His Small-Town Girl

by Arlene James

  “I see.”

  After an awkward moment of silence, she rose and began to clear the table, saying, “Just let me put these in the kitchen and I’ll point you to your room.”

  The idea of going off alone to a cold, less than sumptuous room did not appeal to Tyler. Rising, he heard himself say, “Can’t I help you clean up?”

  He didn’t know which of them seemed more surprised. After a moment, Charlotte looked down at the soiled dishes in her arms.

  “It’s the least I can do after such a fine meal,” Tyler pressed, realizing that he hadn’t even complimented the cook.

  “I suppose your wife expects you to help out at home,” she began, shaking her head, “but it’s not necessary here.”

  “No,” he denied automatically. “That is, no wife.”

  “Ah.” Charlotte ducked her head shyly. “Well, if it’ll make you feel better to help out…”

  “Oh, it will,” he said, lifting a dish in each hand and following her toward the kitchen. “I never expected a home-cooked meal, especially not such a healthy one.” She looked back over her shoulder at that, just before disappearing into the other room. “And tasty,” he added quickly, raising his voice. “Very tasty. Delicious, even.”

  Hearing her wry “Thanks,” he stepped into a narrow room with doors at either end.

  Countertops of industrial-grade metal contrasted sharply with light green walls and cabinets constructed of pale, golden wood. The white cooking range in the corner by what must have been the outside door looked as if it came straight from the 1950s, while the olive-green refrigerator at the opposite end of the room appeared slightly newer. Tyler noted with some relief that a modern thermostat for a central air-conditioning system had been mounted above the light switch on one wall. He hoped the rooms were similarly equipped.

  What he did not see was a dishwasher. It came as no surprise, then, when Charlotte set down the dishes and started running hot water into the sink below the only window he had yet seen in the small apartment. Covered with frilly, translucent curtains in yellow trimmed with green, that window looked out over a small patio lit by a single outdoor light. Leaves swirled across the patterned brick, snagging on the thin legs of wrought-iron furniture in need of a new coat of green paint.

  “You can put those down there,” Charlotte said, indicating the counter with a tilt of her head.

  Hurrying to do as instructed, Tyler looked up to find her tying that white apron around her impossibly narrow waist again. Quickly switching his gaze, he watched suds foam up beneath the running water as she squeezed in detergent.

  “Better take your coat off,” she advised.

  He did that, then looked around for someplace to hang it before walking back into the other room to drape it over a chair. It only seemed sensible to pick up the remaining dishes before heading back to the kitchen.

  Returning, he found that Charlotte had already made order out of chaos, stacking the dirty dishes as they were evidently to be washed. Glassware came first, followed by plates, flatware, serving dishes, utensils and finally pans. The leftover food had disappeared into the refrigerator, from which she turned as he entered the narrow room.

  “I’ll take those,” she said, coming forward.

  He surrendered the two plates and platter, then watched her scrape food scraps into a bucket beneath the sink, which she then sealed with a tightly fitting lid before stacking the dishes with the others. Turning, she placed her back to the counter, her gaze falling to the neatly cuffed sleeves of his stark-white shirt. Her mouth gave a little quirk at one corner as she reached for a pair of yellow vinyl gloves and pulled them on.

  Wordlessly, she turned to the sink now billowing with suds, and reached for a plate on the stack to her right. While she washed and rinsed, Tyler wandered haplessly across the room, taking in a calendar from a local propane company on the side of the refrigerator and a clock shaped like a rooster over the stove. When he turned he saw a cookie jar in the form of an owl on the opposite counter next to a small microwave and a glass-domed container covering three layers of a dark, rich, grainy cake iced with frothy white. Several pieces had already been cut from it.

  “Is that carrot cake?” he asked.

  She sent him an amused glance. “Of course. Want a piece?”

  A hand strayed to his flat middle, but thinking of the extra time on the treadmill required to work that off, he said, “Better not.”

  She hitched a shoulder, handing him a wet plate with one hand and a striped towel with the other. Tyler had hold of them before he knew what was happening, but then he just stood there, confused and out of place.

