The temperature had dipped to a lovely forty-seven last night, but the thermometer was now at sixty-five, so Carley changed into her coral knit shirt with three-quarter sleeves, black capris, and sandals.
“I’ve asked Rory to help Pam in the shop while I’m up at Canton,” Aunt Helen said as Carley turned the GL onto Highway 589 South.
Aunt Helen and her friend Marianne Tate would be away from October seventh through tenth, setting up and working a booth at the Canton Flea Market Arts and Crafts Show.
“By the way, it’s the same Canton where A Time to Kill was filmed,” she added.
Carley was impressed. “But can Uncle Rory handle four days on his feet?”
“Pam knows to coddle him. It’s either that, or he’ll insist on coming with us and end up in bed for a month like he did two years ago. Marianne has a nephew up there we’re hiring to do the heavy lifting.”
Her aunt seemed to have more to say but was saving it for an appropriate time. And Carley was not surprised when that time turned out to be at the table at Barnhill’s.
“Brooke accepted Christ yesterday and would like to be baptized.”
Carley dabbed butter into a split sweet potato. “Why couldn’t she tell me herself?”
“Because I asked her to let me. I was afraid you’d think we pressured her into it.”
“I don’t think that at all.” Carley could well understand the pull of the Gospel to a girl just finding out that someone loved her enough to die for her. Hadn’t it been the same with her?
She felt a twinge of melancholy. How trusting she had been in those days. She likened herself to the seed in the parable that sprang up among thorns that eventually choked her.
But had the seed really died? She could see how God had been looking out for her, weaving strands of gold through the frayed places in her life, even while she, like the animals Mrs. Templeton nurtured, ran away every time she felt His presence.
Forgive me, Father, she found herself praying.
“Well, what do you think?”
Her aunt’s voice drew her back to the present.
“About Brooke being baptized?” Carley said. “I’m surprised. She’s afraid of water.”
“Afraid of water?” Aunt Helen smiled, obviously thinking she was joking. “She washes dishes.”
“But she doesn’t climb into the sink. She didn’t tell you?”
Aunt Helen shook her head. “What should we do?”
Carley had to think. “Nothing, I guess. She’s pretty independent. Maybe she wants to try. When is it?”
“You’ll come?” Aunt Helen said cautiously.
“Of course. You think I’d stay away?”
“It’s next Sunday. Thank you, Carley.”
“No, thank you. For caring about her soul while I was licking my wounds. Is it okay to mention that you told me?”
“Absolutely. If you say nothing, she’ll think you don’t approve.”
When Carley parked outside JCPenney at Turtle Creek Mall, Aunt Helen gathered her parcel from the back seat. “Are you coming in? I’ll just be a minute.”
Carley looked at her watch. A little over two hours until her first interview. “Let’s do a little shopping.”
She found the perfect outfit for Brooke in the junior department at McRae’s—a peacock-blue knit shirt with coordinating tweed skirt.
When they arrived back at the house, Brooke was reading a history text from the library. While Aunt Helen opened the refrigerator to make good on her agreement to finish the sauce, Carley rested her left hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Aunt Helen told me. I’m happy for you.”
Brooke looked up at her. “Thanks, Carley.”
Low-key, understated, Carley would have thought, had it not been for the glistening in her green eyes. She put the McRae’s bag on the table. “I thought you might like something special to wear Sunday.”
The girl pushed out her chair, and Carley was caught up in an embrace. Smiling at Aunt Helen over Brooke’s shoulder, Carley understood why women chose to be mothers.
****
October 1 rolled in Wednesday with a deficit—less than an inch and a half of rain had fallen over the latter half of September. Pollen from the pine trees, ragweed, and goldenrod caused noses and eyes to redden. Lawn sprinklers were common sights up Third Street, and Carley felt for the soybean farmers on the outskirts of town.
Against Carley’s advice, Brooke had stayed up late nights over the past week pouring over Practical Algebra.
