The Process Server

  The only problem, Burton thought as he pulled his car out of the parking lot and headed for Connecticut, was that the whole thing was completely insane.

  It wasn’t just that Howard Ash disliked him. It was a pathological contempt with occasional touches of murderous revulsion. So today’s version of the man had been, without a doubt, an utter fabrication. Not that his smile had fooled anyone; he’d looked like he wanted to eat the entire front row.

  But the story had a certain ring of truth to it; Howard didn’t have a son, and Delphinium couldn’t manage the company. At least, that was what Burton was telling himself. His inner voice, the one that told him to flee whenever Howard was in the same room, was insulting Burton in language that couldn’t be publicly repeated. It could have been more polite about it, but he had to concede the inner voice was right. The whole thing was truly insane.

  A road sign put the Ridgefield turnoff five miles ahead and Burton cursed his lousy memory: he was supposed to stop at his parents’ and pick up a George Nakashima dining room chair, to be appraised by Delphinium’s socialite friend and antiques expert, Grayson Fletcher.

  Burton despised the flirtatious little man, no less so because he was an antiques expert, while Burton and Delphinium were mere enthusiasts, addicted to multiple showings nightly of the Antiques Roadshow … accompanied by Phinny’s occasional reminders that if he’d taken over his father’s store, they couldn’t afford to live in their nice neighbourhood in Danbury.

  The show was one of the few things that Burton felt they truly shared as a couple, and Grayson’s recent entrance upon the scene was vexing.

  Still, it sounded like a spectacular chair. His father had called in the middle of the day, while Burton was ensconced in his enormous new corner office, staring at the Newton’s Cradle desk toy and wondering what rabbit hole he’d stumbled into.

  “Your mother got it at an estate sale in Greenwich the other day,” he said. They’d lived in the city or just out of town for 35 years now, but he still sounded like he was from Bar Harbor… or Bah Hah-bah.

  “Went down there with Tuffy Watkins, from the ornithology club. Tuffy saw it, said he didn’t want, it wouldn’t go with the early 60s Scandinavian motif he’s trying to showcase at his store right now. Well Margy thought he was plumb crazy and told him, because there’s actually a lot in common between Nakashima’s work and the latter-day Danish stuff, but you know Tuffy. When he knows what he wants … Anyway, Margy put in $300 for it on a bet, as it looked like there were no heavyweights in the bidders. Sure enough, she gets a Nakashima for next to nothing.”

  Dad said he thought it was a ‘55, though it would depend on whether it was one type of wood or two. “Grayson will know for sure. Now I know you don’t like him, son, but just keep in mind you don’t have to see him for more than a few minutes.”

  Burton’s parents were from the Beat generation and still identified with values from the 60s. Mother had taught elementary school for 30 years and Father ran a small antique store. Both decried commercialization – the Nakashima would no doubt prompt offers, with a better-than-average chance father would be unable to part with it – and they wished Burton had wanted to eventually take over the shop, instead of being a number cruncher.

  “At least he’s not a stockbroker, Arthur,” his mother had reasoned after he’d accepted the job, and just before the wedding.

  “Almost makes up for marrying the socialite harpy,” his father had muttered back.

  “What’s that dear?” his mother had replied.

  “I said he’s finally getting married, isn’t he Margy,” father had lied.

  Mother had looked at him cockeyed, wondering if maybe he’d finally gone full-on senile instead of just incredibly absent-minded.