A Table By the Window (31 page)

She had stayed up until two in the morning, preparing many of the menu items to serve double-duty as snacks and visual aids. They were spread out on two tables pushed together, with herself seated at the head. It was after careful deliberation that she decided to be candid before training began.

And yet, she was aware that confessing that her personal finances were tied up was not motivation enough. These people's planets did not revolve around her star, and there were other jobs, some even in Tallulah.

“I'm asking you to make this café as important to you as it is to me. And so I decided you need a higher stake in it. Misters Malone and Laird, the attorney and CPA working with us, have helped me draw up a profit-sharing plan.”

There were exchanged glances, nods, and smiles.

“But we can't make a profit without patrons who
want
to come back often. They'll do that if we make dining here a good experience for them, and if we have the attitude that it's a privilege to serve them.”

“Miss Reed?”

The speaker was Paula Reilly, age thirty-eight, with short brown hair and bangs. Married to a sawmill worker and the mother of three school-aged children, she had given notice in the hardware department at Wal-Mart to work closer to home.

“Carley, please,” Carley corrected.

One bit of Stanley Malone's advice she could not follow, was having her employees address her as “Miss Reed.” It went too much against her West Coast grain. She understood that she could not become their friend right away, for what if she had to let one go in a month's time? But surely she could maintain their respect by staying organized, having a plan for every day, leaving her personal life at home, and treating everyone professionally.

Paula nodded. “Carley. At Wal-Mart I told myself every time I waited on a customer that I might be givin' him the only smile he gets that day.”

“I like that philosophy, Paula.”

Danyell Weathers, the other full-time waitress, nodded. She was tall, with skin like toffee-colored satin and ebony hair pulled into a ponytail with a scarf. Mother of a three-year-old boy, she had moved to Tallulah to live with her parents while her Marine sergeant husband was stationed in Iraq.

Troy Fairchild would work the peak period of eleven to two on weekdays, all day Saturdays, and whenever the computer decided to crash. A friend of Conner's, he took evening classes in computer engineering at USM. He was thin as a rail, all elbows and knees and large feet, with light brown hair and a scattering of pimples. The only son of the pastor at Tallulah Pentecostal, he played bass guitar in a Gospel group—The Singing Fairchilds—with his four sisters,

Carley was encouraged that the white shirt Brooke wore with her jeans was actually buttoned high enough to keep inside what needed to be inside. She sat at the opposite end of the tables between cooks Lisa Gerhard, age twenty-eight, and Rachel Bogart, thirty-one—Mennonite sisters from Columbia. Both were solidly built, with long honey-colored hair; Lisa's flowed from her forehead back into a braid, while Rachel had short bangs and wore silver wire-rimmed eyeglasses.

Carley planned to work the cash register and play hostess. Later, if profits were healthy enough, she would hire someone else for that position. Also, the waitstaff would have to juggle her duties along with their own for about five minutes out of every hour, so she could restock and tidy up the restrooms. It would be a circus for a while. But if training went well, the customers would only see a smooth operation, not the panic attacks back in the kitchen.

She smiled, watching her employees sample the foods on their plates. Future panic attacks notwithstanding, she could not remember when she had felt so alive, so energized.

Thank you, God,
flowed through her mind before she even realized it.

As training progressed during the week, Carley realized the smoothness of it had more to do with the quality of her employees than with her little introductory speech. Which was good, because character was more lasting than the adrenaline in the wake of a motivational pep talk.

Opening day, however, was a mixed bag.

The bad began as soon as the clock alarm pierced Carley's throbbing right temple.

“How is it possible to wake up with a headache?” Dale asked a half hour later when he telephoned to wish her luck.

Carley held the plastic bag of ice cubes up to her temple. “My fault,” she said. “I kept wondering if we'd forgotten anything. Did I order enough food? What if no one comes?”

“Now, that's not going to happen. Didn't you say folks have been asking you about it for weeks?”

“Yes, but you Southerners will say anything to be polite.”

“Okay, we need to get you well, or you'll run customers off with that attitude. I'm gonna call Chester Templeton at the drugstore and see if there's anything helpful I can pick up and run over to you.”