“What time did you turn out your light?” Carley asked on Friday, the morning of the test, as she put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon before the bleary-eyed girl.
Brooke blinked up at her. “Hmm?”
“Brooke…”
“No, I’m okay.” She picked up her fork. “I wasn’t gonna turn out my light until the light went on in my head about that ratio-and-proportion stuff.”
Carley smiled, went to the refrigerator for orange juice. “Well, did it?”
The girl finished a yawn. “At about two, I think. Thanks for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome. A nice long shower will help wake you.” Carley had already lit the wall heater for her own shower, for the thermometer had dipped to forty-five last night. “And when you get back to town, have Uncle Rory drop you off here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. The agency said the temp won’t mind washing dishes.”
Tyler Sibley, a bookish sophomore, was to begin three-hour daily shifts on the tenth, when Brooke would know if she qualified for online courses. But Carley needed someone all day today. The temp was a stout black woman named Karen Orr, whose uncomplaining dedication to her dishes earned her a twenty-dollar tip.
Brooke was watching Columbo with feet propped up on the coffee table when Carley walked into the house that evening.
“How was it?” Carley asked.
“It was easy.” Brooke pressed the Pause button, freezing Peter Falk holding what appeared to be a stopwatch. “I’m sure glad I crammed on algebra.”
“Good. Did you nap?”
“Slept like a hound under the porch.”
****
Sunday morning, it seemed fitting that Carley should wear the outfit she had worn on her first flight to Tallulah—or at least the taupe skirt and white blouse, for the blazer was not appropriate for the eighty-plus degrees expected today. Brooke looked very nice in her new clothes. Fresh-faced even, for Carley had convinced her to leave off the eyeliner.
“It’ll only smear.”
“Okay,” Brooke had conceded. “But I’m still wearing mascara.”
Leaving the steps on their way to the driveway, Carley could no longer put off saying, “You know, no one will think ill of you, if you decide you can’t handle it.”
“I can handle it,” Brooke said, with telltale forced bravado.
Carley found herself sending up another prayer. Help her, Father.
Grace Community Church met in a brick building the size of a large house, past Lockwood’s Red Barn Emporium on Second Street. The bricks were painted almost an oyster white, the door and shutters were varnished oak. There was no steeple, but a cross was attached to the peak of the roof, and the windows were stained glass.
Besides Aunt Helen and Uncle Rory, there were several recognizable faces in the sanctuary, including those of Stanley and Loretta Malone. Everyone knew Brooke, obviously. Carley smiled to herself. The girl had come from having no grandparents to having at least a dozen.
The minister’s name was James Kelly, a blonde, Nordic-looking man of about fifty, who had played football for Ole Miss before attending seminary. The theme of the sermon was “A Life Changed by God,” based upon Saint Paul’s conversion in the ninth chapter of Acts. So fascinated was Carley in hearing Scripture read in a lyrical drawl, that she had to remind herself to pay attention to its meaning and not just the delivery. During the closing hymns, Brooke left for the back with an older woman Carley recognized as one of Mrs. Temp
leton’s senior citizen center friends. When the baptistery curtains parted, Brooke stood with the minister in white robes.
Carley dabbed her eyes with a fingertip.
“Need a tissue?” Aunt Helen whispered.
“No, thank you.”
Brooke was lowered into the water. When she came up out of it again, she wore such a smile of wonderment that Carley’s throat thickened and her eyes began smarting again. She nudged her aunt’s elbow. “Okay, I’ll take one.”
****
“You’ve really never played Candyland?” Carley heard Micah Payne say through her bedroom window Monday afternoon. The day had warmed to the high seventies, and so the attic fan was rotating again. She put away the rest of her folded laundry and crept over to the window, leaned over the headboard. Brooke sat on the porch floor in a square with the older Payne children, the game board open in the center.
“This is the first time I’ve even seen Candyland,” Brooke said.
