Now it was he who hesitated. But warmly. “I understand. I’ll just say for the record that I still think it’s a bad idea.”
“And I appreciate your concern.”
She truly did. There was something going on between them that they were both aware of—a budding mutual affection. But when he took her elbow at her front door an hour later, she backed away.
“I’m sorry, Dale. I have a rule about first dates.”
A falsehood, actually, for she had dated so few men that it had not seemed necessary to make rules beyond that they treat her like an intelligent person. But she had never been out with a man responsible for so many broken female hearts before. If she wanted to stand out from the adoring masses, this seemed the best way to begin.
“Can we count my cooking for you as the first?” he said good-naturedly.
Carley laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Then, how about if I drive away and come back in ten minutes?”
“Good night, Dale.”
“Okay, Carley. I understand.”
But he did not use that opportunity to ask her out for a second date. “I’ll see you later, then.”
You did the right thing, Carley told herself as she flossed her teeth at the bathroom mirror. Dale was obviously not like any of the from-prince-to-frog guys her mother had attracted like iron shavings to a magnet. But she was not her mother—she wasn’t even the Atlanta debutante, Pascagoula accountant, or one of the myriad local beauties hoping their phones would ring.
Chapter 20
When Carley’s telephone did not ring the whole next week—at least with Dale’s voice on the other end—she tried not to dwell upon it. She had learned in college that worry was an energy drain as well as a migraine trigger, and she needed every bit of energy and clearheadedness for Annabel Lee Café.
Interviews from Monday through Thursday had resulted in five employees she would begin training in two weeks. Paperwork consumed the time between interviews, and so she had very little work for Brooke. Still, the girl had pedaled over every morning, just to see.
“Here you are,” Carley said on Friday morning, handing her an envelope.
The girl tore the bit of tape on the flap and took out the check. “A hundred and six dollars!”
Please buy some clothes with it, Carley thought, for she was wearing the Objects Under This Shirt… disaster again. “I took out taxes. The paper-clipped sheet shows how much, and how many hours you worked.”
Carley felt competent enough to keep the books, purchase supplies, and compute payroll, but she had taken Aunt Helen’s and Stanley Malone’s advice and hired a local CPA for serious accounting.
“I’m going to put a bulletin board outside my office for time sheets,” Carley went on. “You’ll need to make sure I added up the hours correctly every payday.”
The girl held the check to her heart. Or rather, to the offensive pink letters. “I trust you, Carley.”
“Always double-check, when you’re dealing with money,” Carley said, echoing Stanley Malone’s sentiment of six months ago. She smiled at the girl. “Now, why don’t you take it on over to the bank and open an account?”
“Okay!”
Emmit White walked in seconds after the girl walked out. “Then it’s true?” he said with a backward frown toward the window. “You hired that Kimball girl?”
“She had good references, and has worked hard for me so far,” Carley said. “What do you think of the place, Mr. White? Would you like a guided tour?”
“I walked through the other night. It looks all right.”
When Carley stared at him, he shook his head. “You don’t think I gave you my only key, do you?”
“Well, no.”
“Landlords have rights. Go ask Malone if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you.” She sighed and pulled a chair from the nearest table. “How about some tea?”
“Not thirsty. But what about that Kimball girl? Did you see that filth on her shirt?”
“She’ll have a uniform when we open. And besides, she’ll be washing dishes in back.”
“She’s a tramp. Just like that cousin of hers.”
Even though Carley had no idea what the cousin reference was about, she was angry enough at the tramp comment to order him to leave. Entrepreneur, she reminded herself, drawing in a shaky breath. And an entrepreneur did not allow personal feelings to get in the way of the business.
“Mr. White,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I’ll never forget how you changed your mind about renting this place to me. But please remember that you’re my landlord, not a business partner. Therefore you have no say over whom I hire. And Brooke Kimball may look like an adult, but she’s still a girl.”
He glared and pointed toward the door. “That’s my wife’s name on that sign.”
Carley was opening her mouth to argue further when a quotation from Longfellow slipped out of the mental files of her college education. If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
The embittered man before her had suffered—and was still suffering—because of his family. Gentling her tone, Carley said, “And we’ll make her proud.”
Mr. White looked at her with mouth pressed tight and eyes narrowed.
Oh dear, here we go again, Carley thought.
Until she realized he was not frowning, but struggling to maintain composure. And he lost that battle, for tears meandered down both wrinkled cheeks. Carley hurried into the kitchen and tore off a paper towel.
When she returned he was slouched in the chair.
“Here,” she said.
“Sorry,” he murmured, wiping his eyes and then blowing his nose.
“Please don’t apologize. You have a lot on your shoulders.”
“I know it ain’t right. Blamin’ the girl for what her kin did.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know?” he asked, tone incredulous. The bony shoulders rose, fell. “When that cousin of hers, Tracy Knight, lived with them, it weren’t enough she was sleeping with half the fellers in Lamar County. She went and stole Mona’s husband, Rick, and them with a seven-year-old boy.”
