“Well now, here’s doughnuts,” Tate said. He hauled Northrupt along by the elbow. “Just look at this spread…fresh doughnuts…fresh coffee. Thank you, Miss Marilee.”
Marilee, opening the boxes of doughnuts, said to him, “I have to go back to the Jeep for the tea maker and distilled water.”
Tate was left there with his irritated customer, staring at Marilee and Corrine’s backs disappear out the door.
“Hel-lo, Mis-ter North-rub.”
It was Willie Lee, with Munro beside him, standing there looking up and holding out his hand for a shake.
Mr. Northrupt shook the boy’s hand. “Hello, Willie Lee.”
Willie Lee gave his hand to Tate for a shake, too.
Then Northrupt looked expectantly at Tate.
“How about a doughnut, Mr. Northrupt? Let’s see, there’s glazed, chocolate covered, cinnamon…and jelly. Jelly doughnuts are a secret to life, you know.”
“I want a jell-y dough-nut,” Willie Lee said.
“You betcha’, son. Here you go.” Tate handed a doughnut to the boy. “What kind would you like, Mr. Northrupt?”
“I have diabetes,” Mr. Northrupt said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You look fit, though, sir.” He had a sudden disturbing vision of a newspaper headline that read: Editor Kills Man With Doughnut.
He filled a foam cup with steaming coffee and held it toward the older gentleman.
Mr. Northrupt looked at the cup. “I said I’ve had my coffee. And I don’t drink from a foam cup, anyway. Tastes bitter.”
Tate withdrew the cup, brought it to his lips and sipped. He didn’t like foam cups, either.
“I don’t see how goin’ to a twice weekly paper delivered at fifty cents each can make you more money than a daily at forty cents each,” Mr. Northrupt said.
“Cut down on outlay. Paper costs dearly these days. Over all, we’ll cut down on paper costs, printing costs and delivery costs.”
The man’s frown deepened.
“I believe it will be a better paper. We’ll have a lot more in each issue. We’ll be adding two pages to start, another two in two more months, as well as special inserts from time to time.”
“You’re set to do this thing, then.”
“Yes, sir, I am. It’s gotta be done.” He looked down to see Willie Lee standing there, jelly on his face, and his eyes behind his thick glasses intently looking up at them. The dog sat at his feet, doing the same thing.
Just then Marilee came in bearing the tea maker and a sack, and Corrine came right behind her, lugging two gallons of distilled water. Tate jumped to take the heavy gallon containers from the small girl.
“You have met the Voice’s senior editor, haven’t you, Mr. Northrupt?” Suddenly he realized the need to give her the title. Her eyes came quickly to his. “This is Marilee James.”
“Everett and I have known each other for quite a while. Hello, Everett. How is Doris doin’? I heard she took first prize for her watercolor at the Spring Fair.”
“Yep, she did.” Northrupt turned to the table and took up two napkins. “I think I’ll just wrap up a couple of these cinnamon rolls and take them with me.”
“What about your diabetes?” Tate said, a little alarmed.
“I’m takin’ these to Doris. I need to get some of my money back.” He left with a napkin-wrapped cinnamon roll bulging in each pocket of his cardigan sweater.
For a few minutes—dare he hope for the rest of the day?—the visitors had stopped. Feeling frazzled, Tate got his ceramic cup, now appearing very dear to him, and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot that sat on the cloth-covered table.
Marilee, who was adding fresh doughnuts to the plates, said, “I’ll take twenty dollars more a month as senior editor.”
“That is what the thirty was for. I just forgot to mention it.”
“If I had known, though, I would have asked for fifty.”
“When the paper makes money.”
“Good enough. I’ll remind you.”
“Would you mind stayin’ a while? I think we really need a hostess for this open house.”
Charlotte didn’t appear inclined to leave her desk, and if she did, Tate thought she seemed more intimidating than welcoming. He realized he felt a little desperate, and this made him feel silly, yet he still cast Marilee a hope-filled look.
“You’re the boss,” Marilee told him in that smooth, snappy way she had of speaking.
