Home for the Holidays (7 page)

W
hen Louise and Viola brought the group back downstairs to tour the other rooms on the first floor, Ted commented on the unusual shape of the dining room, which started out as a rectangle but had two walls that projected out, forming a fifth corner in the center.

“I can’t tell you why they built it this way,” Viola admitted, “but I can tell people that I’m having dinner in the Pentagon and not be a liar.”

“Are these sliding doors new, Miss Reed?” Edwina asked as she indicated the big walnut entry doors, which had slid away neatly into the wall between the hall and dining room.

“No, those are original to the house.” She pointed to the opposite side of the room. “So is that swinging door over there.”

“It leads to the kitchen, doesn’t it?” Allan asked. When Viola nodded, he smiled. “A convenience for the servants, so they could use their hands for carrying heavy trays of food.”

Edwina made a soft sound of surprise. “I never realized that was the reason for swinging kitchen doors. How fascinating.”

The retired architect also pointed out the matching walnut wainscoting and window casing panels, which Viola said were in most of the rooms on the first floor. She turned to Laura, who was staring up at the ceiling. “You’ve noticed my chandelier, I see.”

Everyone looked up to admire the hanging brass chandelier, the golden light from which reflected in the polished surface of her mahogany dining room table. Unlike typical chandeliers, it had no prisms or any glass at all except for the lights. Instead, it was formed from a single hoop of ornate brass, around which were spaced eight unusually scrolled brass supports. Out of each fluted end of the supports rose an artificial candle with a tapered bulb.

“I had that shipped over from England,” Viola told the group. “The original chandelier was a fussy French thing with half the prisms cracked or broken, and as I’m not one for too much female frippery”—she gave Max a momentary, ironic glance—“I thought it would go well in here.”

“Handsome fixture,” he mumbled.

“Those scrolled holders around the edges look like little French horns,” Laura said.

“They’re real English hunting horns,” Viola told her. “I found the fixture at an antiques auction I attended in London a few years back during a vacation. According to the papers that came with it, the chandelier originally hung in one of the faro rooms at White’s Club in London.”

“I’ve heard of that club.” The interior decorator seemed very excited. “That’s where Prince Charles had his bachelor party.”

“White’s Club has a bit more history to it than that,” Louise said, her voice dry. “It dates back to the seventeenth century, when it was built as a place to serve hot chocolate, a popular new beverage at the time. It burned down once and then was rebuilt. It became arguably the most notorious, ah, gentlemen’s club of its time.”

“My friend Louise is being polite. They called it a ‘gaming hall,’” Viola said, looking completely unrepentant. “The members of White’s would write wagers with each other in a betting book that was always kept out on a table. They’d place bets on anything—births, marriages, government appointments, even deaths.”

“Was that legal?” Edwina looked unwillingly fascinated.

“Probably not,” Viola told her, “but it went on all the time. According to legend, a man fell unconscious in front of the door to White’s. When they carried him into the club to get him out of the cold, the members began betting on whether he was dead or not.”

Laura’s eyes shone with intense interest. “Were you able to get anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, I picked up a pair of side lamps in the back parlor, which is where we’ll go next.”

Louise had always felt that Viola’s back parlor was the
heart of the house, and not just because it contained her friend’s excellent collection of classic literary first editions. The largest room on the first floor, it had been furnished and decorated specifically for the pleasure and contentment of an avid book lover.

There were three comfortable armchairs near the bookcases, which stretched from floor to ceiling along three walls. Four arched windows on the fourth wall allowed in natural light, while their heavy, ruby-velvet, portier drapes could be drawn to provide privacy. Two cats lay curled together as they napped amidst plump cushions of a sofa upholstered in rich, chocolate velvet.

Across from it was a matching brown sofa with a jewel-toned, Victorian crazy quilt throw draped over one end. Between the sofas sat a low, carved, cherry wood coffee table, the surface of which was inlaid with tiny, diamond-shaped slivers of paler wood that formed a geometric, interwoven design.

Viola’s collection of first editions was extensive and filled several shelves of the bookcases. In what few spaces there were between the volumes, Viola displayed a number of interesting bookends, all shaped like animals.

“Now most of these pieces I inherited from my grandmother,” Viola said. “In her day, they built furniture to last. Most of the books came from my father, who was a great reader and educated me thoroughly in classic literature.”

“Are these the lamps you got at the auction?” Laura asked as she went over to one of the two reading tables by the sofa to admire the globe-shaped glass chimney of the elegant copper and brass lamp.

“They are,” Viola acknowledged. “If you look beneath the globes, you’ll see engravings of different game animals around the sides of the base.”

Edwina went to have a look at the other lamp. “These side grips look just like little cats’ heads. How charming!”

“Electric, but still,” Louise heard the interior decorator mutter, as if to herself, “so
authentic
looking.”

“These were originally oil lamps, weren’t they, Viola?” Louise asked.

“They were. Whoever put them up for auction had already drilled and fitted them with electric wiring.” She shook her head sadly. “A terrible thing to do to antiques of this quality, but it lowered their value enough that I was able to bid on them.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Laura said. “I have to have them.”

Viola’s brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll buy your lamps and that brass horn chandelier,” the interior decorator said. She rummaged through her purse and produced a long, slim wallet and a gold pen. “I’ll make out the check right now. Is it R-e-i-d or R-e-e-d?”

“It’s n-o.” The bookshop owner folded her arms. “What gave you the impression that I was selling them?”

“Oh dear, have I gone and rushed things?” Laura tittered a little. “Let me explain. I have a bachelor client who has just made a killing in the stock market. He hired me to make over his entire house for him and he was very specific about what he wanted—English antiques, but nothing frilly or fancy. He wants authentic, of course, so I know he would go crazy over these.”

