A Table By the Window

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I love you. But, hey, now that I know you’re all right, I’d better get out of this uniform—the fumes are making me nauseous. Got some gas spilled on it at the wreck.”

  “You should have done that first thing.” Worry sharpened her tone. “Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine, baby. Don’t worry about me. Just take what the doctor gave you and get some sleep. Promise?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Once the connection was broken, he held the cordless to his chest and closed his eyes, overcome with a great surge of relief. Shotgun weddings may be a thing of the past, but thanks to DNA technology, a man did not have to walk the aisle to be trapped. Just the thought of eighteen years of court-ordered child support gave him chills.

  He did feel pity that she had had to go through the ordeal without him. But it was her own fault. Especially after that false alarm back in April. She had assured him she was taking precautions. Once could be chalked up to an accident. But twice? He looked forward to marriage and a family. But on his own terms, in his own time.

  Which ruled out a woman like Stephanie Long. Great eye candy, and fun to have on his arm. There was nothing better than watching the envy in other guys’ eyes. But a compulsive shopper with no less than seventy-eight pairs of shoes in her closet, five full sets of china in her cabinets, and so many stacks of catalogs beneath her coffee table that her postman surely was in danger of a hernia. He wanted a woman with whom he could hold a conversation about something other than the latest fashions for home and body.

  As he washed the few dishes at the sink, he thought of Carley Reed, wearing his apron, actually asking questions about his family, how he became interested in vegan cooking and the like. Passionate about her little café, charmingly ignorant of pop culture from her own generation, and with a refreshing sense of humor. Not as beautiful as Stephanie or Riley or some of the others. But certainly cute.

  He smiled. And shorter than me.

  He had never given much thought to divine providence, especially after the horrible accident with Gwen Stillman and the dominos that fell in its aftermath. But it certainly was a remarkable turn of fate that such an outstanding woman would show up twice in Tallulah, just as he was emerging from painful breakups.

  ****

  “Yeah…hullo.”

  Mr. Kimball’s vocal cords were made of steel wool, Carley decided with the telephone receiver to her ear Thursday morning.

  “May I speak with Brooke?”

  “She ain’t awake,” the voice grumbled. “Don’t be callin’ here so early.”

  Carley had put off telephoning until just before leaving the house; nine o’clock seemed more than an appropriate time for a weekday. Still, she said, “I’m sorry,” and got halfway through the sorry when the connection broke.

  “And good-day to you too, Mr. Manners,” she muttered, replacing the receiver.

  As she neared the café five minutes later, she could see Brooke’s blue bicycle leaning against the lamppost, the girl looking through the window.

  “I just called your house,” Carley said, stepping up on the sidewalk after parking. “Your dad said you were still asleep.”

  The girl rolled dark-rimmed eyes. “I’m surprised he answered. He doesn’t roll out of bed ’til noon or so.”

  She wore the same tank top and skintight jeans she had worn on her initial visit, apparently assuming that the dress code was not relevant until she was actually on payroll and assigned a uniform. Or perhaps she did not have any better clothes.

  She’s nice to Neal and small children, Carley reminded herself.

  “It looks great in there,” Brooke said.

  “Wait ’til you see it from the inside.” Carley unlocked the door and waved the girl through.

  “It’s awesome!” Brooke said, spinning around like Julie Andrews on the mountaintop.

  Carley smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Did you make up that poem?”

  “Oh no, not me. I’ll bring it from the house and let you read it sometime. By the way, I have my paperwork back from the IRS.”

  “The who?”

  “The tax people. Would you like to put in some part-time hours?”

  “Would I!”

  Carley filled out her first employee time sheet and filed it in her office among an expanding number of files: Shift schedules for heretofore phantom employees. Operating and closing checklists. Employment applications. Brochures and catalogs from restaurant suppliers and wholesale food companies. Product inventory and usage sheets. Income and cash flow statements and balance sheets. Recipes. And the innumerable federal, state, and local tax booklets and forms.

