Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

"Oh, dear, Mrs. Waterston will be furious that you're still unpacking!" Eileen exclaimed.

"I still have fifteen minutes," I said, turning to see who'd given the warning. Just outside our booth I saw a man, a little shorter than my five-feet ten inches and slightly pudgy, with a receding chin. I had the feeling I'd recognize him if he were in, say, blue jeans instead of a blue colonial-style coat, a white powdered wig, and a black felt hat with the brim turned up in thirds to make it into a triangle – the famed colonial tricorn hat.

"Oh, you look very nice, Horace," Eileen said.

Horace? I started, and peered more closely.

"Cousin Horace," I said. "She's right. You look great in costume. I almost didn't recognize you."

Cousin Horace looked down at his coat and sighed. Normally he loved costume parties – in fact, he assumed (or pretended) that every party he attended was a costume party, and would invariably turn up in his beloved gorilla suit. Usually even Mother had a hard time convincing him to take the ape head off for group photos at family weddings. I wondered how Mrs. Waterston had managed to browbeat him into putting on the colonial gear.

"It's just one of the standard rental costumes from Bestitched," he said, referring to Mrs. Waterston's dressmaking shop. "You'll see dozens just like it before the day is out."

"Well, it looks very nice on you," Eileen said.

"Meg, you have to talk to Mrs. Waterston," he said. "She listens to you."

News to me; I hadn't noticed that Mrs. Waterston listened to anyone – except, possibly, Michael. What Horace really meant was that no one but me had enough nerve to tackle Mrs. Waterston.

"Talk to her about what?" I said, feeling suddenly tired. Cannons? Anachronisms? Or had some new problem arisen?

"Now she's going on about talking authentically," he added. "Avoiding modern slang. Adopting a colonial accent."

"Oh, Lord," exclaimed Amanda from across the aisle. "Who the hell does that witch think she is, anyway?"

Horace glanced at me and skittered off. Eileen looked pained.

"Who died and made her queen?" Amanda continued.

"Great-aunt Agatha," I said. "Who didn't actually die; she just decided that at ninety-three, she didn't have quite enough energy to continue chairing the committee that organizes the annual Yorktown Day celebration. Mrs. Waterston volunteered to take her place."

"Yeah, she's got enough energy," Amanda said. "It's the common sense she's lacking."

"We'll probably be seeing a lot of Mrs. Waterston," Eileen said. "She's Meg's boyfriend's mother."

"Oh," Amanda said. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize on my account," I said. "You can't possibly say anything about her that I haven't said over the past year. Though not necessarily aloud," I added, half to myself.

"Take my advice, honey," Amanda said. "Dump him now. Can you imagine what she'd be like as a mother-in-law?"

Unfortunately, I could. I'd spent a lot of time brooding over that very prospect. But for now, I deliberately pushed the thought away, into the back of my mind, along with all the other things I didn't have time to worry about until after the fair.

"Oh, but you haven't met Michael!" Eileen gushed. "Here, look!"

She walked across the aisle to Amanda's booth, digging into her wicker basket as she went, then pulling out a bulging wallet. She flipped through the wad of plastic photo sleeves and held up one of the photos. Amanda peered at it, her face about three inches from the wallet.

"Not bad," she said.

"He's a drama professor at Caerphilly College," Eileen said. "And a wonderful actor, and we all think he's just perfect for Meg."

"If you could lose the mother," Amanda said. "Is he going to be around today?"

"Of course," Eileen said. "He and Meg are inseparable!"

Well, as inseparable as a couple can be, living in different towns several hours' drive apart and trying to juggle two demanding careers that didn't exactly permit regular nine-to-five hours. Another reminder of problems I was trying to put on hold until the damned craft fair was over and done with.

"Okay, I'll try not to say anything too nasty when 'Blue Eyes' is around," Amanda said. "If I recognize him. My glasses are banned," she said, with a disapproving glance at me. "Not in period. Only wire rims allowed."

"Sorry," I said; shrugging. "Anyway, Michael's pretty hard to miss."

"Everyone's a blur from two feet away," Amanda grumbled.

"He'll be the six-foot-four blur in the white French uniform with violet cuffs and gold lace trim," I said.

"You're right," she said, with a chuckle. "I think I'll probably manage to pick him out of the crowd."

"That's my son Samuel he's holding," Eileen said. "It was taken at the christening. Here's another one we took at the reception afterward."

"Very nice," Amanda said. She glanced nervously at Eileen's wallet, beginning to suspect how much of its bulk came from baby pictures.

"And here's one of Samuel with his daddy," Eileen continued, flipping onward. I could see a trapped look cross Amanda's face.

"Not in period," I sang, clapping my hands for attention as our first-grade teacher used to do. And when Eileen turned with a hurt look, I added, "Come on. Help me out. We're supposed to be setting a good example for the others."

Eileen sighed, stowed her anachronisms, and returned to our booth. I don't know why I bothered. She'd pull the photos out the minute my back was turned. Amanda would have to fend for herself if she wanted to dodge Eileen's hour-by-hour photographic chronicle of the first two months of young Samuel's life.

