Troy Fairchild would work the peak period of eleven to two on weekdays, all day Saturdays, and whenever the computer decided to crash. A friend of Conner’s, he took evening classes in computer engineering at USM. He was thin as a rail, all elbows and knees and large feet, with light brown hair and a scattering of pimples. The only son of the pastor at Tallulah Pentecostal, he played bass guitar in a Gospel group—The Singing Fairchilds—with his four sisters,
Carley was encouraged that the white shirt Brooke wore with her jeans was actually buttoned high enough to keep inside what needed to be inside. She sat at the opposite end of the tables between cooks Lisa Gerhard, age twenty-eight, and Rachel Bogart, thirty-one—Mennonite sisters from Columbia. Both were solidly built, with long honey-colored hair; Lisa’s flowed from her forehead back into a braid, while Rachel had short bangs and wore silver wire-rimmed eyeglasses.
Carley planned to work the cash register and play hostess. Later, if profits were healthy enough, she would hire someone else for that position. Also, the waitstaff would have to juggle her duties along with their own for about five minutes out of every hour, so she could restock and tidy up the restrooms. It would be a circus for a while. But if training went well, the customers would only see a smooth operation, not the panic attacks back in the kitchen.
She smiled, watching her employees sample the foods on their plates. Future panic attacks notwithstanding, she could not remember when she had felt so alive, so energized.
Thank you, God, flowed through her mind before she even realized it.
Chapter 22
As training progressed during the week, Carley realized the smoothness of it had more to do with the quality of her employees than with her little introductory speech. Which was good, because character was more lasting than the adrenaline in the wake of a motivational pep talk.
Opening day, however, was a mixed bag.
The bad began as soon as the clock alarm pierced Carley’s throbbing right temple.
“How is it possible to wake up with a headache?” Dale asked a half hour later when he telephoned to wish her luck.
Carley held the plastic bag of ice cubes up to her temple. “My fault,” she said. “I kept wondering if we’d forgotten anything. Did I order enough food? What if no one comes?”
“Now, that’s not going to happen. Didn’t you say folks have been asking you about it for weeks?”
“Yes, but you Southerners will say anything to be polite.”
“Okay, we need to get you well, or you’ll run customers off with that attitude. I’m gonna call Chester Templeton at the drugstore and see if there’s anything helpful I can pick up and run over to you.”
“No, thank you. I can’t afford to be drowsy. And most prescription medicines have that effect on me.”
“Maybe there’s something new…”
“This isn’t the day to experiment.” In spite of the pain, she smiled. “Look, it’s thoughtful of you to offer. But I took my Excedrin and tiny bit of Dramamine a minute ago, and I’m brewing some tea. I just need to get going.”
“Okey-dokey, see you at noon.”
Uncle Rory stopped by twenty minutes later with warm buttered biscuits wrapped in a towel, bacon strips, and freestone peach preserves. “Helen was afraid you’d be too busy to eat,” he said from the porch.
Carley, clad in her robe with her hair wrapped in a towel, stepped out and kissed the old man’s cheek for the first time ever. “Thank you.”
Sherry called, and Blake even took the phone briefly to say, “Break a leg! Oh wait, that’s in theater, isn’t it?”
“Blake…” Carley could hear Sherry say in the background.
“Just kidding!” he said. “I’ve been plugging your place in the shop every day, so don’t make me out to be a liar, okay?”
“Okay, Blake. Thank you,” Carley said, meaning it.
Gayle Payne sent the children to the door with a half dozen warm biscuits. Carley had not the heart to tell them she had already eaten, so she wrapped them and placed them in the freezer to microwave another time.
Her clothes for the week lay across the bed in the middle bedroom. Today, an azalea pink three-quarter-sleeve blouse, knee-length black skirt, and low black heels. No suits, which would veer from the casual-yet-classy atmosphere she hoped to project. And she would save a ton of money on dry cleaning. Every penny counted.
