Livvie's Song

by Sharlene MacLaren

  “Feller knows how to cook, too,” Joe pointed out.

  “You don’t know that,” Livvie said to his back, somewhat annoyed. “He was a cook’s assistant, remember? And that presumes he was telling the truth.”

  “Still, might not hurt to pay the guy a visit over at the Dixie Hotel to judge for yourself. You can ask him if he got himself a job at Service Motors.” Joe glanced around, one of his eyebrows arching smartly.

  “You want me to walk over to the Dixie Hotel?”

  “It’s just a few doors down, Liv.”

  “I’m not worried about the distance, Joe Stewart.”

  He gave the hamburger another flip and pressed down on it with his long-handled metal spatula. “You could ask him about his former job, why he left it, how he landed himself in Wabash, how much kitchen experience he’s got, and whether he’s interested in workin’ for you—on a trial basis, mind you.”

  “You want me to go with you, Mom?”

  “No! I don’t need anybody’s help or suggestions.” Annoyance tripped down her spine. “I am not going to any hotel looking for that man. Gracious, what would people think if they found out?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’d think the worst right off,” Joe said with quiet laughter. “Probably be somethin’ about it on the front page of the Daily Plain Dealer on Monday.” He paused in his kitchen chore, looked skyward, and raised his right arm, making a wide arc with his hand as he said, “I can see it now: ‘Respectable Restaurant Owner Olivia Beckman Seen Chasing after Bearded Drifter.’”

  She failed to see the humor. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.”

  A young couple stood up from their table at the front of the restaurant and walked to the cash register. Livvie forced a smile and left Joe to finish frying up his burger. Alex gave his rubber ball a few more bounces, and she paused and cast him a stern glance. “All right, all right. I’ll go tomorrow,” she called back to Joe.

  That night, lying in bed, Livvie pulled a pillow over her head to drown out the loud music, intermittent spurts of laughter, and feet pounding out dance steps on the floor above her. What went on at these Saturday night dances, and how did folks muster enough energy to stay there well into the wee hours of the morning?

  She thought about old Mr. Fletcher, the tenant who’d lived in the small apartment next to hers, and wondered if the dances were one of the reasons he’d decided to move elsewhere. But she somehow doubted it. Along with finding it more difficult to navigate the stairs, he’d also started going deaf. She missed the old soul. He’d furnished her with rent money and never caused a single problem. If only she could find someone to replace him—and a cook, for goodness’ sake. She needed a cook!

  Her thoughts drifted to the scruffy Mr. Taylor. It was difficult to picture him slaving over the stove, flipping pancakes or frying burgers, and even harder to imagine working alongside him. What did anyone know about him or his work ethic? If she hired him, perchance, what if he quit on her after Joe left? Cooking and waiting tables would then be left to Cora Mae and herself, and how would they ever manage? Maybe Margie would agree to lend a hand, but she was busy enough on the farm. She couldn’t very well be expected to drop everything and come to her little sister’s aid again, especially when she’d gone the extra mile for her too many times already.

  While pondering all these thoughts, Livvie couldn’t help but think again of the drifter with the long, thick beard and piercing blue eyes. She uttered a laborious sigh and rotated to her other side, dragging her blanket with her and again pressing her pillow to her ear. Oh, Lord, what to do? If Frank were here, he’d tell her to pray about it. Shoot, if Frank were here, they wouldn’t even be in this predicament.

  As much as it went against her wishes, it appeared she had no choice. She would pay Mr. Taylor a visit tomorrow afternoon.

  ***

  Will threw a blanket over the single bed in his little square room on the second floor of the Dixie Hotel with a window that overlooked Market Street. No sooner had he sat in the chair beside the bed, propped his feet on the mattress, and started blowing a tune through his harmonica than a knock sounded on the door.

  “Mr. Taylor?” came a woman’s voice. “You got a visitor downstairs.”

  A visitor? Who even knew of his whereabouts? He went to the door and opened it wide. The clerk, whose name he’d learned was Myrtle Moore, stood in the dark hallway, resting the bulk of her weight on one foot. The front of her shirtwaist was soiled, probably from leaning against the hotel counter. She blew a wisp of grayish-brown hair off her forehead.

