A Table By the Window

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Good idea.”

  On the sidewalk, Carley held one side of the folding ladder steady. Steve used a cordless screwdriver to attach an iron bracket over the door. Pedestrians gave them wide berth on their way to and from the drugstore, trading good-mornings and asking the date of the grand opening.

  “We’re aiming for August twenty-third, thank you for asking,” was Carley’s standard reply, while dancing inside over the thought of still another potential customer.

  When Deputy Marti Jenkins stopped by, she did not mention the opening, just asked Steve how his folks were doing.

  “Why don’t you drive out there and see for yourself?” he replied.

  Marti’s laugh showed gums and pearl teeth. “I know, it’s been a while. But they don’t have to be such hermits either.”

  “They’re afraid someone will force them to take a real job.”

  The deputy rolled her eyes and finally spoke to Carley. “We’re cousins, couldn’t you guess?”

  Carley felt an odd and faint surge of relief. She supposed it was because the Underwoods had treated her like an honored guest, so it was a letdown to know others were just as honored. Unreasonable, yes, but that was sometimes the way of emotion. But with Marti being family…well, people needed to have family over.

  “Okay, back up several feet,” Steve said after Marti had left.

  Carley backed away to stand in front of Peggy’s Pastimes. He held the sign at differing distances from the bracket, until she said, “That looks good. What do you think?”

  “It works for me. High enough not to bang the heads of us tall folks.”

  Carley walked back over. “Does that mean you’ll try us out sometime?”

  He smiled down at her. “Absolutely.”

  After cutting the chains the proper lengths, he attached them to the hooks and hung the sign. This time they both walked back to admire it from a distance. Not only did the sign give texture to Carley’s dream, but it validated her as a businesswoman. No longer was she fixing up “Emmit’s old hamburger joint.” This was Annabel Lee Café.

  “I’ll get my checkbook,” she said as he folded his ladder. “Come on inside when you’ve finished.”

  She could hear the clatter of cutlery outside the kitchen door. When she went through it, Brooke turned from the stainless steel worktable and asked, “How does it look?”

  “Go see for yourself,” Carley said.

  “Okay if I wait a minute? I’m almost done unpacking knives.”

  “Sure.”

  As Carley took her café account checkbook from the desk, she noticed the purse she had parked so casually atop the filing cabinet.

  She wouldn’t.

  You don’t really know her, went through her mind next.

  Cutlery was still clattering. Still, Carley sent several glances toward the doorway while taking inventory of her wallet for cash and her debit card. It was all there. She replaced the purse feeling both relieved and guilty.

  “What sort of history do you teach?” she asked in the dining room while writing out the check.

  “American, Mississippi, and Civil War.”

  “I know almost nothing about those last two,” Carley confessed. “Only that the North won.”

  “And rightly so.”

  When she gave him a look of mild surprise, he said, “Most Southerners feel that way. Slavery was simply wrong. But we’re still miffed about having our homes burnt and the severity of restoration.” He smiled. “I didn’t mean to step up to my lectern.”

  “It’s actually interesting.”

  “Well, thank you. I wish all my students felt that way.” Handing her a receipt, he got to his feet. “This has been a pleasure, Carley.”

  She rose as well, and held out a hand. “Do tell your parents how pleased I am.”

  “They’ll be delighted.” After releasing her hand, he hesitated. “If you’re interested, Vicksburg has a Civil—”

  Someone was rapping at the door. Dale Parker, framed by the half-window, waved and then turned the knob. He leaned into the doorway to say, “The sign looks great. I guessed it was your folks’ work, Steve.”

  “Thank you, Dale,” Steve said, but with the warmth of chocolate mousse.

  “Sorry to interrupt your business.” Dale smiled at Carley. “But I wanted to warn you I’ve got a meeting this afternoon and might be a few minutes late.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Thanks!” He backed out of the door, waved again on his way past the picture window.