“So, you’re going out to your little restaurant?” Mrs. Templeton called while scattering sunflower seeds.
“On my way!” Carley called back, hopping down the steps. She felt better by the time she steered the GL up Main Street, under a combination of Excedrin, tea and biscuits, and brain endorphins brought on by the all the well-wishers. Figuring she may as well get into the habit and give up her space in front to a customer, she parked in back, several feet from the Dumpster.
In the kitchen, she filled and turned on both tea machines—caffeinated and decaffeinated. Two seconds after she turned on the dining room lights, Brooke’s face became visible in the door window, even though staff were not due for another forty-five minutes. Carley unlocked the door and felt a little throb in her temple. Tank top and jeans!
“Brooke, what happened to your uniform?”
Brooke nodded over to her bicycle, leaning against the light post. “I was afraid I’d get axle grease or something on it. But it’s in here.”
She raised a yellow Dollar General bag. The uniforms were simple—polyester-cotton black skirts or pants for wearability and ease in laundering, caramel-colored, polo-collared knit shirts. And the coup-de-grace, paprika-colored aprons with pockets for straws, order pads, and pencils.
From the look of Brooke’s bag, it was obvious that the uniform was not folded neatly. Rather than follow her first inclination to scream, Carley took the girl’s arm. “Okay, I’ll put on a pot of water. We’ll steam out the wrinkles.”
“But I’m only gonna be in back,” the girl said as Carley propelled her through the dining room.
“Doesn’t matter,” Carley said. “People work better when they look better. Why don’t you just keep both uniforms here? You can hang them in that little closet in my office.”
“Thank you.”
Danyell arrived a few minutes later, followed by cooks Lisa and Rachel, who began laying out cutting boards and knives. The last to arrive was Troy Fairchild, but even he was seven minutes earlier than expected, a good omen of the day to come.
At eleven o’clock, all staff stood in the dining room watching the door. Carley asked Paula to flip the sign in the window to Open.
The waitress hesitated. “Maybe you should, this first time?”
“Yes, all right.” She could feel six sets of eyes following her across the dining room. At the window she strained to look both ways. No mobs of people hurrying over, but it was still early. She flipped the sign, the staff applauded, and she turned and gave a little bow.
Ten minutes later, a third of the tables were filled.
Mayor Dwight Coates and his wife, Birdie. Stanley and Loretta Malone. Beta Club parents Ron and Lynn Hall. A quartet of older women from Jackson who were directed over from Aunt Helen’s shop by her assistant Pam Lipscomb. A husband and wife who had picked up a printout of the menu in Red Barn Emporium. Uncle Rory and Aunt Helen, Sherry and Blake.
****
The matter of family as customers had come up in the Kemp kitchen two weeks ago, while Carley helped clean up after Conner’s going-away party.
“You’re going to have to charge us, just like everyone else,” were Uncle Rory’s words.
“I just can’t…” Carley had started, but her uncle raised a palm.
“Hear me out, little girl. Only a dime or so out of every dollar will stay in your pocket, with the rest going toward supplies, rent, and wages. You won’t stay in business long if you start doing favors for family, and all of us can well afford to go out and eat.”
In hindsight, Carley was glad he had spoken so in Blake’s company. And, again
in hindsight, perhaps it was not by accident that Uncle Rory chose that opportunity. She felt a rough affection for Blake, but allowing him to order “on the house” would probably open an avalanche of problems, with his possibly feeling entitled to treat friends at her expense.
And knowing that he charged Uncle Rory full price for a haircut took away some of the uneasiness over the matter.
“Everything’s wonderful,” Aunt Helen said when Carley visited their table.
“Wonderful,” Blake said, raising his tea glass.
A trio of antique hunters, relatively young women in their thirties, shared a table. One expressed delight over the vegan choices. “I’ll definitely be back,” she said to Paula halfway through her avocado-cucumber sandwich.