Brooke’s cousin! Carley thought, recalling what Sherry had told her at the Old Grist Mill.
“We had to put Mona in the mental hospital for a while for swallowin’ a bottle of pills. Been six years now, and nobody’s heard a word from Tracy or from Rick. My Annabel had never got over how our son stole from us, and after Mona tried to kill herself…well, that was when Annabel’s mind started slippin’ away.”
He sighed again and closed his eyes. When he did not speak for several seconds, Carley went back to the kitchen for water. When she returned, his eyes were still closed, tears clinging to trembling lashes. She placed the glass on the table. Should she say something? But what? That everything would be all right? She pulled out another chair and sat.
Eventually he looked at her, looked at the glass. He drank half the water, put the glass down again. Embarrassment was obvious on his face, but he said, “Thank you.”
I didn’t do anything, rose to Carley’s lips but she thought better of it. “Did you walk over? Because my car’s right out—”
“I’ll be fine.” A dry smile softened his features, just a little. “Looks like we’re even.”
That made Carley smile, which made his a little wider.
“All righty-rooty,” he said, rising. “I’m going back to work so you can do the same. I’ll expect my rent every month with no excuses, little lady.”
“Yes, sir,” Carley said, like a true Southerner.
****
Steve Underwood delivered the oak deacon’s bench Saturday morning and positioned it along the entrance wall adjacent to the counter. “It’s wonderful,” Carley said, running a hand along the curved back. The oak had a rich sheen against the olive backdrop.
“See how it si
ts,” Steve said, his dark eyes friendly upon her.
“All right.” Carley spread both palms on either side to feel wood as smooth as marble. “I love it.”
“It’s sturdy too. It’ll hold up for decades.”
“Please tell your father how pleased I am.” She had the checkbook ready this time, and invited him to sit at a table. “And may I get you some iced tea? I’m trying to develop a taste for it, now that I’ll be serving it.”
“No, thank you. I just had coffee. Is everything coming together as you planned?”
“Very well, so far,” she said, penning August 2, 2003 in the date line. “My new staff will start training in two weeks, and if all goes well I should be able to open August twenty-third as planned.”
A couple of quick raps came from the window above the door. Dale entered, wearing his uniform and a boyish grin. “I hope I’m not interrupting important business,” he said, as if he had not just walked into a place of business, passing Steve’s truck to do so.
“Well, we are kind of—”
“Sure.” Still, Dale stood in the doorway. “I keep forgetting to bring your sweater, Carley. But maybe I should hang onto it. I’ll check the movie ads—there might be something better this week. How’s it going, Steve? When’s the fall semester?”
“The eighteenth,” Steve replied.
“Ah, I guess you’ll be moving back to Hattiesburg soon. Well, my best to your folks.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
When the door closed again, Carley shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Steve smiled. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
“I didn’t realize your classes started so soon.”
He got to his feet and pushed the chair under the table. “Summer races by, doesn’t it? I hope your grand opening’s a success.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
And then he was gone, with a wave at the door.
Ten minutes later, while Carley was proofreading the final mock-up of the menu, Dale returned.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, approaching the table with tentative steps. “That was so immature of me.”
Carley leveled a look at him. “Well, you just answered the question in my mind.”
“You mean, whether it was coincidence that I barged in on you like that a second time?”
“What was that about?”
Dale ran his hand through his short hair and pulled out the chair Steve had vacated. He hesitated. “May I…?”
“Suit yourself.”
He whistled faintly. “You’re really angry, aren’t you?”
Carley set the menu on the table and folded her hands. “I don’t know that I’m as much angry as confused, Dale. We aren’t going together. You’re aware that I do business with several people. You don’t call for a week—which is your right, because, as I said, we aren’t going together—but then act like you’re checking up on me?”
“You’re right. May I explain?”
Carley shrugged. “If you like.”
“Thank you.” Elbows on the table, he drew in a breath. “I didn’t call because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of me?”
“Terrified, Carley. Remember how I said I was a dork most of my life? It was worse than that. When any girl agrees to go out with a short, chubby guy, it’s because the prom or homecoming’s just around the corner, and she’s getting desperate. I had my first girlfriend only after I got in shape in college, and even she dumped me, like I mentioned before. But after I made that arrest, women really started flirting with me. Beautiful women. The sort who wouldn’t have given me a second look before all this happened.”
“I think you sell women short,” Carley had to say, and winced inside at her unintended pun. But he had not seemed to notice. “You were older. There is the maturity factor.”
“This happened practically overnight, Carley. What else can I think? I was even engaged to a woman like that who was happy to be on my arm when a reporter was present. I can see that, now. Thank goodness she broke it off when I wouldn’t leave Tallulah, or I’d always wonder if she really loved me for myself.”
Carley had never realized men were capable of such transparency. “But why were you afraid of me?”
