Abigail Timberlake, the heroine of Tamar Myers’ delightful Den of Antiquity series, is smart, quirky, and strong-minded. She has to be—running your own antique business is a struggle, even on the cultured streets of Charlotte, North Carolina, and her mean-spirited divorce lawyer of an ex-husband’s caused her a lot of trouble over the years. She also has a “delicate” relationship with her proper Southern mama.
The difficulties in Abby’s personal life are nothing, though, to the trouble that erupts when she buys a “faux” Van Gogh at auction . . .
by Tamar Myers
YOU ALREADY KNOW THAT MY NAME IS ABIGAIL TIMBERLAKE, but you might not know that I was married to a beast of a man for just over twenty years. Buford Timberlake—or Timbersnake, as I call him—is one of Charlotte, North Carolina’s most prominent divorce lawyers. Therefore, he knew exactly what he was doing when he traded me in for his secretary. Of course, Tweetie Bird is half my age—although parts of her are even much younger than that. The woman is 20 percent silicone, for crying out loud, although admittedly it balances rather nicely with the 20 percent that was sucked away from her hips.
In retrospect, however, there are worse things than having your husband dump you for a man-made woman. It hurt like the dickens at the time, but it would have hurt even more had he traded me in for a brainier model. I can buy most of what Tweetie has (her height excepted), but she will forever be afraid to flush the toilet lest she drown the Ty-D-Bol man.
And as for Buford, he got what he deserved. Our daughter, Susan, was nineteen at the time and in college, but our son, Charlie, was seventeen, and a high school junior. In the penultimate miscarriage of justice, Buford got custody of Charlie, our house, and even the dog Scruffles. I must point out that Buford got custody of our friends as well. Sure, they didn’t legally belong to him, but where would you rather stake your loyalty? To a good old boy with more connections than the White House switchboard, or to a housewife whose biggest accomplishment, besides giving birth, was a pie crust that didn’t shatter when you touched it with your fork? But like I said, Buford got what he deserved and today—it actually pains me to say this—neither of our children will speak to their father.
Now I own a four-bedroom, three-bath home not far from my shop. My antique shop is the Den of Antiquity. I paid for this house, mind you—not one farthing came from Buford. At any rate, I share this peaceful, if somewhat lonely, abode with a very hairy male who is young enough to be my son.
When I got home from the auction, I was in need of a little comfort, so I fixed myself a cup of tea with milk and sugar—never mind that it was summer—and curled up on the white cotton couch in the den. My other hand held a copy of Anne Grant’s Smoke Screen, a mystery novel set in Charlotte and surrounding environs. I hadn’t finished more than a page of this exciting read when my roommate rudely pushed it aside and climbed into my lap.
“Dmitri,” I said, stroking his large orange head, “that ‘Starry Night’ painting is so ugly, if Van Gogh saw it, he’d cut off his other ear.”
Some folks think that just because I’m in business for myself, I can set my own hours. That’s true as long as I keep my shop open forty hours a week during prime business hours and spend another eight or ten hours attending sales. Not to mention the hours spent cleaning and organizing any subsequent purchases. I know what they mean, though. If I’m late to the shop, I may lose a valued customer, but I won’t lose my job—at least not in one fell swoop.
I didn’t think I’d ever get to sleep Wednesday night, and I didn’t. It was well into the wee hours of Thursday morning when I stopped counting green thistles and drifted off. When my alarm beeped, I managed to turn it off in my sleep. Either that or in my excitement, I had forgotten to set it. At any rate, the telephone woke me up at 9:30, a half hour later than the time I usually open my shop.
“Muoyo webe” Mama said cheerily.
“What?” I pushed Dmitri off my chest and sat up.
“Life to you, Abby. That’s how they say ‘good morning’ in Tshiluba.”
I glanced at the clock. “Oh, shoot! Mama, I’ve got to run.”
“I know, dear. I tried the shop first and got the machine. Abby, you really should consider getting a professional to record your message. Someone who sounds . . . well, more cultured.”
“Like Rob?” I remembered the painting. “Mama, sorry, but I really can’t talk now.”
“Fine,” Mama said, her cheeriness deserting her. “I guess, like they say, bad news can wait.”
I sighed. Mama baits her hooks with an expertise to be envied by the best fly fishermen.
“Sock it to me, Mama. But make it quick.”
“Are you sitting down, Abby?”
“Mama, I’m still in bed!”
“Abby, I’m afraid I have some horrible news to tell you about one of your former boyfriends.”
“Greg?” I managed to gasp after a few seconds. “Did something happen to Greg?”
“No, dear, it’s Gilbert Sweeny. He’s dead.”
I wanted to reach through the phone line and shake Mama until her pearls rattled. “Gilbert Sweeny was never my boyfriend!”