Antiques Slay Ride by Barbara Allan Read Free Book Online Page A

brusque.”
    â€œYou called me a horrible little man, Vivian.”
    â€œAnd I am here to apologize and wish you the most felicitous greetings of the season. Please accept these delicious Christmas cookies by way of my amends.... May we come in, dear?”
    Before he could answer, she thrust the plate of covered cookies into his hands, distracting him as she brazenly pushed by. I followed, giving our very reluctant host my sweetest, most sincere smile. Because, you know, once you learn how to fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.
    Lyle hurried to catch up, as Mother was moving through the large entry hall, with its impressive crystal chandelier and massive antique grandfather clock, on her way to who-knew-where. And wherever that was, I was following right behind, with Sushi under my coat, her head popping out like a cute version of an Alien chest-burster.
    Our unhappy host blurted, “Ladies! Let’s use the parlor, please.”
    Mother turned and made a sweeping bow. I swear she did.
    â€œWhy,” she said, “that’s very gracious of you, Lyle. I’d love to see the festive treasures I’ve heard so much about. Your Christmas collection is legendary!”
    With a weak smile, put-upon Lyle pushed apart two large, sliding oak doors, and we entered into a twinkling, glittering Christmas cornucopia of eras-gone-by.
    Mother and I stood agape.
    In the bay window stood an enormous real fir tree (thankfully, not upside down), resplendent with antique glass ornaments, tinsel, and large, old-fashioned lights, circa the 1950s. Seated on a Victorian needlepoint couch was a row of bears, several of which I recognized as from Steiff, the venerable German toy company—worth a small furry fortune.
    Elsewhere—in this corner, on that table—were other displays of Christmas collectibles: antique Nativity scenes; little candle figures of choir children, Christmas trees, and reindeer; plaster Santa banks, including the one he had outbid Mother over; children’s sleds, red wagons, and skates; and an assortment of old parlor games, in their original boxes.
    Mother turned to Lyle with eyes so wide behind the magnifying lenses that you’d bet she could spot a flea on a reindeer’s derriere.
    â€œMy dear ,” she breathed, “never have I seen such an impressive Christmas collection in all my born days . . . and that’s Vivian Borne days!” She laughed gaily.
    Suddenly, our host’s demeanor changed. “Why, thank you,” he said, beaming back at her. The way to a collector’s heart is through his possessions.
    I nodded, the room sparkling around me red, white, and green. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s absolutely breathtaking.”
    He beamed at me, too. “Thank you. . . . Uh, is that a dog?”
    â€œYes, I’m sorry . . . I should have left her in the car.”
    Vivian said, gesturing toward us, “Not to worry. She’s housebroken.”
    I trust she meant Sushi.
    â€œDo . . . do you mind if we sit down?” She raised the back of a hand to her forehead. “This overwhelming array has simply bowled me over. I actually feel a little faint . . .”
    Okay, now that was faking.
    Lyle, concerned, said, “Shall I get you some water, Vivian?”
    â€œNo . . . no. I’ll be fine.” Then she added, “Well, perhaps some eggnog, if you have any handy.”
    â€œI do. I’ll get it.” He handed her back the plate of cookies.
    â€œNo rum, though. We’re on medication.”
    â€œAll right, Vivian.”
    He scurried off.
    I asked, “What are you up to?”
    She moved over to the edge of an Oriental rug on which was assembled an assortment of old painted castiron doorstops; about six to nine inches tall, they included a Christmas tree, reindeer, sleigh, and a bag with presents.
    Bending down, risking her knees, her behind high, she glanced back and asked, “Didn’t you notice the