Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos by Donna Andrews Read Free Book Online
Authors: Donna Andrews
money on."
We watched as Benson shook hands with die watchman, then flung his arm around Rob's shoulder, and led him off.
"Come on," I said. "We have to see Faulk now. He needs to know about this."
"For heaven's sake, why?" Michael said, his exasperated tone returning as he followed me down die lane toward Faulk's booth.
"Faulk and Tad have been living together for the last year or so," I said. "That's why he came back from California. I like Tad well enough, but he can be a bit of a hothead, so if he's running around shouting threats, Faulk should know. And for that matter, Faulk doesn't lose his temper easily, but when he does – well, I want to make sure he hears about the whole mess from someone calm enough to not make it sound like more than it is. He tends to be a little overprotective of Tad. We don't want either of them messing up your mother's big event do we? And – Michael?"
He had stopped in the middle of the lane.
"Living together?" he said. "As in living together? I mean – Faulk's gay?"
"Is that a problem?" I asked, putting my hands on my hips.
"Of course not," he said, "It's just that… well, I didn't realize…."
"That you've been having fits of jealousy over Faulk for absolutely no good reason?"
He shrugged, rather sheepishly.
"Come on," I said. "We need to talk to Faulk."
"So, I guess he's in the closet?" Michael said, as we turned into the lane where Faulk's booth stood.
"Not really," I said. "But he tries to keep a low profile; his family's very prominent – First Families of Virginia and all that – and a bit conservative. You can't imagine how upset they were when he first brought Tad home to meet them."
"Because Tad's black, or because he's gay?" Michael asked.
"Yes," I said. "Hard to say which upset them most. His father, anyway; his mother's so glad to have him back in Virginia that she doesn't really care, from what I heard."
"Hard to believe there's still that much prejudice around," Michael said, shaking his head.
"They've had a tough time," I said, hoping sympathy for Faulk and Tad would crowd out any remaining resentment. "Ah, here's the booth."
Faulk had a flashier booth than mine, more like an art nouveau wrought-iron gazebo, really, and cleverly designed to show off his ironwork as much as possible. You could assemble and disassemble it quickly with a few basic tools; it packed down into a surprisingly small space; and though it looked airy and delicate, I'd seen it weather high winds that had overturned far more solid and sturdy-looking booths. And, to my amazement, he'd managed to make both die booth and the small iron fence that defined the front of his space completely free of rough edges and points on which clumsy shoppers or rampaging children could cut or impale themselves.
"What's wrong?" Michael asked. I realized I was staring at Faulk's booth.
"I confess: I covet that booth," I said. "Not that particular booth, exactly, but I want one like it."
"I'm sure you could do something just as good," Michael said. "Even better."
"I'm sure I could, too," I said. "I helped make parts of his, ten years ago. I just haven't gotten a good idea, I don't want a clone of Faulk's booth; I want one that's as cool as his, but completely me."
"That's a great idea," Michael said. Did he really think it was a great idea, or was he just happy to see me showing some signs of professional rivalry with Faulk? Hard to tell.
Several tourists had stopped and were pointing up at Faulk's sign, which said, in old-fashioned lettering, WILLIAM FAULKNER CATES: blacksmith. They glanced into the booth, then stepped inside.
"Got 'em!" I said.
"What?" Michael said.
"It's half the battle, you know, getting them to enter the booth. Watch the way people walk down the aisles, staring into booths, and trying to keep from putting even one toe across the invisible line between the aisle and the booth."
"Because if they step in, there's more pressure to buy?"
"Exactly. Same thing if they catch
We watched as Benson shook hands with die watchman, then flung his arm around Rob's shoulder, and led him off.
"Come on," I said. "We have to see Faulk now. He needs to know about this."
"For heaven's sake, why?" Michael said, his exasperated tone returning as he followed me down die lane toward Faulk's booth.
"Faulk and Tad have been living together for the last year or so," I said. "That's why he came back from California. I like Tad well enough, but he can be a bit of a hothead, so if he's running around shouting threats, Faulk should know. And for that matter, Faulk doesn't lose his temper easily, but when he does – well, I want to make sure he hears about the whole mess from someone calm enough to not make it sound like more than it is. He tends to be a little overprotective of Tad. We don't want either of them messing up your mother's big event do we? And – Michael?"
He had stopped in the middle of the lane.
"Living together?" he said. "As in living together? I mean – Faulk's gay?"
"Is that a problem?" I asked, putting my hands on my hips.
"Of course not," he said, "It's just that… well, I didn't realize…."
"That you've been having fits of jealousy over Faulk for absolutely no good reason?"
He shrugged, rather sheepishly.
"Come on," I said. "We need to talk to Faulk."
"So, I guess he's in the closet?" Michael said, as we turned into the lane where Faulk's booth stood.
"Not really," I said. "But he tries to keep a low profile; his family's very prominent – First Families of Virginia and all that – and a bit conservative. You can't imagine how upset they were when he first brought Tad home to meet them."
"Because Tad's black, or because he's gay?" Michael asked.
"Yes," I said. "Hard to say which upset them most. His father, anyway; his mother's so glad to have him back in Virginia that she doesn't really care, from what I heard."
"Hard to believe there's still that much prejudice around," Michael said, shaking his head.
"They've had a tough time," I said, hoping sympathy for Faulk and Tad would crowd out any remaining resentment. "Ah, here's the booth."
Faulk had a flashier booth than mine, more like an art nouveau wrought-iron gazebo, really, and cleverly designed to show off his ironwork as much as possible. You could assemble and disassemble it quickly with a few basic tools; it packed down into a surprisingly small space; and though it looked airy and delicate, I'd seen it weather high winds that had overturned far more solid and sturdy-looking booths. And, to my amazement, he'd managed to make both die booth and the small iron fence that defined the front of his space completely free of rough edges and points on which clumsy shoppers or rampaging children could cut or impale themselves.
"What's wrong?" Michael asked. I realized I was staring at Faulk's booth.
"I confess: I covet that booth," I said. "Not that particular booth, exactly, but I want one like it."
"I'm sure you could do something just as good," Michael said. "Even better."
"I'm sure I could, too," I said. "I helped make parts of his, ten years ago. I just haven't gotten a good idea, I don't want a clone of Faulk's booth; I want one that's as cool as his, but completely me."
"That's a great idea," Michael said. Did he really think it was a great idea, or was he just happy to see me showing some signs of professional rivalry with Faulk? Hard to tell.
Several tourists had stopped and were pointing up at Faulk's sign, which said, in old-fashioned lettering, WILLIAM FAULKNER CATES: blacksmith. They glanced into the booth, then stepped inside.
"Got 'em!" I said.
"What?" Michael said.
"It's half the battle, you know, getting them to enter the booth. Watch the way people walk down the aisles, staring into booths, and trying to keep from putting even one toe across the invisible line between the aisle and the booth."
"Because if they step in, there's more pressure to buy?"
"Exactly. Same thing if they catch
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