Her eyes looked very blue. He could never tell for certain when she was joking. He liked this about her—admired it, a trait he admired in himself.
“I doubt that very much where you’re concerned, Miss Marilee,” he drawled, relieved and happily taking up a jelly doughnut.
“I think I’ll do a lot better to ask you, rather than to tell you,” he added, and bit into the doughnut, raspberry, his favorite.
Her gaze was on him. He smiled, keeping his full mouth closed, savoring the jelly on his tongue and the sight of her blue eyes. Enjoying the electricity between them.
By golly, he wanted powerfully to kiss her. This struck him so hard that for an instant he forgot to chew his doughnut and almost choked on it.
Then she had lowered her eyes and was saying cooly, “I’ll stay until noon. Then I’ll need to get the children home for lunch, and Willie Lee generally takes a nap.”
Tate, inhaling a deep breath and allowing his gaze to drift downward over her body, her back now turned to him, thought, Marilee James is one heck of an attractive woman.
He had experience attending parties to welcome some pretty prominent dignitaries, however, he had always been in the capacity of observer. He knew how to blend in and watch others pay welcome and receive welcome, pay homage and receive homage. He had never been the one stuck out there in the thick of it.
He smiled until his smile felt pasted on, and shook hands until he thought his arm might be permanently stuck into position. Every third minute he was blinded by flashes from Reggie’s camera.
“Let’s get one of you and the mayor shaking hands,” she said, going so far as to physically position Tate and Mayor Upchurch in front of the big spray of flowers sent over by Fred Grace. “Free advertising for town merchants never hurt anything.”
“Wait! I want in the picture,” said Kaye Upchurch, the mayor’s wife, who bustled herself over, slipped her arm through Tate’s and smiled at the camera.
Reggie snapped the picture, then told them to hold it. “I always take two shots, just to make sure.”
Reggie took two shots of Tate with Sheriff Oakes and Jaydee Mayhall, who was a prominent—not to mention the only—local attorney, and then two of him with Adam and Iris MacCoy, who owned the feed-and-grain store and were building a senior living community, and two of him with Winston Valentine, who presented him with a key to the Senior Citizens’ Center.
“Let’s get a shot of the publisher and his staff,” Reggie commanded, assembling everyone who had returned to the offices—except Zona, of course, who might or might not have been holed up in her office behind the pulled shades.
“Marilee, you get there in front of Mr. Tate—” Reggie sighted through her camera “—Imperia, you get on his left, and, Tammy, you right here. June, get there beside Marilee, and, Charlotte, you stand behind his right shoulder, you’re so tall…get in close. And, Leo, get closer in with Charlotte.
Tate caught a sweet citrus scent from Marilee’s hair. He put his hand on her waist and felt her jump. A flash went off. Marilee moved away, but then Reggie made them all get back together for another shot, after which she enlisted Bonita Embree of Sweetie Cakes Bakery to take a shot with Reggie squeezing in.
“Nobody move! Take another one, Bonita, just to make sure.”
Tate paused to look at the room for a minute. In his mind’s eye, he constructed how he wished the room to take shape. He would hire a new layout manager and assistant as soon as he could find them, and two more staff writers. Two more desks along there, updated, pleasant partitions, maybe of bl
ue…modern, while leaving the antique brick walls. They had to have new lighting, but he didn’t intend to install a lowered ceiling, no, sir.
He was sinking all he had in the world into this place.
He turned out the lights and went out the front door to the curb, where he had begun parking his BMW in an effort to avoid what dust he could. He jumped over the door and into the seat, in the manner he liked to do to keep himself fit, or to display his fitness to himself and anyone else who might notice, and simply for the fun of it.
Backing out, he headed down the street drenched with early-evening sunlight. It rained a lot more down in Houston than here, and he was enjoying the dryness. He enjoyed seeing the play of golden setting sunlight on the buildings and trees as he drove the few blocks to his house.
When he saw the Victorian house, he reminded himself that it was his new home.
