A Table By the Window (6 page)

“If you'll call me Carley.”

“Good enough. How was your flight?”

“Interesting, but long. I'm glad I thought to bring a book.”
Cranford,
by Elizabeth Gaskell, a novel Carley had read in her freshman year of college but which seemed fitting for the occasion, with its sketches of life in a country village.

Loretta nodded. “Losing two hours has some sort of psychological effect. Your trip back will seem much shorter.”

“You've been to California?”

“Only to Los Angeles, decades ago when my little sister was trying to break into acting. She couldn't lose the drawl and was hired only once, for a
Shake
'
n Bake
commercial. But it was probably for the best. She and her husband own a dinner theater in Branson now.”

Already Carley liked Loretta Malone. But then, she was drawn to older women. And remarkably enough, they seemed drawn to her. Janelle Reed, Margarita DeLouche, Georgia Kincaid. Even Mrs. Kordalewski. Did older women possess some sort of maternal radar that honed in on the fact that she was an orphan long before her mother died?

“Your red hair gave you away,” Loretta went on. “When Mrs. Walker came to have the will drawn up, she brought a photograph of you as a little girl.”

“Really?” Carley longed to see it. There were so few mementos from her childhood, save some uncut sheets of school portraits, with gaps in the years that Linda forgot to send a check before the deadline or simply ignored the order form.

It dawned upon her that the photograph was probably in the house she was inheriting. She had not given it much thought but suddenly was anxious to see it. It was a link to her past—no matter that neither she nor her mother had ever lived there.

“Let's see if Stanley's off the phone,” Loretta said, sending a glance toward the buttons on her own telephone. “Good.”

Heels clicked as she led Carley to an oak door. She gave it a couple of gentle raps and stuck her head through.

“Miss Reed is here.”

“Come on in.” A man in an olive dress shirt and striped tie came around his desk. He was not a Colonel Sanders clone after all. A fringe of salt-and-pepper hair circled his scalp from ear to ear, and thinning strands were combed across the top. His nose was slightly bulbous at the tip, and his smile sent crinkles from the corners of his brown eyes to his jawline, like a pair of parentheses. He asked about her flight and offered her the leather chair beside his desk.

Loretta had left the office, but entered again to hand her husband a file. “Would you care for some coffee or tea?”

“Hot tea?” Carley asked hopefully.

“I have Lipton and English Breakfast.”

“English Breakfast would be nice. And plain, please.”

“Stanley? More coffee?”

“Better not,” he said after a longing glance toward a brown mug. He opened the file and perched a pair of reading glasses upon his nose. “My next appointment is at two, so we have plenty of time. There's no reason why we can't look over the will now, as the others have already been taken care of.”

“That's fine, thank you,” Carley said automatically, as her mind ran over his words. “The others?”

“Your grandmother left some things for other relatives. For example, her 1998 Honda Accord went to one great-nephew, and some money to save for college to another. Some furniture went here and there.” His eyes, above the reading glasses, met hers. “But the bulk of the estate still goes to you.”

Heat rose to Carley's cheeks. He had misunderstood the reason for her question.

“I'm actually relieved she included them,” she said, for she felt a bit like an interloper, inheriting most of the estate over people with greater emotional investments in her grandmother's life. “I just thought all heirs had to be together before a will could be opened.”

Mr. Malone smiled. “Ah. Only on television.”

“What would have happened if you hadn't found me?”

“Well, there is a provision that everything passes on to your great-aunt Helen's side of the family if you don't come forward to claim your inheritance after seven years. That's the same amount of time necessary for a person to be declared legally dead in Mississippi, by the way.”

“Will they be disappointed?”

“On the contrary. Miz Hudson was quite pleased when I informed her we had found you. It was she who advised your grandmother to have me hire a private investigator, back when we were drawing up the will.”

The attorney's eyes returned to the open file. “Miz Walker left you one hundred and fifty-nine thousand, four hundred and eight dollars, and forty-three cents on deposit in Lamar County Bank. There is a house at 5172 Third Street, and all its furnishings. She purchased it outright, and so selling it will be easier than a house with a mortgage, if that is what you decide to do.”