“Well, because I like you. More than any woman I’ve ever met. I got so used to women who were so flattered by dating a hero, that I got lazy. If someone wants to be with you, even when you act like a jerk, what incentive do you have to change? And frankly, how can you respect that woman? I admire how you respect yourself. But this is new for me, dating someone like you. And I don’t know how to act.”
“Just be yourself,” she said, touched in spite of her misgivings.
“I wish it were that easy.” He blew out his cheeks. “I thought I’d wait a while, see if my feelings cooled down. But then when I saw Steve’s truck…well, I got jealous.”
That sent a chill up Carley’s spine. “I won’t date a jealous man, Dale.”
“I don’t blame you. But in my own defense, all I did was act like an idiot. I didn’t threaten Steve. Or you.”
It was hard to stay annoyed with him. Carley said, “I’ll admit that I’m hypersensitive to certain things.”
“Then…you’ll forgive me?” he asked hopefully
“All right.”
His eyes closed for a second. “Thank you, Carley.”
“But I’ll have to pass on the movie, Dale. I’m pretty busy this weekend.” She knew she could have managed to make the time, but this seemed the right course of action.
“I understand.” He hesitated. “But you have to eat. Let me take you to lunch?”
“Can’t. I’m meeting Aunt Helen at Sherry’s house.”
“What about tomorrow. Would you consider meeting me at the Old Grist Mill?”
Why not? She still liked him very much. And she could not help but be flattered that she had the power to cause any man such emotional stress. “Okay. But is there anything there you can eat?”
“Sure. Baked potato, plain, salad bar.” He grinned. “The pleasure of your company will make up for the limited choices. What time do you get out of church?”
“I don’t go.”
“Oh. I thought since the Hudsons’ went to Community…”
She shook her head.
“Interesting. That makes us a couple of oddities, here in the Bible Belt. But at least it guarantees us a table before the rush. Eleven-thirty all right?”
“That’s fine.” She picked up the menu prototype and handed it over the table. “By the way, you might want to see this.”
He scanned it and smiled. “Avocado-cucumber sandwich, hummus with pita bread…and spinach wrap?”
The latter was a last-minute decision. “With cheese, mind you, but all you have to do is order it without. And there’s mushroom-wild-rice soup on the other side.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
“This was a business decision. They earned their spots.”
“There may have been a little bit of pity involved too?”
“Okay.” She held up thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart. “There may have been some pity involved. But you’ll still have to eat baked potatoes and salads on Sundays, and pack your own on Mondays. We’ll only be open the days the shops are open.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
She was not sure at all, with so many townspeople asking about the café, and the Old Grist Mill so popular. But other than Brooke, all of her newly hired staff had expressed concern during their interviews over working Sundays. The employee pool was not that vast in Tallulah. And coincidentally or not, those applicants who impressed her the most were churchgoers.
She had toyed with the idea of opening for lunch on Sundays, but then tossed the notion. If the day was so important to them, let them have the whole day. Happy employees would surely be productive employees, and she was convinced that her business would be made or broken by the shoppers. She could always change her mind later. She was not
out to make a million dollars. Just to support herself with a business that did not demand every waking minute of every day, once it got going.
****
You almost blew it, Dale thought, sending an appreciative wave to hardware store owner Mr. Marshall for slowing his pickup truck to allow him across Main Street.
He stepped to the edge of the sidewalk to circumvent a chattering foursome of elderly women coming out of Enchanted Attic. He recognized one—Mayor Coates’ mother. After seven years as chief of police, there was enough politician in his blood to cause him to pause and ask if they were having a good day.
“These are my chums from teaching college, Chief Dale,” Myrna Coates said. “We still get together once a year. This year it’s my turn to host. Patty here flew all the way down from New York.”
“Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” Dale drawled, shaking one soft hand, then another. “I hope Miz Coates baked you some of her coconut cream pie. It’s always the hit of the Founders’ Day Picnic.”
“I’m afraid your sweet talk is wasted, young man,” Mrs. Coates said, taking his arm. “These women can cook circles around me.”
“That might be uncomf-table, Myrna!” the woman named Patty quipped in a nasal-sounding hybrid of New York City and backwoods Mississippi. Dale laughed along with the other three, wished them good-day, and continued down the sidewalk.
The same intuition that had helped him recognize Warren Knap in Shoney’s had served him well again by telling him what Carley would want to hear. Women loved men who could admit to being vulnerable. And the irony—he was pretty certain the word fit this time—was that he was being totally honest. He had been a lonesome, awkward teenager. He did appreciate that she seemed to like him for himself and that she would have nothing to do with him if he treated her with less than respect.
Did that not make him a good man?
You are a good man, he assured himself. How many wives, mothers, and co-eds were alive today because Warren Knap was put away seven years ago?
Bad things happened to decent people all the time, didn’t they? And lots of good people had skeletons in their closets.
A shiver ran through him, in spite of the ninety-degree heat. Bad choice of words. Think of something else.
A Table By the Window Page 22