At about ten minutes before noon, Averil Stillman entered, accompanied by his wife and daughter. Rita was a striking woman, with tawny skin and short reddish hair. Little Samantha’s smile revealed a slight gap where a permanent tooth was just sprouting. Her hair, twisted into a barrette at the crown of her head, as well as the iron creases in the sleeve of her tropical-print shirt, gave evidence that Rita was a hands-on stepmother. Carley was glad for the girl.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, taking three laminated menus from the counter. She was scanning the few empty tables when the girl motioned a finger at her father, who bent down to catch her whisper.
“It’s okay to ask,” Averil said, straightening again.
“What is it?” Carley asked.
Averil exchanged smiles with his wife and gave Samantha’s shoulder a gentle nudge.
“We’re trying to help her with her shyness,” Rita said softly over the girl’s head.
Carley leaned down, held out her hand. “Hi, Samantha. I’m Carley. You sure are pretty.”
The girl’s eyes widened. In a little voice, she said, “How do you know my name?”
“Because your uncle Winn and cousin John painted all the walls in here. Didn’t they do a good job?”
Samantha looked around. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What is it you’d like to ask me?”
She chewed her lip, hesitated. “May we have a table by the window? I like to look at the people walk by.”
“Well, let’s see.”
Both window tables were occupied, but the trio of shoppers were digging into purses.
“If you don’t mind waiting here on the bench with your parents for about five minutes, we’ll have one ready for you.”
“Thank you,” the girl said, smiling, and the dregs of Carley’s migraine finally slipped away.
Dale and Garland came at one o’clock. Dale insisted on ordering the spinach wrap and cup of mushroom soup for both of them.
“I liked them both just fine,” Garland said at the counter afterward. “That was great tea, by the way. But I’ll be ordering differently when I come back with Amy and the kids. It’s just not natural, not having meat in a meal.”
Dale handed Carley his Discover card and asked about her headache.
“It’s gone,” she replied.
“Good! And I’m glad the place is hopping.”
The number of patrons filtering in and out seemed evenly divided between townspeople and antique hunters. Carley imagined that percentage would change as the novelty wore off and more shoppers learned of the place. Whatever the dynamics, she would be happy if the tables stayed filled.
The shops closed at five. Her plan was to stop seating customers at six, so that her staff could leave by seven-thirty, after nine hours minus lunch and two breaks. She could always add an evening shift and part-time employees later, after the café had proved itself.
At five after seven the last patrons—librarian Edward Juban and his fiancée, Claire Baker—stood at the counter, declaring their meals delicious and promising to return. The sound of breaking glass came from the back, followed by muffled voices. Troy, cleaning the last table, looked at Carley and hurried for the double doors.
“I guess we’ll see how sturdy the china is,” Carley said lightly, handing Edward his change. She escorted them to the door with thanks and, not taking the time to lock it, turned and made for the kitchen.
Brooke burst through the doors when Carley was but five feet away, and hurried past.
“Brooke?” Carley said.
The girl turned, eyeliner smudged across crimson cheeks. “I’m sorry, Carley!”
By the time Carley reached the door, Brooke was pedaling away.
Troy and Paula had come into the dining room.
“She called Danyell the n-word,” Troy said.
Carley groaned. “Oh no…”
In the kitchen, Danyell and Lisa were on their knees before the sink, picking up shards of china.
“My fault,” Danyell said, her own face wet with tears. “I was handing her some dishes, and let go too soon.”
“That’s no excuse for name calling,” Paula said.
Carley nodded thanks at Rachel, returning from the storeroom with a broom and dustpan. “I’m so sorry, Danyell. Here now, move back and let us get it, okay?”
It was fortunate that tomorrow was Sunday. Two days to find someone else. Carley had not been overly impressed with the applicants whose files were in her office, but if they could wash dishes and refrain from using racial epithets, she would have to be satisfied.
Danyell got to her feet, wiped her eyes with the napkin Troy handed her. “She was worn out.”
