Blue Christmas

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Two hundred?” Bob implored, searching the room for a bidder. “How ‘bout one seventy-five?” He held his arms wide in disbelief. “Folks, this is Americana. You can’t put a price on Americana.”

  “One hundred eighty.” The voice came from the back of the room, and I’d heard it recently. Only this morning, to be exact. I whirled around in my chair to see Manny Alvarez, frantically waving his bid paddle.

  “That’s more like it,” Bob said approvingly. “A man who knows values.”

  Manny Alvarez! What was he doing slumming over here in Hardeeville? I’d been buying from Trader Bob’s for years and I’d never seen any other Savannah antiques dealers make the trek over to my secret source before. Had Manny followed my truck over the bridge?

  “We’ve got one eighty,” Bob said jovially, looking around the room. “Anybody else?”

  My fingers turned white as I gripped the paddle. A hundred and eighty was actually a fair price for the bread rack, cheap even. But I hadn’t budgeted spending that kind of money for something I had no intention of selling.

  “One eighty going once,” Bob droned, staring directly at me. “Weezie Foley, I can’t believe you’re not bidding on this thing. I thought of you as soon as I saw that little Sunbeam gal.”

  “One eighty-five,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “One ninety,” Manny fired back.

  My heart sped up. “One ninety-two?”

  Bob rolled his eyes but nodded, accepting my chintzy raised bid.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Manny said. “Two hundred.”

  Bob cut his eyes in my direction. My paddle stayed where it was. Christmas was coming. I had gifts to buy. Bills to pay. The commode in the shop was making weird gurgling noises that foretold a high-priced plumbing problem.

  Bob looked at Manny. I looked at Manny. He had his checkbook out, and a smug nonny-nonny-boo-boo expression on his face. I hate smug. But I hate broke worse.

  “I’m out,” I said, shaking my head.

  “You sure?” Bob asked, his gavel poised midair.

  I nodded.

  “Sold for two hundred dollars,” Bob said. “You got yourself a great buy, mister.”

  “I know,” Manny said. He gave me a broad wink and went over to Leuveda to cash out.

  I turned around and tried to concentrate on the rest of the auction, consoling myself that I would probably have no competition for the screen door with the Nehi advertisement.

  The screen door was a twelve-dollar steal, for which I gave myself a pat on the back, but my paddle stayed in my lap after that, as Bob auctioned off the rest of the Piggly Wiggly people’s earthly belongings, which included an astonishing amount of Tupperware containers, Beta format videotapes, and case after case of empty canning jars.

  Finally Bob paused to take a swig of coffee from his Styrofoam cup. He glanced down at his watch, and at the greatly diminished crowd of bidders.

  “Folks, it’s getting late, and I gotta head for the hills. Tell you what. I got three mixed box lots here. We don’t have time to drag the stuff out of ‘em. Leuveda,” he called toward the back of the room. “Hon, tell ‘em what all’s in these boxes.”

  Leuveda stood up and ran her hand through her sandy blond curls. “Bob, there’s good stuff in there. Some nice old glass Christmas ornaments, some vintage linens. I think there was at least one Christmas tablecloth, and some old aprons and things. Miscellaneous pieces of china, and a jewelry box full of odds and ends. The family took all the really good stuff. But there’s probably some good old costume jewelry left.”

  Bob nodded approvingly and Leuveda took her seat again and resumed cashing out the dealers who were preparing to leave.

  “Gimme twenty—one money for all three boxes,” Bob urged.

  Two men in the front row got up, stretched, and started toward the door.

  “Twenty,” Bob repeated. “Leuveda, didn’t you say those ornaments were Shiny-Brites? Still in the original boxes?”

  “Four, maybe five Shiny-Brite boxes,” Leuveda agreed, not looking up from her adding machine. “There’s a strand of bubble lights too.”

  My pulse blipped upward. I’ve collected old glass ornaments for years, and Shiny-Brites—especially in their original boxes—were at the head of my want list.

  But before I could say anything, a skinny redheaded woman in front of me cocked her head to one side. “Give you five bucks, Bob.”

  “Five,” he howled. “You can’t buy a single Shiny-Brite for that.”