Viola shook her head. “I’m sorry, but you can’t buy my lamps or my chandelier.”

“I will pay you twice what they cost.” When Viola didn’t reply, Laura pressed her lips together for a moment. “Fine. I’ll give you triple the price.”

Louise cringed at the greedy sound in the younger woman’s voice.
Does she not realize how crass she seems?

“No, thank you.”

Laura seemed unconcerned about what anyone thought. “I’ll barely clear a profit, but I always go the extra mile for my clients.”

“Is that so?” Viola went over and stood on the other side of the lamp. “Well, this time you’ll have to go another mile to somewhere else, because I’m not selling them.”

Louise thought that would be the end of it, but she had underestimated the thickness of Laura’s skin.

“Surely with all your cats and your little bookshop, you could use the money,” the interior decorator said, her
tone less wheedling than before. “Particularly for your business. I mean, how many books can you sell in a town this size?”

Viola’s cheeks flushed, a sure sign that she was going to lose her temper at any moment. “You’re standing in my home, madam, not my business.”

Madam
was what Viola called women she disliked. To date, Louise had only heard her call Florence Simpson that, and only under extreme circumstances.

I need to put a stop to this right now, before the disagreement escalates any further. But what can I do?
She gazed at the other visitors and then spotted Ted’s camera.

“Ted, would you mind taking a photo of us?” Louise asked quickly. “Perhaps in the front parlor, by the Christmas tree? I am sure Miss Reed and the rest of the group would enjoy having a memento of this visit, if you can spare some copies. I know I would.”

Ted had been taking photos and had evidently not kept up with the conversation. “But you said that you … weren’t …,” he trailed off for a moment, moving his puzzled gaze from her to Viola and Laura, and then he nodded quickly. “Sure, I think that would be great.”

“Laura, Viola, will you join us?” Louise asked. “We want to get everyone in the picture, naturally.”

For a moment it appeared as if the two women were
not going to budge before Laura made an exasperated sound and stalked out of the library.

Viola turned to Louise and glowered. “You hate having your picture taken. You’d rather walk through deep snow barefoot on the way to church.”

“That’s true.” She gently tucked her arm through Viola’s. “But I enjoy spoiling a brewing argument even more.”

“Pity,” Max said as he passed by them, startling her. “Looked like it was going to be a good one.”

When the group reassembled before the Christmas tree in the front parlor, Ted snapped several shots, pausing between each to ask Laura or Viola to smile. “Come on, ladies, there’s no substitute for a happy face.”

“Those lamps would be a start,” Laura said. Her checkbook was still in her hand. “I’ll never find anything like them.” She released a breath of frustration. “Why did I think I would get anything out of this tour? The whole trip has been a waste of time.”

A substitute, Louise decided, was just what the young woman needed.

“Not necessarily, Laura. Our next stop on the tour will be at the home of Joseph and Rachel Holzmann,” she reminded her. “They own an antique shop and have a delightful selection of lighting fixtures. I’m sure they can help you find something suitable for your client.”

“Personally I think you should buy reproduction lamps,” Edwina put in. “They’re much easier to obtain, less costly to replace if they’re broken and far more reliable to operate. You should point that out to your client. Unless they’re collectors, men usually appreciate practicality over aesthetics.”

“Considering how many lamps I’ve broken in my lifetime,” Allan said, “my wife would second that.”

Viola nodded. “I’ve had to have the electrician over to fix the wiring on that old chandelier at least once a year since I had it put in.”

The crimped line of Laura’s mouth eased a little. “Wiring
does
lower the value of the piece.”

“There are some very fine reproductions on the market,” Louise added. “My sisters and I needed some additional lighting for our guest rooms when we remodeled our home. We were able to get all the lamps we needed for the same amount we would have spent for a single vintage piece.”

“I’ve never shopped for them myself. Are you sure they don’t look”—Laura made an uncertain gesture—“chintzy?”

“Not if you shop at the right place,” Louise assured her. “If you are unhappy with what the Holzmanns have to offer, I can give you the name and address of the home furnishings shop in Potterston where we bought our lamps.”

For a moment it looked as if Laura might come up with another argument, then she put her checkbook back in her
purse. “I suppose I could have a look at it. If you change your mind, Miss Reed, let me know.”

“I will,” Viola said, obviously meaning it would be a warm day at the North Pole when she would. “If you’ll all sit down and make yourselves comfortable, I’ll bring in the refreshments.”

Alice finished wrapping her Christmas gift for Louise—an ivory silk piano shawl with violets of velvet adorning the center panel—and tied a length of flat, eyelet lace around the box as an interesting substitute for a bow.

“There.” She carried the gift to her closet and added it to the small stack of boxes inside. “That takes care of my big sister.”

She studied the gifts for a moment, trying to think if there was anyone she had forgotten. She had purchased a lovely, hand-crocheted, chenille sweater in a deep mossy-green shade for Aunt Ethel from the same shop in Potterston where she had found the shawl for Louise.

For Rev. Kenneth Thompson, the pastor of Grace Chapel, she had selected a book on carpentry during biblical times, since he so enjoyed woodworking and the refinishing of furniture. For each of the girls in her ANGELs group she had made a beaded WWJD (“What would Jesus do?”)
bracelet and a hand-painted wooden angel ornament for her family’s Christmas tree. She would present the gifts after the girls finished their caroling trip around town that evening.

Alice liked to shop for other people more than she did for herself. She looked down at Wendell, who had come to investigate the open closet door. “I think I did okay this year. What do you think?”