A Table By the Window (33 page)

Danyell accepted the gift graciously, even though it turned out to be a garish bisque angel with gilt-dipped wings and exaggerated facial features that spoke more of a foreign assembly line rather than deliberate insult.

“It was the only…colored angel they had,” Brooke said anxiously.

“She's beautiful,” Danyell said.

That set the tone for the day. Business was not quite as heavy as Saturday, but weekends were the busiest times for most restaurants. The good percentage of repeat patrons was encouraging, as well as antique shoppers expressing delight over learning of such a place.

One repeat patron was game warden Don Moore—her neighbor Ruby's ex-husband. He was handsome in a Greek-statue sort of way, with finely chiseled tanned face and wavy dark hair. An oily drawl canceled out his Greek-statue aura. “I hear you're from California,” he said with arms folded at the counter, leaning into Carley's comfort zone.

“San Francisco,” she replied with a polite smile, handing him the credit card receipt and a pen. “I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

He signed his name. “I enjoy the scenery more.”

“Thank you.” She handed over his copy of the receipt. “The Stillmans are fine painters. Have a good day.”

Mrs. Sparks telephoned from the high school. “Are you set up for takeout orders now?”

“I am,” Carley replied. In fact, the elementary vice-principal had telephoned twelve minutes earlier. During training, Carley had dropped off menus in the offices of all three schools.

****

“When will your washing machine be repaired?” Carley asked Brooke after closing.

“It needs more than repairing. And Dad's not gonna buy a new one. Not when they can just send me out.”

“Can he afford one?”

The girl's face clouded. “If you can afford two cases of Old Milwaukee every week, you can afford a washer.”

Carley reached for the bag holding Brooke's soiled uniforms. “Here, I'll take care of that.”

“Oh, no…” Brooke said.

“Just listen to your boss. It's no big deal to toss them in with my wash until the situation changes.”

It
was
no big deal, as far as the amount of work involved, but Carley understood the tears lustering Brooke's eyes. Having an alcoholic parent caused tremendous pressure that created such things as temper tantrums over seemingly small things—like a broken dish. Little acts of thoughtfulness, even from strangers, were valves that released some of that pressure.

Business slackened during a rainstorm Wednesday at noon, yet some of the town-hall employees sprinted over beneath umbrellas. Averil, Rita, and Samantha Stillman came in on their way to midweek church services that evening. A window table happened to be unoccupied, and Carley ushered them to it before Samantha could whisper in her father's ear. Dale came again with Garland—who ordered the beef Wellington sandwich this time.

Neal Henderson came with his mother for lunch on Thursday. Carley watched the two struggle over what he should order while Paula stood patiently with pad in hand. “This looks good, honey,” Mrs. Henderson said, pointing to a graphic of the chicken salad croissant, her fifth or sixth suggestion. “In fact, I'm going to have that.”

“What does Brooke like to eat?” Neal asked Paula.

Paula looked up at Carley, who smiled and nodded toward the double doors. The waitress escorted the boy to the kitchen; he returned smiling and ordered a chicken Caesar sandwich. For her extra pains, Paula gleaned a ten-dollar tip.

Business was brisk late Friday afternoon, before Tallulah High's football game against North Forrest High, and then slackened so much after six that Carley sent her staff home early.

On her way home, Carley could hear the cheers and horns from the stadium and learned from her staff on Saturday morning that the score had ended up tied at six points.

Steve Underwood walked in with Clifford and Vera just a few minutes after opening that day.

“The place is beautiful, Carley,” Vera said.

“Thank you.” Carley gathered three menus from the counter. “I'm honored that you came. But which is this? Early lunch or late breakfast?”

“Whichever you recommend,” Clifford said absently, his attention captured by the deacon's bench. He gave a theatrical sigh. “I didn't charge you enough.”

Carley laughed. “Well, it's too late now, isn't it?”

“Come on, Dad,” Steve said, taking him by the shoulder. “She'll have other customers any minute.”