“What did you play when you were a girl?” Kimberly asked.
“Lots of things. Jump rope, jacks. And jigsaw puzzles sometimes.”
“They all start with J !” the girl chortled.
“Were you joking?” Micah asked suspiciously.
“No. But come to think of it, that starts with a J too!”
The children chortled as if that were the funniest thing ever. Carley smiled and backed away from the curtain. She brought water out the back door to Patrick, who was operating the leaf blower with headphones in his ears. Next door, Gayle was taking towels down from the clothesline, dropping them into a basket, while Lane played with a yellow toy truck at her feet.
“I heard about Brooke’s baptism,” Gayle called.
Carley walked over, out of range of leaf blower noise. Delicately, she said, “Is that why you’re allowing the children near her?”
Discomfort washed across Gayle’s pretty face. “I’m sorry for that. I was wrong.”
“No, you were right. You didn’t know her.”
Glancing back at Patrick, blissfully caught up in his music, Carley said, “I’ve only told one other person this, first, because I was ashamed, and now, because I don’t care to carry around a ‘victim’ banner. But my stepfather abused me when I was a girl. And he was a deacon and choir member.”
Gayle shook her head. “Oh…Carley…”
“For most of my life, I’ve pegged Christians as hypocrites. I’m learning just how wrong I was. Even so, you must never assume your children are safe around someone, based solely on his or her church standing. My Aunt Helen once said there were wolves among the sheep. She’s right.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Gayle directed a worried looked toward Carley’s house. “Ah…should I…”
Carley gave her an understanding smile, then knelt to look at Lane’s truck. “You have nothing to worry about, Gayle. They’re just playing Candyland on the porch. And Brooke’s definitely no wolf.”
****
The telephone rang after supper, when Carley sat sideways on the sofa with feet propped, reading the October issue of Restaurant Hospitality. She stretched out for the telephone on her desk.
“Hello?”
A male voice said, “Brooke.”
Carley’s dormant English-teacher side took immediate issue. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wanna speak to Brooke.”
She was tempted to hang up, make the problem go away. But if the voice on the other end indeed belonged to Brad Travis, Brooke was going to have to be the one to break the news that she could not see him.
Or not break the news. Carley was well aware of the control a young man could have over a girl starved for love.
But she’s not starved for love, she corrected herself.
“Hold on, please.” She held her hand over the phone, called, “Brooke?”
Brooke came out of her room in her gold USM Eagles shirt, pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers. Carley nodded and held out the receiver. The girl gave her a vague look and went into the kitchen. Carley heard chair legs against the wooden floor, then the metallic sound of the receiver being lifted.
“Hello?”
Carley hung up. About eight seconds of silence passed.
“I’m glad you’re out too,” she finally heard Brooke say. “Was it rough?”
The silence lasted much longer.
“No, I’m sorry. I need to sleep. I have work tomorrow.”
Still more silence.
“No, I really can’t.”
Carley heard her throat clearing.
“Well, maybe you should give your mom a chance. See, I’m gonna be taking online courses for my GED real soon, and I’m not gonna have time for—”
When Brooke spoke again, after the lengthiest silence yet, her voice shook. “No, I don’t want to! That’s a crazy plan!” The chair sound came again, sharper. “I have to go now!”
As soon as the receiver clicked again, Carley got to her feet and went into the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” she said, patting Brooke’s back. “I know that was hard, but trust me, you did the right thing.”
Brooke blinked tear-spiked lashes. “It was only hard hearing him yell at me, that’s all. You’re right, Carley, he’s bad news. He wants me to hitchhike to Las Vegas with him to see if some cousin will find him a job there. Is that crazy or what?”
The telephone began ringing again.
“I’m sure that’s him again.” Brooke said.
“Let the machine pick it up.”
But when that happened, the ringing stopped, only to start again seconds later. After the sixth go-round, Carley turned off the ringer and the answering machine.
“I’m going to have to tell Dale.”
