Monet Talks Read Online Free

What did you expect them to buy?”
    â€œJust the same, never trust a Yankee, my daddy always said, and he was right. I bet you dollars to doughnuts it was a Yankee who stole your bird.”
    â€œAs long as we’re being fair, Wynnell, your daddy’s mama was a Yankee.”
    â€œYou don’t need to be insulting,” she said, and hung up.
    I waited by the phone while I counted the seconds. It rang precisely at ten.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œSorry about that, Abby. I know I’m kinda touchy on the subject, seeing as how I’m not a purebred Southerner like you. But back to your problem. You need to change the locks, of course, and your security code. Also, I don’t think you or C.J. should work alone until you learn what kind of kook you’re dealing with.”
    â€œGood advice. Maybe I’ll just close the shop altogether for a few days. Mama’s been wanting me to spend some time with her, and C.J. has been asking for some beach days.”
    â€œIt must be nice,” Wynnell said pointedly.
    When we both lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, we were more or less on equal footing. But now I’m an S.O.B. and Wynnell is a W.O.T.A. That is to say, I live South of Broad Street on Charleston’s coveted lower peninsula, and my buddy lives West of the Ashley River. There is nothing wrong with being a W.O.T.A.—some of the best people are—but the area South of Broad is said to contain the fifth highest concentration of wealth in the nation. Sure, I would lose money by closing my shop, but it wasn’t going to make much of a dent in my personal finances.
    â€œBusiness has been slow,” I said, lying through recently capped teeth.
    â€œWhatever. Abby, promise you’ll call if you need me?”
    â€œI promise.”
    â€œI gotta go. Some customers just walked in.”
    Before I hung up I heard her talk in the high-pitched voice she uses when she’s pretending to talk to customers. Before I locked the doors to my shop for the next few days, I would put a sign in the window directing my customers to Wynnell’s shop, Wooden Wonders, well West of the Ashley.
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    I was still upset when lunch rolled around, so some of my other best friends, the Rob-Bobs, insisted on taking me out to eat. Their shop, The Finer Things, is doing so well that they now have an assistant, Simone Dupree. The girl speaks perfect English, but can put on a French accent at the drop of a syllable. If she tilts her nose skyward, the Rob-Bobs’ sales head that way, too. FYI, the lunch offer was just for me, which was just as well, because C.J. was already out on Folly Beach, searching for skin cancer.
    I suggested Sticky Fingers on Meeting Street as our lunch spot. You can get just about any style of ribs there, but the very best, in my opinion, are the Memphis Dry. They are so good your tongue will reach out and slap your face silly. The meat is served with side orders of baked beans and cole slaw. Perhaps it was not their intention, but the owners of Sticky Fingers have hit upon a formula that ensures their delicious meals will be remembered for the rest of the day.
    At any rate, the Rob-Bobs’ real names are Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben, respectively. Rob is tall, handsome, and in his early fifties. Bob is—well, he’s still in his thirties. Rob, who hails originally from Charlotte, is the epitome of a Southern gentleman. Bob is from Toledo, Ohio. Rob is the antiques expert in Charleston. Bob fancies himself a gourmand.
    After we’d ordered our drinks—sweet tea all around—Bob complained, as usual, that we weren’t eating lunch at their place.
    â€œIt wouldn’t have been any trouble, Abby. You know how I love to cook.”
    Knowing what was coming next, whether I invited it or not, I humored him. “What would have been on your menu?”
    â€œPoached quail eggs on toast points with hollandaise sauce, chilled asparagus aspic, and a