Livvie's Song

by Sharlene MacLaren

  According to Sally’s account of the episode, they’d trudged along in silence for half a block until Nate, having thought things over, blurted out, “You mean, there’s boys and girls what like each other in Mommy’s restaurant?”

  “No, dodo bird,” Alex had responded. “There’s two girls what like the same boy!”

  Livvie wasn’t sure which of her sons had missed Sally’s point by a wider margin, so she’d done nothing but smiled.

  Will had prepared Clara Gillen’s baked chicken for Sunday dinner last week, and the recipe had passed the taste test by a country mile, according to the judges: Cora Mae, Coot, Livvie, the boys, and Will. “Succulent” described it well, with its blend of five herbs and spices, a squeeze of lemon, and some other key ingredients.

  Besides the chicken, Will had served cheddar mashed potatoes and gravy, steamed green beans, homemade applesauce, which had been canned the year before, and his own secret-recipe rolls, which were fast becoming a signature item at Livvie’s Kitchen due to their irresistible texture and hint of sweetness. Many folks had joked that they could make a meal of the rolls alone.

  Yes, Will Taylor had basically abolished the notion that men didn’t belong in the kitchen, and yet he didn’t possess one feminine trait about him. Whether tossing a baseball with Alex and Nate in the back alley, lifting heavy crates of produce and other restaurant supplies, or taking the boys fishing with the equipment she’d offered him—Frank’s gear—he was the epitome of manhood. And it rankled Livvie plenty to realize she’d noticed.

  The morning of June 29, Livvie dressed the boys in blue shorts, red-and-white-striped shirts, and navy Red Goose shoes, having splurged at J. C. Penney and Miller’s Shoe Store. She’d had to empty her savings jar to make the purchases, but having her boys spiffed up for the opening night of Family Feast seemed worth it. Besides, she’d purchased the shoes one size too big, figuring that if the boys’ feet didn’t grow too fast, they could wear them clear through Christmas and maybe beyond.

  Livvie didn’t have a patriotic dress, but she did have a lightweight cotton one of blue fabric with tiny white flowers, a scooped neck, and cap sleeves. With some spare ribbon she’d found in her sewing drawer, she had fashioned a red bow to tie at the top of her ponytail.

  A special table near the front of the restaurant had been reserved for the Gillen family, and Livvie had decorated it with a beautiful centerpiece—a Mason jar filled with fresh-cut flowers from Margie’s garden—for Clara to take home. She’d also tied ribbons around four candy sticks and placed one at each setting.

  By 4:45 p.m., a line had already formed outside the front door. Livvie tried soothing her jittery stomach but without success. “Oh, my gracious, I’m so excited—and nervous, too, I’m afraid,” she confessed to Will, who was mashing a huge pot of steaming potatoes. With every depression of the metal tool, his arm muscles flexed, and she found the distraction a pleasant substitute for fear.

  He paused and looked up long enough to cast a warm gaze at her. “This is your night to shine, young lady. Make the most of it.” He returned his attention to the potatoes, sprinkling them with a pinch of salt and some ground pepper, pouring in a generous amount of thick cream, and then adding a hunk of butter and a mound of grated cheddar. One thing she’d learned from observing him over the past several weeks was that he didn’t have much use for measuring cups and spoons. She’d also noticed other things: his perpetually jovial manner, his gentle way with her sons, his sense of humor, his calm efficiency, and, most intriguing, his deep interest in spiritual things.

  Most every morning, in between cleaning up the breakfast mess and getting ready for lunch, he situated himself at some corner table to study his Bible for a few minutes. “Got to finish reading this passage I took up before coming down here this morning,” he sometimes said. On occasion, Alex and Nate interrupted his solitary study with their antics, but he never let it bother him; he just smiled and, often, closed the Book and joined in their banter.

