Land Sakes (3 page)

“No, I don't, but I'll keep it in mind.” A chipmunk was scurrying around in the flowers. “Albert, have you heard anything about Dora?”

“Yes, I have. I saw in the
New York Times
that she has a concert next fall in Lincoln Center. It's amazing, isn't it?”

“Amazing? It's more like a miracle. When you gave her that big harmonica, did you ever dream she'd wind up a recording artist and playing that high-class music on stage?”

He shook his head. “Never. We knew she had talent, but we never dreamed she'd do anything more than play for her own pleasure.”

“I tell you, Albert, the Lord does wonders, don't he? We saw Dora on TV one time—she was still wearing that old hunting coat she wore when she was here.”

Albert got up and walked to the edge of the porch, propped his hands on the banister, and looked up the driveway.

“So, what are your plans, Esmeralda?”

“I found a little place in town, and if it's still available I'll rent it tomorrow.” I tried to sound upbeat. “As soon as schools let out, tourists will be flocking up here, and it shouldn't be hard to find a job in one of the restaurants.”

He turned around, leaned against the banister, and
folded his arms across his chest. “Lenora and I would like for you to come live with us. We have that guesthouse and we'd love having you.” He smiled. “Maybe you can teach Lenora how to cook.”

“Thank you, Albert, but I believe the Lord has work for me to do somewhere.”

“Any idea where?”

“Can't I serve the Lord as a waitress?”

“Of course, but you are best suited for a ministry such as this one here at Priscilla Home.”

“The board don't think so.”

“I wish they had asked me. The way you run circles around these younger women amazes all of us. The board probably acted in haste.”

“Well, it's all over and done with now. There are not many places like Priscilla Home to apply to.” I laughed. “The only job offer I've had is from one of the residents. And she's just trying to help me out.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“Barbara wants me to sign on as a companion for her mother. She says her family is rich, but I have my doubts about that.”

“Oh, the Winchesters are wealthy, all right. Philip Winchester is one of the wealthiest men in America, and his wife comes from a family that has been wealthy for generations.”

“Really? Well, they might be rich, Albert, but Barbara's mother sounds like she's nutty as a fruitcake.”

“Mrs. Winchester? Well, you're probably right about that.” His eyes crinkled at the corners; he was tickled about something.

“What's so funny?”

“Well, it is funny. Several years ago, as was his habit, Philip Winchester was off on his yacht with a bevy of young women, and Mrs. Winchester had his picture plastered on billboards all across the country, advertising him as a missing person ‘last seen in the company of several swimsuit models.'”

We laughed. “How did he take it?” I asked.

“Matter-of-fact, he enjoyed it. Came on TV and said he was the envy of every CEO in the country.” Albert sat back down. “According to the gossip columnists, Mrs. Winchester won't get on that yacht with him at the tiller. I guess there's more to it than that. The jet set lives in a different world than the rest of us.”

“Well, tell me, Albert, if they're so rich, why does Barbara's mother drive a ten-year-old car?”

“That's probably another one of her eccentricities. She travels by herself a lot. They say she won't fly, even though Philip has private jets that would fly her anywhere she wants to go. Once in a while she makes the gossip columns or the headlines, usually because of some prank she pulls, like the one about putting his picture on billboards.”

The more I heard about that woman, the more I was convinced she was wacko.

“So Barbara wants you to live with this woman and take care of her?”

“No. She wants me to drive her across the country and go on a cruise to Alaska with her.”

“Now that sounds interesting. You would enjoy seeing Alaska.”

“I don't need a vacation, Albert. I need to find a job. I'd have to be nuts to get behind the wheel of a ten-year-old rattletrap and drive across America with a loony tunes lady to take care of.”

“Oh, I'm sure Mrs. Winchester would have a driver.” Albert leaned back in the rocker, his hands behind his head. “Esmeralda, a trip like that shouldn't last more than a few weeks. You've never seen much of the country, and this would be a chance to see some of the states between here and Alaska... Besides, you could use the money, couldn't you?”

“How much do you think they'd pay me?”

“I don't know, but I daresay they'd pay you a lot more than you expect.” He stood up to leave. “Esmeralda, if I were you, I'd take it.”

“You would?”

“I would.” He was halfway down the steps. “What have you got to lose?”

I watched my friend walking across the lawn to his car and wondered if I should reconsider the offer. I sat there mulling it over.
Like he says, a few weeks is not a long time... I could sure use the money... I can put up with anything if it don't last long... Like Albert said, what do I have to lose?

My sanity, probably
!

I stood up to go inside.

That night after supper, I was reading my Bible, hoping some Scripture would show me whether or not I should sign on with Loony Tunes. It don't always happen that
way, but as I was reading in John there was this verse that I had counted on before: “When he puts forth his own sheep, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him for they know his voice.”

“He goes before them,” I repeated. “To Alaska?”