  “Do you happen to know his name?” he asked.

  “Her name is Olivia Beckman,” she replied curtly. “She runs Livvie’s Kitchen just up the block. I told her she could come up here of her own accord, but she declined. I guess she thought it wouldn’t look right, her being a lady and all. Can’t say I blame her. Shall I tell her you’ll be right down?”

  He lifted his arms and ran his fingers through his hair. Mrs. Moore shook her head at him and scowled. “Didn’t help,” she muttered.

  He ignored the jab. “Uh, yes. Just tell her I’ll be down in a moment. Thanks.”

  She arched her gray eyebrows at him and sniffed. “You’d do well to shave that awful hair off your face, young man. You aren’t going to impress any lady looking like that. Not even those freshly pressed clothes you got on will do the trick.”

  He sniffed right back and shot her an impassive smile. “Thanks for the advice, ma’am, but I’m not hunting for a woman.”

  She gave a half nod, clearly skeptical. “I see. Well, I’ll tell Mrs. Beckman you’re on your way down, then.”

  He nodded, closed the door after her, and ran to his bag, rifling through it in search of a comb.

  ***

  She couldn’t believe she’d actually swallowed her pride and come to visit Mr. Taylor. Why, it’d been downright embarrassing just to inquire after him. What must that starchy clerk, Myrtle Moore, have thought? Not that it mattered much. She barely knew the woman. Casting a glance around, she noted a marred-looking front desk, a bare coat rack by the front door, a wilted plant on a stand in front of one window, and a couple of side chairs with soiled-looking cushions in a far corner. On the wall above the chairs hung several paintings with mismatched frames.

  She folded her hands in front of her and waited. The first footsteps she heard were those of Myrtle Moore. “He said he’d be right down,” the woman said as she descended the staircase. “You can go sit over there, if you’d like,” she added, pointing at the two chairs as she walked past Livvie.

  “Thank you, but I prefer to stand.” Shifting her weight from one leg to the other, Livvie looked at the oval braided rug beneath her feet, studying its pretty pattern and wondering at the patience it must have taken to create such a masterpiece. More steps overhead made her rein in her thoughts and turn toward the carpeted stairway.

  When Mr. Taylor appeared, their gazes caught and held, and he hesitated briefly on the landing. Again, his arresting eyes caught her unawares, but for only a moment. Then, he lowered his heavily whiskered chin and lumbered down the stairs. He wore a white long-sleeved dress shirt and trousers that looked as if they’d been freshly pressed. My, he was a big man, so broad and muscular. She wondered what sort of face hid behind that shaggy beard. Was his jaw square or round? Were his cheekbones pronounced or ill defined? She couldn’t even get a good glimpse at his mouth, the way his mustache draped over his upper lip.

  She did see the grin that peeked through, revealing a nice set of teeth, which confirmed Joe’s earlier observation. Well, that was something, at least. How many folks could boast a full set of straight teeth? Most couldn’t, herself included. Every time she smiled at herself in the mirror—which wasn’t often—she couldn’t ignore the top tooth that turned in, overlapping the one beside it just slightly. Frank had always said it added to her charm. She disagreed completely. He’d always liked her flyaway, strawberry blonde hair, too, another source of contention for her. She
never could get it to stay in one place, and the fine, wispy strands were always tangled because of her natural waves. Even now, she was compelled to tuck a shock of hair behind her ear. She wished she could have adjusted her side combs before the man appeared at the bottom of the stairs, or even that she had gathered it into a ponytail before leaving the apartment. She’d been toying with the idea of having her hair cut in one of those short bobs, which were all the rage now, but she hadn’t mustered the courage yet.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?” Mr. Taylor asked.

  She cleared her throat and longed for a drink of cold water to settle her nerves. His soaring stature did not help matters. Frank had been of a medium height and build, perfect in her eyes. “I—I’ve come to discuss something with you.”

  “Oh?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she detected Myrtle Moore’s ears perking up like a bat’s.

  “Shall we…step outside?”