  Mostly, though, the boys had learned that when Mr. Taylor sat down with his Bible and a cup of coffee, they ought to show respect. Sally did her best to keep them outside or, on rainy days, contained in their playroom at the back of the restaurant. Seeing Will’s dedication had produced a good dose of guilt in Livvie’s spirit for her lack of devotion to the Lord, so much that she’d dusted off her Bible last week and set to reading it each night after tucking her boys in bed. On every page, she sought reassurance that the Lord still loved her, despite her utter neglect of Him. She also searched for an explanation, even clues, as to why He would have swooped up her husband at such an early age. While she found a measure of comfort in the Good Book, those frantic searches for answers often resulted more in unrest than peace, and she wondered what was wrong with her, since it seemed to have the opposite effect on Will.

  “You watch. It’s going to be a good night, Livvie Beth,” Will said as he set down the masher. Then, he plopped a lid on the heavy pot and slid it to a back burner. That he’d tacked on her middle name made her feel a mixture of panic and pleasure. On the one hand, she was glad they’d established a comfortable rapport; on the other hand, it rattled her to think he viewed her in so intimate a manner—and that she rather enjoyed it.

  Sudden gratitude washed over her for the interest Will took in her restaurant. Of course, he wanted a job, so it was only natural for him to want her business to succeed. And what was she doing? Standing there, worrying! Wanting to make herself busy, she stepped up to the bar and began straightening the salt and pepper shakers.

  That task didn’t take long, though, and she next surveyed the restaurant to see what else needed to be done. Cora Mae had arranged and rearranged the table settings until they lined up perfectly. The boys and Sally walked around, making sure that nothing was out of place. Soon, they would take their posts by the door as “official greeters” and welcome each patron.

  Coot, at her invitation, had come in through the back door ten minutes early and now sat, reading the Daily Plain Dealer, at a front table she had reserved for him and three friends. She hadn’t wanted to make him stand in line in the relentless heat. How grateful she was that the ceiling fans were in working order!

  She turned back to the kitchen, where Will stood over the stove. “I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me—for us,” she said, mopping her damp brow with the back of her hand. She knew her cheeks were red from all of her scurrying about, for she’d checked her reflection in the mirror in the tiny washroom at the back of the restaurant just minutes ago.

  Will swiveled and leaned back against the counter next to the stove. Beads of perspiration peppered his forehead, as well, but he appeared not to mind. Working in the kitchen was a hot job, even more so when the outside temperature still hovered in the high eighties and the humidity hung over them like a sodden blanket.

  He folded his hulking arms across his chest and grinned. “If you want the truth, I’m having myself a barrel of fun.”

  “You are?” She was surprised—frightened, rather—by the way his remark sounded like something Frank would have said. The two could not have been more different in looks and personalities, but they shared the same fondness for all things culinary. Joe had been keen on cooking, too, but his heart hadn’t been in it to the same extent, and he’d stepped into the role of cook after Frank’s death more out of compassion than passion. He’d long been a loyal customer at Livvie’s Kitchen and had enjoyed lively conversations with Frank. After he’d taken over in the kitchen, he’d perfected his culinary skills, albeit more out of necessity than genuine enthusiasm. Frank, on the other hand, had verged on obsessive when it came to the restaurant business, and Livvie sometimes wondered if Will didn’t share the same zeal.

  “It’s been a pure pleasure watching everybody’s excitement, especially your boys’. They’re about as keyed up as two fleas in a dog pen. Even Sally’s jumped in full tilt.”

  Livvie shot the threesome a quick glance. “They are having fun, aren
’t they? Sally’s agreed to help me wait tables if it gets to be too much for Cora Mae and me. You should see the line forming outside. I think it stretches halfway up the block.”

  “I’m not surprised, what with all the advertising and talk around town.”

  “What if we can’t seat everyone?”

  Will winked at her. “Then, I expect folks will have to stand around and wait till a table clears.”

  “In this heat? What if they grow tired of waiting and leave?”

  “After getting a whiff of that chicken? Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “We’ll put a sample on a plate and have Alex take it outside and run it under people’s noses. That ought to give them incentive enough to hang around.”

  Not seeing the humor in his remark, she continued to fuss. “What if people linger too long at their tables? Should we give them a time limit at their tables?”

