A Table By the Window Page 4

  Actually, the 1989 Toyota Camry had died of natural causes and went to a junk dealer. But the two hundred dollars she was paid still qualified it as “sold.”

  “Then you would be wise to spend the night in Jackson, rather than be on unfamiliar roads after dark. The car rental people can direct you to a good hotel. And bring warm clothes. The thermometer dipped down to twenty-one last night.”

  She thanked him and asked when she should come by his office. He replied that one o’clock would give her ample time to drive down and have lunch. “I would invite you to join Loretta and me, but we already have a luncheon engagement. There’s Dixie Burger and Tommy’s Pizza on the south end of town, but I recommend Corner Diner. You’ll see it on your left, about halfway down Main Street.”

  Chapter 4

  Carley wheeled her carry-on bag from Jackson International Airport Terminal, meeting forty-five-degree breezes scented with jet fuel instead of the magnolias she had hoped for. At the Budget rental counter, a woman with mahogany skin handed her the keys to a cherry red Chevrolet Cavalier and recommended the Pine Belt Inn. “It’s just off I-55, honey. And you can get a nice room for about seventy dollars.”

  There it was. The “honey” again. Were all Southerners as quaint and accommodating?

  The brunette behind the hotel counter dispelled that notion. “You want two doubles or a king?” she asked, annoyed at having her telephone conversation interrupted. Nonetheless the room was clean, and the king-size bed seemed like such an extravagance that the first thing Carley did was stretch out on it crosswise just to see how it felt. She ate a foot-long turkey sandwich from the Subway next door, showered, and then propped herself upon pillows to watch the Food Channel on cable, another extravagance.

  Tuesday morning when her eyes met the 9:08 A.M. on the clock radio, she bolted up in bed. Time difference, she remembered. Her body clock was set at seven. After a hurried shower, she pulled on her spice-colored marled turtleneck and tan corduroy slacks and draped her black wool coat across her purse on the Cavalier’s passenger seat. The morning clerk made up for his predecessor’s rudeness by showing Carley the route to Tallulah on the map from Budget Rental.

  “You’ll go about seventy miles once you’re on the highway,” the older man drawled, a finger tracing the red line. “Be sure you keep it under sixty-five, now. The law’s been crackin’ down on speeders, on account of them lumber trucks barreling through.”

  ****

  Mississippi in the grip of winter was greener than Carley had imagined. Highway 49 South unrolled like a great gray ribbon, over low rolling hills with red clay banks and winding rivers with white sandy banks, past fruit stands and cattle grazing in pastures of emerald rye grass, and through pine forests and little towns with names like Magee, Florence, and Mount Olive.

  At 11:15, Carley was starting to wonder if the morning clerk had given her the wrong directions, but then, through her windshield she read the sign Poloma River attached to a bridge over water the color of weak tea. Fifty feet or so past the bridge rose another sign: Tallulah. Population 1,280.

  Finally! Carley thought. In her haste, she had not taken advantage of the hotel’s complimentary breakfast and had simply brewed a cup of tea in the room microwave to have with a package of airline peanuts, so she was ready for lunch.

  Signs of urbanization cropped up—a Dollar General store and Henderson’s Grocery. The Old Grist Mill restaurant looked promising, but the parking lot was empty. The highway rose ahead to a flashing light at the crest of a hill, then sloped down and melded into Main Street. Flanking both sides behind parallel-parked automobiles were attached shops of weathered brick and stucco and wood. Stenciled onto wide windows or etched into signboards were such names as Odds & Ends, Peggy’s Pastimes, Corner Shoppe Antiques. Canopies stretched out over boarded sidewalks upon which a surprising number of people strolled in and out of shops.

  To her left, two blocks past the stoplight, rose a modest-sized white Greek Revival building with four columns: Tallulah Town Hall read the bronze sign. And just beyond, on the opposite corner, a brick building with Corner Diner stenciled upon both windows. Tables and people were visible through the glass.

  “Not a moment too soon,” Carley murmured, waiting for a blue truck to pass so that she could make the left turn. She drove past Tallulah Courthouse and nosed the Cavalier into a space across from a Laundromat with Kangaroo Washaroo on the signboard. She was digging in her purse for change when it struck her that there were no meters. She stepped away from the car feeling like a privileged lady.

  The diner’s interior was quite expansive. Green-checked vinyl covered two dozen or more square tables and booths, most occupied. Men outnumbered women by a fraction. Carley had halfway expected farmer-types in overalls, but the only person thus clad came around from behind the cash register counter—a young woman with short brown hair and silver hoop earrings the size of bracelets. She led Carley to a small table and handed her a well-worn menu covered in plastic. Despite the bent corners and an ink stain, everything listed looked delicious in Carley’s state of starvation. Except for the fried chicken liver special.

  “What would you like to drink, honey?” asked the waitress, a stout woman with graying hair caught up in a ponytail. She wore a green striped apron over a pink T-shirt and jeans.

  Carley smiled at the third honey to meet her ears in two days. “A Coke, please.” What she really wanted was tea, but she did not care for iced and did not see “hot” on the menu. When the waitress returned, Carley ordered meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. Comfort food.

  With only three waitresses, service was slow, but no customer seemed anxious. Neither was Carley, for she had plenty of time. She scanned faces, careful not to stare. Were any of her relatives here? Would she discover, when they were finally introduced, that they had lunched only a few feet apart?

  She looked to her right. Two men in light-gray police uniforms shared a booth with a woman with shoulder-length brown hair. The older policeman and the woman sat with elbows touching and plates of food before them. The younger man was eating a sandwich from a brown bag. He looked about Carley’s age. But the tanned face, close-cropped sandy hair, eyebrows, and lashes made it hard to guess his age.

