Antiques Bizarre Read Free

leanedforward to reach for an exquisite silver tea set, polished to a shine, which rested on a round table. “Tea?”
    I was dehydrated after my bout with morning sickness, and gladly said, “Yes, please.”
    Mother also responded in the affirmative, and Nastasya Petrova poured, then handed us both identical floral cups and saucers, whose colors were so rich, the blossoms looked real.
    After pouring herself a cup, the woman sat back, balancing the saucer on her fragile knees.
    “Now,” Madam Petrova began, “what can I do for you, Vivian?”
    Mother opened her mouth, but closed it again, as the woman said in an aside to me, “I don’t usually entertain people anymore…but your mother had been so kind to me years ago, when I was in the hospital with pneumonia. I do believe she did more good than those doctors by smuggling in her wonderful casseroles and soups.” The woman raised her cup of tea in a toastlike gesture. “Not to mention the occasional flask of vodka.”
    Mother beamed. “My lips are sealed.”
    If only.
    All this must have taken place during Mother’s Florence Nightingale phase, when she would haunt the hospital hallways looking for any juicy piece of gossip, until finally the hospital staff barred her from the premises.
    Madam Petrova returned her attention to Mother. “So, Vivian, my darling. Do tell me what’s on your mind.”
    Now, usually that could take some time, but Mother surprised me by being relatively concise (for Mother).
    She said, “I have been busy organizing a citywide church bazaar to help those affected by this terrible flood.”
    I goggled at her. This was all news to me.
    “So far,” she continued blithely, “all of the churches I’ve approached have agreed to participate, and they will beasking their congregations to scour attics and basements for antiques and collectibles.” Mother clapped her hands together.
    I jumped a little.
    Our hostess jumped a little, too.
    “Now! In order to make this event competitive, and to attract good merchandise—no white elephants allowed, mind you—I suggested that we form teams, all in the name of Christian charity and good fun. The Methodists will be one team, Presbyterians another, Baptists, Catholics…and so on.” Mother, for once, ran out of breath, and helped herself to one, a generous serving. “Some of the smaller denominations, however, must band together to form teams, and I was hoping that you might join with us …. ‘You’ being the Russian Orthodox Church, and ‘us’ being New Hope, of course.”
    When this lengthy explanation was met with silence—as can sometimes happen with Mother’s community theater performances—Mother became more animated, adding, “Also, included on our team would be the Episcopalians, the Lutherans, and our Jewish friends. So we’re nothing to sneeze at!”
    I wanted to crawl under the horsehair couch, which coincidentally was almost making me sneeze.
    “And,” Mother went on, raising a finger, “here’s the coup de grâce. I have attracted the interest of American Mid-West Magazine , whose publisher assures me that his periodical will not only match the winning team’s proceeds, but will feature that very team in one of its issues!”
    Had Mother revealed her true motivation? To be showcased in a national magazine? Or at least a regionally circulated one. (Mother had the peculiar ability to make even such a small ambition seem grandiose.)
    Madam Petrova was frowning, deepening the already-well-grooved creases in her face, yet she also seemed to benodding her approval. I just sat and waited for this mixed signal to play itself out….
    Finally our hostess said measuredly, “I am sure I could find several quality items that would bring in a nice sum. And I’m certainly not concerned that my nephew—my only living relative—would object to these donations. Clifford has told me quite frankly that—beyond the house itself, which will one day be his—he is not interested in my