A Table By the Window (41 page)

“Brooke Kimball,” he said, and his mother nodded.

“Why, thank you,” Carley said, and warmth from their smiles stayed with her through the rest of the day.

She happened upon Steve again in Henderson's parking lot the following afternoon, while Brooke was still with the Hudsons' at an after-church covered-dish dinner. Stashing one bag into a maroon Honda Accord, he said, “I always bring a quart of their chicken salad back to my apartment. I'm hooked on it.”

Carley smiled. “There are worse addictions. Have you ever tried it on raisin bread?”

“Are you joking?”

She shook her head. “I can tell better jokes than that.”

His laugh was nice, spontaneous and warm. “I believe you.”

“Hi, Carleyreed! Hi, Mister Steve!”

They both waved at Neal, pushing a loaded cart for Mrs. Oswald of Timeless Collectibles.

“Do you come to town every weekend?” Carley asked before realizing how much that sounded like a hint.
Well, wasn't it?

Steve's dark eyes were studying her, as if wondering the same thing.

Don't blush, don't blush, don't blush!
she ordered her cheeks.

“I'm afraid not,” he replied at length. “Dad bit off more than he could chew by promising a cupboard before the end of the month. We finally finished late last night. I'll probably not be back around until Thanksgiving.”

“Of course.” Mortified, Carley took a backward step, nodded, pushed her purse strap back up to her shoulder. “Well, it was good seeing—”

“I don't suppose you're able to get away for any USM home games?” Steve asked tentatively, as if feeling a bit awkward himself.

Carley's embarrassment evaporated. “I'm afraid Saturdays are our biggest days.”

“Of course.” He hesitated. “I need to get back to Hattiesburg and grade papers, but I have time for coffee and dessert over at the Old Grist Mill….”

“What about your chicken salad?”

“I'll just bring it inside.”

Several people exchanged nods and greetings with either Carley or Steve as they trailed behind the hostess through the vast dining room. Carley only recognized some faces by sight, either from the streets or in her café. She was relieved when the face she had hoped
not
to see did not materialize. This would probably reach Dale's ears, sooner or later, but she did not care to have his brokenhearted expression casting a pall over the afternoon.

And for the same reason, she was glad when the hostess laid down menus at a small table back in the corner.

The Old Grist Mill's specialty was warm peach cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Carley had had it twice before, but it was no less of a treat. Still, owning a café had ruined her ability to dine casually. She found herself looking around, mentally testing the service and atmosphere.

“You feel guilty for sitting?” Steve asked, stirring creamer into his coffee.

“How did you know?”

“You have an expressive face.”

“I never realized that. Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all.” He smiled back. “Unless you play poker.”

He asked about the day-to-day operations of the café, and she asked about his lectures. Time flew by, and it seemed like only a few minutes had passed when the waitress was taking their dishes and asking about refills on his coffee and her tea.

“No, thank you,” Carley said.

“Yes, for me,” Steve said. “And the check too, please.”

“Don't you have papers waiting?”

“After this. Promise to make me leave. But maybe you're in a hurry to get back to Henderson's?”

“Not at all. Just need eggs and milk. One of the benefits of owning a café is that we have so many meals there that it cuts down on personal cooking and shopping.”

“What made you decide to invite Brooke to stay with you?”

“Well, her having to ride her bike through the rain. You know how far out she lives.”

“Yes.” He nodded, spooning sugar and creamer into his refilled cup. “I once went out there to drive her cousin, Tracy Knight, over to Jones County to visit her relatives. Her great-grandmother was very helpful when I was writing my thesis.”

“On Jones County.”

Surprise briefly crossed his face. “Yes. Specifically, my thesis was that the anti-Confederates living there were more interested in supporting the Union than forming their own independent republic, as is commonly thought.” He clucked his tongue at himself. “Sorry. This isn't a classroom.”

“No, I'm interested,” she said, meaning it. “May I read it?”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“I'm flattered. I'll bring it Thanksgiving. And then…maybe you'd enjoy seeing some of the places I wrote about? They're not too far for a day-trip.”

“I'd like that,” Carley said.

“Really?”

She smiled. “Why do you look so surprised?”

“I didn't think I looked surprised. I thought I looked pleased. I assumed you and Chief Parker were…”

“Just friends.”

The distaste that entered in the brown eyes at his mention of Dale's name brought back memories of the two other times Carley had witnessed the same. “You don't care for him, do you?”

He took a sip of coffee. “I'm sure he's a decent guy, but no, he's not on my Christmas list.”

As much as she would like to flatter herself, she suspected the dislike had a deeper reason than Dale's interrupting two conversations. Partly to shut up Brooke's voice in her head saying
I told you so,
partly for her own curiosity, she said, “May I ask why?”

“Sure. I know a very nice person who adores him, but he hardly gives her the time of day.”

Marti,
Carley thought.

“I can't help but think if she were as beautiful as other women he's dated, he would give her a chance.” He set down the cup, gave her a worried look. “I hope I didn't just offend you.”

By calling me beautiful?
Carley shook her head.

****

When Brooke arrived home from church, she was oddly silent, except to say that she'd had a good time, and that those old people sure could cook. All afternoon Carley expected the other shoe to drop, to be drawn into another debate. But the girl spent most of the day at the kitchen table with pencil, paper, and
Practical Algebra
, in preparation for Friday's TABE—Test of Adult Basic Education—to determine if she qualified for online GED courses.

“Everything okay?” Carley asked before going to bed.

Brooke, chewing on her pencil eraser, nodded. “Um-hmm. Sleep well.”

When Brooke had not risen by ten the next morning, Carley lifted the girl's notebook and counted seven pages of equations and fractions written in haphazard fashion, as well as a pretty decent sketch of a rabbit in one corner.

The telephone rang while she was rolling meatballs. She grabbed a paper towel to pick up the receiver.

“I have to run to JCPenney and return a catalog order,” Aunt Helen said. “Why don't you come with me, and I'll treat you to lunch?”

“That sounds nice,” Carley said. “But I have a busy day ahead. I've already started a pot of spaghetti sauce, and this afternoon I'll be interviewing some high school kids to share Brooke's job.”

“Hmm, have you anything there Brooke can make her own lunch with?”

“Well, yes.” Odd, that her aunt would not suggest simply inviting the girl, as the two seemed to be building rapport. “I brought some leftover minestrone from work Saturday.”

“There you are! Just wrap whatever you've done so far for the refrigerator. We won't be long, and when we return, I'll finish the spaghetti for you.”

“Well, okay,” Carley said. “But I'll pick
you
up.”

She did not know if creeping along below the speed limit was peculiar to her aunt, or if it just came with aging in general—like crow's feet—but she wanted to ensure returning in time.

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.