“We’re all worn out,” Carley said. “But she’s gone.”
****
“How do you get along with people of other races?” Carley asked twenty-two-year-old Renee Brown, whose inch-long multicolored nails were out of proportion with her petite body. Hopefully they were not attached with superglue, for there was no way on earth she was going to be able to wear a pair of rubber gloves.
“You mean…black people?”
“Well, in this case, yes.” Tallulah had only one Hispanic family, the Murillos, who raised cattle on a small acreage out on Highway 42. The only Asian residents were the two young girls that the bank manager, Eric Baker, and his wife had adopted from China.
“I get along fine with everybody,” Renee said, her voice high-pitched like a little girl’s. “My mama taught me that. You treat other people like you want them to treat you.”
Some of the tension eased from Carley’s shoulders. “Very good, Renee. I’ll let you know by morning.”
But her application revealed something odd, Carley realized after giving it closer attention. No local references, just the manager of a furniture store in Hattiesburg and an instructor at Jones Junior College in Ellisville.
Neither reference existed, she discovered by making some inquiries with telephone book in hand Monday morning. She was curious enough to call Dale in his office.
“Renee Brown? Throw the application away, Carley. Better yet, burn it. We’ve arrested her five times for shoplifting.”
“You’re kidding.”
“She’s banned from every shop in town.”
Carley breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dale.”
“Anytime.” He hesitated. “I’ve given you some space so you could focus on training and your grand opening but I’d sure like to spend some time with you. Are you up for pasta and a movie on my big screen this evening?”
“It’s not Batman or anything like that, is it?”
“No way,” he drawled. “Especially not Batman. What kind of superpower does he have? A utility belt and fancy car? And don’t get me started on Robin, with his prissy little outfit.”
“Okay, okay,” Carley said, smiling. “May I let you know? It depends on if I find a dishwasher by evening.”
“Then I’ll think positive thoughts. What’s your favorite movie?”
Carley thought for a second. “The Last of the Mohicans.”
“Whoa! Great choice. Now, get busy rustling up a dishwasher so I won’t have to watch it alone.”
“All right.”
But first,
she had to telephone Renee Brown, as promised. The woman reinforced Dale’s evaluation of her by exclaiming, “Two interviews and I still don’t get the job? I ought to come up there and tear your—”
“I’ll have you arrested if you come near me,” Carley said, replacing the receiver with pulse racing.
Besides four applications from high schoolers seeking only part-time work, there was only Gaye Archer, who had complained during her initial interview about how badly she wanted to quit the video store she was employed in because a “pimply-faced college kid” was promoted manager over her.
“Great, just great,” Carley muttered, tossing and palming her key chain. She flipped through the Hattiesburg Yellow Pages to a category she never imagined she would have to look up so soon. Temporary Employment Agencies.
However much stress this situation induced, it was mingled with relief that she had followed Aunt Helen’s advice about not inviting Brooke to live with her.
The buzzer sounded. Carley walked through the storeroom and paused at the delivery door. She called, “Who is it?”
“It’s Danyell.”
Chapter 23
“I came to ask you to give Brooke another chance,” Danyell said in the office.
“But why would you want that?” Carley asked. “You have no guarantee it won’t happen again.”
She nodded understanding. “Carley, the word she used is one of the biggest insults you can give a person of color. But she’s young, and I’ve heard what her homelife is like. How’s she gonna learn how to act right, if people don’t give her another chance?”
Carley sighed, realized she was jangling her keys again, and set them back upon her desk. “She was a hard worker.”
“I couldn’t have stood at the sink all day like that.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“You’re incredibly gracious,” Carley said.
“Not really.” Danyell returned her smile. “In fact, I’m being a little selfish. When I’m on my knees asking God to watch over my Curtis in Iraq, I want my prayers to get through. I don’t want my own unforgiveness comin’ between Him and me.”
A Table By the Window Page 24