She visited their table after Troy took their orders, and asked Steve how his classes were going.

“Very well, thank you,” he replied. “And I don't have to ask you how the café business is going.”

“Oh, but it would be nice to be asked.” Realizing the subtle-but-meaningful distance between what had just left her lips and what she had intended to say, she cleared her throat and said, “I mean…it's always nice to be asked.”

They did not seem to have noticed her gaffe. Or, at least Clifford and Vera gave no sign. As for Steve, she had no way of knowing because she could not bring herself to look him square in the face. “I'll see if Troy is bringing out your drinks.”

Only half the tables were filled an hour before closing, but there were five takeout orders to make up. Kickoff for the USM away game was at five-thirty, and radios all over Tallulah were tuned to WXRR Hattiesburg. Reluctantly, Carley allowed Paula to plug in her little radio so that she and Troy, the die-hard fans, could keep up during trips to the kitchen.

“You know, you'd get more business if you played it out here too,” Troy said as Carley helped him bus a table.

“Nope,” Carley said. “Serenity is our theme.”

And if she
were
inclined to broadcast a game, it would not be this one—USM at University of California at Berkeley. She was especially glad for her decision by closing time, for Paula and Troy wore melancholy expressions over the 34–3 loss that she would not have cared to see in the faces of her customers.

But even their expressions lightened when Carley spoke the magic phrase. “Okay, time to pass out paychecks!”

****

“Do you have an umbrella?” Uncle Rory asked, coming around the side of the house with bucket in hand on Tuesday morning.

“It's in the car,” Carley said, locking her front door. As she walked to the steps she could see sprinkles dotting her car windshield.

The muscadine grapes had been ripe for about a week. She liked them almost as much as figs but thought they were in the same category as grapefruit as far as ease of eating. One had to squeeze the pulp out of the thick skin, then strain the seeds away with the teeth. Too much work for someone running a business and keeping house. Uncle Rory was more than willing to come out and pick them for jelly. He usually left a half-filled grocery bag hanging on the Paynes' carport door for the children.

The sprinkles thickened to light rain as Carley drove. She dashed to the café back door with umbrella raised, then stood beneath the eaves to shake away excess drops.

Brooke,
she thought, switching on kitchen lights. She could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. Should she telephone, advise her to have Mildred drive her? Or if that was an impossibility, tell her to wait it out?
Seven miles,
she thought.

What if Mr. Kimball answered and had another temper tantrum?
He can't hurt you over the phone,
she reminded herself.

Still, she was relieved when the shrill female voice answered.

“She's already went.”

“But it's raining.”

The woman let out a profanity, which Carley thought was directed toward her until it was followed by “GIT DOWN FROM THERE!”

“Cat chased a roach up the cabinet,” she muttered next.

“Ah…may I have directions to your house?” Carley was not sure if the bicycle would fit into her GL, but she had to at least try.

“Well, where are ye comin from?”

“Main Street. Wait, please.” Carley held the phone, listened to a now familiar pattern of knocking. “Thank you anyway. She's here.”

Brooke's hair had turned into dripping ringlets because the hood of her raincoat had flapped backward, and her legs were so sodden that her tennis shoes squished. She was in a surprisingly good mood, under the circumstances. But then, she probably figured that having an excuse to leave the house for the day outweighed any physical discomfort.

“What size shoes do you wear?” Carley asked as the girl took her uniform from the office closet.

“But there's no place to buy any here.”

“Dollar General has some canvas sneakers for three dollars.”

When the girl wrinkled her nose, Carley said, “They'll be dry. Those wet feet will make you sick.”

“Then wait, let me get—”

“You can pay me later if you like. Just get dressed, and let everyone else in if I'm not back in time.”

The rain had melded into puddles on the concrete when Carley left Dollar General with the sneakers and a pair of socks. She went home for her hair dryer, and by the time she returned to the café, Lisa and Rachel were already setting out cutting boards and cutlery, having left their houses early in case the rain were to slow them down.

