The Merchant of Menace

juice and seeds all over herself. They ought to be here any minute, she thought as she sat down in the living room to wait, idly flipping through a holiday crafts magazine while she tried to remember what she knew about Mel’s family and why she had a sense that she and Addie weren’t going to be on exactly the same wavelength. Mel didn’t talk about his relations very often. His father had died young and his mother, if Jane was remembering right, had started an escort service in Atlanta. Not that kind of escort service, he’d hastily explained. A real one, driving visiting celebrities and rich business types around town. Ted Turner’s television network had been God’s gift to her. She invested in a limo and did the driving herself at first, then as she became more successful, she purchased more cars and hired drivers. She had eventually expanded the service to a number of Southern cities, franchising the business and traveling frequently to keep a close eye on the efficiency, courtesy, and driving skills of the drivers and the manner in which the home offices were run.
    An admirable woman, Jane had thought. But now that she was about to meet Mel’s mother, she had a few uncomfortable second thoughts. Jane herself had been widowed with young children and hadn’t done anything nearly so impressive or financially aggressive. Thanks to life and mortgage insurance, and her own and her late husband’s investment in his family’s small chain of pharmacies, the profit from which hadn’t died with him, she’d been able to be a stay-at-home, full-time mother. She had no regrets. Raising her children was a job that was both challenging and important to her and she felt she’d done it fairly well so far.
    And her contribution to the outside world was substantial as well. She volunteered for a great many worthwhile endeavors. Once a week she drove a group of blind children to their special school that had no bus service. She served, albeit unwillingly, on the PTA board and had often allowed herself to be dragooned into being a room mother. She worked for her church and several charities and had served on the fundraising committees for a number of civic groups. But all of that might well appear pretty inconsequential to a woman who had started a highly successful business from scratch.
    She heard Mel’s red MG pull into the driveway—she had to get that pothole at the end of it fixed soon or his little car would disappear into it someday. She had visions of firemen lowering rope ladders into the hole. She opened the front door to greet them.
    The snow was getting heavier and Mel introduced his mother while they crowded into the house, shaking snowflakes from hair and shoulders. “Mom, this is Jane Jeffry. Jane, my mother, Addie VanDyne.”
    Jane was stunned. The woman hardly looked more than a couple years older than Jane herself. She had masses of curly dark hair; a valentine-shaped face without a single wrinkle that Jane could see; small, sparkling white teeth and big china-blue eyes. She was—well, there was no other word cute, in a very expensive, sophisticated way. She wore a black cashmere coat, black patent boots, and the same elegant black gloves Jane had wanted to get Shelley for Christmas but simply couldn’t afford. As Addie Van-Dyne shed her coat, she revealed a slubbed silk princess-line suit that precisely matched her eyes and did wonders for her perfect figure. She even had a dimple, just like Mel’s, which enhanced the impression that she might just be a slightly older sister instead of his mother.
    Jane wanted to run away and burn her own khaki slacks and plaid shirt.
    She hung up their coats and indicated they were to make themselves comfortable in the living room. As she closed the closet door, she noticed there was an unfamiliar suitcase sitting in the hall. Mel must have brought it in. Dear God, Addie VanDyne hadn’t brought them presents, had she? This possibility had never crossed Jane’s mind. She’d prepared for the visit with a nice bottle of perfume and an elegant little atomizer in an Erte-like design which was wrapped in fancy red foil for Mel’s mother, but that was all.
    Jane had coffee and tea ready to put into the antique, but somewhat shabby, slightly dented silver service that had been a wedding present from her grandmother, and she’d arranged a plate of cookies—good ones, not the deformed elves. She filled the tray and took it into the living room.
    “I thought you