Antiques Fate (2 page)

And I shut my eyes. Perhaps when I opened them, I would find I'd been dreaming.

“Wonderful!”
Mother chirped. “Now, I'm afraid I must spirit Brandy away from this cozy nest. She and I have a lot to do before we leave for Old York! Miles to go before we sleep. That's Robert Frost, not Shakespeare, by the way.”

I gave Tony a shrug and he just smiled and nodded a little.

There was never any doubt that I would be a part of Mother's “gig.” First off, due to those previously mentioned vehicular infractions, Mother couldn't drive herself anywhere. And second of all, I was in charge of the hats.

Mother stood, half bowed, and made a ridiculously grand hand gesture; it was going to be a long weekend. “I'll give you two lovebirds a moment together. Or do you need longer? I can arrange a brief nature hike for myself. Just give me a window!”

What, for her to peek in?

“No,” I said, “that's all right. Just a few minutes is fine.”

“Splendid!”

And she made her exit.

I scooted closer to Tony. “Thanks for not suggesting she take the path that ends in a drop-off to the river.”

He paused and squinted, as if that hadn't occurred to him, and he wished it had. But he said, “You're welcome.”

“You're not . . .
serious
about going to Mother's one-woman
Macbeth
show, are you?”

He slipped an arm around me. “Your mother's plays are always, uh, unusual experiences . . . and the fete sounds like fun.”

I nodded. “Could be at that—especially if you stayed overnight.”

I gave him a kiss to seal our fate. (Okay, I promise not to do much of that.) (Straining to use the word
fate,
I mean—I'll kiss Tony as much as I please.)

Five minutes later, I was sliding behind the wheel of our Ford C-Max, with Mother riding shotgun and Sushi settled on her lap. Then I drove down the cabin's narrow pine-tree-lined lane, the setting sun winking through the bows, finally turning onto River Road to head south toward Serenity.

A captive audience of one—Sushi having curled into a ball and gone to sleep—I listened as Mother gave me a history lesson of Old York that I didn't recall requesting.

“In the mid-eighteen hundreds,” she was saying, “the village was founded by several English families who drew up a charter decreeing that their British ancestry must never be ‘forsaken or forgotten.' ”

“Still holding a grudge about that little American uprising, huh?”

She ignored that. “Which is why to this day, visiting Old York is like taking a trip across the pond to a small English hamlet.”

“Only not so expensive.”

“Was that my pan?”

“Where?”

“Back there! By the side of the road. It looked just like my favorite cheesecake pan!”

I said, “One cheesecake pan looks pretty much like another.”

“I would
swear . . .
”

“Haven't I been saying it's time for your optical checkup?”

Since Mother had been minding our store all day, and I had cleaned up the kitchen at home, she couldn't know the pan was hers. Not for sure.

“Yes, you have, dear,” Mother sighed. “But they always try to sell me new, smaller frames, and these vintage specs are exactly to
my
specs.”

She meant those oversize glasses of hers that dated back decades; at least she'd stopped having the lower half tinted a pale pink, like blush.

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“This trip to Old York? If you want me to come along and be your hat mistress, you have to promise me one thing.”

“Continue.”

“You'll leave your fake British accent at home.”

A moment passed before she answered. “Bob's your uncle, dear.”

I took my eyes off the road long enough to give her a look.

She gave me one in return—of innocence. “What? You didn't say a word about not using British expressions.”

 

 

Use caution when buying a foreign antique that you know nothing about, because that lack of even rudimentary knowledge makes it harder to spot a reproduction or fake. But don't bother trying to convince Mother that her Ming dynasty vase is anything but priceless.

Chapter Two

All That Glisters Is Not Gold

T
he following Thursday morning, with my friend Joe Lange securely behind the counter of our antiques shop during our absence, Mother and I packed the trunk of the car with everything we might need for a four-day getaway. That included casual clothes, good walking shoes, Sushi's bed and food, plus the hats and wardrobe for the play. But also, most crucially, our medications.

Yes, we were a pill-happy little group—lithium for Mother's bipolar disorder, Prozac for my depression, and insulin for Sushi's diabetes (well, a shot in her case). Old York was sixty miles away, so I didn't relish driving home and back except for an emergency.

Mother had on another Breckenridge slacks outfit (green) and I was in a crisp white blouse and, taking a breather from jeans, a khaki-colored skirt with zipper pockets, and leopard-print Sam Edelman shoes.

Around noon, we bid good-bye to Serenity so we could say hello to Great Britain, or anyway a reasonable facsimile. I was once again behind the wheel, Mother beside me, and Sushi in her foam bed in back, the Three Musketeers headed west, all for Mother, Mother for all.

To keep my stress level down, and prevent Mother from jabbering all the way, I put on a CD collection of old forties and fifties radio shows that we both enjoyed—
Bob and Ray
,
Fibber McGee and Molly
,
The Great Gildersleeve. . .
but I skipped forward at any
Aldrich Family
episodes. “
HEN-REE! HENRY ALDRICH!” “Coming, Mother . . .”

