “That’s no way to do business, if you ask me. For all you know 1 desperately want to buy two of those.”

  “Then you’d have a problem, ma’am. Because I just have the one.” I wisely refrained-from telling her that I knew where she could buy two one-of-a kind William Cripps tea sets.

  “Come on, Althea,” one of them said, “let’s take our business elsewhere. There are better shops near South-park Mall.”

  I would have followed them out the door, locking it behind me, except the phone rang. On the off-chance it was Mama calling from the airport to tell me she’d had a change of mind, I answered.

  It was Mama, but she hadn’t changed her mind. I gave it one last try.

  “But I’m a spring,” Mama said stubbornly. “Their habits are exactly my shade of blue. Give it up, Abby, it was meant to be.”

  “You’ll be sharing a bathroom with fifty-eight women,” I wailed. “Think of the lines.”

  “I didn’t call so that you could badger me, dear. I called because I remembered something about my visit to Atlanta.”

  I sucked my breath in sharply. “Yes?”

  “I remember that there was a car in the driveway with a Pennsylvania license plate,” Mama said triumphantly.

  “Right. You don’t have a name or an address, and can’t even begin to describe the guy, but you paid attention to a license plate? Give me a break, Mama.”

  “Don’t you be a little Miss Smartypants, Abby. I remember the license plate because it said ‘You have a friend in Pennsylvania’ on top, and the letters on the tag were ‘DV.’”

  “What?”

  “And I do have a friend in Pennsylvania, and her initials are ‘DV,’ so that’s why I remembered it. Your godmother—Diana Venters—was one of my roommates at
Winthrop. She lives in Philadelphia now. I’ve told you about her, I’m sure.”

  That was certainly possible, but since Mama had more roommates than Elizabeth Taylor, I couldn’t be expected to keep track of them.

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” I said, “but I’ll take your word for it. Were there any numbers on the tag?”

  “Of course,” Mama said, “but I can’t be expected to remember everything. Hey, but speaking of bells—” she burst into a rousing rendition of “The Hills Are Alive” from the musical, The Sound of Music.

  The fact that I was alone in my shop, separated from her by several miles, didn’t lessen my desire to find a hole in the floor into which I could crawl. Mama doesn’t actually sing, she brays. True, she is a member of the choir at the Episcopal Church of Our Savior in Rock Hill, but she is what the less charitable refer to as a “mercy member.”

  Not only did David Lowry, our parish musician, take mercy on her when she asked to join the choir, but ever since then folks say “mercy me” every time Mama opens her mouth to sing. Poor Mama has no idea she is tone-deaf, and since she enjoys singing so much, no one has yet had the courage to say something to her face. My face, yes, but not hers.

  “Have a safe trip, Mama!” I shouted before hanging up.

  There were tears in my eyes. No doubt about it, I was going to miss the best friend I ever had.

  4

  I have a boyfriend—okay, a manfriend, but you know what I mean. Greg Washburn is a criminal inspector with the Charlotte/Mecklenburg Police Department. He is tall, dark, and handsome, with straight white teeth and Wedgwood-blue eyes. Females of all ages drool over him, and I’m sure a few men do as well. I suppose I should count myself incredibly blessed, because Greg and I are engaged to be married. The truth is, I am having second thoughts about going through with the nuptials. Dating a cliché is one thing, but spending the rest of one’s life hitched to a stereotype is sobering, and I’ve been having a lot of sober thoughts lately. I called reluctantly.

  “Hey, Abby,” he said, his voice brimming with clueless enthusiasm. “I was hoping you’d call. That movie you wanted to see is playing at the Pavilion in Pineville. You want to go tonight?”