Livvie's Song (12 page)

Will had nearly finished scrubbing down the pancake griddle with steel wool when the screen door squeaked open, ushering in a bulky man in uniform—an officer of sorts—with a bulbous nose, a pudgy face, and a trim, gray mustache. He stood just inside the doorway with his thumbs hooked in his belt, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he surveyed the place in a way that put Will in mind of some Hollywood actor who played a shifty character in one of those moving pictures. Seeing that uniform put Will on edge, even though he had no cause for worry. Shoot, he’d done his time. Would he ever live like that was true? Long-ago memories flashed in his mind—the sounds of gunshots ringing through the air, voices shouting, and feet pounding the pavement as the police gained on him; the sensation of lungs burning and heart thundering; the sight of Clem and the others hightailing it out of there in the wagon as he chased after them, running for his life, still clutching the leather bag of loot.

“Hello, Sheriff,” Livvie greeted the man from her seat beside Coot at a table near the window, where the two had been chatting for the past ten minutes or so. Coot was probably on his fifth cup of coffee by now. Outside, his faithful black mongrel, Reggie, kept a constant vigil by the door. Every so often, he pressed his snout against the screen, as if waiting for a handout. Will reminded himself to save a plate of leftovers for the pup.

The sheriff touched a finger to the brim of his hat and dipped his chin, granting her and Coot the minutest smile. “Miss Olivia. Coot.”

“Hello there,” Coot said. “Fine morning, ain’t it, Sheriff?”

“Yes, sir. Fine, indeed.”

Will turned his attention back to his kitchen chores. He set the clean griddle on the stove, then picked up a cloth to wipe down his work space, trying to look busy. He wondered why Coot hadn’t jumped up to make an introduction. Maybe his ancient bones were tired from the morning’s activity.

The sound of boot heels clicking on the floor and keys jingling signaled the sheriff’s approach, yet Will continued wiping the counter, feigning obliviousness.

“Anything I can do for you, Sheriff?” he heard Livvie ask. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her following the sheriff toward the kitchen.

With a lazy turn of the head, he acknowledged the rotund fellow, who gave a simple nod as he lowered himself into a bar stool with a breathy sigh.

“Just a cup of coffee would do me well, Olivia,” he said, keeping his eyes on Will.

“I’ll get it,” Will said, reaching for the coffeepot and a clean mug from the stack beside the coffeemaker. He glanced up at Livvie and noticed that several strands of wavy hair had escaped the silver barrettes she’d used to pull it back behind her petite ears. It took no little effort to force his eyes away from her, but he had a customer to serve. He plunked the coffee cup on the counter in front of the sheriff and filled it with the steaming, black liquid.

Livvie cleared her throat. “Sheriff Morris, I’d like you to meet Will Taylor. He’s come to replace Joe in the kitchen. Mr. Taylor, this is the sheriff of Wabash County, Buford Morris.”

Will wiped his right hand on his apron front before extending it over the counter. “Mighty nice to meet you, sir.”

A wary-looking smile appeared on the sheriff’s thin lips as he likewise reached up, and the two shared a solid handshake. “Same here,” he said in a croaky voice.

“Mr. Taylor hails from upstate New York,” Livvie put in, “but, in more recent years, he lived in New York City. He got his kitchen experience working at a big restaurant there.”

Will felt a knot form in his stomach.

“That right? A big restaurant, eh?” Sheriff Morris took a sip of coffee. “What brought you clear to Wabash? You got family here?”

“No, sir.” He weighed his words carefully while the knot in his gut tightened. “Just thought it sounded like a decent place to hang my hat. I’d had enough of the big city. I like a quieter lifestyle.”

“Well, Wabash is a quiet town,” Sheriff Morris affirmed. “We pride ourselves on keeping it that way.” This he said with a hint of warning. Already, Will had the sheriff keeping a close eye on him, and he’d done nothing to warrant it except show up.

The man removed his hat and slid four fat fingers through his thinning gray hair, scratched the nape of his neck, then plunked the cap back in place with a short sniff. “Yep, Wabash is a mighty fine place. Isn’t that right, Miss Livvie?”

“It surely is, Sheriff,” she said. “Could I interest you in a slice of pie?”