  The two moved chairs and tables from the storeroom, arranging and rearranging. Brooke worked tirelessly, and did not complain when Carley stopped for the third time to say, “Um…I don’t know. Let’s see if traffic flows better another way.”

  Two people stopped by to ask for applications. Carley and Brooke stopped only for lunch, which Carley went for herself because she could not stand the thought of sending the girl out in public dressed that way while on the clock. She was just about to step into Corner Diner when Aunt Helen, strolling down the sidewalk with Sherry and Deanna, called to her. She waited, but had to decline their invitation to join them.

  “I’m just ordering takeout. I have Brooke back there arranging chairs.”

  “Why don’t you go get her?” Aunt Helen suggested.

  “Thank you, but it’s quicker just to eat back there.”

  “How’s she working out?” Sherry asked.

  “Very well, so far.”

  “Are you still coming tomorrow night?” Deanna asked. She would be leaving for Indianapolis Saturday, and Uncle Rory was cooking a farewell dinner.

  Carley smiled at her. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  She returned to the café with breaded chicken cutlets, German red cabbage, and home fries.

  “Hey, we’re your first customers,” Brooke said as Carley handed her a napkin wrapped around plastic cutlery.

  “Isn’t that something?” Carley said, not wanting to burst Brooke’s bubble by revealing that Aunt Helen had already eaten there. Brooke wolfed hers down and finished the fries Carley had abandoned because they were too greasy.

  “Umm, that was good.” Brooke pressed a finger into the potato bits too small for her fork. “I get so tired of my own cooking.”

  “What do you cook?”

  “Hamburgers, hot dogs, sloppy joes, mostly. Fried egg sandwiches or grilled cheese. My dad cooks a good pot roast and gravy when he’s sober.”

  “You live there alone with him?”

  “His girlfriend, Mildred Tanner, has been with us a couple of years. But I don’t touch anything she cooks. She’s such a pig. She doesn’t shave under her arms, and spends most days watchin’ soaps. That’s why I need a real job. I want to save enough money so I can get my own place.”

  “I understand,” Carley said.

  Disbelief flashed in the green eyes.

  She understood that as well. The sense of isolation was not unique to her own childhood, but probably shared by every child with an alcoholic parent. She smiled. “I’m expecting a shipment from the restaurant suppliers tomorrow. Can you help me unpack?”

  “Yes,” Brooke said, sitting straighter. “What time?”

  “Is eight too early?”

  “I’ll be here. I’ll bring breakfast.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  The girl shook her head. “You bought my lunch. I’m not a moocher.”

  ****

  “Why do you only put out one ear of corn?” Carley asked from one of the two rocking chairs on Mrs. Templeton’s porch that evening. The ear, speared by a nail on a holder about shoulder-level on the trunk of the magnolia tree, was ignored by the four squirrels combing the grass for sunflower seeds in the company of four doves, three crows, a blue jay, a red bird, and several sparrows. It was a scene from a Disn
ey movie, charming and pastoral, but the animals scattered whenever Mrs. Templeton set one foot on the top step or as soon as any person drew near on the sidewalk, any dog or cat approached from any direction, or an automobile approached in the street.

  Mrs. Templeton’s spindly fingers raked speckled butter beans from their pods into a white enamel dishpan. “Because when the squirrels start eatin’ the corn, I know it’s time to put out more seed. They like the seed better.”

  Carley leaned her head, listened. “Is that your phone?”

  “No, dearie. I think it’s yours.”

  “See you later.” Her footfalls on the porch sent the animals scattering. Entering her house, she went for the extension at her desk. “Hello?”

  “Carley! Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Hi, Dale!” The breathlessness in her voice was mortifying. She faked a cough, cleared her throat, and said in a more formal register, “No, I was next door.”

  “I looked in the window. The paint job looks great.”

  The cynical side of Carley, which refused to stay bottled for too long, told her that he was working his way around to asking if she had given more thought to vegan menu items. Before he could confirm her cynicism, she said, “I’m afraid I’m only going to be able to put the mushroom soup, cucumber-avocado sandwiches, and hummus on the menu. But if they do well, I’ll see about adding more later.”

