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but with her trademark theatricality, “please tell me you’re not allowing this vile creature inside your home—you’d be better off with a raccoon or a skunk climbing in. He will cheat you and he will rob you and he will take you to the cleaners!”
    That about covered it.
    Mr. Olson had assumed a deer-in-the-headlights expression at this intrusion, but Carson remained calm, headExorcist-swiveling slowly toward Mother, giving her the look a parent might a disobedient child.
    “We’re having a
private
conversation, ma’am,” Carson drawled, “and it in no way that comes to
my
mind concerns
you.
Why don’t you just be a good girl, and avail yourself of the opportunity to move along to the various tables, and pick up a bargain or two?”
    Mother held her ground. “You know a lot about picking up ‘bargains,’ don’t you, Mr. Carson?” Her eyes were round cold stones behind the glasses; big stones, too. She shook a finger at him, no longer the disobedient child, but the stern parent.
    She went on: “Floyd here is a close friend, and when someone intends to take advantage of any one of my friends, well, you can rest assured that it does concern me …
especially
when a near and dear friend is about to be duped.”
    Did I mention Mother had a lot of near and dear friends? Or maybe you received one of the four-hundred-plus Christmas cards she sent out last year.
    Dozens of eyes were on us, as I moved to Mother’s side, and Carson’s expression tightened.
    He said to me, “I know you … you’re the snippy little lady who gave me such a bad time last week.” He looked from me to Mother and back, something animal in his gaze now. “You two girls seem to be making a habit of embarrassing me … slandering me … in public.”
    Mother said, “People have to be warned.”
    “They do, sometimes. And right now I’m warning you that if you gals don’t back off, and behave yourselves, I’ll get myself a restraining order that sees to it you do.”
    We had drawn a small crowd of garage sale shoppers, some clutching items of their desire. So I hated myself for what I did next.
    I tried to make peace.
    If Carson had any of our antiques, or knew where theywere, making a total enemy of him would not exactly help in getting them back.
    I tried my best to sound sincere. “Mr. Carson, you do have a valid point. And I apologize for making a scene at the luncheon.”
    “Brandy!” Mother looked at me as if
I’d
gone off my medication.
    “But you of all people should know what family heirlooms can mean to a person. How valuable such things are, in the sentimental sense.”
    Softly but with an edge, he said, “No one put a gun to your mother’s head to make her sell those things.”
    “I know, I know. And you had no way of knowing that there were … other considerations.”
    “Such as?”
    I didn’t want to get into that here, and said instead, “Right now Mother only cares that her friend Mr. Olson get top dollar for his antiques, should he decide to sell any.”
    Mr. Olson roused from his silence to say, “Really this fuss isn’t necessary—I’m not interested in selling anything that’s not out here on the yard.”
    “But if you ever
should,”
Mother replied, “why don’t you call me? I’m kind of a buff, you know, Floyd—and I have all sorts of price guides on what antiques are worth.”
    “Or let Mr. Carson make an offer,” I chimed in, “but then get a second opinion from another dealer or two.” I gave Carson a smile that I hoped seemed innocent and sincere. “Just like with a doctor and something serious—right, Mr. Carson? A second opinion?”
    What else could Carson say, but, “That’s not a bad idea, Mr. Olson. Just let me know how I can be of help.”
    Mother said, “How generous of you … ‘Bubbah.’”
    Carson sneered a little, then nodded to Mr. Olson, turned, and went off in a huff. Actually, he lingered at one of the tables, so make that a minute and a huff.
    We departed