You see, when I was little and naughty, Mother used to substitute my name (“
BRAN-DEE! BRANDY BORNE!”
). I had no idea what she was referring to until years later when we started listening to old radio shows in the car. All I knew was it was annoying.

An hour later, we took a turn off the main highway at a Monty Python–style pointing-finger sign to Old York, and in another few minutes were bumping along a narrow cobblestone street lined with hedgerows, passing by quaint stone cottages with grass-thatched roofs, many set behind arbors entwined with roses.

As we entered the village proper, Mother sat forward, peering out the windshield,
ooh
ing and
ahh
ing at the English architecture. “Just look at those mullioned windows!”

What's a mullioned window? (You might well ask.) Beats me. I knew a little something about architecture, but Mother was the authority. And if you want to hear the definition of mullioned windows, and you're too lazy to check Google, you'll have to ask her yourself. Me, I'm in charge of hats.

Arriving at ground zero, the village green, I made a slow go-around the immaculate square park, where a lovely white band shell surrounded by vibrantly colorful fall mums perched like the centerpiece of a beautifully set table.

Sushi had climbed from the backseat to my lap, and now stuck her head out my open window to sniff at the recently mowed grass, her happy bark seeming to say, “Heaven! New territory!”

Eek.
Had I remembered to pack the doggie baggies?

Quaint little shops rimmed the green on all four sides, on streets named Manchester, Brighton, Cambridge, and London. The styles of the buildings—Gothic, Tudor, and Queen Anne (told you I knew a little about architecture)—were as diverse as the shops themselves, each vying for attention by way of latticework, etched glass, whimsical signage, and flowers, flowers, flowers, in window boxes and hanging planters, even climbing stone walls.

The hamlet was so breathtakingly beautiful I had to pull the car over into a slanted parking space to take it all in.

Mother was saying, “Good choice of a spot, dear. This is right in front of where we'll be staying.”

I peered through the windshield for a look at our residence for the next few days: a three-story white stucco building with vertical black half-beams, a rustic sign over the entrance depicting a white horse being brushed by a groomer, with the words: T
HE
H
ORSE AND
G
ROOM
I
NN
.

Mother was already out of the car, and I joined her on the redbrick sidewalk, Sushi in hand.

“Well,” she enthused, “isn't this inn just the quaintest thing!”

Perhaps a little too much so. In spite of the array of colorful flowers, the hotel seemed a little shabby on the outside, which made me worry about the inside, especially since a second sign next to the entrance—freestanding with removable letters—read: W
ELCOME
—R
OTTEN
R
OOMS AND
G
IN
. Some prankster had rearranged what must have said, W
ELCOME
TO THE
H
ORSE AND
G
ROOM
I
NN
, the discarded letters littering the brick sidewalk nearby.

Mother either didn't notice this warning, or chose to ignore it, plucking Sushi from my hands. “Get the luggage, dear.”

I complied, retrieving the suitcases from the trunk. Then the visiting diva held open the inn's heavy, slightly warped wooden door while I struggled in.

For a moment we stood in the entryway, our eyes adjusting from the bright sun to the dimness of the interior, which was compounded by dark wood paneling and sparse, narrow windows. A low wood-beamed ceiling added a sense of claustrophobia, while a musty smell gave an unwelcome greeting.

To the right was a small lounging area where a few well-worn chairs were positioned in front of an unlit stone fireplace. Above the mantel hung the head of a mangy moose, one antler askew, as if tipping its hat.

Hats again.

To the left was a dining area, a tad more cheerful, with red-checkered cloths on the tables, along with small floral centerpieces. The walls were covered with an assortment of colorful if faded prints of horses and hunting themes, which made the idea of lingering over a meal a little more palatable. But I could have spent the better part of an afternoon straightening those frames.

I glanced at Mother, who must have sensed my misgivings.

“We already have reservations,” she whispered.

“Oh, I have reservations all right,” I said.

But Mother charged ahead with Sushi to the small registration desk, prompting me with, “Bran-
dee . . .
”

“Coming, Mother,” I said, falling in behind, lugging the cases.

A middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and permanent frown lines on his oblong face stood behind the counter, peering into the screen of a computer that probably dated at least to the year Mother purchased her oversize eyeglass frames.

After ignoring us for a few moments, he called over his shoulder, “
Celia!
Dearest! Guests.”

A woman's shrill voice cut back through the open door of an office beyond.

“Seabert, I'm on the
phone
!” Her voice lowered, but could still be heard. “Yes, I
know—
I'd miss all of my programs if we didn't have a satellite dish hidden under those fake vines on the roof . . . and don't you dare tell any of the other trustees!”

Seabert turned toward the office. “Shall I handle it then? Wouldn't want to disturb you when you're busy.”

The woman continued with her phone conversation. “When is she going in for that nip and tuck? Thursday?”

Oh my God, we were checking into
Fawlty Towers
! The sign, the moose, the rudeness . . .

Seabert turned our way with an overly forced smile. “I do apologize—my wife, Celia, usually runs reception. Now, how may I help you?”

Mother, unfazed, said sweetly, “Vivian and Brandy Borne? B-O-R-N-E. I think you'll find we have two rooms reserved.”