I closed my Bible and sat there thinking. After a while, I went upstairs to Barbara's room. “Tell me, Barbara, does your mother have a driver?”

“Oh, sure, Percival Pettigrew.”

I hesitated. Then I said, “Well, you can call home and see if she wants me, and if she does, make the arrangements. I've decided I'll go with her.”

3

Nancy went shopping with me to find a dress that would be okay for evening wear. The Nearly New shop had only one in my color, blue, with puff sleeves and a wide sash that tied in a bow in back. “We'll go to the Thrifty Nifty,” she said. “That's where rich women dump their duds so they can buy new.”

Well, we found a blue silk gown with the tags still on it. “Never been worn,” the clerk told us. It fit perfectly, and, if I do say so myself, I looked great in it. I had a strand of pearls that would set it off nice.

Nancy found a beaded bag that matched the dress, and I tried on a pair of pumps with a heel low enough for me to wear. That's all I needed. I had everything else—a parka, sweats, sweaters—all the like of that.

So I was all fixed, dressed in my navy blue suit, ready and waiting the morning Mrs. Winchester was to arrive. All the girls were crowded onto the porch to see me off,
laughing and talking—giving me all kinds of advice about finding a fellow and the like. I checked my bottomless pit to make sure I had everything—sunglasses, wallet, rain bonnet, umbrella, three Gospels of John; digging around in those little compartments, I found my lipstick, comb, brush, compact, stamps, address book, note pad, pencil, pen, tissues, and checkbook. But I couldn't find my nail file. I had to go through several pockets again before I found it. Satisfied that I had everything, I closed my pocketbook and sat there holding it on my lap with both hands and trying not to fidget.

One of the girls hollered, “Here she comes!” A vehicle was turning in the driveway.

“Looks like a limo,” somebody said.

It was long, I tell you. Longer than a hearse! “What kind of a car is that?”

“It's a Rolls,” Barbara told me. “A Rolls-Royce. A touring car.”

“Well, why didn't you tell me her car was a Rolls-Royce?”

She grinned. “I was afraid you wouldn't take the job.”

There was a man in a uniform behind the wheel and a ugly-looking dog on the seat beside him. The driver looked straight ahead and did not so much as glance our way as he drove around back. The girls picked up my luggage and piled off the porch, leaving me to bring up the rear.

I did not like the looks of this—this blue, streamlined automobile and a dog on the front seat! It gave me second thoughts.
Can I handle this
?

The chauffeur was standing straight as a poker at the rear of the car, ready to load my two bags. Although he was skinny, his uniform fit. If it had been khaki, he could have passed for a World War I private. With a long nose, a neat little mustache tucked under it, and a chauffeur's cap and black kid gloves, he looked like something out of a Hollywood movie.

Where's Mrs. Winchester
? I wondered. Then I saw her deep inside the backseat, nearly hid; on the other side of her was another one of them ugly mutts staring straight ahead.

I grabbed Barbara's arm. “Now, see here, Barbara, if you think I'm gonna ride in that car with two big dogs all the way to Alaska, you've got another thing coming!”

“They won't hurt you, Miss E. They're guard dogs—Afghan hounds.”

“That figures—they're terrorists!”

She laughed. “No. Mother won't have bodyguards, so the dogs are the next best thing.”

“Now see here, Barbara—”

“Percival, this is Miss Esmeralda McAbee. Take good care of her.”

The chauffeur stiffened, tipped his cap, and held his nose in the air. “Good morning, madam.” Plainly, he thought he was too good for the likes of me. Well, nobody can snub me and get away with it. He opened the door for me to get in, but I let him stand there waiting while I took my time hugging each of the girls and saying my good-byes. I wasn't done when here came Albert's station wagon down the drive. He parked in back of the Rolls and got out wearing that pin-striped suit he wears
when he's going to fly from Greensboro to New York for a board meeting or something. “I see you're ready to go,” he said to me.

“Yes, I guess.”

Barbara introduced him to Percival, and that nozzle nose did not hesitate to reach out and shake hands with Albert. Seeing I wasn't ready to get in the car, he shut the backseat door and began showing off the Rolls to Albert.

“Is this the Silver Spur model?” Albert asked him.

“Sir, this is the Mulliner Park Ward Touring Limousine.” Nozzle Nose was so proud he could have split his britches. “This motorcar is two feet longer than the Silver Spur II.” They walked around to the front to look at the fancy grill. On the top was the figure of a shapely woman with wings in skin-tight drapery. “The flying lady,” he said, “distinguishes the Rolls-Royce as the finest motorcar in the world.”

Albert nodded. “I've known several maestros who own the Rolls, and I must say the ride is superb.”

“This model, sir, is the product of the world's finest craftsmen. The coach builders of Mulliner Park Ward required fourteen months to sculpt the metal and wood that went into this luxurious motorcar.”