  Carley gave Steve an apologetic smile. He was a decent man, she thought, with a nice family. In this case, it was a good thing that the fruit did not fall far from the tree. She had never dated two men during the same time frame, and certainly had little time for romance. But if Steve was working up to asking her for a date, she wouldn’t mind.

  “I’m sorry, Steve, what were you saying?”

  He picked up his clipboard and smiled at her. “Just that there’s a Civil War battlefield and museum in Vicksburg you might enjoy visiting sometime. Well, I’ve got to deliver a sign to Lumberton. I’ll give you a call when the bench is finished.”

  ****

  What do people here wear to movies? Carley thought at her closet. She decided upon her knee-length, sleeveless dress of subdued pink and white checks. As an afterthought she grabbed her white three-quarter sleeve cardigan. The temperature had reached ninety today and even now had only cooled to eighty-two. But it would come in handy if the theater or restaurant was too cold.

  Dale arrived twenty-six minutes late, full of apologies.

  “An investigator for the state police was in the office all afternoon,” he drawled, steering the Mustang down Highway 589. He looked like a college student, in a yellow polo shirt that revealed the muscles of his tanned arms, and khaki slacks and loafers. “That’s why I figured I’d be late. You ever meet anyone in love with the sound of his own voice?”

  Carley thought. “There was a girl in Biology 101 who asked at least two questions every lecture. Most had such obvious answers that you had to wonder if she just wanted the attention. You could feel the tension around the auditorium five minutes before dismissal, because that was her favorite time to raise her hand.”

  “I know that girl!” Dale clicked on his signal light to pass a pickup truck. “She took Intro to Sociology at USM.”

  That made Carley smile. “We can wait and have dinner after the movie, if you like.”

  “Oh no, we’ll make it.”

  She had a feeling they would. She could not look at the speedometer without being obvious, but the farms and trees and houses on either side of the road were zipping by too quickly for her comfort zone. It’s just this car, she told herself. The chief of police wouldn’t speed.

  To distract herself from the curvy hill and solid yellow line ahead, she asked, “Do you work closely with the state police?”

  “Sometimes. The guy had what he thought was a new lead on an old case. If he had told us the reason he was coming, we could have saved him the trouble, because the information didn’t match our evidence.” Dale waved a hand. “He’s a good cop. But while he was rattling on, I was getting antsy, just like those students in your biology class. I was afraid we’d have to call off our date.”

  Another charming thing to say, in his repertoire of charming statements. Carley said, “You mean, you were afraid you’d miss The Hulk.”

  He looked at her long enough to smile in the sheepish way that had caught her attention in Corner Diner. “Well, maybe that too. The Hulkster’s my man.”

  Carley smiled and looked at the road again. Her heart went up into her throat. He was gaining on a black sedan and signaling to pass. A white van approached in the left lane, with little margin for error. She clenched her fingers, held her breath, and didn’t let it out again until they were in the right lane again.

  You’re being ridiculous, she said to herself as her heartbeat settled back into a less frenzied rhythm. Are you so flattere
d that he asked you out that you’re just going to let him kill you?

  “Dale?” she said.

  “Um-hmm?” He smiled at her again.

  “Will you please slow down?”

  “Sure,” he said, and the car immediately decelerated. “Sorry. I guess I’m still wired from that meeting.”

  “I understand.”

  “So, help me to de-stress. Tell me about your day. What did you do besides put up the sign?”

  “Well, we hooked up my computer.”

  “Computer, eh? That’s relaxing.”

  “And put away dishes.”

  He flexed his shoulders. “I’m feeling better by the minute.”

  “Flatware too.”

  This time he leaned his head and feigned snoring.

  Carley laughed. “I don’t want you that relaxed.”

  “Oh, okay.” He smiled back at her. “How’s the Kimball girl working out? You didn’t let her around the knives, did you?”

  “I’ll have you know she unpacked the cutlery by herself. And she had access to my purse for a good while.”