  “If you’ve a mind to, sure.”

  She followed him to the door, which he opened for her. A gentleman. Humph, she thought as she stepped over the threshold. This particular hotel had no front porch, just a cement landing and stairs with wrought-iron railings. Fortunately, the sun had decided to show itself today, warming the air to a comfortable temperature that she suspected was in the mid-seventies. Even so, Livvie felt a sudden chill, and she folded her arms across her chest.

  Mr. Taylor joined her on the stoop, his body taking up almost every square inch of remaining space.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re wondering what I could possibly want to discuss—or maybe you’re not. I’m aware that Joe spoke to you about the position of cook, which will soon be available at my restaurant.”

  He rolled on his heels and gazed past her. “He mentioned something about it, yes.”

  Swallowing suddenly became a difficult task, but she managed it, then continued. “He told me you’d gone seeking a job at the Service Motor Truck Company. Were you successful in procuring a position there?”

  “I may have been. They asked me to come back tomorrow morning and talk to the hiring manager. Said they have a few openings, and I would probably work out fine.”

  Strangely, her spirits took a dive. “Well, that’s good, right? You must be quite relieved.”

  “Soon’s I start making some money, I can get my own place, so, yes, from that perspective, you might say I’m relieved.”

  She pondered her vacant apartment. “Well, then, I suppose my coming here was quite in vain.”

  “I don’t know. What’d you want to discuss?” He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair—a nervous habit?—and focused his deep-set eyes on her face.

  She dropped her chin to look at her pointy-toed beige pumps. A sudden updraft snagged hold of her yellow calico shirtwaist, and she quickly grabbed her skirt to hold it in place. “Well, I wanted to talk to you about your experience as a cook. Joe told me that you worked in a restaurant in New York before coming here. A large one, he said. I just thought…I don’t know…that, perhaps, you might want to consider the possibility of…well…working for me.”

  “Working for you,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “You serious?” He started to laugh.

  Despite the pleasant sound, she huffed in irritation. “Just what is so funny?”

  “I’ve never worked for a woman before. I’m trying to envision it.”

  She blinked twice, as she refused to crack a smile, and pulled back her shoulders as far as they would go. “I don’t intend to beg, Mr. Taylor. You can just give me an honest answer, yes or no. Are you interested or not?”

  “Well, I don’t know. You’ve caught me off guard. There is the matter of that job at Service Motors. I imagine the pay’s pretty good.”

  Her spirits dipped further. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I certainly would not be able to pay you what you’d make there.”

  “You can’t get Joe to stay on, huh?”

  She shook her head. “His daughter and grandchildren live in Chicago. They’ve been after him to move there, so I knew it was just a matter of time before he’d leave. He stepped in to help me out when my—well, that’s beside the point.”

  “I already know your husband died, ma’am. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh.” She gave a short sniff. “Thank you. One learns how to go on in matters such as these.” She could come off with vim and vigor when she had a mind to. “So, are you going to give me a straight answer or not?”

  “Are you going to tell me what you’d pay me?”

  “I…I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much. But there are benefits.”

  The faint twinkle in the depths of his eyes as they made a quick sweep of her body unnerved her. “Mind telling me what those might be?”

  She scavenged her brain for a response. “Well, I assume you’d be doing something you enjoy. That’s one benefit.”

  “What about that pay?” he asked, skipping right over her remark.

  She tilted her head back to look up at him, ire building in her blood, and dared to stare into his mesmerizing eyes. “So help me, Mr. Taylor, if I hire you and find you to be an unscrupulous goon, I’ll hit you over the head with my heaviest frying pan.”

  He tossed his head back and laughed. Back rigid, she stared at him, unsmiling, as the jovial sound rippled through the air. “I didn’t intend that as a joke.”

  He put his hands behind him. “I can see that. I don’t think I’m a goon. To my knowledge, no one’s ever called me that.” His whiskers twitched at the corners of his mouth.

  “What about unscrupulous?”

  “Doubt anyone would call me that, either—anymore, that is.”

  “Anymore?”

  He shrugged. “Forget it.”