  “Wow! I appreciate that.” he said. “But that isn’t why I called. I’ve been meaning to all week, but we’ve had office inventory going on. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d care to go to a movie in Hattiesburg with me Saturday night.”

  She allowed one, two seconds to pass, to counterbalance the initial excitement in her voice “That sounds like fun.”

  “Well, you might want to hear me out first.”

  “Yes?”

  “A gentleman would allow his date to chose the movie, but unless you have a strong preference toward something else, I’d really like to see The Hulk.”

  Carley smiled to herself. She knew Saturday morning cartoons. “The big green monster.”

  “He’s not a monster. He’s a good guy—and he was my favorite comic-book hero. I sort of owe this to my boyhood self. But I’ll let you choose the restaurant. Whatever you like—Mexican, Italian…”

  “Okay. How about Chinese?”

  “Chinese. Ah, sure.”

  “You don’t like Chinese food?”

  “It’s not my favorite. But I said you could choose.”

  The forced enthusiasm in his voice made her smile again. “Aunt Helen and Uncle Rory say Barnhill’s restaurant has a good buffet. Do they have vegan foods?”

  “They’ve got lots of veggies,” he said, voice perking. “And you can get a steak too.”

  “Then let’s go there.”

  “Good idea. And thanks, Carley.”

  He had just thanked her for agreeing to go on a date with him. Carley could not recall any man ever doing so. You are one charming fellow, Dale Parker, she thought.

  And then reminded herself that she was not the first woman with that opinion. She had glossed over Gayle’s advice out by the fig tree, but knew that she needed to take it to heart.

  ****

  Carley posted a Now Taking Applications sign in the window Friday morning, seconds before Brooke pedaled up with a grease-spotted Dixie Burger bag containing four sausage biscuits wrapped in wax paper, and another with two pints of milk. Not wishing to hurt the girl’s feelings, and thankful that she had had her tea and figs earlier, Carley washed down one of the biscuits with milk. Hopefully the calcium would neutralize some of the effects of the saturated fat pouring into her system so early in the morning. It was always a juggling act keeping migraines away, but caution was easier than being bed-bound for three days.

  “Thank you,” Carley said, dabbing her mouth with her paper napkin. “But you mustn’t do this again. You’re saving for your own place, remember?”

  Brooke, having finished the other three rolls, picked a biscuit crumb from her mercifully loose blue T-shirt. “They didn’t cost much.”

  “It adds up. And it’s not ethical for me to be taking anything from you, anyway.”

  “Oh.” The girl nodded. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It was a good treat.” Impulsively, Carley reached to pat her arm. Her fingers brushed against a hard ridge of skin and moved away quickly.

  “I got hung up in a barbed-wire fence when I was eleven,” Brooke said, looking at the six-inch scar running down her right forearm.

  “It must have hurt.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t get stitches. That’s why it’s so ugly.”

  “Your dad didn’t take you to the doctor?” Carley asked.

  “He might have taken me if I’d told him about it, but then he would have beat the tar out of me for being where he said I had no business.”

  A horn tooted outside. Carley went out to direct the UPS driver to the gravel lane around back. He wheeled six pasteboard cartons to the storage room and produced an automatic clipboard that resembled an Etch-A-Sketch for her signature. After locking the back door again, Carley took scissors from her desk and cut the packing straps to the carton sitting nearest to the kitchen door.

  Wrapped in flexible Styrofoam sheets were six-dozen seven-and-one-eighth-inch plates. Carley took out the first. Wide-rim rolled-edge American white, classic and sturdy, three-dozen for $11.99, the catalog had read.

  “Whoa, that’s pretty,” Brooke said.

  “You think so?” Carley said, handing the plate over the open carton.

  “Hmm.” The girl rubbed her hand over it, pantomiming washing. “Yeah. It’s good.”

