A Table By the Window (10 page)

“Well, hello, Carley.” Blake Kemp stepped around a coffee table and offered his right hand. “Now, tell us truthfully…are you a nut, a fruit, or a flake?”

“Blake…” Sherry warned, and even the boy looked embarrassed.

“I beg your pardon?” Carley asked, hand still clasped by his long fingers.

“You know the saying…California is like a breakfast cereal?” He released her hand. “I'm just pulling your leg. It's a pleasure to meet you. But I have to admit, I just wish it were seven years later.”

Seven years…?
He was chuckling at his own joke, but Carley recalled a saying she had read somewhere:
Many a truth is wrapped in jest
.

She smiled politely and gave herself a mental pat on the back for having the foresight to drive herself over.

The boy stood as tall as his father, his face a mass of freckles topped by carrot red hair. Carley wondered about the red hair connection, but then noticed that his father's was the dusty-strawberry color that bright red sometimes fades to over the years.

“It's nice to meet you, Miss Carley,” he said shyly.

“Oh, you don't have to call me
Miss
.”

“Well, I'm not allowed…” Patrick looked at his mother.

“It's a Southern thing, Carley,” said Sherry. “My family had to get used to that when we moved down here. But now, even
I
can't bring myself to call anyone older than me by only their first name.”

“Even if you're related?” Carley asked.

“Hmm.” Sherry looked at her husband.

“She has a point there,” Blake said. “By the way, we have another son, Conner. He's at the University of Birmingham on a golf scholarship.”

“Is he the one who named the dog?” Carley asked.

“He is,” Sherry replied. “Patrick would have named him after some NBA player. Wouldn't you, son?”

“I'm not sure,” the boy replied. “I was only eleven. I probably would have named him something like Batman.”

Carley laughed with the others. “How did the game go against Purvis?”

He looked surprised that she should know about the game, grateful for her interest, and disappointed to report the results. “It was a washout. One of our guards broke his sports glasses and had to sit out the last half. We lost by fourteen points.”

“But we'll be ready for Seminary,” Blake said. “They're our biggest rivals. It's a home game. Maybe you could come Friday night?”

His remark about the seven years still left a bad taste in Carley's mouth. She was about to say that she would probably still be packing, when Patrick gave her a smile wide enough to show braces on his upper teeth.

“I hope you'll come. They've beaten us four straight years, but we're ready for them this year.”

“I'll try,” Carley promised, smiling back.

Aunt Helen came through a door drying hands upon a dish towel, fussed over the cake container, and swept her into the kitchen. “Come meet Rory.”

A man was holding a long fork over a sizzling black pot upon the stove. He had a full scalp of steel-gray hair combed back from his forehead, and a pink-tinged, lined face. Eyeing Carley, he said, “Do you like catfish, little girl?”

“I'm not sure I've ever tasted it.”

“Well, you've never had 'em the way I cook 'em, anyhow.”

His secret was to dip the fillets in a thin batter of Dijon mustard, egg, and canned milk before rolling them in seasoned cornmeal flour, he explained over a delicious, cholesterol-saturated supper that included fried potatoes, pieces of cornmeal dough called hush puppies, black-eyed peas with bits of bacon and small okra pods, and coleslaw. They sat around a long table in the vast kitchen, Helen confessing that the formal living and dining rooms were essentially wasted space.

Tiger, well trained, lay watching with his head resting on his leg in the den doorway. In the course of conversation, Carley learned that Blake owned the only barber shop in town, that Sherry met him when the Hudsons moved to Tallulah during her senior year of high school, and that she taught middle school science.

“Mr. Malone says you're a teacher too, Carley,” Aunt Helen said, buttering a hush puppy.

Patrick's eyebrows lifted in a friendly way. “What do you teach?”

“High school English literature,” Carley replied, sending the boy a smile before diverting everyone to a more pleasant subject. “But what I don't understand is…what brought you here from Washington?”

“Rory was stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base,” Aunt Helen replied. “He came to our school play with a girl in my junior class. I had a lead part in Thornton Wilder's
Our Town
.”

