The Cane Mutiny by Tamar Myers Page B

gasped in appreciation.
    â€œDo you like it? It’s based on my father’s office in Hong Kong—although his was a much larger space. Not to mention that it had a breathtaking view of the South China Sea.”
    I was about to babble something inane when I noticed that at one end of the room within a room was yet a third room, an alcove that contained a table-mounted microwave, a coffeepot, and a hot-water-making machine. Standing still as a statue, a mug in her hand, was the less than gracious assistant I’d encountered out front. Her expression was one of controlled antagonism. I had a feeling that if Hermione were to abandon me here, her assistant would leap on me like a rabid cat and scratch my eyes out. I stared back at the sullen woman, willing her to disappear.
    â€œNatasha, please go back up front. Ms. Timberlake and I will be having tea.”
    The banished employee glowered as she slipped out of the alcove and within striking distance of me. I leaned back unconsciously.
    When the door closed behind the sullen woman, Hermione sighed softly. “She’s a hard worker and knows her antiques, but she rather lacks in the social skills. I’m afraid that’s off-putting in agracious city like Charleston. Tell me, Abby, do you have any suggestions?”
    â€œWell, I—uh—I’m not sure what to say.” My friend Wynnell would accuse the acerbic assistant of being a Yankee insurgent, or at the least as being from “up the road a piece.” But I’ve met many surly Southerners in my time, and more than a few fine Northerners. I was sure Hermione Wou-ki did not intend it that way, but I felt like she’d put me on the spot.
    â€œOh dear, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” she said, moving toward the alcove. “Which do you prefer, lemon or milk?”
    â€œMilk, please.”
    â€œOne lump or two?”
    â€œThree, please.” I was too hungry to be ashamed.
    She reached under the microwave table and produced a brightly colored tin. “These shortbread cookies are to die for. If you like Walker’s, you’ll love these. You don’t even need to swallow; all that butter makes them melt in your mouth and slide right down your throat.” She procured a saucer, also from beneath the table, and started piling on the rich treats. “Just say when.”
    I didn’t say when nearly as soon as I should have. If she didn’t already think so, Hermione was bound to conclude that we Americans were gluttons.
    â€œNow then,” she said when we were both settled in our respective divans, our teacups balanced carefully on our knees, our biscuits beside us, “what really brings you to see me?”
    â€œWould you believe the desire to give you a warm, Charleston welcome?”
    â€œAbsolutely not. I know you feel threatened by my shop.”
    â€œWhy that C.J.!”
    â€œThere’s no need to blame her, dear. I would have read it in your eyes, anyway.”
    For once she was wrong! “I don’t feel threatened; I’m jealous.”
    The cookies didn’t interfere with her tinkling laugh in the least. “Jealous? Of me? I’m the last person on earth you should be jealous of.”
    â€œWell, not you, exactly. I’m jealous of the reception you’ve received. When I got here—well, it was a total nonevent.”
    â€œAbby, don’t you see? That’s because you’re one of them; a fellow Southerner, a regular American. I’m the exotic thing that blew in on the trade winds. They’ll tire of me soon enough. Do you know that I have yet to set foot inside a private home?”
    I’d like to think it’s General Sherman’s fault, but we Southerners, famous for our hospitality, are reluctant to invite folks we don’t know well—i.e., went to grade school with—into our innersanctums. We are, however, quick to bake them a peach pie, and deliver