He pulled beneath the portico, got out and slammed the door, went easily up the stairs and in through the side door that wasn’t locked. He didn’t see a reason to lock the house. Most everything he owned was still in taped boxes that had been delivered on Saturday, which would make robbery pretty easy, he thought, glancing into the rooms at the stacked boxes. Although he figured that people exiting his house with boxes would likely be noticed and questioned in Valentine, America, where his neighbor across the street was often sitting on her porch and watching everything like a hawk.
Even when he had lived in the big city, though, Tate never had been much for locking anything. Lucille used to say he didn’t lock doors because he had nothing worth stealing, not outside himself nor in.
Funny how he thought of Lucille these days. As if he was seeing a review of his life in order to see clearly the mistakes, so as not to make them again in the future.
The silence of the house engulfed him, and he had the dreary thought that he had not successfully built up riches of the spiritual sort, either. He had for too many years kept people at a distance, kept himself running after a journalism career so hard that he did not have time or energy to face the nagging bite of emptiness in his soul.
It was only when he had been brought to an abrupt halt, when he was face-to-face with the emptiness that was on the brink of swallowing him, that he had attempted to change his life. Sometimes, like right then, he wearied of the attempt.
Living life took a great deal of fortitude.
He thought of all this as he opened the refrigerator—a five-foot, curved-top vintage fifties Kelvinator that revealed his cousin’s total lack of concern with either the house or modernization. Or perhaps it stood as a testament to solid craftsmanship from another era. Tate found himself reluctant to part with it.
He wished for a good glass of sweet iced tea, but having none made, he took the easier route of pulling a small bottle of Coke from the wire shelf, then slammed the door. He popped the cap from the bottle, shook five cat treats from the container on the counter, and walked out the back door, where Bubba had already learned to wait for him each evening.
“You’re a pretty smart boy,” he said to the cat, as the animal sat up to receive each treat. “You take the good things of life immediately.”
Immediately after the final treat, Bubba gave him a satisfied look and then turned and ambled away.
“Got what you wanted, and now you’re off,” Tate said to the cat’s retreating behind. “I feel used.”
Straightening, he drank deeply from the cold bottle.
The big, blooming lilac bush buzzed with bees. He was going to have to get a mower for the lawn. He had never owned a power mower. He had never owned a lawn. He’d had a lawn once, with Lucille, but he didn’t think it could be called owning one. He had paid a lawn maintenance crew to handle it for the five months or so they had lived in the house.
Just then he heard childish voices, laughter and a dog’s bark. A woman’s voice cut in. Marilee’s voice, from her yard just beyond the cedar trees.
His spirit perked up, and he started toward the sound, drawn along as surely as if by a cord. Through the break in the trees and to the gate in the fence covered with rambling rose vines, letting himself through the gate even before being invited by Marilee, who stood in front of a smoking grill, while Willie Lee and Corrine raced around with Munro in the shadowy yard.
“Well, you already have your drink,” Marilee said to him, her eyes on the bottle in his hand. “Would you like to join us for hot dogs?” Her eyes came to his, and her smile was warm.
“Yes, ma’am, that sounds right fine,” he replied.
He allowed himself the enjoyment of studying her womanly beauty, even when she looked away. Tate had always considered it one of his finest traits that he could appreciate the delicacies of a woman.
“My mama always said there was nothin’ like these little Co-Cola’s,” Tate explained. “The Coke in them tastes better than in the bigger bottles. Lots better than in plastic.”
They were sitting on the back concrete steps, eating their hot dogs and beans off plates in their laps. Marilee had said she once possessed a picnic table and benches, but that during a power outage in a bad winter storm, she had burned them and had never replaced them.
Tate was in the midst of explaining how his mother used to take him and his brother down to the corner grocery every afternoon to get a cold drink out of the cooler of ice. “We didn’t even have ‘lectric in those little country stores when I was a kid,” he explained to the children he doubted could imagine not having electricity.
“Is it dif-fer-ent?” Willie Lee asked, breaking into Tate’s tale.
“What different?” Tate asked. “Not havin’ electricity?”