Don't get me wrong; I've got nothing against kids. I love my sister Pam's brood, all six of them – although I prefer them one at a time. As young Samuel's godmother, I was perfectly willing to agree with his parents' most extravagant boasts about his winsome charm and preternatural intelligence. I could even see that producing an offspring or two might be something I'd be interested in doing eventually, under the right circumstances and with the right collaborator.

But, I'd already seen Eileen's pictures several dozen times. At least she'd left the infant prodigy himself home with a sitter. I was getting very, very tired of having people dump babies into my arms and warble to the immediate world what a natural mother I was. Especially when they did it in front of Michael. Or his mother.

Speaking of Mrs. Waterston, if Horace was right, I probably would need to straighten her out about the accent problem, before she browbeat all the crafters into mute terror. But at least I could postpone the ordeal until she dropped by my booth. I peered outside to see how close she was, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was still a good way off, standing in front of her tent, in the middle of our temporary, fictional town square.

We'd set up all the tents and booths of the fair like the streets of a small town, its aisles marked with little street signs painted in tasteful, conservative, Williamsburg colors, with names taken from Yorktown and Virginia history, like "Jefferson Lane" and "Rue de Rochambeau." Thirty-four street signs, to be precise – I knew, because I'd had to mink up all the names, arrange for Eileen's cabinetmaker husband.to make the signboards, and then forge the wrought-iron posts and brackets myself.

In the center we had what Mrs. Waterston called "the town square," complete with a fake well and a working set of stocks that I was afraid she had every intention of using on minor malefactors. Not to mention her headquarters tent, which she'd decorated to match some museum's rather ornate recreation of how General Washington's tent would have looked.

Mrs. Waterston turned to look our way, and I winced. She wasn't dressed, like the rest of us, in workday gowns of wool, cotton, or linsey-woolsey. She wore a colonial ball gown. The white powdered wig added at least a foot to her height.

"What the hell is she wearing on her hips?" Amanda said from her vantage point across the aisle.

"Panniers," I said, referring to the semicircular hoops that held out Mrs. Waterston's dress for at least a foot on either side of her body. "Don't the historical-society folks ever wear panniers up in Richmond?"

"Not anyplace I've ever seen," she answered. "Remember, Richmond didn't do too much worth bragging about in the Revolution. They're all running around in hoop skirts, fixated on the 1860s and St. Robert E. Lee. And I thought Scarlet O'Hara looked foolish," she added, shaking her head. "She must be three feet wide, and no more than a foot deep."

"That was the style back then," I said. "Like Marie Antoinette."

"Looks like a paper doll," Amanda said. "How's she going to get up if she ever falls down?"

"You could trip her and we could find out," I suggested.

"Don't tempt me," Amanda said, with a chuckle.

Mrs. Waterston still stood in the town square, turning slowly, surveying her domain. A frown creased her forehead.

"Oh, Lord," I muttered. "Now what?"

"What's wrong?" Eileen asked.

"Mrs. Waterston's upset about something."

"Mrs. Waterston's always upset about something," Eileen said. "Don't worry. I'm sure it's not your problem."

Probably not, but that wouldn't stop Mrs. Waterston from making it my problem. I'd worked like a dog to make the craft fair successful. I'd twisted crafters' arms to participate. Begged, browbeaten, or blackmailed friends and relatives to show up and shop. Harassed the local papers for publicity.

And it worked. We'd gotten a solid number of artists, and their quality was far better than we had any right to expect for a fair with no track record, especially considering the requirement for colonial costume. Most of the best crafters were old friends, some of whom had passed up prestigious, juried shows to help out. I hoped Mrs. Waterston understood the craft scene well enough to appreciate that without my efforts, she'd have nothing but amateurs selling dried flower arrangements and crocheted toilet paper covers.

And wonder of wonders, with a little last-minute help from Be-Stitched, they were all wearing some semblance of authentic colonial costume. And by the time the barriers opened and the crowd already milling around outside began pouring in, I'd have all the anachronisms put away, if I had to do it myself.

So why was Mrs. Waterston frowning?

"Miss me?" came a familiar voice in my ear, accompanied by a pair of arms slipping around my waist.

"Always," I said, turning around to greet Michael more properly. I ignored Eileen, who had developed a maddening habit of sighing and murmuring "Aren't they sweet?" whenever she saw us together.

"So, shall I set the rest of this stuff up?" Michael asked, eventually.

"Please," I said, and stood back to give him room. Maybe I'd be set up on time after all, and could take a last run around the grounds to make sure everything was shipshape.

I caught Amanda sneaking a pair of glasses out from under her apron and shook my finger at her, in imitation of Mrs. Waterston. She stuck out her tongue at me, put the glasses on, and watched with interest while Michael shed his ornate, gold-trimmed coat, rolled up the flowing sleeves of his linen shirt, and began hauling iron. Then she looked over at me and gave me a thumbs-up.

"What on Earth is that!"

Mrs. Waterston's voice. And much closer than I expected. Though not, thank goodness, quite in our booth. Not yet, anyway. Still, I started; Amanda ripped her glasses off so fast that she dropped them; and Eileen began nervously picking at her dress and hair.