“No, thank you. I can't afford to be drowsy. And most prescription medicines have that effect on me.”

“Maybe there's something new…”

“This isn't the day to experiment.” In spite of the pain, she smiled. “Look, it's thoughtful of you to offer. But I took my Excedrin and tiny bit of Dramamine a minute ago, and I'm brewing some tea. I just need to get going.”

“Okey-dokey, see you at noon.”

Uncle Rory stopped by twenty minutes later with warm buttered biscuits wrapped in a towel, bacon strips, and freestone peach preserves. “Helen was afraid you'd be too busy to eat,” he said from the porch.

Carley, clad in her robe with her hair wrapped in a towel, stepped out and kissed the old man's cheek for the first time ever. “Thank you.”

Sherry called, and Blake even took the phone briefly to say, “Break a leg! Oh wait, that's in theater, isn't it?”

“Blake…” Carley could hear Sherry say in the background.

“Just kidding!” he said. “I've been plugging your place in the shop every day, so don't make me out to be a liar, okay?”

“Okay, Blake. Thank you,” Carley said, meaning it.

Gayle Payne sent the children to the door with a half dozen warm biscuits. Carley had not the heart to tell them she had already eaten, so she wrapped them and placed them in the freezer to microwave another time.

Her clothes for the week lay across the bed in the middle bedroom. Today, an azalea pink three-quarter-sleeve blouse, knee-length black skirt, and low black heels. No suits, which would veer from the casual-yet-classy atmosphere she hoped to project. And she would save a ton of money on dry cleaning. Every penny counted.

“So, you're going out to your little restaurant?” Mrs. Templeton called while scattering sunflower seeds.

“On my way!” Carley called back, hopping down the steps. She felt better by the time she steered the GL up Main Street, under a combination of Excedrin, tea and biscuits, and brain endorphins brought on by the all the well-wishers. Figuring she may as well get into the habit and give up her space in front to a customer, she parked in back, several feet from the Dumpster.

In the kitchen, she filled and turned on both tea machines—caffeinated and decaffeinated. Two seconds after she turned on the dining room lights, Brooke's face became visible in the door window, even though staff were not due for another forty-five minutes. Carley unlocked the door and felt a little throb in her temple. Tank top and jeans!

“Brooke, what happened to your uniform?”

Brooke nodded over to her bicycle, leaning against the light post. “I was afraid I'd get axle grease or something on it. But it's in here.”

She raised a yellow Dollar General bag. The uniforms were simple—polyester-cotton black skirts or pants for wearability and ease in laundering, caramel-colored, polo-collared knit shirts. And the
coup-de-grace,
paprika-colored aprons with pockets for straws, order pads, and pencils.

From the look of Brooke's bag, it was obvious that the uniform was not folded neatly. Rather than follow her first inclination to scream, Carley took the girl's arm. “Okay, I'll put on a pot of water. We'll steam out the wrinkles.”

“But I'm only gonna be in back,” the girl said as Carley propelled her through the dining room.

“Doesn't matter,” Carley said. “People work better when they look better. Why don't you just keep both uniforms here? You can hang them in that little closet in my office.”

“Thank you.”

Danyell arrived a few minutes later, followed by cooks Lisa and Rachel, who began laying out cutting boards and knives. The last to arrive was Troy Fairchild, but even he was seven minutes earlier than expected, a good omen of the day to come.

At eleven o'clock, all staff stood in the dining room watching the door. Carley asked Paula to flip the sign in the window to
Open
.

The waitress hesitated. “Maybe you should, this first time?”

“Yes, all right.” She could feel six sets of eyes following her across the dining room. At the window she strained to look both ways. No mobs of people hurrying over, but it was still early. She flipped the sign, the staff applauded, and she turned and gave a little bow.

Ten minutes later, a third of the tables were filled.

Mayor Dwight Coates and his wife, Birdie. Stanley and Loretta Malone. Beta Club parents Ron and Lynn Hall. A quartet of older women from Jackson who were directed over from Aunt Helen's shop by her assistant Pam Lipscomb. A husband and wife who had picked up a printout of the menu in Red Barn Emporium. Uncle Rory and Aunt Helen, Sherry and Blake.

