A Table By the Window (42 page)

“How was it?” Carley asked.

“It was easy.” Brooke pressed the Pause button, freezing Peter Falk holding what appeared to be a stopwatch. “I'm sure glad I crammed on algebra.”

“Good. Did you nap?”

“Slept like a hound under the porch.”

****

Sunday morning, it seemed fitting that Carley should wear the outfit she had worn on her first flight to Tallulah—or at least the taupe skirt and white blouse, for the blazer was not appropriate for the eighty-plus degrees expected today. Brooke looked very nice in her new clothes. Fresh-faced even, for Carley had convinced her to leave off the eyeliner.

“It'll only smear.”

“Okay,” Brooke had conceded. “But I'm still wearing mascara.”

Leaving the steps on their way to the driveway, Carley could no longer put off saying, “You know, no one will think ill of you, if you decide you can't handle it.”

“I can handle it,” Brooke said, with telltale forced bravado.

Carley found herself sending up another prayer.
Help her, Father.

Grace Community Church met in a brick building the size of a large house, past Lockwood's Red Barn Emporium on Second Street. The bricks were painted almost an oyster white, the door and shutters were varnished oak. There was no steeple, but a cross was attached to the peak of the roof, and the windows were stained glass.

Besides Aunt Helen and Uncle Rory, there were several recognizable faces in the sanctuary, including those of Stanley and Loretta Malone. Everyone knew Brooke, obviously. Carley smiled to herself. The girl had come from having no grandparents to having at least a dozen.

The minister's name was James Kelly, a blonde, Nordic-looking man of about fifty, who had played football for Ole Miss before attending seminary. The theme of the sermon was “A Life Changed by God,” based upon Saint Paul's conversion in the ninth chapter of Acts. So fascinated was Carley in hearing Scripture read in a lyrical drawl, that she had to remind herself to pay attention to its meaning and not just the delivery. During the closing hymns, Brooke left for the back with an older woman Carley recognized as one of Mrs. Templeton's senior citizen center friends. When the baptistery curtains parted, Brooke stood with the minister in white robes.

Carley dabbed her eyes with a fingertip.

“Need a tissue?” Aunt Helen whispered.

“No, thank you.”

Brooke was lowered into the water. When she came up out of it again, she wore such a smile of wonderment that Carley's throat thickened and her eyes began smarting again. She nudged her aunt's elbow. “Okay, I'll take one.”

****

“You've
really
never played Candyland?” Carley heard Micah Payne say through her bedroom window Monday afternoon. The day had warmed to the high seventies, and so the attic fan was rotating again. She put away the rest of her folded laundry and crept over to the window, leaned over the headboard. Brooke sat on the porch floor in a square with the older Payne children, the game board open in the center.

“This is the first time I've even
seen
Candyland,” Brooke said.

“What did you play when you were a girl?” Kimberly asked.

“Lots of things. Jump rope, jacks. And jigsaw puzzles sometimes.”

“They all start with
J
!” the girl chortled.

“Were you joking?” Micah asked suspiciously.

“No. But come to think of it, that starts with a
J
too!”

The children chortled as if that were the funniest thing ever. Carley smiled and backed away from the curtain. She brought water out the back door to Patrick, who was operating the leaf blower with headphones in his ears. Next door, Gayle was taking towels down from the clothesline, dropping them into a basket, while Lane played with a yellow toy truck at her feet.

“I heard about Brooke's baptism,” Gayle called.

Carley walked over, out of range of leaf blower noise. Delicately, she said, “Is that why you're allowing the children near her?”

Discomfort washed across Gayle's pretty face. “I'm sorry for that. I was wrong.”

“No, you were right. You didn't know her.”

Glancing back at Patrick, blissfully caught up in his music, Carley said, “I've only told one other person this, first, because I was ashamed, and now, because I don't care to carry around a ‘victim' banner. But my stepfather abused me when I was a girl. And he was a deacon and choir member.”