  Carley laughed. “Well, they’re not going to unpack themselves.”

  She had to leave Brooke to the task two hours later when a man from South Central Bell arrived. Telephones were set up in minutes at the outlets in the front counter and office. A wall telephone for the kitchen took over an hour.

  “You want to test it out?” the man said.

  “Yes, thank you.” Carley knew just who to call, had already looked up the number in one of the potholder-thin telephone books. She only hoped Tommy’s Pizza had no qualms about sending a fourteen-inch Canadian bacon with black olives to the soon-to-be competition.

  Three people came by for job applications in the afternoon. Two cartons remained when Carley called it a day at 5:00. “You did good work,” she said to Brooke.

  “Thank you.” The girl looked down at the floor but could not conceal the pleasure in her expression.

  Odd, Carley thought, how she could be so bold at times and timid at others.

  “I led you to believe this would be part-time. I can finish up tomorrow, if you’d like to take the weekend off.”

  “No, I’ll be here in the morning,” Brooke assured her.

  Chapter 19

  Uncle Rory prepared Creole jambalaya in an iron pot, yeast rolls, and green salad for Deanna’s farewell party, followed by hand-cranked ice cream flavored with the last of the figs from the Hudsons’ tree.

  “I’ll see you at Christmas,” Deanna said when Carley embraced her and wished her safe flight.

  Early the following morning, Carley unhooked her computer and loaded it into the GL. Time to start conducting most of the café business in her office, and Brooke could help with the wiring. She would miss having it at the house, but promised herself she would get another when the business proved itself.

  Brooke was waiting on the sidewalk, practically spilling out of the tank top, and stuffed into her jeans. You have no customers to offend yet, Carley reminded herself. And she herself wore jeans, albeit loose enough to move around in without cutting off circulation. The girl helped her carry in monitor, modem, keyboard, and printer. They pulled the desk from the wall, and Carley crawled underneath to thread cords through the openings. Brooke had offered to get down there herself, but Carley doubted the jeans could take the strain.

  “Okay, c
an you reach the cord I’m wiggling?”

  “I’ve got it,” Brooke said.

  “Pardon me.” A man’s voice that time, familiar though muffled slightly by desk metal. Carley backed from the dark space and rose to her knees. Steve Underwood stood framed by the doorway, wearing light brown corded slacks and a blue chambray shirt.

  “Good morning,” Carley said.

  “Good morning, Carley…Brooke.”

  “Hey, Mr. Steve,” the girl chirped.

  Small town, Carley reminded herself.

  “I can’t believe how good the place looks,” he said.

  Carley smiled and got to her feet. “Doesn’t it? And I can’t wait to see the sign.”

  “Do you need help with those cords?”

  “No, thank you. We just about have it.”

  A blanket-wrapped bundle lay on one of the tables. Steve undraped each side. “Protection against potholes and bumps in the road. Well, what do you think?”

  Vera’s Annabel looked poignantly off in the distance, hand pressed to her bosom as if waiting for her sweetheart. Of all the additions to the café, the sign moved Carley the most. Her dream had a name, carved in wood. Her throat thickened. “Please tell your mother I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  “Beautiful,” Brooke echoed. “Is that the girl from the poem?”

  “It is.” Carley looked at her. “I’m sorry, Brooke. I didn’t bring it over.”

  “It’s okay. Mr. Juban helped me look it up after I left here yesterday.”

  For a minute Carley forgot about the sign. “You went to the library just to read it?”

  “Well…yes, ma’am,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, yes.”

  Why in the world did you drop out of school? Carley thought. With some education behind Brooke’s initiative, she could be president. Or a Mafia don. Clever did not always go hand-in-hand with good, but Carley suspected a streak of decency lay beneath those piercings, the heavy makeup, and outrageous clothes.

  “Okay,” Steve said. “We’ll leave it here for now. My tools and ladder are outside. Once I get the bracket attached, I’ll need you to show me how high you want this.”

  “I’ll start unpacking cartons,” Brooke offered.