Michael alone seemed unaffected. I wondered, not for the first time, if he was really as oblivious to his mother's tirades as he seemed. Maybe it was just good acting. Or should I have his hearing tested?

"Put that thing away immediately!"

Eileen and Amanda both looked around, startled, to see what they should put away. Michael continued calmly trying to match up half a dozen pairs of andirons on the ground at the front of the booth. I peered around the corner to see who or what had incurred Mrs. Waterston's displeasure.

"Oh, no," I groaned.

"What's wrong?" Michael said, putting down an andiron to hurry to my side.

"Wesley Hatcher, that's what," I said.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"The world's sneakiest reporter," I said, "And living proof that neither a brain nor a backbone are prerequisites for a career as a muckraking journalist. Wesley," I called out, as a jeans-clad figure retreated into our booth, hastily stuffing a small tape recorder into his pocket. "If you're trying to hide, find someplace else."

Wesley turned around, wearing what I'm sure he meant as an ingratiating smile.

"Oh, hi, Meg!" he said. "Long time no see."

Actually, he'd seen me less than two hours previously, when he'd tried to get me to say something misquotable for a snide story on how craftspeople overcharged and exploited their customers. With any other reporter, I'd have seized the opportunity to give him the real scoop on the insecure and underpaid lives so many craftspeople led. But I knew better than to talk to Wesley. I'd made the mistake of talking off the record to him years ago, when he was earning his journalistic reputation as the York Town Crier's most incompetent cub reporter in three centuries. Like the rest of the county, I'd been puzzled but relieved when he'd abandoned our small weekly paper, first for a staff job with the Virginia Commercial Intelligence, a reputable state-business journal, and then, returning to character, for the sleazy but no doubt highly paid world of the Super Snooper, a third-rate tabloid. Why couldn't he have waited until Thanksgiving to come home and visit his parents?

"So, got any juicy stories for me?" Wesley asked.

"Get lost, Wesley," I said.

"Aw, come on," he whined. "Is that any way treat your own cousin?"

"He's your cousin?" Michael asked.

"No," I said.

"Yes," Wesley said, at the same time.

"Only a distant cousin, and about to become a little more distant – right, Wesley?" I said, picking up a set of andirons as I spoke. It wasn't meant to be a physical threat, but if Wesley chose to misinterpret it as one….

"I'll stay out of your way; just ignore me," Wesley said, sidling a little farther off.

Which meant, no doubt, that Wesley thought he could pick up some dirt hanging around my booth. Or possibly that he knew about the orders my mother had given me to "find poor Wesley a nice story that will keep his editor happy." Wesley was a big boy; why was helping him keep his job suddenly my responsibility? I'd taken him on a VIP tour of the festival last night, hoping he'd find something harmless to write about. I'd even shown him the stocks and let him take some pictures of me in them, pictures I knew he'd find a way to misuse sooner or later. What more was I supposed to do? And what had he done to upset Mrs. Waterston?

I peered out again. To my relief, Mrs. Waterston had returned to the town square. Her head was moving slowly, as if she were scanning the lane of booths leading up to ours.

And she was frowning. Maybe she saw something unsatisfactory about our entire row of booths – but no, that was unlikely. This row and the adjoining one were the showplaces, closest to the entrance, where I'd put the best craftspeople with the most authentic colonial costumes and merchandise. I'd kept the weirder stuff toward the back of the fair. More likely she was watching someone walking down the row. Someone who was about to pass my booth, or maybe even enter it….

"Hi, Meg! Has anyone asked for me?"

My brother, Rob.

"No, not yet," I said, eyeing him. I couldn't see anything wrong. His blue jacket, waistcoat, and knee breeches fit nicely; his ruffled shirt and long stockings were gleaming white; both his shoes and the buckles on them were freshly polished; his hair was neatly tied back with a black velvet ribbon, and a tricorn hat perched atop his head at a jaunty but far from rakish angle. Not for the first time, I envied the fact that he'd inherited our mother's aristocratic blond beauty.

"Meg?" he asked. "Is there something wrong? Don't I look okay?"

"You look fine," I said. "Help Michael with some of my ironwork."

"I'm supposed to be meeting someone on business, you know," he announced, for about the twentieth time today. "I don't want to get all sweaty."

"Well, work slowly if you like, but try to look busy."

"Why?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Because Mrs. Waterston is coming this way," I said, glancing over my shoulder. "Would you rather help me out or do whatever chore she has in mind for you?"

"Where do you want these?" Rob asked, snatching up a pair of candlesticks.

"I've got nearly everything out of the crates and boxes," Michael said. "I should probably go check on the rest of my regiment."

"Fine," I said. "Rob can help me finish."

"I'll bring back some lunch," he said, leaning down to kiss me. "You'll be here, right?"

"Actually, I'll probably be running up and down all day, keeping the crafters and 'the Anachronism Police' from killing each other," I said. "And if things get slow, I need to go down to Faulk's booth for a while."

"Can't Faulk mind his own booth?" Michael said, frowning.

"I'm sure he can," I said. "But he's supposed to inspect my dagger."

"Oh, have you finished the dagger?" Eileen exclaimed. "The one with the falcon handle? Let me see it!"