“Well, now, if you’re talkin’ Joe’s pies, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

And if they were Will’s pies? What then? He decided to let the remark pass. “I’d be glad to cut you a slice, Sheriff.” He walked to the icebox and pulled open the door. “We’ve got apple, peach, cherry, strawberry, and…hm”—he bent to peruse the choices—“looks like that’s about it. I’m baking some more tonight or tomorrow.”

“You bake pies, eh?” Another sniff gave way to a frown. “You don’t look like the pie-bakin’ sort. Ain’t that somethin’?”

“He’s goin’ to give ol’ Joe some competition, Sheriff,” Coot piped up from his table. “Be forewarned.”

Sheriff Morris tipped his head to the side and pulled on his sagging double chin. He did not look convinced.

At two o’clock, the restaurant was finally empty. Livvie had stolen away to her apartment half an hour earlier, and Will flipped the cardboard sign on the door so that it read “Closed.” Then, he stepped out into the warm sunshine and headed up the street toward Bill’s Barbershop.

Time to improve his image so that he looked more like the “pie-bakin’ sort.”

***

Livvie snagged the last of the week’s wash, Alex and Nathan’s play shorts, off the line, which stretched from one end of her apartment to the other. She folded the shorts carefully and laid them on top of the stack of freshly laundered items that needed to be ironed. Then, she untied both ends of the line from the hooks on the wall and wrapped the rope in a circle around her hand. As she returned the rope and her basket of clothespins to the high shelf in the corner closet where she kept them, she heard footsteps approaching on the staircase. She waited, and, sure enough, there was a knock. She scurried to peek out the front window, then flung the door open wide. “Margie!” she squealed.

They hugged, and Livvie pulled her big sister into the apartment. “Were you running errands in town?” she asked, taking Margie’s hat and hanging it on the coat tree.

“Just started,” Margie said, setting her large purse on the floor. She fanned her face with her hand and blew upward at the gray hairs that had fallen into her face upon the removal of her hat. “I thought I’d stop by and see my favorite sister before heading over to McNarney Brothers for some groceries.”

“Your
only
sister,” Livvie muttered.

“I heard the first homegrown strawberries are starting to come in,” Margie said. “Want me to pick you up some?”

Livvie’s mouth watered at the thought of biting into a ripe strawberry. “That would be wonderful, but I can go get—”

“I thought I’d run over to that new candy shop that Mabel Simpson just opened on East Maple Street, too—what was it? Daydream Chocolates?” she droned. “Heaven knows I can make my own fudge, but Howard insisted I bring him home a couple of pounds, anyway—not that he needs it, mind you. I’ll put some away for Alex and Nathan. I heard the little shop is doing quite well, and Howard wants to make sure we do our part to keep it that way. You know as well as anybody how hard it is to keep a new business afloat.” Margie stopped for a breath and walked ahead of Livvie into the living room. “How is that new cook working out, by the way?” She plunked her rather plump frame into Livvie’s sofa and mopped her damp brow. “My, oh my, it’s hot!”

The month of June had ushered in another heat wave, making Livvie’s upstairs apartment uncommonly warm, despite the cross breezes generated by all the open windows.

“I suppose he’ll work out fine. Today was his first day alone, you know. I miss Joe terribly.”

“Well, that’s to be expected, honey, but I’m sure this new fellow will catch on quickly.”

She wouldn’t mention that he’d already made the kitchen his own by rearranging the pots, pans, and baking sheets and moving the utensils to a different drawer. Nor would she let on how efficient the restaurant had been through the breakfast and lunch rushes, even with an overabundance of customers and their potentially distracting introductions and greetings. The exception to the generally welcoming atmosphere, of course, had been Sheriff Morris. He wanted folks to view him as watchful and protective, so, naturally, every newcomer was met with suspicious glances and peppered with questions. She was actually surprised that the sheriff hadn’t been more forthright with his interrogation. Even though Will had divulged a few details about his past to her, she sensed that he’d left much unsaid.

“What’s he like, anyway?”

“What?”

“Your new cook. What’s he like? How old is he?”

“I haven’t—I don’t exactly know. He has a big, bushy beard.”
And disarming eyes and an extremely large, masculine frame.
“It’s hard for me to guess his age.”

“Is he married? Does he have children?”

“No, I don’t believe so. He came here alone.”

