Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos Read Online Free PDF Page A

from his unit.
    " Ma cheriel" Michael exclaimed, and proceeded to introduce me to his comrades in a mixture of French and French-accented English.
    Michael's fellow officers all kissed my hand, and said polite things in French. At least I assumed they were polite things. I'd taken French in school but somehow it never quite took, and I was notorious for having spent two weeks in Paris without once eating anything that even faintly resembled what I thought I'd ordered.
    Michael, on the other hand, spoke French fluently, with an accent so perfect it caused native speakers to swoon with national pride and ecstasy. That was supposedly the reason he'd joined a French regiment, although before he decided the French had cooler uniforms, he'd been well on his way to developing an intense sympathy for the losing British side.
    At any rate, he didn't seem to object to the polite Gallic nothings his friends were murmuring to my knuckles, so I assumed they weren't actually propositioning me. I replied "enchante" or "merci" to whatever they said and smiled a lot. I wished Tad would rescue me, but he smiled, waved, and disappeared into the crowd.
    Well, with any luck the French forces would drift off sooner or later. They were glancing at the portion of our booth they could see – Eileen's side, actually – with polite uninterest.
    "Ah, they are yours, these potteries? Tres jolies" one said, in the offhand tone of someone who actually thought pottery was tres boring but wanted to be polite to the demoiselle sharing a tent with his brother-in-arms.
    "No, my friend Eileen does the potteries," I said. "I do the hardwares."
    I stepped aside so the French could see my side of the booth.
    "You're a blacksmith?" he exclaimed. His eyes widened, and he dropped both the blase air and his French accent. "Cool! Can you mend things?"
    "Metal things, yeah," I said. "Do it all the time."
    "like bayonets?"
    "Sure," I said.
    "You made this?" another of the soldiers asked, indicating my dagger.
    "Yes," I said. "The blade, too; not just the hilt."
    "Do you take commissions?"
    And so, for the next half hour, the faux French soldiers milled about my booth, examining my ironwork – especially the dagger – and apparently finding it to their satisfaction, as they grew more and more enthusiastic about commissioning me to mend or make various bits of weaponry and equipment.
    I confess, I was less than enthusiastic at first. Call me mercenary, and I won't argue with you; I work iron for a living, not a hobby. And while I wasn't exactly starving, I had long ago learned that I couldn't pay the rent if I gave attractive discounts to everyone who was related to me, lived in my neighborhood, had gone to kindergarten with me, or, in this case, happened to share a hobby with my boyfriend. So when they asked me what I'd charge to make things, I gave them accurate estimates, possibly a bit on the high side, since in some cases I'd have to do quite a bit of research on top of the actual blacksmithing.
    I found myself warming to them when I realized they didn't even blink at the prices I'd quoted. In fact, they all took my cards (including a stack to distribute to the rest of the regiment), kissed my hand several times each, clapped Michael on the back, and marched off in obvious high spirits, singing "Au pres de ma blonde."
    "You've made quite a hit with the guys," Michael said, beaming. "You'll have to come to all the .events after this."
    "Events after this?" Michael had only joined the group so he could participate in the reenactment of the Battle of Yorktown and help make his mother's event a success. Or so he'd said. Was he really planning to keep on doing reenactment stuff? Since when had he and the guys become such buddies? Perhaps this was only a temporary burst of enthusiasm, sparked by how much he enjoyed running around in his French uniform. Maybe he'd lose interest again when he remembered that the National Park Service wouldn't let reenactors pretend to be