Maude Brown's Baby (38 page)

“I spent the afternoon in the sun without a bonnet.”

“No, your glow comes from inside.”

Clara laughed. “What a lovely thing to say, but don’t embarrass me here. We’ve already caused enough gossip for one night.”

“I didn’t know the invitation was just for tea.”

“No harm done. Besides, I’m more comfortable here.”

Clara finished her meal before Donald. She dabbed her mouth again, carefully considering her next words.

“Donald?”

“Yes?”

“You dismissed Mr. Payne’s offer pretty quickly.”

“Did I?”

“You seemed so confident. Do you think he was only fooling himself, that he couldn’t really help?”

“No, Clayton told me that Mr. Payne does have prominent friends in business and politics. I’m sure about that.”

“What, then? Why were you certain that you didn’t want his help?”

“I’ve been thinking about my future for a long time, but until now, I’ve had few options.”

“So when Mr. Payne wanted to help you find a job, it was easier to imagine a different path?”

“Yes, but his offer to keep me out of the military tipped the scale. That really
…”

Clara saw Blanca approaching and raised her hand for Donald to wait.

“Would you like anything else?” Blanca asked. She had many more questions in mind.

“Sopapillas would be nice, and some coffee.”

Donald reached across the table as Blanca walked away. Clara’s fingertips curled over his.

“I admire, that, Donald, what you said to Mr. Payne. He offered you a chance to avoid military service, but you turned him down.”

“There was no question about it.”

“But what about the job? What Mr. Payne suggested sounds like a much brighter future, and certainly more pay than being a photographer or a journalist. Aren’t there things in life you want for yourself?”

Donald knew he was being tested, but didn’t mind. He looked around the restaurant. Couples and families sat talking or simply eating their meals in silence. He thought of those in the streets and in their homes, all more or less the same. He turned back to Clara.

“How many people really enjoy what they do for a living?”

“I don’t know, Donald. I suppose many simply tolerate their jobs.”

“Then why keep them?”

“To feed themselves and their families? To buy the things they want?”

“Yes, but
…”

“Tell me
, what do you want?”

Donald thought hard before ans
wering. “There are things I’d like to buy, but just making money is not reason enough to take a job I don’t want.”

“What, then?”

Donald thought again, then touched his free hand to his chest.

“Clara, everything I really want is inside. Photography fascinates me now, so I want to be the best photographer I can be. If my interest shifts to
writing, then I want to be good at that, too. If new paths open in the future, I want to follow them if I can.”

Clara squeezed Donald’s hand
, but couldn’t speak.

Clayton waited
with the car as promised. When Donald and Clara left the restaurant, it caused nearly as much stir as when they arrived.

“Very good show,” Clayton laughed as he pulled from the curb. “Well done!” He drove straight to Clara’s house and let them out, then stood for a time on her shell driveway, acting far less the chauffe
ur than a friend. Clayton shook Donald’s hand and bid Clara a good night.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both. I hope you’ll visit the house again soon. I’ve
never seen Mr. Payne so happy.”

“The two of you seem close,” Donald said. “Do you ever call Mr. Payne by his first name?”

Clayton laughed as he climbed behind the wheel. “Only on the squash court, and then, only when I let him win.”

Clara and Donald watched Clayton drive away. Three
blocks down, the electric taillights on the Rolls finally turned and disappeared. Overhead, a full moon peeked from behind slow-moving clouds.

Clara turned toward the
house, but Donald put a hand on her arm. They faced each other in the driveway, inches apart, fingertips just touching. Donald spoke first.

“Let’s stay outside for a while.”

Clara didn’t speak, but her eyes answered for her.

They sat side-by-side in her porch swing, slowly easing it back and forth with their heels. The moonlight glowed off the white walls behind them and the white planks beneath their feet.

“I have something to show you,” Clara said. She opened her handbag and removed an envelope that Donald knew well. Inside was the photograph of himself as child. He lightly touched the print, but for the first time, he felt no urge to remove his glasses and study it closely.

“You’ve had this in your purse?”

“I wanted to be with you the next time you saw it.”

“So
much has changed.”

Clara slipped her arm under Donald’s and rested her head on his shoulder, savoring the cool breeze and gentle motion of the swing.
Together in the moonlight, they gazed silently at the print. From the little card in Donald’s hand, Maude Brown’s baby smiled back.

The End

Richard Cunningham
is a freelance science writer and commercial photographer. He holds a bachelor’s degree in Journalism from Oklahoma State University and a master’s in Science and Technology Journalism from Texas A&M University. He has been writing nonfiction articles and books for more than thirty years.
Maude Brown’s Baby
is his first novel. He lives with his wife, Lily Ann, in Houston.

It takes a team to write a book. My head coach, captain and cheerleader for this project was Lily Ann, an adjunct professor of Art History at the University of Houston-Downtown. She has master’s degrees in Fine Art and English Literature, and a voracious appetite for books. She is also my wife. For the 18 months it took to write
Maude Brown’s Baby
, Lily Ann kept me on track, mainly through persuasion, but sometimes with a stick.

There were two genuine novelists on the team: Sara
h Andre, author of the romance mystery,
Locked, Loaded and Lying
, and Kay Kendall, author of the historical mystery,
Desolation Row
. Their technical help and encouragement were invaluable.

And then, there were the readers. These are the family members and friends who, after endless badgering, finally agreed to read early drafts. Thank you, thank you dear Linda, Diana, John (aka Jack), Gina, Scott, Mom, Dad, Brittain, Cynthia,
Jane, Don, Jerry, Bob, Brian, Julie, and of course, Clarence. I could not have done this without you.

Given all the help I’ve had, be assured that any remaining errors and typos are purely my own. —R.C.