A Table By the Window (38 page)

About six miles past the bridge, Dale slowed and turned left, onto a black tar road with no signpost. “Tent Road,” he said, and motioned to the pasture on his right. “I was told the name comes from a regiment of Tennessee riflemen who camped there in 1814, on their way to meet Andrew Jackson in New Orleans to fight the British.”

“Interesting,” Carley said.

“What can I say? I should go on
Jeopardy
. That's a game show, by the way.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I know what
Jeopardy
is.”

Tall pines shaded the road, some behind strands of barbed-wire fencing. Goldenrod and black-eyed Susans proliferated on either side.

“How far does this go?”

“Six miles, then it meets Black Creek Road, which eventually links up with Highway 42. It would be a great shortcut from highway to highway, but Black Creek Road is gravel, hard on the paint job.”

A wood frame house appeared in the near distance on the right. Surely vacant, Carley thought, even though a dust-coated red truck was parked in a driveway of gravel, clay, and clumps of weeds.

“I guess you know who lives there,” Dale said.

“Uh-uh. Should I?”

“You're kidding. That's the Kimballs' mansion.”

“Really?” She reached out to touch his sleeve. “Slow down, please?”

The house was apparently white, ages ago. Now dingy alkaline-looking paint flaked from weathered gray boards. The porch roof sagged where a post had been replaced with the trunk of a young cedar tree. Its limbs were hacked off, leaving knobs on which bits of rope and chain and an aluminum pot were hanging. A peach basket overfilled with newspapers sat between two wooden rockers.

National Enquirer?
Carley thought.

Out in what could only loosely be called a yard, the body of a rusted-out Volkswagen was sinking into a bed of weeds. A washing machine lay on its side. In the long grass beyond the porch was a glittering pyramid of brown bottles.

Poor Brooke,
Carley thought. She understood, now, why the girl had not accepted the offer to help her move or to drive her home to beat the rain.

“You'd better move on,” she said to Dale, fearful someone would come to the window. As he accelerated, she said, “Why haven't you ever told me your property is on the same road?”

He shrugged. “It never came up. But is there some reason I should have?”

“I guess not.”

“Anyway, here we are,” he said, slowing again about a mile farther down the road. He made a left turn onto a patch of weed-choked ground. A six-foot-wide metal gate hung from posts from which three strands of barbed wire stretched out on either side. A red
Posted
sign hung on the gate, two more on trunks of pines.

“Hunters,” he said, inserting a key into a padlock attached to a chain looped around the gate post.

“Are they a big problem?”

“Well, the good ol' boys out here assume any unoccupied patch of land is fair game. No pun intended.” He looked at her. “Will you get that can of WD-40 from the glove compartment? I figured this might be rusted. It's been a long while since I've been out here.”

“Sure.” She had never heard of WD-40, but the
can
part was a good clue. She found the blue and yellow spray can and brought it over to him, stepping carefully over weeds with her sandals.

“Do the signs and lock keep them out?”

“Pretty much.” He sprayed the lubricant up into the lock and handed the can back to her. “
And
the fact that most folks know who owns this land. One of the perks of being chief of police.”

Back in the Mustang, he drove slowly down two rutted wheel tracks, following another barbed-wire fence leading down into the property. Weeds brushed the underside of the car. After what seemed a hundred and fifty, perhaps two hundred, feet, the trees thinned and Carley caught sight of water.

“I forgot about the pond,” she said, sitting straighter.

He drove a few feet farther into a clearing and turned off the engine. “Pretty, isn't it? I'll get the ice chest.”

While he went around to the trunk, Carley walked to the edge. The surface was a mirror, reflecting trees, cloudy sky, and hazy sunlight. A fish flipped near the center, sending ripples. Pine needles and grass-covered banks sloped down naturally from the woods, around three-quarters of the pond's circumference. Almost directly opposite from where she stood rose a steep, brush-covered bank. Over her shoulder she called, “How big is it?”

“Three and a half acres.” He came around carrying an ice chest by the handles. “It's not a natural pond. The previous owners dammed a stream running through a valley.”