  “And how much was in it?”

  “Well, seven dollars.”

  “She’s not foolish enough to risk getting in trouble over seven dollars.”

  “And my debit card.”

  “Where would she use it? You can’t get too far on a bike.”

  “I believe you’re wrong about her, Dale.”

  “Well, I hope so.” His expression sobered. “Just don’t be too trusting, Carley. You’ll have lots of cash around once the place opens.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Barnhill’s was a popular restaurant, judging by the number of parked vehicles. Carley and Dale only had to wait five minutes for a table. The buffet was impressive, with regional dishes such as barbecue ribs and chicken and dumplings, but also teriyaki chicken and spaghetti with meatballs.

  And vegetables. Baked sweet potatoes, steamed white potatoes, cabbage, turnip greens, black-eyed peas, and more. Dale’s plate was full.

  “Thank you for suggesting here,” he said, splitting a sweet potato with a knife. “I worked through lunch, as you can tell. It would have been depressing, having to order a salad.”

  “This seems a good place,” Carley said.

  “But look around. Mostly families. It’s not exactly a date spot. Garland ribbed me about it.”

  “Well, tell him these ribs are fine.”

  He laughed. “That’s what I like most about you. Your sense of humor.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

  “You’re just the first person to tell me that.” Carley realized it was one of the nicest compliments she had ever received. Her red hair would fade and turn gray, but a sense of humor was hopefully eternal.

  Coming attractions were showing on the screen in Turtle Creek Mall’s darkened theater. “I can’t see a thing,” Carley murmured.

  Dale took her hand. “About two-thirds up.”

  He led her up the aisle. They had to release hands to file sideways along knees to center seats. Carley found the sarcastic quips of the trio of adolescent boys behind them more entertaining than the plot. But it was nice to be out on a date after so long, and Carley decided she could not imagine anywhere else she would want to be this evening.

  “Are they disturbing you?” Dale leaned close to whisper.

  “No. They’re funny.”

  “Are you enjoying the movie?”

  “Sure.”

  Five minutes later, he leaned close again. “You’re really sure?”

  She turned to him. “Are you?”

  “No. Let’s leave, okay?”

  Under a clear sky in the parking lot, he opened the passenger door. “I guess it’s not a good thing to go back and recapture childhood. Sorry I’ve ruined your evening, Carley.”

  Carley climbed into the seat. “This is a great evening.”

  “Liar.” He said with a good-natured smirk. He went around the car, climbed behind the wheel, and fastened his seat belt. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “You don’t have—”

  “No, really.” Starting the engine, he said, “We didn’t have time for dessert. Let’s go someplace special. What do you feel like? Something chocolate? Or if you’d like a daiquiri or something….”

  “I don’t drink,” Carley said. Not that she found anything wrong with it, in moderation, but if moderation was so easy to maintain, why were there so many alcoholics? A med student she had dated three times during college had told her of studies that suggested addictive behavior could be inherited. When had her mother slipped over that line? There was always the fear that she was more like Linda than she wanted to be. “But if you…”

  “I don’t either. Not since I became vegan.”

  Carley looked at him. “But there aren’t any animal products in alcohol…are there?”

  He smiled and shook his head. The light at Hardy Street turned green, and Dale steered left toward the city. “My brother, Chad, says everything’s black or white with me, and I guess he’s right. I just can’t see avoiding milk while putting alcohol in my system. And besides, back in my drinking days, all it did was make me sleepy. I would be the one lying on the floor behind the sofa, not the one dancing with the lampshade on his head.”

  “I know…let’s go to Shoney’s,” Carley said.

  “Shoney’s?”

  “I’d like to see where you caught the serial killer.”

  Easing into a smile, he said, “You would?”

  It was an ordinary Shoney’s on North 26th Street, within walking distance of the University of Southern Mississippi. No evidence of it being the place where a murderer took his last free meal and a rookie cop became a hero. Carley’s eyes scanned the other tables and booths. How many of the diners were even aware of, or remembered, what happened here?