Gayle shook her head. “Oh…Carley…”

“For most of my life, I've pegged Christians as hypocrites. I'm learning just how wrong I was. Even so, you must never assume your children are safe around someone, based solely on his or her church standing. My Aunt Helen once said there were wolves among the sheep. She's right.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Gayle directed a worried looked toward Carley's house. “Ah…should I…”

Carley gave her an understanding smile, then knelt to look at Lane's truck. “You have nothing to worry about, Gayle. They're just playing Candyland on the porch. And Brooke's definitely no wolf.”

****

The telephone rang after supper, when Carley sat sideways on the sofa with feet propped, reading the October issue of
Restaurant Hospitality
. She stretched out for the telephone on her desk.

“Hello?”

A male voice said, “Brooke.”

Carley's dormant English-teacher side took immediate issue. “I beg your pardon?”

“I wanna speak to Brooke.”

She was tempted to hang up, make the problem go away. But if the voice on the other end indeed belonged to Brad Travis, Brooke was going to have to be the one to break the news that she could not see him.

Or
not
break the news. Carley was well aware of the control a young man could have over a girl starved for love.

But she's not starved for love,
she corrected herself.

“Hold on, please.” She held her hand over the phone, called, “Brooke?”

Brooke came out of her room in her gold USM Eagles shirt, pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers. Carley nodded and held out the receiver. The girl gave her a vague look and went into the kitchen. Carley heard chair legs against the wooden floor, then the metallic sound of the receiver being lifted.

“Hello?”

Carley hung up. About eight seconds of silence passed.

“I'm glad you're out too,” she finally heard Brooke say. “Was it rough?”

The silence lasted much longer.

“No, I'm sorry. I need to sleep. I have work tomorrow.”

Still more silence.

“No, I really can't.”

Carley heard her throat clearing.

“Well, maybe you should give your mom a chance. See, I'm gonna be taking online courses for my GED real soon, and I'm not gonna have time for—”

When Brooke spoke again, after the lengthiest silence yet, her voice shook. “No, I don't want to! That's a crazy plan!” The chair sound came again, sharper. “I have to go now!”

As soon as the receiver clicked again, Carley got to her feet and went into the kitchen. “I'm sorry,” she said, patting Brooke's back. “I know that was hard, but trust me, you did the right thing.”

Brooke blinked tear-spiked lashes. “It was only hard hearing him yell at me, that's all. You're right, Carley, he's bad news. He wants me to hitchhike to Las Vegas with him to see if some cousin will find him a job there. Is that crazy or what?”

The telephone began ringing again.

“I'm sure that's him again.” Brooke said.

“Let the machine pick it up.”

But when that happened, the ringing stopped, only to start again seconds later. After the sixth go-round, Carley turned off the ringer and the answering machine.

“I'm going to have to tell Dale.”

“No,” Brooke said quickly, fear filling her eyes. “Brad might do something. He has a temper.”

Carley lifted her brows. “Oh? Meaning…a policeman might have to use physical force to subdue him?”

“I don't know,” the girl mumbled, and went to her room.

The almost-half-inch of rain that had fallen Tuesday morning brought on a festive mood in the dining room of Annabel Lee Café. Carley recognized Brad Travis as soon as he sauntered inside—brown hair ruffled with pillow indentations, shirt buttoned only halfway, a homemade swastika tattoo on one forearm, a skull on the other. Eyes as hard as pebbles traveled the dining room and stopped at her face.

“Brooke here?”

“I'm afraid she's working.”

He gave her a smug smile, turned, and headed for the kitchen doors. Carley hurried around the counter and caught up with him. “I'm sorry. You can't go back there.”

When his steps did not slow, she reached for his arm. She let go immediately when the muscles tightened.

He turned a thunderous face to her. “Keep out of this, you—”

“Please,” Carley cut in, trying to stay calm for the sake of her customers.

But he pushed on ahead. Helplessly, she looked at the table Garland Smith, off duty, shared with his wife, Amy, and their two girls. He was already getting to his feet. Mr. Lockwood of the nursery did the same from the opposite corner, and Troy dropped his order pad on a table. The commotion coming from the kitchen was easily heard over Mozart's
Flute and Harp Concerto
. Carley followed the men. Within seconds, Garland had an arm wrapped around Brad's neck from behind; Mr. Lockwood had one arm, and Troy the other.