Margie arched an eyebrow. “He does have restaurant experience, right?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Apparently, he worked in some large establishment in New York.”

“Apparently?” Margie’s forehead wrinkled like a raisin. “You don’t seem to know very much about this new employee, Liv.”

It embarrassed her to admit the truth of her sister’s statement. “Well, Joe talked to him, and I went on his recommendation. He seems to believe Will—er, Mr. Taylor will do a fine job.”

“Ah. So, the two of you are on a first-name basis already?”

“It seemed appropriate, since we work together.”

“Of course.” Margie gave a slow sigh. “Well, I suppose I trust Joe’s judgment.”

Livvie perched on the edge of the chair across from Margie. “He plays the harmonica, not that it has anything to do with…anything, I guess. He took Alex and Nathan down to the river yesterday, and I went to check up on them—he didn’t know it, of course—and I overheard him playing for the boys. The music he made with that little instrument struck me as quite melodic and, well, just plain lovely.”

“Really. The harmonica.” Margie cast a glance at the window, where the sheer white curtains had caught an updraft and danced in the breeze. “Didn’t old Mr. Foxworthy, Papa’s friend, play a mouth organ?”

“I have no idea, Margie. You remember much more about Mama and Papa than I do. The house burned when I was ten.”

“Almost eleven. You really don’t remember?”

Livvie gave her head a slow shake and thought again about the day in early spring some twenty-plus years ago. The haziest of memories flitted across her mind—memories of thick smoke, her eyes pinched shut to avoid the sting of it; of her papa’s arms whisking her up from her bed, carrying her outside, and setting her on the ground, well away from the flaming house; of Papa’s voice, instructing her firmly to stay put while he went back inside to fetch her mama. Little had she known, while watching his shadowy figure stumble back inside the two-story structure, that she’d never see him or her beloved mama again.

From that day forward, her sister and brother-in-law had been her adoptive parents. They’d raised her as their own, along with their two boys, Duane and Keith, who had always been more like younger brothers than nephews to her. “I wish I could remember more about my childhood, but my memories prior to the fire are just a lot of mush.”

Margie gave a sullen nod and played with the folds of her cotton skirt. “I suppose a traumatic event such as a house fire will do that to a child—erase memories, whether good or bad.”

“I sometimes wonder if that hasn’t happened with my boys regarding Frank’s accident. They seldom talk about him anymore, even though I try my best to keep his memory alive.”

“I know, honey, but I’m sure they remember more than you think they do. Especially Alex. Maybe they just don’t feel ready to talk about it. Sometimes, these things take months, even years.”

Outside, a car horn honked, and another one answered. Impatient drivers! It was a wonder more folks weren’t killed on the busy streets of Wabash, what with all the traffic coming and going and pedestrians crossing the street wherever they chose. The advent of automobiles in recent years had certainly done much to speed up society—as if folks weren’t already scurrying about like ants at a picnic.

“I know you’re right. And I appreciate all that Howard does for the boys. They need that male influence in their lives, and he’s always so good with them.”

“Yes, well, it’s no trouble. I just wish we had more time to give. They truly are fine little men. You have the Lord to thank for that, you know.”

She did know, but she couldn’t bring herself to validate Margie’s claim. It seemed that she’d wandered away from God’s everlasting arms, and that getting back to them would take great effort. She nodded briefly.

Margie made a little sniff and smoothed out her skirt. “Well, I should probably be on my way. It was good seeing you. I’ll stop by again soon and take you and the boys out to the farm.”

Livvie rose with her sister and tried to smile, although her spirits had dipped low during the talk of her parents and the perilous fire and then Frank’s accident. “That sounds nice. What do you hear from those boys of yours?”

Margie started making her way to the door, and Livvie followed. “Oh, those crazy boys. I haven’t heard from either of them in over a month. I guess the armed services keep them too busy to write. At least, that’s what they’d like me to believe.”

She stopped at the coat tree and grabbed her hat. At that precise moment, the familiar sound of feet racing up the back staircase alerted the women that the boys were home from school. They fumbled with the lock, and then their excited voices filled the hallway, getting louder and louder, until the apartment door burst open. “Mommy!” Nathan exclaimed, barely taking notice of Margie’s presence. “You won’t believe it!”

“I won’t?”