****

The matter of family as customers had come up in the Kemp kitchen two weeks ago, while Carley helped clean up after Conner's going-away party.

“You're going to have to charge us, just like everyone else,” were Uncle Rory's words.

“I just can't…” Carley had started, but her uncle raised a palm.

“Hear me out, little girl. Only a dime or so out of every dollar will stay in your pocket, with the rest going toward supplies, rent, and wages. You won't stay in business long if you start doing favors for family, and all of us can well afford to go out and eat.”

In hindsight, Carley was glad he had spoken so in Blake's company. And, again in hindsight, perhaps it was not by accident that Uncle Rory chose that opportunity. She felt a rough affection for Blake, but allowing him to order “on the house” would probably open an avalanche of problems, with his possibly feeling entitled to treat friends at her expense.

And knowing that he charged Uncle Rory full price for a haircut took away some of the uneasiness over the matter.

“Everything's wonderful,” Aunt Helen said when Carley visited their table.

“Wonderful,” Blake said, raising his tea glass.

A trio of antique hunters, relatively young women in their thirties, shared a table. One expressed delight over the vegan choices. “I'll definitely be back,” she said to Paula halfway through her avocado-cucumber sandwich.

At about ten minutes before noon, Averil Stillman entered, accompanied by his wife and daughter. Rita was a striking woman, with tawny skin and short reddish hair. Little Samantha's smile revealed a slight gap where a permanent tooth was just sprouting. Her hair, twisted into a barrette at the crown of her head, as well as the iron creases in the sleeve of her tropical-print shirt, gave evidence that Rita was a hands-on stepmother. Carley was glad for the girl.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, taking three laminated menus from the counter. She was scanning the few empty tables when the girl motioned a finger at her father, who bent down to catch her whisper.

“It's okay to ask,” Averil said, straightening again.

“What is it?” Carley asked.

Averil exchanged smiles with his wife and gave Samantha's shoulder a gentle nudge.

“We're trying to help her with her shyness,” Rita said softly over the girl's head.

Carley leaned down, held out her hand. “Hi, Samantha. I'm Carley. You sure are pretty.”

The girl's eyes widened. In a little voice, she said, “How do you know my name?”

“Because your uncle Winn and cousin John painted all the walls in here. Didn't they do a good job?”

Samantha looked around. “Yes, ma'am.”

“What is it you'd like to ask me?”

She chewed her lip, hesitated. “May we have a table by the window? I like to look at the people walk by.”

“Well, let's see.”

Both window tables were occupied, but the trio of shoppers were digging into purses.

“If you don't mind waiting here on the bench with your parents for about five minutes, we'll have one ready for you.”

“Thank you,” the girl said, smiling, and the dregs of Carley's migraine finally slipped away.

Dale and Garland came at one o'clock. Dale insisted on ordering the spinach wrap and cup of mushroom soup for both of them.

“I liked them both just fine,” Garland said at the counter afterward. “That was great tea, by the way. But I'll be ordering differently when I come back with Amy and the kids. It's just not natural, not having meat in a meal.”

Dale handed Carley his Discover card and asked about her headache.

“It's gone,” she replied.

“Good! And I'm glad the place is hopping.”

The number of patrons filtering in and out seemed evenly divided between townspeople and antique hunters. Carley imagined that percentage would change as the novelty wore off and more shoppers learned of the place. Whatever the dynamics, she would be happy if the tables stayed filled.

The shops closed at five. Her plan was to stop seating customers at six, so that her staff could leave by seven-thirty, after nine hours minus lunch and two breaks. She could always add an evening shift and part-time employees later, after the café had proved itself.

At five after seven the last patrons—librarian Edward Juban and his fiancée, Claire Baker—stood at the counter, declaring their meals delicious and promising to return. The sound of breaking glass came from the back, followed by muffled voices. Troy, cleaning the last table, looked at Carley and hurried for the double doors.