  “Tell me about that day,” she said, her spoon spreading the whipped cream evenly over her hot fudge cake. “How did you recognize him?”

  Dale, having ordered a sensible bowl of mixed fruit, said, “I had studied the composite sketch for hours. Even taped it to my bathroom mirror.”

  “Loretta Malone said the composite wasn’t that good.”

  “Well, yeah.” Dale hesitated. “I don’t know if I can explain this.”

  “Please?”

  “It wasn’t so much his facial features that caught my eye, but his expression.” He cleared his throat. “Have you ever exchanged a look with someone and known what he’s thinking, way down in the pit of your stomach?”

  “Yes,” Carley said, suddenly eleven again. A shiver ran through her. “Some call it intuition.”

  “He saw my uniform and looked away,” Dale went on. “But in the fraction of a second that our eyes met, I could read his thoughts clear as a bell. He was so clever, in his toupee and dark glasses, so sure he could rub shoulders with decent people, so scornful of the twenty-two-year-old cop waiting for the lettuce tongs. And I knew it was him.”

  Shivers prickled Carley’s arms again. “What happened next?”

  “Well, I couldn’t call for backup, not with his keeping an eye on me. So I ate my salad, paid my bill, and drove out of the parking lot.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I thought he might look through the window. I was nervous, I guess, paranoid. But I was more afraid of making him nervous. I didn’t know if he had a gun, didn’t want a hostage situation.”

  “And so you drove around the block?”

  “Yep. While calling for backup. But I almost played it too close, for he was walking out the door when I came around from parking in back. I waited until he was too far from the door to run back inside, and ordered him to lie on the ground with his hands outstretched.”

  “Did he?”

  “He did.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, I was pointing my pistol at him. I’m just glad he didn’t notice how badly it was shaking.”
/>
  Carley took a spoonful of the neglected cake. “What would you have done if he turned out to be the wrong person?”

  “I would probably be pumping gas back in Tallahassee now.”

  “What was it like to have your picture in Newsweek?”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” he said modestly, but with a glint in his blue eyes. “By the way, it was Newsweek, Reader’s Digest, and several newspapers around the country.”

  That made Carley smile. She wasn’t the only person at this table with a sense of humor. But she could not return the compliment. As much as she enjoyed his company, she would not allow herself to fall in the ranks of his other nameless and faceless admirers. She had stoked his ego enough by asking about his act of heroism, even though curiosity was her sole motive.

  He forked a chunk of pineapple into his mouth and stared at her, chewing.

  “What?” Carley said after a minute.

  “Once again, you don’t play fair, Carley.”

  “How so?”

  “You keep encouraging me to rattle on about myself, but what do I really know about you, other than that you’re from California and related to the Hudsons?”

  “I…have a sense of humor?” she offered.

  “Not good enough. Come on, Carley, your turn. Or as Stanley Malone would say, Quid pro quo.”

  “Okay, okay.” She sighed. “My mother died eighteen months ago of cirrhosis of the liver.”

  “She was an alcoholic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father?”

  “Not in the picture—whoever he was. I was sent to a foster home, then a group home when I was fourteen, because my mother chose an abusive boyfriend over me.”

  He looked stricken, his brows dented. “I’m sorry, Carley. You deserve better.”

  Carley’s spoon swirled whipped cream and fudge. “No sympathy, Dale, please. I only told you this because you pressured me. It’s not all bad. A group leader at the home helped me through a lot of my teenage angst, and encouraged me to go to college. I juggled classes and waiting tables, taught school for a while after graduating, and now I’m here.”

  “An entrepreneur,” he said.

  “Yes. One of those.” She hesitated, wondering if she dared prompt another lecture on being too trusting. “And…that’s why I want to give Brooke Kimball a chance.”