  “Five,” she repeated, standing up.

  “Weezie?” he said, noticing my fidgeting.

  He had me and he knew it. “Seven,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers while trying to keep a poker face.

  “Estelle?” He went back to the redhead. “You gonna let her get away with that?”

  She shook her head resolutely.

  Bob sighed. “You’re killing me. Seven once, twice, sold for seven dollars.”

  I smiled and waved my paddle number at him, which he called out to Leuveda, who’d already added it to my total.

  “I gotta get out of this business,” Bob said, shaking his head in disgust.

  It was nearly four by the time I got the truck loaded. BeBe, I knew, would be champing at the bit to be relieved at the shop. Still I couldn’t resist peeking inside the heaviest of the cardboard boxes as I loaded them in the bed of the pickup alongside the screen door.

  The bitter loss of the Sunbeam bread rack to Manny Alvarez was quickly forgotten as I lifted out four yellowed cardboard boxes of Shiny-Brite glass ornaments in their original cartons.

  “Yes!” I exclaimed, peering inside the brittle cellophane box-top window at the glittering colored glass orbs. The boxes contained not just unadorned round balls, but rarer, and more desirable, glass figural ornaments in the shapes of angels, snowmen, and Santas. Some had flocked swirls or stripes, and a few were kugel and teardrop shaped. Each box held a dozen ornaments, and all were in fifties colors like turquoise, pink, pale blue, and mint green.

  I never bother to read price guides for the things I collect, because these days I buy only when the price is cheap, and I’m never looking to resell, but still, even I knew my seven-dollar purchase was a winner.

  Beneath the boxes of ornaments, I unwrapped a neatly folded, if slightly stained, fifties Christmas bridge cloth, with decorative borders of red and green holly leaves interspersed with playing card motifs. There were eight kitchen aprons, all with Christmas themes, ranging from practical red-and-white gingham and rickrack numbers to a flirty red ruffled chiffon number to a starched white organza one with hand-crocheted lace edging and an appliquéd snowflake pocket.

  “Adorable,” I said, happily patting the pile of aprons. Beneath them I found a cardboard box filled with dozens of delicate vintage lady’s handkerchiefs, and beneath the aprons, I found the jewelry box Leuveda had promised.

  The box itself was nothing special. I’d seen dozens of embossed leather boxes like this one at yard sales and thrift stores over the years. Inside I found the expected jumble of old glass beads, discolored strands of cheap pearls, orphaned clip-on earrings, and inexpensive dime-store bracelets and brooches.

  I rifled the jewelry jumble in the bottom of the box with my forefinger, like a painter stirring paint, until something sharp jabbed me, drawing blood.

  “Oww!” I exclaimed, sucking my wounded finger. With my left hand I picked up the piece that had stuck me.

  It was a brooch. A big, gaudy blue-jeweled brooch, maybe two inches high, in the shape of a Christmas tree. A blue Christmas tree.

  My cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID panel and winced. BeBe. Time was up. She was tired of playing store, I knew. Anyway, I had to get back and finish decorating the shop before getting ready to go hit the holiday party circuit tonight.

  “Hi,” I said, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pinned the brooch to my blouse. “How’s business?”

  “Great,” BeBe said unenthusiasti
cally. “Your dog drooled on my shoe. Your toilet sounds like it’s going to explode. But all is not lost. I sold that ugly brown stick-looking table by the door for two hundred fifty dollars.”

  “You what?” I exclaimed.

  “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either,” she said, laughing. “And I got cash, so don’t worry about the check bouncing.”

  “Two hundred and fifty,” I repeated dumbly.

  “Great, huh?”

  “Not so much,” I told her. “That was a signed, handmade Jimmy Beeson hickory-stick table from the 1920s. It came out of one of those old lake lodges up at Lake Rabun in North Georgia. I paid almost a thousand for it myself.”

  “Oh,” BeBe said. “So marking it two hundred fifty dollars was kind of a loss leader thing?”

  “No,” I said sadly. “The price tag was twenty-five hundred dollars. Two zeroes.”

