act?”
“Because I’m a lady.”
The doorbell chimed again, and a couple of guests glanced over, no doubt wondering what was going on.
“Say anything to anyone and you’ll be sorry,” he hissed.
I flung open the door.
11
I t was the Roach, the third board member, which put her smack-dab in the middle of the totem pole. I honestly endeavor to be a good Christian—or at least a proper Southern lady—but I have to get this off my chest. From the very first moment I lay eyes on her, I could not stand Gloria Roach. She brought out the worst in me.
Maybe it was her name, maybe it was her occupation, maybe it was the weight lifter’s body crowned by the ferret face, but I just wanted to slap her. Almost as much as I wanted to slap a mime once in Charleston. That man followed me for three blocks, despite my demands that he get out of my face. Then he had the nerve to ask for money—in mime language.
“Good evening,” I said cheerily. If hypocrisy in the name of decency is an art form, then Mama is Michelangelo. I had studied at her feet.
Gloria gave me a swift, appraising look. “Well, well, we’re a bit of a sycophant, aren’t we?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It means one who is fawning and obsequious.”
“I know what it means, dear; I just can’t believe you said it.”
“Miss Lilah is not going to be impressed by yourdress. It’s a bit too much for a soiree of this sort, don’t you think?”
I glanced at her dress. It was knee length, navy with white piping, and had cap sleeves. Even with long sleeves, there would have been no way to disguise those bulging muscles. But physique aside she was more appropriately attired.
“I’m going to another function later,” I felt compelled to say. “A reception for the Prince of Wales.” If one is going to embellish, do it in a grand way, I always say.
“Here?” Only a dog could tell her laugh from a bark.
“No, in Charlotte.”
“Funny, but I don’t recall hearing anything about it. It wasn’t in the papers.”
“It’s all very hush-hush. For security reasons.”
“I have many clients in Charlotte. Important people. I would know if there were any royals in town.”
“This is an unofficial visit. Charlie is just visiting some close personal friends.”
That part wasn’t a lie. My son, Charlie, was spending the weekend with a buddy.
The ferret face was awash in skepticism. “Would you swear to that under oath?”
“I have sworn many oaths,” I said, and left her standing at the door. I had other guests to attend to, and a quick glance at my watch told me that Mama was about to make her second appearance.
No matter who was at the Charlotte party, it was not going to be a night sans royalty. Anne Holliday showed up right on cue, placing her fourth from the bottom on the pole. She was dressed in a pink-and-blue pastel floral dress, a pink hat the size of a basketball hoop, matching shoes, and a blue purse every bit as large as an attaché case. She came alone. Apparently there was no prince consort.
“Miss Timberlake?” she shrilled.
“Yes, ma’am. We met at the interview, remember?”
“I haven’t the foggiest recollection,” she said. “All I know is that Mozella asked me to come. Is she here?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please come in.”
She staggered in and stood blinking while I breathed in her fumes. It took me a minute, but I figured it out. Anne Holliday was a tippler. Mama must have had a hard time holding her tongue on that one.
“There is some nonalcoholic punch over there,” I said kindly, pointing to the dining room, where the crowd had gathered around Mama’s treats. “Would you like me to get you some?”
She was staring at me. “You look familiar. Are you and Mozella kin?”
“Yes, she’s my mama, and we’ve met before.” I reminded her of where and when.
“That’s right,” she said. “And I told you we didn’t need an appraiser, because there is nothing out there worth
“Because I’m a lady.”
The doorbell chimed again, and a couple of guests glanced over, no doubt wondering what was going on.
“Say anything to anyone and you’ll be sorry,” he hissed.
I flung open the door.
11
I t was the Roach, the third board member, which put her smack-dab in the middle of the totem pole. I honestly endeavor to be a good Christian—or at least a proper Southern lady—but I have to get this off my chest. From the very first moment I lay eyes on her, I could not stand Gloria Roach. She brought out the worst in me.
Maybe it was her name, maybe it was her occupation, maybe it was the weight lifter’s body crowned by the ferret face, but I just wanted to slap her. Almost as much as I wanted to slap a mime once in Charleston. That man followed me for three blocks, despite my demands that he get out of my face. Then he had the nerve to ask for money—in mime language.
“Good evening,” I said cheerily. If hypocrisy in the name of decency is an art form, then Mama is Michelangelo. I had studied at her feet.
Gloria gave me a swift, appraising look. “Well, well, we’re a bit of a sycophant, aren’t we?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It means one who is fawning and obsequious.”
“I know what it means, dear; I just can’t believe you said it.”
“Miss Lilah is not going to be impressed by yourdress. It’s a bit too much for a soiree of this sort, don’t you think?”
I glanced at her dress. It was knee length, navy with white piping, and had cap sleeves. Even with long sleeves, there would have been no way to disguise those bulging muscles. But physique aside she was more appropriately attired.
“I’m going to another function later,” I felt compelled to say. “A reception for the Prince of Wales.” If one is going to embellish, do it in a grand way, I always say.
“Here?” Only a dog could tell her laugh from a bark.
“No, in Charlotte.”
“Funny, but I don’t recall hearing anything about it. It wasn’t in the papers.”
“It’s all very hush-hush. For security reasons.”
“I have many clients in Charlotte. Important people. I would know if there were any royals in town.”
“This is an unofficial visit. Charlie is just visiting some close personal friends.”
That part wasn’t a lie. My son, Charlie, was spending the weekend with a buddy.
The ferret face was awash in skepticism. “Would you swear to that under oath?”
“I have sworn many oaths,” I said, and left her standing at the door. I had other guests to attend to, and a quick glance at my watch told me that Mama was about to make her second appearance.
No matter who was at the Charlotte party, it was not going to be a night sans royalty. Anne Holliday showed up right on cue, placing her fourth from the bottom on the pole. She was dressed in a pink-and-blue pastel floral dress, a pink hat the size of a basketball hoop, matching shoes, and a blue purse every bit as large as an attaché case. She came alone. Apparently there was no prince consort.
“Miss Timberlake?” she shrilled.
“Yes, ma’am. We met at the interview, remember?”
“I haven’t the foggiest recollection,” she said. “All I know is that Mozella asked me to come. Is she here?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please come in.”
She staggered in and stood blinking while I breathed in her fumes. It took me a minute, but I figured it out. Anne Holliday was a tippler. Mama must have had a hard time holding her tongue on that one.
“There is some nonalcoholic punch over there,” I said kindly, pointing to the dining room, where the crowd had gathered around Mama’s treats. “Would you like me to get you some?”
She was staring at me. “You look familiar. Are you and Mozella kin?”
“Yes, she’s my mama, and we’ve met before.” I reminded her of where and when.
“That’s right,” she said. “And I told you we didn’t need an appraiser, because there is nothing out there worth
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