“And once I saw Helen flip that blonde hair,” Rory said, “I said to myself that she was the girl I was going to marry.”

“I wish you wouldn't say such things in front of Patrick, Dad,” Sherry scolded affectionately while salting peas. “We're trying to teach him that you're not supposed to fall for a girl just because she's pretty.”

“Well, you weren't around to warn me, were you?”

That made Patrick chuckle. Aunt Helen gave her husband an indulgent smile and continued. “Anyway, that was in 1947. We moved all over the country. Rory retired from the air force with twenty-five years when we were in Biloxi.”

“Keesler Air Force Base.” Blake passed Carley the ketchup after she glanced in that direction.

Aunt Helen went on to say that Rory was hired at Mississippi Mortgage there in Biloxi and was transferred to the Tallulah branch six years later, in 1976. “People were just starting to open up the antique shops.”

It was all interesting, for Carley was still a bit in awe of being able to share a pleasant family meal, just as normal people did all over the world. But what she wanted to know most was what she could not ask at the table. What caused her mother to turn out to be the way she was? And did they have any inkling as to the identity of her father?

Dessert was banana pudding, with Italian creme cake on the side. Carley asked only for banana pudding, having heard of it but never tasted it. Banana slices were layered with broken vanilla wafers in custard, with toasted meringue on top.

“This is dreamy,” said Carley.

“So's this cake,” said Uncle Rory.

“Are you going to sell the house?” said Blake.

Carley cringed inside. She had planned to broach the subject when it seemed the appropriate time. But silence was hanging, so she said, “I can't keep a house here, living in California.”

“‘Course not,” Uncle Rory said.

Aunt Helen nodded. “It's yours to do with as you please.”

“We might like to buy it,” Blake said.

Sherry set down her fork and groaned.
“Blake…”

He gave his wife a pleading look. “It can't hurt to
talk
about it.”

“But we decided…”

“I know, I know,” he said, raising placating hands. “But how much longer will interest rates be this low? It's a great investment. We could rent it out.”

“Well…” Sherry said with uncertain expression.

That encouraged Blake to turn to Carley again. “You haven't signed with a Realtor yet, have you?”

“No. Kay Chapman came by this morning, but I asked for a little time.”

“And how much did she appraise it for?”

“Eighty thousand dollars. With room for negotiation.”

“So, that means midseventies. And minus Kay's six percent commission, if we arrange a private sale.”

“Is that ethical?” Carley asked. “After she's been to the house?”

“It's the nature of the business,” Blake assured her. “I used to dabble in real estate on the side.”

“And obviously he wants to do it again,” Sherry said. Husband and wife locked eyes for a few seconds, his pleading and hers long-suffering. At length she blew out her cheeks and asked Carley, “Will you give us a couple of days to talk about it?”

“Of course.”

Uncle Rory cleared his throat. “Bad idea, mixing family with finances.”

“Dad, Blake isn't Uncle Dewey.” Sherry turned again to Carley. “Dad cosigned a car loan thirty years ago and got stuck with the payments.”

“I agree with your father,” Aunt Helen said quietly.

Blake nodded. “I understand, Miss Helen. But if we got a regular bank mortgage, how would that be any different from anyone else buying it?”

“Yes, Dad, how would it?” Sherry asked.

All eyes went to Uncle Rory. He shrugged. “I guess that would be all right. If you meet with Stanley Malone first, get a purchase agreement all legal-like.”

“Of course,” Blake said.

“May I have another slice of cake?” Patrick asked.

Thankfully that brought an end to the discussion. Carley's relief in finding a possible buyer so soon and keeping the house in the family, was tainted slightly by her first impression of Blake. Would he try to pressure her into a deal that was not in her best interest? If only she knew more about real estate.

Everyone helped clear the table, raking scraps into the trash can, loading the dishwasher, covering leftovers. Then Sherry apologized for eating and running, that she had papers to grade.

“I'm so glad we had the chance to meet you,” she said, catching Carley up in an embrace.

