The Room with the Second-Best View (8 page)

The footsteps continued to grow louder, and now Albert's words were discernible.

“Nothing boxlike about that house. We loved living there.” He sounded defensive and a bit remorseful, as he was wont to do whenever he spoke of their old home on Mulberry Avenue.

“Yeah, but you gotta admit it ain't the Taj Mahal. More like the cottage of the Seven Dwarves.”

Her hee-hawing laugh blared from nearby. They were in the dining room and heading this way. With a quick attempt to fluff her hair with her fingers, Millie turned toward the doorway. If only she'd
thought to put on a hat, as she sometimes did to protect her hair from paint splatter. And a bit of lipstick to give her face some color.

Lulu appeared in the entrance holding a cake pan covered in foil. A grin widened her large mouth to an impossible width. “There she is!” She halted just inside the kitchen. The smile faded and concern descended over her features. “Girlie, you look awful. Are you in that much pain?”

Behind her, Albert splayed his hands in a helpless gesture and shrugged, while Millie forced herself not to react to the rude comment.
Calming visitor my foot!

“Not at all,” she lied. “I'm just a bit stiff.”

“Looks more than a bit stiff.” Lulu nodded at the sling. “What happened, anyway? I trotted over to Violet's house last night to ask, but she didn't answer the door. Musta forgot to turn her lights off while she went out, 'cause they were on in the living room.” She
tsk
ed, shaking her head. “That's the goingest girl I ever did see. Never home when I come calling. I declare, you'd think we lived next to a vacant house for all we see of her.”

Poor Violet, reduced to hovering behind drawn curtains to avoid her annoying neighbor. Millie dared not look directly at Albert, who appeared to be trying to control a laugh.

“She's here a lot,” Millie said to give her friend an easy excuse. “She and I have done the lion's share of the restoration and decorating in the upstairs bedrooms.”

“Well good for you. I don't know one end of a hammer from the other myself. Good thing my Frankie is handy around the house. Oh.” She lifted the pan. “I brought you a cake.”

Now Albert's eyes went wide with alarm. Millie kept her expression pleasant. “How nice. Thank you.”

Lulu stalked to the table and set the gift down. “I figured you wouldn't be doing much baking since you're down to one wing.” She whipped the foil cover off with a flourish. “It's a parsnip cake.”

Behind her, Albert's chin dropped to his chest.

Millie examined the cake, dismayed. What should one say when gifted with a parsnip cake? “I've…never heard of such a thing.”

Lulu indulged in a horselike guffaw and even slapped her thigh. “The look on your face! Girlie, you'd think I was trying to force wet grass down your throat. Try a piece, would you?” She turned to look at Albert. “You too, Bertie. Grab a couple of plates.”

Albert managed to look both highly offended at the nickname and appalled at the suggestion that he eat parsnip cake. Shaking his head, he held up a hand. “I just finished breakfast. Couldn't eat another bite.”

Lulu shrugged. “Leaves more for us.” She faced Millie again. “Tell me where the plates are, and we'll have a little after-breakfast snack.”

Though the urge to refuse was strong, decorum won out. When receiving a gift, even an unwelcome one, a Southern lady must accept graciously. Millie smiled and gestured toward an empty chair at the table. “Please sit down, and I'll get the cake knife. Would you like coffee?”

“What's cake without coffee?” She scooted out a chair and plopped into it.

Assuming that meant yes, Millie retrieved her mug from the sink and a clean one from the cabinet. When she made a gingerly movement toward the dessert plates, careful not to jar the muscles in her lower back, Albert came to the rescue.

“I'll do it.” He pointed toward her chair. “You sit.”

Actually, standing was far more comfortable than sitting, but she couldn't very well let her guest sit while she hovered above her. She lowered herself into her chair, careful to situate the donut in the most advantageous position.

Lulu watched with obvious interest and then jerked a nod toward the cushion. “Hemorrhoids?”

Millie's head snapped up. “No!”

“She had an
unfortunate incident
.” Albert set a full coffee mug in front of each of them. “Fell down the stairs,” he added, and Millie shot a stern look his way. Must he provide details?

“Don't you have something to do?” she asked through tight lips.

“In fact, I do.” He raised his nose high in an attitude of dignity. “I have a bed to make. I'll leave you two to your cake.”

Setting the glass plates and a cake knife on the table, he made a hasty exit. Because Millie knew him well, she recognized the relief in his hurried step.

“Bruised your bum, did you?” Lulu reached for the sugar bowl, which was filled with artificial sweetener, and dumped a huge spoonful into her coffee. “Same thing happened to my Honey Bun once. I spilled a bit of vegetable oil on the bathroom floor. Before I could clean it up he came running in 'cause he always waits till the last minute. Hit that oil and
bam.
” She slapped one hand down on the other. “Down he went. Let me tell you, his rump turned six different shades of purple.”

Torn between the urge to ask what Lulu was doing with cooking oil in the bathroom and the desire to direct the conversation away from any further discussion of bruised derrieres—hers
or
Franklin's—Millie raised her coffee mug to her mouth and changed the subject.

“Congratulations on becoming the Main Street Manager.” Though an equally painful topic, at least that one was far less humiliating.