“Is that the dam?” Carley said, pointing across.

“Yep. I brought a beach towel. I hope it's big enough for a picnic blanket.”

“It'll be fine. I can't believe you never come here,” she said, helping spread the towel. “You could keep a boat tied up, paddle around, go fishing. Can you swim here?”

“Why? Would you like to?”

While his tone was not suggestive, his blue eyes seemed to undress her. The look disappeared a fraction of a second later, absorbed by an affable smile.

You're imagining things,
Carley told herself. Wasn't she?

“I meant in general.”

“Well, it probably wouldn't be a good plan. The deepest part's fourteen feet, but the water gets pretty warm in summer, especially in the shallow parts. I wouldn't know about the bacteria count.” He handed her a six-pack of canned apple juice. “Okay, are we going to eat or talk?”

“Well, preferably both.” Carley sat and started pulling cans from the plastic holder. “Where will you build the deck?”

“The what?”

“Your deck. When you build your retirement home.” She pointed to her right, where about thirty feet away, a red clay bank rose about five feet out of the water. “I vote there.”

“I haven't given it much thought. I still have quite a few years before that happens.”

A voice crackled over the portable radio unit. He unclipped it from his belt. “What is it, Garland?”

“…way…park…shots,” were the only words Carley could pick out amidst static garble.

“Can't hear you,” Dale said, frowning.

“…Lockwood…almost…”

“Look, I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm coming in.”

“Just leave me,” Carley said.

“No.” He took her arm, hurried her toward the car. “But we'll have to come back for all that. Reception's lousy out here. I hope no one's hurt.”

As the Mustang sped up Tent Road, Carley clenched her teeth and held onto the armrest. A mile down the highway, the unit crackled to life again.

“Speak to me, Garland.”

“…control…boys…fireworks…”

Carley let out the breath she was holding. Dale smiled, started decelerating. “Okay, Garland. I'll check in with you later.”

He had packed peanut butter on whole wheat sandwiches, guacamole, baked tortilla chips, baby carrot sticks, and a plastic container of cantaloupe chunks. “I could probably snare you a rabbit,” he teased, arranging containers on the towel.

“I think I can manage,” she said, though she wished he didn't have such a thing against sugar, for she preferred her peanut butter sandwiches with jelly. The guacamole more than made up for it, though. She finished before he did, and started walking away from the bank, toward the gray remains of a house or barn she could see between the trees.

“Careful,” he called.

“I won't go far enough to get lost,” she called back over her shoulder.

“I mean, of snakes.”

She turned, and her sandals covered the distance between them in seconds. He was grinning up at her, a half sandwich in his hand.

“Not funny,” she said.

“You're right,” he said, sobering. “I shouldn't have scared you. It's just that cottonmouth moccasins are territorial.”

Folding her arms to her chest, she looked around. Her surroundings became suddenly ominous. “Maybe we should leave?”

“If you like, but we're fine here, out in the open.” He rewrapped the rest of his sandwich and put it in the ice chest. “Let's take a walk first.”

“Well…”

“I'll get my gun.”

He returned the ice chest to the trunk and strapped on his holster. They walked half the pond's circumference, hand-in-hand. In the shade of a dogwood tree, he took her in his arms. “I love you, Carley.”

She put a hand to his chest. “I'm sorry, Dale.”

“What is it?” He looked hurt, and cupped a hand to his mouth. “My breath?”

“Of course not.”

“Has Brooke said something against me?”

“I understand about the boyfriend,” Carley said. “I told her if you hit him, it was probably during a struggle.”

There was uncertainty in the blue eyes, as if he was debating whether to say more. After a fraction of a second it faded, and he said with wounded voice, “I thought you were beginning to feel the same way I do.”

“Let's walk some more,” she said.

“All right.” He did not resist when she took his hand.

“You remember the talk we had that day Steve Underwood was in the café?”

He blew out his cheeks. “Yes, the day I acted like a lunatic. I thought you'd forgiven me.”