“No,” Brooke said quickly, fear filling her eyes. “Brad might do something. He has a temper.”
Carley lifted her brows. “Oh? Meaning…a policeman might have to use physical force to subdue him?”
“I don’t know,” the girl mumbled, and went to her room.
Chapter 31
The almost-half-inch of rain that had fallen Tuesday morning brought on a festive mood in the dining room of Annabel Lee Café. Carley recognized Brad Travis as soon as he sauntered inside—brown hair ruffled with pillow indentations, shirt buttoned only halfway, a homemade swastika tattoo on one forearm, a skull on the other. Eyes as hard as pebbles traveled the dining room and stopped at her face.
“Brooke here?”
“I’m afraid she’s working.”
He gave her a smug smile, turned, and headed for the kitchen doors. Carley hurried around the counter and caught up with him. “I’m sorry. You can’t go back there.”
When his steps did not slow, she reached for his arm. She let go immediately when the muscles tightened.
He turned a thunderous face to her. “Keep out of this, you—”
“Please,” Carley cut in, trying to stay calm for the sake of her customers.
But he pushed on ahead. Helplessly, she looked at the table Garland Smith, off duty, shared with his wife, Amy, and their two girls. He was already getting to his feet. Mr. Lockwood of the nursery did the same from the opposite corner, and Troy dropped his order pad on a table. The commotion coming from the kitchen was easily heard over Mozart’s Flute and Harp Concerto. Carley followed the men. Within seconds, Garland had an arm wrapped around Brad’s neck from behind; Mr. Lockwood had one arm, and Troy the other.
Lisa and Rachel and Brooke stood in a huddle with ashen faces.
“Amy’s calling Marti on the cell,” Garland said between grunts as the men dragged the cursing young man through the storeroom. The siren was already wailing when Carley unlocked and pushed open the door. Within seconds the boy was cuffed and inside the squad car, kicking his feet against the window. Garland decided to help book him, saying Dale had the night shift, and it would only take a few minutes.
“Are you all right?” Carley asked her staff. “Do we need to close?”
“Don’t close,” was the consensus, with
Brooke, the most shaken, agreeing.
“I’m sorry you had to witness this,” Carley announced back in the dining room, particularly to the five older women who were first-time customers. “The young man’s been taken into custody and will not return. And as our way of apology, we’ll be bringing around dessert trays—on the house.”
That brought smiles, even from the five new customers.
As for Garland and Mr. Lockwood, their whole tickets would be on the house. Troy’s reward would come in his next paycheck.
Almost immediately people started dropping by, to reassure themselves that everything was back to normal: Uncle Rory, on his first day filling in for Aunt Helen, hurried over from Auld Lang Syne Antiques. Danyell’s mother. Pastor James Kelly. Loretta Malone, apologizing that Stanley had to stay clear just in case he was appointed counsel for the defense. Mayor Coates. Ruby Moore. Several shop owners from both sides of Main. Most visitors were too busy to stay longer than a minute or two. Thanks to Brad Travis, today would probably be the weakest day of the month, profit-wise. But a strong day, friendship-wise.
Carley heard knocking after the last customers had left, and unlocked the door to allow Dale inside.
“Are you all right?” he said, the same question she had asked her staff.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“You can’t be everywhere,” she said.
“But I should have expected something like this when the boy got out.”
“You can’t know everything.”
Finally he smiled. “Thanks, Carley. I need to speak with you and Brooke about pressing charges. Would you like to come to the station now, or should I just wait for you and Brooke here?”
“Please wait,” Carley said.
He exchanged greetings with the staff on their way out. When Carley and Brooke joined him at a table, he said to the girl, “Did he lay a hand on you?”
“No sir,” she mumbled with eyes focused on the salt and pepper shakers.
You could at least look at the man when he’s expressing concern, Carley thought, wishing there was some way to send the message via brain waves to Brooke’s head.
A Table By the Window Page 32