Of course she would have to sell it. But the thought was unsettling.

“Do you think she would have minded?”

“Not at all. Miz Walker struck me as a very practical person. I recommend Kay Chapman when you're ready to speak with a real estate agent, by the way. I do closings for her. I'll ask Loretta to give you her card.”

On cue, his wife returned, perching cup and saucer on the edge of the desk. Carley thanked her and moved both to her left.

“You're left-handed?” Mr. Malone said.

“Yes.”

“So am I.”

Loretta groaned. “You're not going to give the poor girl
the speech,
are you, Stanley?”

“Of course not,” the attorney replied, but the disappointment in his expression betrayed that he had been poised to do that very thing.

“What speech?” Carley asked.

Sending his wife a glance laden with reproach and apology, he said, “It's simply a documented fact that we lefties lose an average of seven years of our lives, just because of the frustrations of living in a world geared to righties.”

“Tell that to your Grandpa Malone,” Loretta said. “Ninety years old and still mows his own lawn.”

“But has he ever tried to use a pair of scissors?” Carley asked. “Or a manual can opener?”

“There you go!” the attorney chortled, and Loretta even smiled.

Carley decided she liked Mr. Malone as well. It took her a little longer with older men, for childhood had left her with a thick streak of cynicism. But even the horror months with Huey Collins had not quenched the longing for a father, which had been with her for as long as she could remember.

When Mr. Malone asked Loretta for one of the Realtor's cards, she offered to go ahead and make the appointment. Through the door came the squeak of a chair and, presently, her barely audible voice. Stanley passed a fee sheet across his desk, showing the hours he had worked for the estate, and payments made to Mr. Wingate, an insurance company for homeowner's insurance, and Lockwood Funeral Home.

“That last statement is so high because they shipped Miz Walker's body up to Washington after the memorial service, to be buried alongside her husband. He had a prearranged policy, so there's no bill from up there.”

“I see.” Carley stifled the surge of disappointment by telling herself that the memory she would carry back to California would be of where her grandmother had actually spent the last four years of her life, rather than of a headstone.

“You okay?” the attorney asked, studying her.

“Yes.”

He nodded and continued. “There is no inheritance tax in Mississippi on estates less than a million dollars. Combined, everything reduces the cash portion of your estate to one hundred and thirty-nine thousand, seven hundred and thirty-three dollars.” He smiled. “And six cents.”

Carley shook her head in wonder. “And I was hoping for enough to pay off my student loan and credit card.”

“I gather it's enough to do that?”

“Way more.”

“Well, you'll still want to check those figures yourself. I'll give you a calculator and a little privacy.”

“I'm sure they're accurate,” Carley said.

“Never assume anything when you're dealing with finances, Miss Reed,” he advised, pushing out his chair. “Money can bring out the worst—in people you would never suspect.”

“Is it all right if Kay Chapman comes by the house at nine in the morning?” Loretta asked after Carley signed the papers.

“That's fine, thank you.”

“Very good. Let's take my car to your new house, and I'll bring you back for yours later.”

Loretta steered the Town Car on what she called the back way, toward the school, then south, followed by another right turn onto Third Street. She turned into the driveway of the third house on the right, sending a trio of squirrels scattering. Carley stepped out of the car.

The house was white frame with forest green shutters. Concrete steps rose to the left side of the covered porch, flanked by two iron pots of winter-blooming yellow daffodils. Above the steps was a white door with long glass panels on either side and a transom overhead. At the right end of the porch, a wooden swing hung by chains, faced sideways in front of a window.

A delightful aroma wafted Carley's way. She drew in a lungful and turned to Loretta.

“Sweet olive,” Loretta said before she could ask. She nodded toward a tall green shrub with tiny white blossoms between the driveway and house. “They bloom in winter, and folks plant them by their porches because they smell so good. By the way, the Paynes live there on your left. Stanley gave them a key and asked them to keep an eye on the house. They refused payment out of respect for your grandmother.”