  Plunging her hands back into the soapy water, she asked smoothly, “Are you going to dry that or just let it drip all over those expensive shoes?”

  He looked down, saw the dark droplets shining on black Italian leather and quickly put the towel to good use.

  “That dish goes in the cabinet behind you,” she told him, a hint of amusement in her tone. “Door on the far right.”

  Stepping across the room, he opened the cabinet, found an empty vertical space separated by dowels and slid the dish into it, noting that two sets of dishes were stored there, cheap dark brown stoneware, chipped in places, and the poor-quality flowered china from which he had eaten.

  He realized at once that she had served him from her good plates. Both embarrassed and gratified, he left the door open and went back for more plates. A short stack of clean, wet dishes stood on the metal countertop beside the sink.

  “Looks like I’m behind,” he admitted unashamedly. “But then, I’ve never done this before.”

  She smiled and added another dish to the pile. “I know.”

  Laughing, he got to work, making small talk as he dried and shelved the dishes. “How does a woman such as yourself come to be working in a motel?”

  Looking out the window, she replied matter-of-factly, “Her parents die and she winds up living with her grandparents, who just happen to own and operate that motel.”

  “My condolences,” he offered softly.

  “It happened a long time ago,” she replied evenly, glancing at him. “I was fourteen.”

  “Eons ago, obviously,” he teased, hoping to lighten the mood. She ducked her head.

  “Thirteen years.”

  That would make her twenty-seven, he calculated, a good age. He remembered it well. Had it only been eight years ago? At the time it had seemed that thirty would never come and his father would live forever. Yet, Comstock Aldrich had died of pancreatic cancer only nine months ago, leaving Tyler to fill his gargantuan shoes at Aldrich & Associates. After only ten months in the job, Tyler felt old and burdened, while Charlotte Jefford seemed refreshingly young and…serene.

  He blinked at that, realizing just how much that calm serenity appealed to him. It fairly radiated from her pores.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  He studiously did not look at her. “Oh, I’m thirty-five, an executive, nothing you’d find interesting, I’m sure. You mentioned brothers. Older or younger?”

  A slight pause made him wonder if she knew that he’d purposefully been less than forthcoming. “Older. Holt’s thirty-six, and Ryan’s thirty-four. Holt was working in the city when our folks passed, and Ryan was in college, so naturally I came here.”

  “The city?”

  “Oklahoma City.”

  “Ah. And these brothers of yours, what do they do?”

  “Well, Holt is a driller, like our daddy was. The price of oil these days keeps him pretty busy. He’s got a little ranch east of town, too. I can’t help worrying some, because that’s how Daddy died.” She looked down at her busy hands, adding softly, “He fell from a derrick.” An instant later, she seemed to throw off the melancholy memory. “But everything’s more modern now, safer, or so Holt says.”

  “I see.”

  “Ryan,” she went on, warming to her subject, “he’s the assistant principal at the high school. He teaches history, t
oo, and coaches just about every sport they offer. Football, baseball, basketball, volleyball, even track.” She gave Tyler a look, saying, “In a small town, you have to do it all.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asked.

  “One of each. She’s older. He’s younger.” And they hate my guts, Tyler thought, surprised by a stab of regret.

  “Children?”

  He shook his head. “Never married.”

  “Oh. Me, neither.” She shrugged. “You know how it is in a small town, slim pickings.”

  He actually didn’t know, and he didn’t care to know. What he did care about surprised him. Put plainly, he wanted her to like him. He wanted her to like him for himself, not for social status or wealth or any of the other reasons for which everyone else liked him, because he could give them things, because his last name happened to be Aldrich.

  For the first time in his life, it mattered what someone thought of him, someone who didn’t know the Aldrich family, someone without the least claim to influence or wealth, someone willing to invite him, a stranger, to dinner. Someone who would take him at face value.

  It mattered, even if he couldn’t figure out why.