“Of course I have. And I appreciate how honest you were with me about your feelings. I hope I can be the same with you.”

“Absolutely, Carley. Tell me anything. Only…please be gentle?”

That made her smile. And made what she had to say even more difficult, for she truly liked him. “Back to that day…you admitted you've had a lot of girlfriends.”

“They're nothing to me, Carley. Ancient history.”

“But how can you be sure all of that is out of your system?”

“My system? What do you mean?”

“How do you know you won't eventually miss the thrill of the chase—or the thrill of having them chase you?”

“Because I told you. I'm tired of all that.” Squeezing her hand, he said, “I want to be with you.”

The temptation was strong, just to throw caution to the wind and melt into his arms. She had to force her mind to focus on the thoughts that had kept her awake half the night, alone in her room, insulated from the effect of his presence.

“I'm flattered, Dale,” she said. “And I believe you mean it. But long-standing habits are more tenacious than you think. My mother tried to give up smoking a hundred times. Sometimes she lasted as long as a whole week.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “I think I'm a little stronger than your mother was, Carley.”

“Exactly, Dale. So your breaking point may be months, if you have one. Let's wait awhile. See if you…if
we
still feel the same way after some time has passed. I don't want to get hurt.”

Halting, he turned to face her, pulled a twig from her hair. Gently he said, “I'll never hurt you, Carley.”

She hesitated, caught up in the urge to forget all this nonsense. But she made herself ask, just as gently, “Am I the first woman you've ever said that to?”

“I mean it this time,” he said, and sighed. “What can I say to make you believe me?”

“I do believe you,” Carley replied. “You're a good person. And…I believe you meant it the other times.”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable.

“Dale?”

“We'd better get back. Looks like it might rain.”

His pride was wounded, of course. Without speaking they climbed into the Mustang.

But after locking the gate again, he fastened his seat belt and looked over at her. “I love you, Carley. But if you need some space, I won't pester you for any more dates until you tell me you're ready. And I won't be seeing anyone else, either. You're worth waiting for.”

“Thank you, Dale.”

“Does this mean we can't speak to each other?”

“I
hope
it means we can be friends.”

“Friends,” he muttered, and sighed theatrically. “Sure.”

But at length he smiled and reached over to brush her cheek softly with the back of his hand. “I guess I've had worse friends.”

From her bed Carley heard an automobile turning into the driveway. A car door opening. Voices. The same car backing out. Footsteps across the porch. A key turning in the lock.

“Carley?”

Carley closed her eyes.

The footfalls from Brooke's new loafers continued through the house, growing fainter, along with “Carley?”

Eventually the footfalls grew loud again, ending with four light raps on her door.

“I'm taking a nap, Brooke,” Carley called.

“Oh! Sorry!”

This time, silence. Carley gathered her pillow beneath her neck.

She heard the doorknob ease open behind her, a soft, “Are you all right?”

“I'm all right.”

“You
never
nap. Do you have a headache? Do you need to take something?”

“No. I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well last night.”

“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

“It's okay.” Carley rolled to the other side, propping herself on her elbow. “How was church?”

The girl smiled and took a couple of steps closer. “You know, it wasn't as boring as I thought it would be. Everybody was so nice. When I'm a nurse, I want to work with old people. Maybe in one of those old folks' homes.”

“You'd be good at that. I see how you are with Mrs. Templeton.”

“And the Old Grist Mill was neat, with all those pictures and stuff on the walls. We sat out on the screened porch, over the river.”

“Well, sit down and tell me about it. What did you eat?”

Gingerly, the girl came over to perch on the side of the bed. “Fried shrimp. They were so good—I didn't even ask for ketchup. I told Miss Helen and Mr. Rory I was gonna study for my GED so I can be a nurse, and they said they were proud of me. Your cousins—the Kemps—came after we got our tea. I wasn't happy about them sittin' with us because Patrick was in my same grade, even though he wasn't ever a jerk. But then his dad, Mr. Blake, told such funny jokes that I forgot to be uncomfortable.”