“Thanks.” Lulu reached into her handbag and pulled out a crumpled manila envelope. “That's another reason I'm here. I was hoping you could clue me in on this program, and what Goose Creek needs to do to get some of that grant money. After all the work you've done, I'd hate to mess it up.”

She extracted three sheets of paper, which Millie recognized as her report to the celebration committee. Millie couldn't help but preen a bit. At least she was being consulted.

“I'm sure you wouldn't mess it up.” She awarded Lulu a kind smile.

“I might.” Lulu glanced over her shoulder and then leaned close. “I'm not the best at talking to people. Seem to rub folks the wrong way, though I don't know why. In fact, I haven't made a real friend yet here in Goose Creek. That's why I volunteered for the job. Figure if I do something good for the town, folks will get friendlier. But after reading your stuff”—she flapped the papers in the air—“I realized
I'm gonna have to talk to the city council, and Goose Creek business owners, and even the folks over in Frankfort.”

Compassion for the brash woman stirred in Millie's soft heart. How distressing, to know one wasn't liked by those she tried to befriend. At least Lulu was aware of her weaknesses. According to Albert, her husband was clueless.

Could she swallow her pride and assist Lulu in the job she wanted for herself?

She covered Lulu's hand. “I think we're going to make a good team. I'm quite good at talking to people.”

A huge grin spread across the woman's face. “That's what I hoped you'd say.” She leaned back in her chair and picked up her mug. “With my brains and your way with people, we'll make this thing work.”

If they were closer, Millie might point out that some would take offense at the suggestion that she had no brains, but since their friendship was still tender, she ignored the slight.

“All right, let's get down to business.” She took the papers from Lulu's unresisting hands and spread them out on the table.

Lulu stopped her. “First things first. You're gonna try this cake, girlie.”

Millie eyed the gift and allowed doubt to seep into her tone. “Does it taste like parsnips?”

The answer was an earsplitting guffaw while Lulu cut a largish square and scooped it onto a plate. “Taste it and see.”

While she helped herself to an equal-sized portion, Millie picked up her fork. A dullish white icing and pecans covered the top. Well, pecans were good anyway. She sliced off a small bite, trying to ignore the whitish shreds that could only be parsnips enmeshed in the moist cake. Steeling her stomach against an unpleasant onslaught, she placed the morsel in her mouth.

Her taste buds flared in a festive celebration. Cinnamon and maple formed a delightful union, blending splendidly with the maple butter frosting. And the pecans! The perfect nutty accompaniment.

“This,” she said, pointing at the cake with her fork, “is delicious. I want the recipe.”

A satisfied smirk on her face, Lulu reached into her handbag and extracted a recipe card. “I knew you would. Everyone does.”

“Albert, what are you doing in here?”

Al looked away from the giant flat-screen television in the room Millie referred to as their “private sitting room.” In the old plantation days the space had been a ladies' dressing room, located off one side of the master bedroom. The addition of an indoor bathroom a number of years after the house was built reduced the size of the original dressing room to half. The remaining area had just enough space for Al's recliner, Millie's wingback chair, a bookshelf stuffed with her favorite books, and the television that had been a Christmas gift from the kids a few years before. Though he knew it irritated his wife, Al referred to the room as “the TV closet.”

He faced Millie, who stood in the doorway connecting the TV closet to their bedroom. Her lips formed the tight, pinched arrangement he recognized as Millie's version of disapproval. A list of possible infractions flitted through his head.

He had forgotten to take a doggie cleanup bag out this morning when Rufus took his morning stroll. Well, perhaps that lapse had been a result of selective memory, because he found it demeaning to follow the pooch around the yard. She may have discovered that offense.

Or perhaps the bedspread and decorative pillows were not placed to her satisfaction. Making the bed up every morning only to unmake it that night constituted a total waste of time, in his often-voiced opinion. Once he had even found an article that declared beds should remain unmade during the day in order to discourage a proliferation of dust mites. The magazine had provided a most disturbing photograph of mites, magnified to display every detail of their nasty, leggy bodies. She still insisted on making the bed every day, but Al noticed that she changed the sheets twice a week after that.

Might as well confront the issue head-on. “What did I forget to do?”

She glanced at the screen, where an enthusiastic family from Kansas huddled in a knot to consult on the most frequent answer to the question, “Name something you might say to a cannibal to stop him from eating you.” Her mouth tightened further.

“The upstairs bedrooms need to be dusted.”

An obvious ploy to separate him from a television game show. “Why?”

“Because that's what I do on Fridays. I dust and run the vacuum upstairs.”

“But no one's going to be using those rooms for at least a month.” He turned back to the screen. “No one will ever know we skipped a week.”

“I'll know.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her plant her good hand on her hip. The weight of the censure in her stare pressed on him. “Keeping a house clean is a continual process. One can't afford to become lax.”

He might have voiced further arguments, but just then the family spokesperson answered. Apparently “I taste bad” was not the top answer, and the opposing family erupted into cheers. With an unconcealed sigh, Al picked up the remote control, punched the off button, and lowered the recliner's footrest.

“You're a slave driver.” Though he infused enough teasing into his accusation that she wouldn't think he was truly complaining, an unexpected thought popped into his head. Returning to the office on Monday would be a relief. Computer work was far easier than being Millie's servant.