  Charlotte saw her guest to the kitchen door, which opened on the same side of the building as the drive-through, and pointed across the way to his room. After thanking her profusely for the meal, he walked toward his car. Looking in that direction through the screen, she recognized her brother Holt’s late-model, double-cab pickup truck as it turned into the motel lot. The truck swung to the left and stopped nose-in at the end of the building next to the pastor’s sedan.

  “You’re late,” she called as he stepped down from the cab, his gaze aimed at the man now dropping down behind the driver’s wheel of that expensive sports car. Still wearing his work clothes, greasy denim jeans and jacket over a simple gray undershirt, Holt had at least traded his grimy steel-toed boots for his round-toed, everyday cowboy pair.

  Tall and lean, Holt took a great deal after their grandfather in appearance, though with different coloring. A lock of his thick, somewhat shaggy, sandy-brown hair fell over one vibrant green eye, and he impatiently shoved it back with a large, calloused, capable hand as bronzed by the sun as his face was. His long legs and big, booted feet ate up the ground as he strode toward her.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, pulling wide the screen door and following her into the kitchen.

  “Name’s Tyler Aldrich,” she answered. “I’m pretty sure he’s one of the Aldrich grocery store family.”

  Holt lifted an eyebrow. “What gives you that idea?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  She liked to shop at an Aldrich store and had often driven as far as fifty miles to do so. More than once she’d seen the large photograph of an older man identified as Comstock Aldrich affixed to a wall over the motto, From Our Family To Yours. She couldn’t remember enough about that man’s face to say whether or not Tyler resembled him in any way, but she’d seen the way Tyler had reacted when she’d plopped that loaf of bread on the table.

  Normally, with a guest in attendance, she made hot bread or at least served the sliced variety stacked on a pretty saucer. Tonight she’d left that bread in its wrapper just to see what he would do. He’d stared as if he’d thought the thing might pop up, point a floury finger and identify him.

  “Supposing he is who you think he is, what’s he doing here?” Holt asked, going to the refrigerator to take out the plate of leftovers she’d stowed there earlier. “You reckon he’s going to open a store hereabouts? That’d be cool.”

  Charlotte frowned. She hadn’t thought of that possibility. After all, he’d said he was stranded, and she had no reason to doubt him. Except that just then he drove by in that flashy car of his. Apparently he had some gas. She turned to look at her brother, who carried the food to the microwave and set the timer.

  “An Aldrich store might be very welcome,” she said, “unless you’re Stu Booker.”

  Stu had taken over the local grocery from his father, Teddy, who sat at the domino table in the front room with Hap at that very moment.

  Holt turned to lean against the counter. “I see what you mean. Another grocery would put Booker’s out of business.” The microwave dinged, and Holt reached inside to remove the plate, asking, “Still got that carrot cake, I see.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte muttered, “but you’ll have to eat it in here. Grover’s playing dominoes tonight.”

  Nodding, Holt took a fork from the drawer and strolled into the other room and toward the lobby, his big boots clumping on the bare floor. “I’ll be back, then. Thanks, sis.”

  “Welcome,” she answered automatically, her mind on other matters.

  Should Aldrich Grocery put in a store here, the Bookers would undoubtedly suffer. It was, she decided, a matter for prayer. And perhaps a bit of subtle investigation.

  Chapter Three

  Charlotte glanced at her watch, more than a little miffed.

  On weekdays, she started cleaning the rooms as soon as the oil-field workers left in the mornings and by this time usually could be sitting down to lunch with her grandfather. On Saturdays, she got a later start because the workmen liked to sleep in a bit before heading home to their families. Lunch, therefore, came later on Saturdays, but not normally this late.

  It was already past twelve, and she still had one room left to do before she could begin preparing the midday meal, thanks to Tyler Aldrich. On a few occasions she’d had to put off the cleaning until the afternoon, but that pushed her workday well into the night as she had a weekly chore scheduled for each afternoon.