  She shook her head in dismay. “Just how would folks describe you, Mr. Taylor? I’m not going to hire you without a single clue as to your work ethic or your history, for goodness’ sake. You’d best tell me something good.”

  “Something good? Hmm…. I went to church this morning. Does that count? Matter of fact, I haven’t missed a Sunday for the past six months or so.”

  “You went—?” She couldn’t believe it. No one looked less like the churchgoing type. Instant shame overtook her at her quickness to judge, as well as the reminder of her own sporadic attendance. For years, she and Frank had gone to church faithfully, until—

  “You can close your mouth anytime now, ma’am.” He gave her a knowing smile.

  “Oh.” She clamped her lips.

  “So, what makes you think I’d want this cook job?”

  “Well, Joe seems to have some sort of feeling about you. He has an innate ability to discern good character from bad, and, for reasons I have yet to figure out, he thinks I ought to give you a chance.”

  His left eyebrow rose a fraction as he stretched to his full height. “Well, you sure know how to make a guy want to work for you. Are you always this cheerful? I might consider taking the job just to get the occasional rise out of you. You’re downright cute when you’re mad, you know that?”

  “Aargh!” She pushed a wayward lock of hair out of her face, but the breeze drove it back again. “I can see I’m wasting my time.” She turned, intending to take her leave, but he caught her by the elbow.

  “All right, all right. Listen. Let’s see if we can strike up some sort of a deal, here.”

  She swallowed and gazed out at the street, watching a farmer maneuver his horse and wagon through the heavy automobile traffic. These days, more cars and trucks than horses occupied the roadways. Times were changing faster than the weather. “What sort of deal?”

  “I understand you have some living quarters above your restaurant.”

  “A small apartment, yes.”

  “Well, what say you pay me just enough for a few monthly necessities, let me take my meals at the restaurant, and give me the space upstairs to stay in?”

  She stared up at him. “You want free room and board, in other words.”

  “In exchan
ge for working full-time, I’d say that’s a pretty good deal. Joe tells me the business is struggling.”

  “He shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “So, it’s true, then. Well, if we put our heads together, maybe we could come up with some ways to turn a better profit.”

  She couldn’t imagine putting her head anywhere near his. “I don’t abide smoking,” she blurted out.

  “Well, I suppose that’ll help keep me on the straight and narrow. I quit the nasty habit, in case you were wondering. Until a couple of days ago, that is. But, don’t you worry. I’ve quit again.”

  His blue eyes flashed with unmasked humor, and, suddenly, her thick wall of wariness started to crumble.

  Chapter Five

  “The Lord preserveth the simple: I was brought low, and he helped me.”—Psalm 116:6

  On Monday morning, rather than trekking down to the Service Motor Truck Company, Will gathered up his meager belongings, paid a curious-eyed Myrtle Moore the balance of his bill, and whistled on his way out the door. Just before he left, he turned and invited her to visit Livvie’s Kitchen someday soon and partake of one of his many secret recipes.

  She stared at him, gape-mouthed. “That woman actually hired you?”

  He grinned back at her, then let the screen door shut with a bang behind him. Soon, he was on his way up Market Street, heading for his new job and his first paycheck.

  Joe Stewart had already fired up the stove and oven when Will arrived at seven o’clock, and the smells of coffee, fresh-baked bread, fried bacon, eggs, and potatoes soon began to permeate the little café. A few men sat at the bar and bantered with Joe while they sipped their mugs of coffee. Several other men, looking like bankers in their business suits, were engrossed in conversation at a table near the front window.

  At another table in the center of the room, Olivia Beckman glanced up from her task—refilling the salt and pepper shakers, from the looks of it—and granted him a smile that seemed genuine. Her greeting of “Good morning, Mr. Taylor” passed for halfway pleasant. Dressed in the same knee-length yellow dress she’d had on yesterday, but now with an apron secured around her slender middle, she was about the prettiest female he’d ever laid eyes on. Not that he intended to dwell on that notion. He didn’t know which would require more effort—slaving over a hot stove in an effort to please the customers, or catching the occasional smile from his lovely boss. Probably the latter.