“Here,” Carley said, handing the bag and dryer to the girl. “You may use my office.”

“Thank you,” Brooke murmured.

The remaining staff filtered in, with Troy typically last, but even he signed in five minutes early. Carley flipped the
Open
sign with a tiny knot of anxiety. This was Annabel Lee Café's first day to open after USM's thirty-one-point-deficit loss in Berkeley. It was no secret about town that she came from California. Would die-hard USM fans stay away?

She need not have worried. Still, she
was
teased.

“You must have slept with your windows locked,” quipped Maggie Sherwood, owner of Odds and Ends.

“I hope the sounds of our sobs didn't intrude upon your victory party,” drawled Marianne Tate's husband, Jim.

“Did you say she's from California?” said one of the three firemen at the table next to Jim's, with a feigned look of shock.

“I'm surprised you didn't call in sick today,” drugstore owner Chester Templeton said.

Who would I call?
Carley thought.
Myself?

Her stock reaction was to laugh obligingly and then explain that she was more of a basketball fan than a football fan. And really, she was flattered by the ribbing. In one of Linda's few attempts at mothering, she had said when Carley came home from first grade in tears because boys on the bus called her
Carrot-head
, that people only tease the people they like.

That was not always true, Carley had later learned, just as Alton Terris had learned. But in today's case, it seemed to fit. And the ribbing was not all one-sided.

“Do you serve humble pie?” asked Mr. Marshall of the hardware store.

Troy Fairchild paused at the counter at the end of his shift to say in a low voice, “Brooke was crying a little while ago. When we asked her why, she said it was nothing. But she doesn't want you to know.”

Carley looked at the double doors, then over at Danyell writing up a ticket for two women who would be at the counter any minute.

“Want me to run the register for you?” Troy offered.

“Thank you. I'll add it to your time sheet.”

Stupid rain, stupid seven miles, stupid parents who don't give a flip about their children!
Carley thought on her way across the dining room. Obviously, the dry socks and shoes had been too little, too late. Paula and Danyell would have to pull double-duty, hosting and waiting tables while she took over the dishwashing and continued the bathroom cleaning forays.

You wanted to be your own boss,
Carley reminded herself.

Rachel, stirring soup, gave Carley a meaningful nod, and Lisa raised eyebrows and looked over at the sink.

“Brooke.” Carley touched the girl's shoulder.

“Hmm?” The girl turned.

“Dry your hands and come with me.”

In the office, Carley closed the door. “I'm going to call my Uncle Rory and ask him to drive you home.”

The girl gave her an odd look. “Why? I was working hard.”

“You work great. But if you take care of yourself now, maybe you won't come down with something more serious later.”

“Huh?”

“Don't you feel sick?”

“No.” Brooke shook her head.

Carley raised her hand to her own throat. “Not sore?”

“I'm fine, Carley.”

“Then, why were you crying?”

The girl drew in a deep breath, blew it out. “My eyes got all teary for a minute, that's all. I didn't think it was such a big deal. I told them not to tell you.”

Teenage angst. Carley could understand that. “They did it because they care about you, so don't be put out at them. All right?”

She shrugged. “All right.”

“Then, I'll let you get back to work. I have to relieve Troy at the counter.”

“Sure.”

But when Carley reached for the doorknob, Brooke said from behind, “Carley?”

Carley turned.

Brooke gave her a sheepish little smile. “At the sink…I was noticing how just having your feet warm and dry makes you feel better all over. That was the nicest thing anybody's ever done for me. Fussin' over me like that.”

Before Carley could respond, the girl shook her head. “Well, giving me this job was real nice too, but you needed a dishwasher the same time I needed a job.”

Touched, Carley said lightly, “And so I don't get as many brownie points for that one?”

That made the girl laugh.

Brooke Kimball was a remarkable creature, Carley thought. Abandoned by her mother, living with an alcoholic father, little formal education, few friends, minimal chances for the future, and yet when she laughed it was as if she had not a care in the world.