  He frowned. “Now, that would be downright rude, ma’am.”

  “Yes, but what if—?”

  He leaned forward. “What if the proprietress has a fainting spell?”

  “Oh.” She pressed a hand to her pounding chest, fretting that he could very well be right. Wouldn’t that just take the cake? “I am a bit worked up, aren’t I?” She fanned her hot cheeks.

  “Here.” Turning, he snatched a cup from a high shelf and filled it with water from the tap, then handed it over. “It’s not very cold, but it’s wet. Drink it and then take a few deep breaths. Try to relax. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Thank you.” She did as she was told, gulping down at least half of the liquid before seeing Will’s eyes on her. My, he had lovely eyes, as warm as the day. She averted her gaze and pretended to study her fashionable, toeless shoes. Normally, she wore cotton roll-down socks and white sneakers, regardless of her attire, because she believed that practicality and comfort were more important than style. Tonight, though, she had deemed it necessary to look her absolute best. She’d even used a smidgeon of Helena Rubinstein’s Cherry Red on her lips, a dab of blush on her cheeks, and a touch of mascara on her eyelashes. Gracious, if Margie and Howard suddenly decided to drop in for supper, she would earn a scathing look for adding color to her face. Not to worry, she told herself. No one ever leaves the farm at milking time.

  “Can’t a guy tell his boss she looks lovely?”

  Goodness! If her cheeks hadn’t been red already, they were now. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

  He grinned. “Well, then, consider it done. Matter of fact, you look downright fetching.”

  The giggle that tumbled out caught her unawares. “Fetching? I haven’t heard that term since my grandpa used it to charm my grandma into bringing him his slippers, newspaper, and coffee.”

  “Are they still living?”

  “What? No, no, they passed on several years ago, but my memories live on.”

  He nodded. “I know what you mean—about the memories.”

  She remembered his sister’s tragic drowning and the awful sense of responsibility he’d carried afterward, all thanks to his parents. Had he called up that memory even now? Not wishing to cast a pall of sadness on the moment, she quickly downed the rest of her water, then set the glass on the counter with a thud. Taking a breath that started in the depths of her lungs, she looked at the clock on the wall and pulled back her shoulders, determined not to let her nerves get the best of her. “Mr. Taylor?” she said with resolve. “I do believe it’s time to feed the masses.”

  “I think you’re right, Mrs. Beckman.”

  “Is it time?” Alex squealed from his station at the front door.

  Nate jumped up on the chair next to the window and peeked through the shutters. “There’s a whole bunch of people out there, Mommy.”

  Coot lowered his paper and gazed over the tops of his wire-rimmed reading spectacles. “Smells mighty good, Will.”

  Cora Mae hustled to the door, putting one hand on the lock and the other on the sign. Livvie couldn’t remember her ever being so eager to open the restaurant, and she’d been happy to grant her permission to do the honors. With eyes darting from Livvie to Will, she asked, “Are we ready?”

  Mercy, it felt like the starting line of a horse race, the way everyone quieted, as if waiting for the signal.

  Livvie bit down hard on her lower lip, then broke into an easy smile. “It’s time,” she announced.

  Cora Mae flipped the sign from “Closed” to “Open” and made fast work of the lock. When she opened the door, folks began swarming in like a bunch of bees coming home to their nest.

  ***

  Clem, Hank, and Rudy took drags of their cigarettes and watched the commotion across the street as folks pushed and shoved their ways through the door of Livvie’s Kitchen. “All I can say is, he’s gettin’ hisself quite a reputation around town. Feller can cook, is what I hear,” said Clem. “They been advertisin’ this twice-a-week supper event called Family Feast. There’s signs posted all over the place ’bout it.”

  Hank ran a hand down his whiskery face and stared ahead. “Maybe one of us oughtta go in ’n’ sample his eats. I can keep a low profile.”

  “Pfff,” Rudy snapped. “You rode the train with ’im. He’d prob’ly reco’nize you.”

  “We never even made eye contact, but what does it matter? Ain’t we gonna make our presence known tonight?” Hank guffawed. “What say we all march in there and ask for a table? I wanna watch ’im squirm when he first lays eyes on us.”