  “Whoopsie,” BeBe said. “Look, I’ll make it right with you when I see you. But I’ve got to lock up and go get ready for your uncle’s party tonight. Is it all right to leave Jethro alone until you get here?”

  “Go ahead on,” I said. “He used to like to chew on the leg of that table. But that’s not a problem anymore.”

  CHAPTER 4

  When I got back to Maisie’s Daisy, I parked the truck and walked across the street to get a better perspective of the shop’s decorations. The fruit garlands and topiaries were tasteful and by the book. And yes, I thought ruefully, Manny was right. BOR-RING!

  But rules were rules. And if I wanted to win the historic district decorating contest, I’d just have to be a by-the-book kind of girl.

  As I ferried my auction finds from the truck to the shop, an idea came to me. The outside of my shop might have to look like Williamsburg proper, but the inside of the shop could be anything I liked. And that box of vintage Christmas stuff had put me in a funky kind of mood.

  I switched on the shop lights, and Jethro ran to my side, planting his big black-and-white paws on my chest. “Not now, sport,” I said, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears. I went over to the pine armoire that hid the shop’s sound system and flipped through my collection of Christmas CDs, passing on the tasteful instrumentals, the Harry Connick, Nat King Cole, and Johnny Mathis selections.

  “Here,” I said aloud, sliding a CD into the player. “Here’s what I’m in the mood for.”

  It was my all-time favorite Christmas compilation, A Christmas Gift for You from Phil Spector, featuring all the legendary (and nutty) sixties producer’s acts: the Crystals, the Ronettes, Darlene Love, even the inimitable Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans.

  A moment later, Darlene Love’s powerful voice swung into “White Christmas,” done in Phil Spector’s trademark “wall of sound” style, sounding nothing like Bing Crosby, but just right in her own way.

  I picked up the boxes of Shiny-Brites and headed for the display window. For the past few years, I’d been buying every aluminum Christmas tree I could find at yard sales and flea markets, but the rest of the world had gotten hip to fifties, or midcentury modern as it was now called, and the trees had become expensive and scarce. This year I’d managed to scrounge only three trees, and I’d had to turn down dozens of customers who wanted to buy them out of my window. Now I flitted from tree to tree, placing the Shiny-Brites on the window side of the trees, where they could be seen by passersby. I interspersed the vintage balls with newer, reproduction ornaments I’d ordered at the Atlanta gift mart in September. With the tiny white flicker lights, they were glittery and wonderful.

  But the window was still too stiff, too formal. I’d created a living room vignette, with a pair of red tartan–slipcovered armchairs, a primitive fireplace mantel and surround with peeling green paint, and a red-and-green hand-hooked rug. A twig table held a stack of old leather-bound books, including an opened copy of Clement Clarke Moore’s ’Twas the Night Before Christmas with illustrations by N. C. Wyeth.

  I’d thought the window perfect only a few hours ago, but now it seemed way too safe and predictable.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and gave it some thought. Suddenly the Ronettes swung into “Frosty the Snowman,” and I got inspired.

  I moved the twig table and replaced it with a just-purchased could-be Stickley library table. An improvement, I decided. Reluctantly, I brought out my stack of dime-store Christmas gift boxes. I’d have to fight my customers to keep them to myself, but really, they were too wonderful not to put on display. I arranged them under the tree and took another critical look. It needed more. Much more.

  Glancing at my watch, I realized I’d lost track of time. The party started at seven, and Daniel was supposed to pick me up in fifteen minutes!

  Later, I promised myself. Genius can’t be rushed. I whistled for Jethro, picked up the box of costume jewelry from the auction, and hurried over to my house.

  As always, when I stepped inside my front door, I said a silent prayer of thanks. Mine was not the grandest, oldest house in the historic district, or even on Charlton Street. It was built in 1858 and had austere lines. But it was made of coveted Savannah gray brick, had beautiful lacy wrought-iron trim, a wonderful courtyard garden, and a fantastic gourmet kitchen of my own design. And it was mine. All mine. I’d found the house when Tal and I were still newlyweds. The $200,000 price tag was more money than we could afford, but I wrote the down payment check without a second thought, and plunged into remodeling it, doing much of the work myself.

