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For Troy,
who made our own kitchen and dining room tables
and inspired this book many years ago
ONE
May 1972
Thirty-five-year-old John Creighton pulls a slab of black walnut wood from the back of his pickup truck and carries it into the small workshop behind his home. He retrieves two more slabs, setting each one down on the worktable, sizing them up and his task at hand. What possibly made him think that he could build a kitchen table by October when the only other things he has made to this point are mirror and picture frames?
“So, this is the wood!”
He turns to see his thirty-year-old wife, Joan, standing in the doorway with her shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and holding their one-year-old son, Christopher. Their five-year-old daughter, Gigi, runs to her dad, wrapping an arm around one of his legs and using the other hand to pound on the wood. “This is it!” he says. “Nice, isn’t it?”
Joan runs a hand over the top of the wood, dusty and dirty from sitting in a farmer’s barn on the outskirts of Elmore for years. “If you say so, I believe you.” Christopher leans over in his mother’s arms, and Joan lowers him so he can tap the wood with his chubby hand.
John reaches for a can of mineral spirits and swipes a cloth off the table behind him. He pours some of the mineral spirits onto the cloth and rubs it across a slab, revealing a handsome, rich, brown wood. “See that, Joansie! Beautiful!”
She smiles. “Remember John, you don’t have to have this finished by October.”
“I told you that we would not eat one more Thanksgiving or Christmas meal on that yellow Formica table, and you have my word,” he says, saluting her.
“I’m just saying you don’t have to rush it.”
He leans against the workbench, looking at her. “Are you implying I won’t be able to have it finished by October?” She opens her mouth. “Are you inferring you don’t believe in my skills as a fine craftsman of tables? Are you saying I can’t demonstrate my woodworking abilities on our local PBS affiliate?”
Joan laughs, setting Christopher down on the floor. “I’m suggesting you’ve never made a table before, so take it easy on yourself.”
John throws the white cloth on top of the wood. “Game on, sister! Game on! The table will be done, and it will be magnificent. The question is, will we be able to say the same about your turkey?”
“Are you calling yourself a turkey? Because that’s how I interpreted that.”
He rears his head back, laughing. “To be so pretty, you’re a cruel woman, Joan Creighton.”
She kisses his cheek, picks up Christopher, and reaches for her daughter’s hand. “Dinner is in an hour and a half. I assume by your confidence that you’ll be bringing the table in with you?”
John watches them leave. “You jest, but it could happen!” He turns to look at the wood, sighing and scratching his head. He walks back to his truck and opens the passenger-side door, then lifts several library books off the front seat. Carrying them back into the workshop, he stacks them next to the wood and picks up the first one filled with black-and-white photos of kitchen tables and other furniture pieces. He reaches for another book, titled Measure Twice and Cut Once, and opens the pages filled with step-by-step instructions for furniture projects. “Oh boy,” he says beneath his breath. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.”
TWO
May 2012
Lauren Mabrey stands on the sidewalk at the entrance to Glory’s Place, welcoming children as they arrive for the after-school program. She finished her shift in the floral department at Clauson’s Supermarket an hour ago. Clauson’s has given her the morning shift so she can be at Glory’s Place each day by three to help. In November the twenty-three-year-old will mark two years of volunteering here and less than a year as a married woman. Just five months ago, in December, she stood in the gazebo in the heart of Grandon, surrounded by the townspeople who had adopted her as one of their own, and became Mrs. Travis Mabrey. She stumbled upon Grandon just a year and a half ago by accident, a literal crash. She was a witness to a car crash while driving through Grandon one day, was called back to town to identify the man involved in the hit-and-run, and never left. After years in foster families and with no family of her own to return to, she became a volunteer at Glory’s Place, fell in love with the children at Glory’s Place, with Grandon itself, and then with Travis.
Travis works with the Grandon Parks and Recreation Department, keeping ball fields in shape and the city’s playground equipment safe. He mows the grass at city parks, paints and cares for the gazebo in the town square, and even places the giant star atop it for Christmas. They live in the house Travis bought two years ago, a small two-bedroom ranch that was built in the 1960s. Although Lauren would like to say that she has added a female’s touch to the home, decorating has never been her strong suit. Part of her thinks it’s because she moved from one foster home to the next and never really had it modeled for her, but the other part believes it’s because she simply does not have an eye for it. Either way, their home still lacks warmth in color and feel, like Miss Glory’s home or Dalton and Heddy’s or Miriam’s, and she wants to do something about it.
Her stomach feels queasy, and Lauren leans against the door, waiting for another wave of children to arrive. A knock on the glass of the door makes her jump. “What is wrong with you?” She turns to see Miriam looking at her from inside. Her colored strawberry-blond hair hangs just below her chin in a sleek bob and her pink oxford shirt is tucked impeccably into blue trousers on Miriam’s trim frame. Her English accent and appearance would make anyone believe that she is demure, fragile even, but this isn’t the Miriam that Lauren has come to love.
“Are you ill?” Miriam says, opening the door and sizing up Lauren. “You look dreadful.”
Lauren shakes her head. “I ate sushi at work yesterday for lunch and it’s been a rough two days.”
Miriam groans. “Supermarket sushi! Do people really have to be told not to eat that? Isn’t that akin to squirting cheese out of a machine onto nachos in a petrol station?”
“No! Clauson’s has wonderful sushi. It’s always fresh.”