I'd long ago stopped sharing a room with Mother after her snoring drove me into countless bathrooms to sleep in the tub. And no amount of pillows and blankets makes that a picnic.

I added, “Across the hall from each other, if possible.” Even the thickest adjacent hotel-room wall was no match for Mother's nocturnal broadcasts.

The man frowned at his computer screen. “Borne, you say? I'm afraid we don't have anything under that name, and we're all full this weekend, due to the fete.”

Before we had a chance to respond to this unfortunate news, Celia charged out of the office.

“Seabert,” she snapped, “I'll handle this.” The woman waved a hand at her husband. “Do something about that antler. It's off-putting.”

In her late forties or early fifties, Seabert's better half wore her dyed blond hair short, overly teased and sprayed in place. Her facial features were attractive, but made harsh by too much makeup, and her pink pastel suit was a decade out of style.

Are they doing
Fawlty Towers? I wondered.
Is this a fun bit of shtick for hip guests?

As Seabert slunk off to deal with the moose, Celia turned to us, saying pleasantly, “I
do
apologize for my husband. . . he's having a bad decade. We indeed have your reservations. Millicent Marlowe made them under her name.”

Lifting a hand and her chin, Mother said, “We're in Old York for the dramatic presentation. I'm the talent, this is my staff.”

If the staff had a rod, I wouldn't have used it to comfort her.

Mrs. Fawlty, that is, Celia, consulted the computer. “Yes, two rooms. And we can put you across the hall from each other, since you are the first of our weekend guests to arrive.”

“I believe our meals are to be included,” Mother said regally.

With a smile so patient it lapsed into patronizing, the faux Mrs. Fawlty said, “Your meals are indeed included with your rooms, and there's grass just behind the inn for your adorable little poochie's purposes.”

Our hostess turned and plucked two old-fashioned keys with wooden tags from their hooks on the wall, then handed them to Mother.

“The dining area,” Celia said, “will be serving the evening meal at five o'clock, and breakfast is available from seven until eleven—lunch you'll need to catch on your own.” She paused for a breath. “If there's anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, please don't hesitate to contact me. We're Celia and Seabert, the Falwells.”

Close,
I thought.

I asked, “Could you point us to the New Vic Theater? I didn't spot it when we drove around the village green.” I knew Mother would be wanting to go there next.

“It's just off the green, one block west,” she replied. “Stratford-on-Avon Street.”

Naturally.

“Anything else?” Celia smiled.

“And your lift?” Mother asked.

“Pardon? Did you need a lift somewhere?”

“She means elevator,” I said.

Mother looked miffed that the faux Mrs. Fawlty didn't understand the English vernacular.

“Sadly we haven't one,” she replied, then sighed deeply. “Seabert and I wanted to install an elevator, but the other trustees wouldn't sanction it.”

I asked, “Other trustees?”

“Yes. I'm on the board, but there's a fuddy-duddy contingent who are against any progress.”

Mother winked. “But you still managed to slip a satellite dish past 'em.”

“Ah, you overheard.
That
proved easier to hide than an elevator. It wasn't until the sixties that lodging with television was even allowed—we're supposed to have indoor antennas. Can't have a thatched roof with an aerial, after all—wouldn't do!” She paused, buried her bitterness beneath a smile. “But we
were
able to finally install individual bathrooms in the rooms.”

Startled, I asked, “When was that?”

“Last year. Can I get Seabert to help with the luggage?”

“No, I can manage,” I replied, preferring to carry the cases up rather than bother Basil. That is, Seabert.

The stairs were next to the dining room, and I followed Mother and Sushi up, grateful our accommodations were on the second floor, not the third.

Mother took the room with a view of the village green, while I was content to have the one facing the back parking lot, which should be quieter.

Otherwise, our rooms were identical—cramped (due to the added bathroom, only slightly larger than one in a third-class cruise ship compartment), bed with wrought-iron frame, small armoire, and a desk with chair. But the carpet looked recent, the floral wallpaper wasn't overly busy, and crisp white lace curtains hung on the single (apparently mullioned) window.

We took five minutes to settle in and unpack a few things, Sushi trotting back and forth between our two quarters, most likely trying to make up her mind where she wanted to sleep (she was immune to Mother's snoring—dogs can sleep through anything except the rustle of a potato chip bag).

Then we were off to the New Vic, taking the car rather than walking as Mother wanted to unload her/our prop hats for the show, which she'd been told was scheduled for Saturday night.

The New Vic might have been better called the New Old Vic, because it was yet another ancient building, looking decidedly oversized among its quaint residential neighbors.

We parked in a side lot, leaving Mother's gear in the trunk for the moment, then walked around to the front. I had been to the Old Vic in London early in my marriage to Roger (we'd seen Kevin Spacey perform in
Richard II—
wow!), and this old-looking New Vic was a smaller version of that theater. The building was brick Georgian architecture (like our Colonial) with a wide front overhang supported by columns, and a top triangular facade, where the comedy/tragedy masks substituted for the Old Vic's royal crest.