Carley looked at the two-story pale green wooden house, the empty driveway parallel to hers. “How kind. I'll be sure to thank them.”

On the porch, Loretta unlocked the door and handed Carley a ring with two identical keys attached. She smiled. “You first.”

“All right.” Carley stepped into a long living room with braided rug on a hardwood floor, blue toile print sofa and wing chairs heaped with pillows, a coffee table and two end tables with lamps. Floral prints decorated ten-feet-high buttery yellow walls.

Loretta, coming in behind her, flicked on the light switch. “Good. I called the utility company yesterday. You should have gas and water too.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“That's the beauty of small-town living. But I'm afraid the telephone goes through Hattiesburg. They can't turn it back on until next week, so I said never mind. All you young girls have cell phones anyway.”

“Actually, I don't,” Carley said, smiling at the “young girl” reference. A cell phone was one of those expenses she could not justify in the past, not with debts still hanging over her. “But I'm sure there are pay phones?”

“In the library. And you're welcome to come to the office and use ours.” Loretta ran a finger through the dust on an end table. “That's what happens when a house sits empty. I'll give you the number for my cleaning service if you like.”

“I kind of enjoy dusting.”

“Then you'll have a good time.” She motioned to a brown space heater sitting out a bit from the back wall. “We have more cold weather coming. Do you know how to light them?”

Carley was vaguely familiar with their workings, for a couple of the houses her mother had rented had had them. “I think so.”

“I'll just refresh your memory before we leave. I'm sure there are matches in the kitchen. The piano must have sat between the windows. Mrs. Walker left it to the senior citizen center. That's where her television went too.”

They meandered about the house. Leading off the living room was a bedroom with a black iron bedstead, a chair upholstered in sage green, and a chest of drawers.

Beyond that door, a short hallway ended at a bathroom, with doors on each adjacent side. The room to Carley's right had no bed, just a long table, a wooden chair, and tall piece of furniture with drawers and a mirrored door. “That's a chifforobe,” Loretta said. “They're very sought after by antique collectors. This was probably Mrs. Walker's sewing room. I do recall that the serger machine went to Mrs. Hudson.”

Through the open doorway of the opposite bedroom, Carley looked at the afghan folded over a quilt at the foot of a cream-colored iron bedstead. A hairbrush and bottle of Jergens lotion sat upon an old bowfront dresser with round mirror. Goose bumps prickling her arms, she turned and walked back down the hall with Loretta following.

Against the back wall of the living room, an open arched doorway led to a kitchen three times as roomy as the one in Carley's apartment. The refrigerator doors were propped open with a broom. Loretta helped Carley roll it out so that she could plug it in.

“The china cabinet must have gone here,” Loretta said of the empty space beside it. That went to Sherry.”

“Sherry?”

“I forgot, you're still learning who everyone is. Sherry Kemp is Mrs. Hudson's youngest daughter. I'm not sure how many other children there are.” She twisted the cold water faucet. After a sputtering noise, water ran from the tap. “Good. But you'll need to leave it dripping during nights when the weather's below freezing. I noticed a thermometer on a porch post.”

“Dripping?” Carley joined her at the sink.

“Just enough to keep it moving.” She turned the cold water so that a long drip plopped from the tap every half second or so. “Most frame houses have exposed pipes. They're probably wrapped, but even so, you don't want to take a chance on their freezing and bursting.”

Beyond the kitchen was a wide sunny room housing a sagging sofa and chair of faded green velveteen, and a washer and dryer. Carley was looking out the back window when she heard, “Come see, Carley.”

She followed the voice to her grandmother's bedroom. Loretta stood in front of a chest of drawers against the near wall, out of sight range from the hall. Three photographs in identical silver frames were arranged on an embroidered scarf. Loretta handed her one of two white-haired women with arms linked, standing in front of a shop window. One woman smiled as if on the verge of laughter, the other smiled only with her eyes, as if struggling to maintain decorum for the photographer.