  Rudy grinned and threw down his smoke, grinding it into the sidewalk with his boot. “Yeah, same here.”

  “Just shut up, both of you. We ain’t gonna go in there now and draw attention to ourselves. Sheesh! It’s a good thing somebody ’round here’s got some common sense.”

  “What’re we gonna do, then?” Rudy asked.

  Clem took a long, slow draw on his cig, narrowed his eyes at the diminishing crowd of diners, and then blew two perfect smoke rings. “We’re gonna wait till closin’ time, that’s what we’re gonna do. When everyone’s cleared outta there, we’ll walk in and make ourselves at home.” He gave a slow nod, felt for his pistol, and grinned. “That sound like a plan?”

  “Yeah, a measly one,” Hank replied with a scowl. “What’re we gonna do after that? You dragged us all the way to Wabash, Dodd. You better have some kind o’ grand scheme cooked up.”

  Clem spat on the sidewalk. “I think better when I’m in the moment.”

  “In the moment?” Hank squawked. “In other words, you ain’t got a plan.”

  “Just shut up, will you?” Clem cursed so loud that a horse standing just a few feet away turned its head and snorted. He cleared his throat and mentally counted to ten. If he didn’t, he knew he’d reach up with both hands and strangle Hank. He had to get his bearings. “Okay, listen. We need to keep our cool, hear? The way I see it, we’ll wait till the nanny and that old maid waitress leave the restaurant, and then Livvie, the woman who owns the place, takes them boys o’ hers upstairs. That’s when we’ll go inside and have ourselves a nice little chat with Taylor.”

  “What if he don’t let us in? Don’t they lock up after closin’ time?” Rudy asked.

  “We’ll get in, one way or ’nother. From what I’ve observed, the back door’s always unlocked. Customers don’t come and go from there, but Taylor and the rest o’ them do all the time. There’s two apartments on the second floor. Taylor lives in one, and that pretty little lady and her kids live in the other.”

  Hank smirked. “Wouldn’t surprise me none if they shared one on occasion.”

  “Be quiet, you idiot! It ain’t like that.” The very notion made Clem’s gut take a surprising tumble. “She’s way too good for the likes o’ him. I been watchin’ ’er, and she’s got some class to ’er.”

  “Whoa! Listen to you, Dodd,” Hank said. “You don’t have a crush on that filly already, do you? Cripes, you can’t even handle the woman you’ve got, and that doozy you got on your mug proves it.” Hank laughed so hard, he had to bend over and hol
d his stomach. “I’m tryin’ to picture it. Man, Flo must’ve had the upper hand in that particular scrap, huh? How many rounds did you two go this time?” He had Rudy laughing now, which made Clem fume with inner rage.

  He dropped his gaze to his pocket, from which the grip of his pistol protruded, and wrapped his hand around it. The men caught the maneuver and sobered.

  “I could blow you both outta here right now, you know that?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Clem. Hank was just joshin’ you,” said Rudy, knocking Hank in the arm. “Tell ’im, Hank.”

  “You’re plumb crazy in the head, Clem,” Hank said instead. “You haven’t been right for some time now. I wouldn’t be surprised none if Flo’s been throwin’ some secret ingredient in your firewater.”

  “Put a lid on that trap, Hank. She ain’t, neither.” He narrowed his eyes at Hank and squeezed the pistol handle tighter. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve sent for you two blockheads. You ain’t said one smart word since you got off that train.”

  Shifting his weight, Rudy looked up at the dusky sky, then down at his shoes. “So, Clem, what’re you gonna say to Will when we go in there?”

  Clem took a couple of deep breaths to settle his jumping nerves but kept his eyes square on Hank. “We’re gonna ask ’im where he stashed them jewels and then tell ’im we want our share.”

  “Just like that.” Hank didn’t look impressed.

  “You got a better plan?”

  “Nope. This is your party, Clem.” Hank snickered. “Me and Rudy’s just along for the ride, right, Rude?”