Spring, 2015

Never Attribute to Malice What Can Be Adequately Explained By Stupidity (or Karma)

On record: Jimmy and Breena Palmer make the cutest babies on the planet.

Their fraternal twins, Victoria (named both for Mother and Jimmy's maternal grandmother) and Abigail (named for who else—and Breena's maternal grandmother, if you're getting picky) are so freaking adorable they could sell shoes to snakes with just a smile. Dr. and Mrs. Palmer take them out for a stroll and get agents and modeling reps shoving cards into their unwilling hands, begging to represent them for commercials and ads. (Someone posted an article on Facebook the other day, basically listing how much it will cost you to raise a kid to college age. I think the next agent who approaches them will have a much better time of it. Twenty bazillion dollars times two is a scary amount. Commercial residuals could really help.)

When they hit one, it was an excuse to serve up cake and ice cream and get bombarded with gifts. The girls were in high form, crawling/semi-walking about the room with the surefootedness of a couple of sailors on the fourth night of shore leave, giggling and squealing and clapping their hands. Jimmy and Breena had gratefully accepted our offer to have the party at the Mallard manse. One, we had more room. Two, this meant our Victoria didn't have to make the drive to their house. Three, they didn't have to spit and polish their own place, something for which Breena was very grateful. Twin toddlers can really tear up a house.

The party was in full swing when the bell rang. As far as I knew, everyone was there so I headed to the door with the expectation of finding a neighbor in search of a cup of sugar or something equally prosaic.

Instead I found a person so regal, so imposing, I almost took a step back to sink into a formal curtsey. "Hello?"

A delicately arched eyebrow flicked up a hair. "I am Abigail Milford."

It was a temptation to say, "That's nice" bit instead I opted for polite. "Please, come in." I had been briefed about Grandmother Abigail while we set up the plates and forks. She spent her sunset years jetting from one country to another, appearing with no warning and leaving just abruptly. She had more money than Carter had little pills and parted with it very reluctantly. She was, as Breena put it, a force of nature. She steamrolled over Breena's dad—quite an accomplishment—while the Slaters were just dating and he still treated her with a respect bordering on obsequiousness. I found the man to be an obnoxious twit and I've heard from several people he has improved immensely over the years. The fact that after 40 years he still acts like a lowly serf around her says a lot.

Tall, thin and imperious, she looked the part of a dowager queen in her vintage steel gray taffeta suit and—good god—a leather and fur coat. The real deal. It had to be as old as the dress, a good seventy years, but was in mint condition. The woman has guts wearing it in public—though I can't imagine anyone being crazy enough to toss a bucket of red paint on her or even yell, "Fur is dead!"

Breena was mildly astonished. "Grandmother! When did you return from Italy?"

Faintly haughty look. "I flew back on a whim." (What is that, a new type of plane?)

Breena was clearly used to her grandmother's cozy demeanor. "Well, whatever the reason, it's good that you're here. You haven't met Jimmy, let alone our girls!"

Poor Jimmy gets tongue tied at the least provocation, so you can imagine how his knees were knocking. "Gr—uh—Mrs.—um—ma'am," he finally managed.

"James," she said coolly, giving his hand the barest touch. He didn't correct her.

Breena took over the introductions (to Jimmy's certain relief); the only one to give her measure for measure of chill was—no surprise—Gibbs; when she turned away, I caught him glancing at Jimmy with a definite flash of sympathy in his eyes.

"And this is Abby… and Vicky," Breena said with pride. Mrs. Milford immediately reached for her namesake. "Uh… Abby has a bit of a problem with spitting up. A lot." She looked at her grandmother's coat with apprehension.

"Nonsense. Babies like me."

Ducky and I exchanged a glance. It doesn't matter if a baby worships the ground you crawl on next to them. If Vesuvius wants to erupt, it will erupt—sometimes spectacularly.

"Oh, it's not that," Breena said with a slightly desperate smile. "She just—it's her muscle isn't completely developed—"

Mrs. Milford shuddered delicately. She clearly didn't want to hear the sordid details. She cut to the chase, scooping baby Abby up from her spot hanging on to the end of the couch. For her part Abby was fascinated by the fur suddenly in front of her face. It didn't purr or bark, but it was soft and deep. She dug her fingers into the pile and squealed.

Mrs. Milford flicked a bare (but triumphant) smile. "Babies like me."

"Oh, no, I never doubted—"

Abby was enchanted. She squeezed her fingers, petted the collar, laughed and flung herself about in joy, getting more and more excited—

Vesuvius erupted.

Spectacularly.

The back of the coat, dark fur and leather, was suddenly covered in a flood of white.

Everyone in the room was used to baby urp, so nobody ran for cover or even made a moue of disgust. Almost everyone. Mrs. Milford carefully handled the baby back to Breena, holding up a hand to forestall Breena's stammered promises to pay for the cleaning. "No… no... you warned me. I should have… listened."

(No arguments there.)

"There's a cleaner only five minutes away. I can run it over, they'll have it taken care of this afternoon," Ducky said with an easy smile.

"No, I couldn't ask you—"

"You didn't ask. I volunteered." He leaned over. "I think Miss Abigail would like a chance to make a better first impression," he 'whispered.'

Her lips twitched—then she actually smiled. "Everyone deserves a second chance."

I thought Mr. Slater was going to faint.