  Saturday afternoons were reserved for washing and re-hanging drapes. If she didn’t do at least three sets of drapes each week, she’d either be a week behind or have to do it on Monday, the day she shampooed carpets. Tuesday afternoons were dedicated to outside windows, Wednesdays to replacing shower curtains, Thursdays to cleaning oil stains off the pavement and policing the grounds. Fridays she cleaned the lobby top to bottom and did the shopping.

  In this fashion, she not only cleaned every occupied room each day, she completely freshened every room once a month, while maintaining the lobby and grounds on a weekly basis and keeping their storeroom stocked. Hap did his part by handling the registration desk and banking, balancing the books, ordering supplies and helping out with the daily laundry.

  She did not appreciate having her carefully balanced schedule upset. Obviously, the man had no idea what it took to keep an operation like this running smoothly. Then again, few folks did. Deciding that she was being unfair, she left the service cart on the walkway in front of number eight and rapped her knuckles on the door. She began slowly counting to ten, intending to walk away if he hadn’t answered by then. She’d reached seven before the door wrenched open.

  Tyler Aldrich stood there in his bare feet, rumpled slacks and a half-buttoned shirt, looking harried and irritated, his dark hair ruffled. A day’s growth of chocolate beard shadowed his face. If she’d had to guess, she’d have said he hadn’t slept very well.

  He wrinkled his face at the glare of the sun and demanded, “What is that noise?”

  “Noise?” She glanced around in puzzlement.

  He put a hand to his head. “Ka-shunk, ka-shunk. All night long.”

  “Oh, that noise. There’s a pump jack out back.”

  He sighed. “Of course. Oil pumps. Should’ve figured that one.”

  “I’m so used to the sound, I don’t even notice it anymore,” she admitted, “but we don’t get many complaints about it.” They hadn’t actually had any complaints about it until now.

  “I don’t suppose it would bother me if it wasn’t so quiet around here,” he grumbled.

  Well, which is it, she wondered, saying nothing, too quiet or too noisy?

  He put a hand to the back of his neck. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to sleep, especially after those two fellows showed up about midnight.”
r />   “What two fellows?”

  He waved a hand at that. “Roadside service sent them. I called before I stopped in here. Then after I decided to stay, I forgot to call back and tell them not to bother bringing me gas.”

  “They came at that time of night just to bring you gas?” she asked in disbelief.

  “A few gallons,” he muttered. “I still have to fill up.”

  She shook her head. The rich really did live differently than everyone else. “I hate to be an inconvenience, but I need to clean this room before I feed Granddad.”

  Nodding, he hid a yawn behind one hand. “Yeah, okay, just give me a few minutes to get out of your way.”

  “I’ll be right here when you’re ready,” she told him politely, linking her hands behind her back. No way was she going away again. Experience had taught her that a guest would just head straight back to bed and she’d have this exercise to repeat.

  Tyler gave her a lopsided grin. “Swell. Uh, listen, can I get breakfast at that café downtown?”

  “Sure,” she answered, and then for some reason she couldn’t begin to fathom she went on. “But if you’re willing to settle for lunch, you can eat with us again.”

  He stopped rubbing his eyes long enough to stare at her, his brow beetled. “Lunch?”

  Wondering why she’d issued the invitation, she hastily backtracked as far as good manners would allow. “Just sandwiches, I’m afraid. I don’t have time for anything else.”

  “What time is it, anyway?”

  She didn’t even have to look. “About ten minutes past noon.”

  Tyler goggled his eyes. “Noon? You’re sure?” She held up her wrist, just in case he wanted to check for himself. His sky-blue eyes closed as he turned away. “I must’ve slept a lot better than I thought.”

  “You mean you’re not used to sleeping till noon?” She clapped a hand over her mouth, shocked at herself. She never made unwarranted assumptions about people. Well, hardly ever. Fortunately he had not noticed.

  “Not anymore,” he muttered enigmatically, looking for something. Finding it, he hurried over to snatch his foot-wear from the floor beside the low dresser that held the television set. Plopping down in the chair that pulled out from the small desk in front of the window, he began yanking on his socks. “Sorry about this. I’ll get out now and let you clean.”