“What is in the bot-tle?” Willie Lee was looking at the now empty bottle in Tate’s hand.
Marilee said, “It’s all the same Coke, Willie Lee. Just some people think the little bottles taste different.”
“They do taste different,” Tate stated.
“Matter of opinion,” Marilee returned.
Tate took exception to an opinion he found poor, and into this Corrine inserted with a hesitant voice, “The little bottles are glass. The bigger bottles are plastic.”
Tate and Marilee regarded her, and then Tate said, “We should do a taste test.” He grabbed the idea with enthusiasm. “We’ll gather the different bottles of Coke and taste each one to see if there is a difference. It will be a great experiment. You can give the children points for a science project,” he added to Marilee, thrilled with himself for thinking of a way to contribute to the children’s education, and thrilled even still further at the bright smile that came across Marilee’s face.
“I think that’s a super idea,” she said.
“Well, by golly, then…come on and finish up those dogs, kids, so we can get to it.”
Ten minutes later, he was a little surprised when Marilee threw him the keys to her Cherokee and told him, “It’s your idea, so you go buy the Cokes. I’ll stay here and get the kitchen cleaned up.”
“Okay. You kids want to go with me?”
“Yes,” Willie Lee said immediately.
Tate saw Corrine looking uncertainly at Marilee, and noticed that Marilee hesitated.
“Yes, you guys can go,” Marilee said.
“Mun-ro, too.” Willie Lee put in.
“You bet, Munro, too,” Tate said, pleased that Corrine was joining them as they went out the door.
It had been many years since he had been alone with children. He had on a number of occasions, years ago, enjoyed his brother’s three children, but they were long grown. This experience with Willie Lee and Corrine somehow struck him as quite special. He realized he felt pretty important and grand, helping to improve children’s spirits with an openness about life.
He supposed he was getting a little carried away about a short trip to the IGA, but nevertheless, there was something about being a man of his ripe age with children that enabled him to jump back into his own childhood. He supposed he’d had to grow up enough to be childish again.
> He took an index card from his pocket and jotted a note on it. Then he noticed Corrine looking at him curiously.
“Just jotting down a thought I don’t want to lose,” he told her. “That’s what newspapermen do.” He thought maybe she should know that trait; it might prove helpful to her in the future, should she get interested in a newspaperman.
At the checkout counter, Tate told the young clerk, who looked quizzically at the array of Coca-Cola in the different-size bottles, and some in cans, too, “We are conducting an experiment. I have with me budding scientists—” he put a hand on each of the children’s shoulder “—who might in another twenty years possibly develop soft drinks that can feed the world.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said the clerk, who was young enough to know everything.
Eager to get back to Marilee and share the fun of the experiment with her, Tate zoomed along the streets at a good clip. His mind was zooming on ahead, too, in the manner of a man who is powerfully attracted to a woman. That he had not been so strongly attracted to a woman in years came to him. Maybe it was simply the new changes in his life, he thought. Maybe the attraction would pass.
Still, Marilee James excited him, by golly. Each time he came into her presence, he felt like a man in a manner he had somehow forgotten along the way. His mind took off with a strong fantasy of drawing her to him, slowly and seductively…hoping he hadn’t forgotten how to do that. He imagined kissing her.
It was at this part in the fantasy that he was brought to an abrupt halt, in both mind and vehicle, by the sight of Parker Lindsey’s truck sitting in Marilee’s driveway.
“Parker’s here,” Corrine said, as Tate pulled the Cherokee to the front curb. Her delight was apparent, and irritating.
“Yes, he is,” Tate said, carefully, mindful that Corrine’s young eyes had turned on him with some curiosity.
“Hello, Parker. Good to see you.” Tate put the sacks of Coca-Cola on the table and held out his hand for a shake.
“Hello, Tate.”
The man’s grasp was very firm. Parker Lindsey was an inch taller than Tate and a good ten years younger, maybe, but Tate judged himself to be on the high end of any comparison with the man. He let Lindsey see this in his eyes.
Cold Tea on a Hot Day Page 11