Lisa and Rachel and Brooke stood in a huddle with ashen faces.

“Amy's calling Marti on the cell,” Garland said between grunts as the men dragged the cursing young man through the storeroom. The siren was already wailing when Carley unlocked and pushed open the door. Within seconds the boy was cuffed and inside the squad car, kicking his feet against the window. Garland decided to help book him, saying Dale had the night shift, and it would only take a few minutes.

“Are you all right?” Carley asked her staff. “Do we need to close?”

“Don't close,” was the consensus, with Brooke, the most shaken, agreeing.

“I'm sorry you had to witness this,” Carley announced back in the dining room, particularly to the five older women who were first-time customers. “The young man's been taken into custody and will not return. And as our way of apology, we'll be bringing around dessert trays—on the house.”

That brought smiles, even from the five new customers.

As for Garland and Mr. Lockwood, their whole tickets would be on the house. Troy's reward would come in his next paycheck.

Almost immediately people started dropping by, to reassure themselves that everything was back to normal: Uncle Rory, on his first day filling in for Aunt Helen, hurried over from Auld Lang Syne Antiques. Danyell's mother. Pastor James Kelly. Loretta Malone, apologizing that Stanley had to stay clear just in case he was appointed counsel for the defense. Mayor Coates. Ruby Moore. Several shop owners from both sides of Main. Most visitors were too busy to stay longer than a minute or two. Thanks to Brad Travis, today would probably be the weakest day of the month, profit-wise. But a strong day, friendship-wise.

Carley heard knocking after the last customers had left, and unlocked the door to allow Dale inside.

“Are you all right?” he said, the same question she had asked her staff.

“Yes, I'm fine.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't here.”

“You can't be everywhere,” she said.

“But I should have expected something like this when the boy got out.”

“You can't
know
everything.”

Finally he smiled. “Thanks, Carley. I need to speak with you and Brooke about pressing charges. Would you like to come to the station now, or should I just wait for you and Brooke here?”

“Please wait,” Carley said.

He exchanged greetings with the staff on their way out. When Carley and Brooke joined him at a table, he said to the girl, “Did he lay a hand on you?”

“No sir,” she mumbled with eyes focused on the salt and pepper shakers.

You could at least look at the man when he's expressing concern,
Carley thought, wishing there was some way to send the message via brain waves to Brooke's head.

Dale gave Carley a helpless look, probably mirroring the one on her own face.

“Good,” he replied. “We can hold him for a week for disturbing the peace and trespassing, give him time to cool off and refresh his memory about what a drag it is to be incarcerated. If you'd like to press charges for harassment, we can hold him until it goes to trial, unless his mother is willing to post bail—which I doubt.”

Carley felt sudden pity for the boy. What kind of life had led to his being this way? But she did not have the power to help him, especially not with Brooke under her wing.

“I'm afraid of him,” she admitted. “Afraid what he'll do to Brooke. If there was just some other way…”

Brooke nodded agreement, grimly.

Dale folded his arms and sat back in his chair. “Well, hear me out. His father, up in Little Rock, is willing to wire money for a bus ticket. He sounds like he regrets his failings. So, what I can do is, tell the young punk you'll not press charges if he'll agree to go on up to Little Rock. I'll drive him to the bus station myself, after he serves his time.”

Maybe they could help the boy after all, if only in this small way, Carley thought. “You'll make sure he gets on?”

“I'll buy the ticket, watch him leave.”

“What do you think, Brooke?” Carley said.

“He told me he wants to hitchhike to Las Vegas.”

“Well, either way we'd be rid of him,” Dale said. “But I'd have a week to convince him it's in his best interest to stay on the bus.”

“All right,” Brooke said, facing Carley, not Dale. “Besides, if we make him stay in jail longer, he'll only be madder when he gets out.”