Patrick, hanging back a bit as if he feared he might be expected to do the same, said, “Please don't forget the game.”

“We'd offer to pick you up,” Sherry said, “But we go early and help stock the concession stand. You'd probably enjoy the walk anyway. It's just a stone's throw from Aunt Cordelia's house.”

“From
your
house,” Blake corrected, shaking Carley's hand. And it was said in such a friendly way that Carley warmed up to him a little. For that, and the ketchup.

And then he ruined it all by adding, “Admission is three dollars—which shouldn't be a problem for an heiress, right?”

“Don't say such things!” Aunt Helen scolded, swatting his arm lightly with a carton of tall kitchen trash bags.

Carley held her breath, but Blake merely grinned and said, “Sorry!”

When the three were gone, Uncle Rory shooed Carley and Aunt Helen from the kitchen. “I'll get the pots,” he said, fingers testing the temperature of tap water.

They shared a den sofa. With Tiger flopped on the rug at her feet, Aunt Helen said, “Please don't pay Blake any mind. He's a decent man, good to Sherry and the boys. His mouth just runs away with him sometimes.”

That took a weight off Carley's mind. “Thank you. And maybe it'll be better for you…keeping the house in the family.”

“I can think of my sister whenever I drive by, no matter who owns it. But I appreciate your giving them this chance. Whatever works out, do plan to stay with us, once the furniture is all packed up. Or whenever you feel like it. You're always welcome here.”

“Thank you, Aunt Helen.” By now, Carley had no qualms about accepting her hospitality. “Is there anything of Grandmother's you'd like to have?”

She shook her head. “I have the things Cordelia left me in her will, like our grandmother's tea set and her serger sewing machine. And we made copies of some of each other's photographs a couple of years ago. You'll probably want to donate the mattresses and pots and pans and such to the Salvation Army. They'll come out from Hattiesburg for them. We have a consignment store here that could sell some of the good furniture for you. They'll come for it too.”

“Would you like her clothes?” Carley asked carefully.

“I couldn't bring myself to wear them. Give them to the Salvation Army.”

Carley had handed dollars to bell ringers outside shops ever since she began making her own money. But her grandmother's clothes?

“Don't worry,” Aunt Helen said, reading the discomfort on her face. “I rather like the idea of spotting something that belonged to my sister on someone who needs it.”

“I like knowing that about you.” Realizing there was still much she did
not
know, Carley said, “Where are your other children?”

Her aunt replied that Deanna, who lived in Indianapolis, was a pastor's wife, piano teacher, and mother of three grown children. Kenneth, born a year after Deanna, was an electrical engineer, married, and living in Raleigh.

“They all come at Christmas. Ken and his wife, Glenda, stayed with Cordelia the three years before last. She loved having someone to fuss over.”

“I met some of the neighbors. They said she was a fine person.”

“She was. And I'm glad her last years were good ones.”

“What do you mean?” Carley asked, absently fingering the fringe on a throw pillow.

Aunt Helen hesitated. “When I flew up to Washington when Sterling died, I ended up handling the funeral arrangements. Thankfully, he had a burial policy as well as good life insurance. Still, it all overwhelmed Cordelia to the point where she could not make a simple decision.”

“She must have loved him very much.”

“Yes.” Another hesitation. “But it wasn't just grief that made her unable to function. She had never even balanced a checkbook or made a house payment in her life.”

“Why?”

“Well, one reason was that Sterling was so hardheaded. Rory referred to him as ‘Archie Bunker.'”

“Who?”

Her aunt smiled. “That was before your time, wasn't it? He's a television character. Sterling was good to her in his own way. He liked to buy little gifts, surprise her. I'm just saying he had strong opinions and insisted on controlling everything. The fact that he was eleven years older contributed to that. She was seventeen when they married….”

“Seventeen?”

“Those were different times. I was only sixteen when I married Rory three years earlier. Our parents had passed on, and we were being raised by our aunt Maude, on a pension, so it was a way of relieving the load on her.