  Watching the three converse like old friends, Carley was seized by a wave of loneliness. Puzzling. Having spent most of her life watching out for herself, she could usually sit among strangers without feeling alienated. And being raised in such a roughshod way toughened a person in some aspects.

  She imagined the loneliness was because she owned property here, had relatives here, but did not belong to this town or to these people. A year ago that would not have bothered her. A person with roots firmly planted elsewhere did not have to grieve over not belonging to some temporary place. But losing a mother—such as she was—and now the act of quitting her job had shaken those roots once firmly embedded in California soil. Did she belong anywhere?

  Stop thinking that way! she ordered herself. She had set out on an adventure. Once she met Mr. Malone and her faceless relatives, she would feel more at home, have a pleasant stay, and then return to San Francisco to start sending out résumés.

  The waitress brought a platter of food large enough to feed two people and refilled Carley’s glass. “Enjoy your meal, honey,” she said. The meat loaf was tasty and the potatoes fresh instead of instant, with real butter and bits of pulp, the way she liked them. But the green beans were canned, cooked too long, and tasted strongly of bacon grease. The DeLouches’ chef would have had a conniption, she thought.

  Every table was occupied now. Two men waited just inside the door to be seated. Scraps of unhurried conversation met Carley’s ears. Vowels were fluidly elongated and sometimes even two distinct sounds, such as a mother addressing a small tot as “Be-in,” and a man ordering a double portion of “co-urn bread.” The occasional g was dropped, as when her waitress told someone that her father had had to stop “drivin’” after dark because of his
eyes. And an extra r cropped up now and again, as when the busboy called to the cashier that the booth by the “winder” was cleared.

  She sensed someone watching, looked to her right and met the blue eyes of the sandy-haired policeman. He gave her a sheepish little smile and turned back to his companions. Embarrassed as well, Carley gave attention to her own meal. She consumed half the meat loaf, a token couple of green beans, and all of the potatoes—and contemplated ordering more on the side. When she ventured a glance to the right again, the trio had been replaced by a young man and woman.

  The waitress gave her directions to Mr. Malone’s office. For the courtesy, Carley left a four-dollar tip even though her check only amounted to $7.50. She took her place beside three patrons waiting at the register. Absently she studied a bulletin board positioned behind the counter at eye level. Tacked to the cork were business cards, advertisements for the Lion’s Club’s pancake breakfast, a rummage sale in the fellowship hall of First Methodist, the Tallulah High School basketball schedule, a handwritten sheet offering free puppies, and another offering piano lessons. A flyer topped by a color-copied photograph of a woman drew Carley’s attention. The woman had coffee-colored skin and curly black hair mussed a bit, as if by the wind. She was smiling, both hands wearing gardening gloves and holding a tray of what appeared to be tomato seedlings.

  Large-font words beneath the photograph read:

  $5,000 Reward!

  for information leading to the arrest and conviction of

  the driver of a red sports automobile

  responsible for the hit-and-run death of

  Gweneth Brown Stillman

  on June 14, 1997

  Tallulah, Mississippi

  Antique Dealers Association

  What a shame, Carley thought. And a double shame, that in almost six years the driver had not been brought to justice, for the poster would surely not still be hanging if that were so.

  “Help you, ma’am?”

  After the cashier handed back change from a twenty, Carley stepped again onto the sidewalk. 10:50, her watch said, which translated into 12:50 central standard time.

  She started the Cavalier and continued in the same direction to circle around the back as the waitress had advised. Fourth Street was shaded with magnolia trees with waxy leaves, long-needle pines, gnarled live oaks, and the bare, moss-draped limbs of red oaks. The majority of houses were wood frame with porches, but no two were alike. Picket fences enclosed some lawns. A brownish-green Christmas tree with scattered bits of tinsel lay between sidewalk and street. A man tossed pinecones into a basket beside a pale pink stucco house. Another walked a golden retriever down a sidewalk. A woman unloaded groceries from the trunk of a car in a driveway.

  Fourth Street ended at the stop sign at Poloma Street. Tallulah Library, with painted gray clapboard and rust-colored shutters stood to her left. Across the street were the long red-brick building, playground, parking lot, and gymnasium of Tallulah High. Carley thought of the good students she had left. Did they feel betrayed?

  How could staying and having a nervous breakdown have helped them? she asked herself.

  Moot speculation anyway. Dr. Kincaid would have fired her for the “jerk” episode, had Carley not beat her to the punch by resigning. She turned left in front of the school. The first-hour honors students would probably learn just as much in the capable hands of Melinda Pearson. She found that she did not particularly care who taught the other classes.

  Fifth Street had the same flavor as Fourth Street. Frame houses, porches, shade trees. Stanley Malone’s office was in a converted yellow frame house. The gravel lot was apparently once a driveway, now widened. She parked a polite distance away from a dark blue Lincoln Town Car. Stepping across the porch, she opened the wooden door and stepped into a reception area in what was probably once a living room. A coatrack stood to her right. Two green damask settees faced each other; a table held a stack of magazines. A framed print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers graced one wall. The floors bordering a red Oriental rug were shiny parquet. Beyond the sitting area was a desk, oak filing cabinet, and a woman watering a large ficus plant. She set the watering can on the top of the filing cabinet.

  “You’re Miss Walker, aren’t you?” she asked, advancing. Before Carley could speak, the woman corrected herself. “I mean, Miss Reed.”

  Carley was not surprised, for Mr. Malone was expecting her. And really, how many clients could he have in such a small town? But just having someone recognize her by name lifted the loneliness a bit. Returning the smile, she said, “Guilty.”

  They shook hands. The woman had short brown hair flowing from a widow’s peak and tucked behind ears with small silver knot earrings. She was petite, with slender wrists. “I’m Loretta Malone, Stanley’s wife. And please call me Loretta.”

  “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.”