  This house was my anchor. My dream. It had outlasted the marriage to Tal. He’d been awarded the town house in our divorce settlement, and I’d only gotten the carriage house. But through a strange turn of events, Tal’s fortunes had taken a dive, and he’d needed to sell the town house. I was overjoyed to buy him out. And when my antiques business started to take off, I’d been able to buy the twin to my town house next door. I moved Maisie’s Daisy out of the carriage house and into the ground floor of that house and rented out the top two floors to a young couple who both taught at the art school.

  After bribing Jethro with a dog biscuit, I bolted upstairs to dress for the party. Earlier in the day I’d laid out a simple pair of black capris and a black lace top to wear. But the blue Christmas tree pin had made me rethink my outfit.

  Only vintage would match my mood tonight. Once I was out of the shower, I rifled through my closet, looking for the right combination.

  Aha! But could I still get in it?

  The black fifties cocktail dress was one I’d found at a great vintage shop in Atlanta called Frock of Ages. It usually killed me to pay retail for old stuff, but when I’d spotted this dress in the shop window one Saturday while cruising down McLendon Avenue, I knew I had to have it. Even at forty bucks.

  The bodice was beaded black brocade, with a deeply scooped neck and cap sleeves, and the full, ankle-length bouffant skirt was black chiffon over two layers of black tulle crinoline. I spritzed my neck and breasts with my favorite perfume, then struggled into a black waist-cinching Merry Widow, stepped into the dress, sucked in my breath, and struggled with the zipper. When the dress was still at half-mast, I heard the doorbell ringing downstairs and Jethro barking.

  Damn. True, it was ten after seven, but Daniel was never on time these days. His restaurant, Guale, was always swamped at the holidays, and since he’d bought out BeBe’s interest in it, he seemed to work longer and longer hours. I hadn’t even put on makeup or fixed my hair properly, but it wouldn’t do to keep Daniel waiting.

  Not this time of year. Christmas seemed to make him grumpy. I knew it was because he was overworked, but it still made me a little sad that he couldn’t enjoy what should have been a happy holiday.

  Especially this year. My business was doing well, and after all those years of working as a chef in other people’s kitchens, Daniel had finally realized his dream of owning his own restaurant. After three years of dating, I had secretly halfway convinced myself that this Christmas could be the one….

  I ran downstairs to answer the door. He s
tood on the doorstep, key out, with a funny look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I gave him a quick kiss.

  “Nothing,” he said, glancing around at the street behind. “I was going to let myself in, but I had the eeriest feeling just now. Like I was being watched.”

  I poked my head out the door and looked up and down the street. I saw a flash of red disappearing through the square.

  “Maybe you were being watched,” I said, drawing him inside. “I bet it was those creeps Manny and Cookie.”

  “Who?” Daniel asked, kissing my neck. “Mmm. You smell good.” He held me at arm’s length and smiled. “Looking good too. I don’t suppose that’s a new dress?”

  “New in 1958, I think,” I said, twirling so he could get the full effect.

  “Could you zip me, please?” I asked, holding my hair off my neck. “Manny and Cookie own Babalu, that new shop across the square, over on Harris. They’re trying to put me out of business. I think they were probably over here spying, checking on my decorations for the business district Christmas decoration contest.”

  He zipped me up without any funny business. So I knew he was distracted.

  “What makes you think they’re trying to put you out of business?” he asked.

  “Everything. But don’t get me started. I just have to run upstairs and slap on some makeup, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “You look fine to me,” Daniel said. “Anyway, we really need to get a move on here, Weezie. I’ve got to go back to the restaurant in a couple hours. We’ve got two law firm Christmas parties tonight, and the partners all expect the owner to put in an appearance.”

  “Daniel!” I protested. “It’s James and Jonathan ‘s first party. You can’t cut out early. And I don’t want to.”

  “You can stay,” he said. “But there’s no way I can. Now, can we get going?”

  “One minute,” I promised.

  Upstairs, I dabbed on some eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, and slipped into a pair of black velvet high-heeled pumps. I grabbed my black velvet shawl, wrapped it around my shoulders, and fastened the blue Christmas tree pin to it.