“And toxic,” Miriam says. “Fresh and toxic. A wonderful combination.” She looks at Lauren. “I’ll finish here. Why don’t you go inside and sit down or throw up or … whatever? One of Gloria’s friends is coming in today for training and since I don’t necessarily care to be around people, I will leave her training to you.”
Lauren smiles. Miriam can pretend all she wants, but Lauren knows how much she loves these children and the work that is done at Glory’s Place. Miriam loathes the thought that she’s old enough to be a grandmother to most of the volunteers, but she loves them and the children here with the fierce, protective love of any grandma. It was Miriam who bought her wedding dress and it was Miriam who wrapped her arms around her when Laur
en gave the dress to a young woman who couldn’t afford a wedding gown of her own. Her bond to Miriam, Gloria, Stacy, and Heddy and Dalton here at Glory’s Place is stronger than any she ever imagined having with any adult as a child growing up and she feels safe in a way she never thought possible.
The tutoring section of Glory’s Place is behind a door and Lauren spends the next few minutes here, sitting quietly at a desk and hoping this queasiness doesn’t blow up into food poisoning. She pops a couple of peppermint candies into her mouth, something that Heddy told her would help ease nausea, and lays her head on the desk in front of her. She stays here for several minutes until she hears Gloria’s voice inside the big room. Gloria is Glory’s Place; it was her idea many years ago to help single moms and struggling families and that morphed into an after-school program that’s open year-round. Lauren opens the door and sees Gloria standing in the middle of the big room with her arms open wide.
“This is the best day because all of you are here with us,” Gloria says in her Southern accent that sounds like a big, vocal hug. She says this every day to the children, many who come from broken homes and some who are in the foster care system, like Maddie once was before Amy, a volunteer, and her husband, Gabe, adopted her. More than thirty children from the ages of five to thirteen look on as Gloria, or “Miss Glory” to them, welcomes them. Her salt-and-pepper curls have been pulled back hastily with a clip she keeps in the top drawer of her desk and she’s wearing a Betty’s Bakery T-shirt. She and Miriam could not be less alike, but they are the best of friends. “I have a friend of mine who is going to be volunteering with us and I’d like all of you to meet her. I met Andrea and her husband, Bill, a few years ago, and she has been a wonderful friend to me, and I know she will be a wonderful friend to you, too. She’s helped from time to time over the years, but now wants to help more, and we can always use more hands around here. Say hi to Mrs. King.”
The children shout out hellos and Andrea waves. She looks to be in her forties, is petite but slightly pudgy with a big smile and warm, blue eyes and short brown hair. She looks like a woman who is easy to be with and even easier to hug. “Call me Miss Andrea,” she says. “I can’t wait to get to meet all of you. I always wanted to help more at Glory’s Place, but couldn’t do it a lot because I often traveled with my job and was so busy with raising my kids, but now they’re both practically grown so I’m excited to be helping and meeting all of you!”
Gloria claps her hands together. “All right, if you’re supposed to be in tutoring, then you know the way there. If you’re supposed to be reading with Stacy, you know where to go, or if you’re outside with Dalton, then head that way.” She swings an arm around like she’s about to pitch a fastball. “Let’s make it a great day!” The children begin to scatter and Gloria waves when she sees Lauren. “This is Lauren,” she says to Andrea.
Lauren sticks out her hand to Andrea. “So nice to meet you. I’ll be training you today.”
Gloria puts an arm around Lauren’s shoulder. “Lauren is one of my favorite people in the whole world and so is her new husband, Travis.” She looks at Lauren. “And Andrea is also one of my favorite people in the world. Just don’t tell Miriam I said that because I never include Miriam as one of my favorite people in the world.”
“I heard that, Gloria!” Miriam bellows from across the room. “You are boorish and ill-mannered.”
“And she wonders why she isn’t one of my favorite people,” Gloria whispers as she turns to walk to Miriam.
“They’ve always been like that, right?” Andrea says, watching Gloria and Miriam quibble.
Lauren laughs. “As long as I’ve known them. But if you listen really close you can hear how much they love each other. They’re the best of friends. I want to have a Gloria or Miriam when I’m their age.” Lauren turns and walks to the door behind them. “What brings you to help here?” she asks, opening the tutoring door.
“Well, like I said, my kids are grown or nearly grown, and I have more time on my hands these days.”
“How many kids do you have?” Lauren says, closing the door behind them.
“Two. A boy and a girl. My daughter is in college and my son is a senior in high school.” Andrea watches as an older woman with dark almond skin leans over a child around ten and points to something in a book in front of him.
“That’s Heddy,” Lauren whispers. “She and Dalton have been here since the beginning with Gloria and Miriam. And that’s Amy over there. She and Gabe got married on the same day that Travis and I did, and they adopted Maddie, one of the children from here.” She signals for Andrea to follow her to the door and is quiet as she opens it, stepping into the big room again.
“There are usually two volunteers in the tutoring room at a time and we help with homework.”
Andrea smirks at the thought. “I don’t think I’d be able to offer much help. How they do things in school now is so different from when I was a child.”
“We all thought that when we started helping with homework, but everybody has their strengths and we all just pitch in and…” She stops talking and puts her hand on her stomach.
“Are you okay?” Andrea says, concerned.
“Yes. I’m afraid my husband and I ate some bad sushi yesterday.”
“He’s sick, too?” Andrea asks.
Lauren shakes her head. “No. Just me. Didn’t agree with me, I guess. It’s made me so nauseous.”
“And you’re the only one nauseous?”
Lauren nods, exhaling as if that will blow the queasiness away. “Yeah. Isn’t that strange?”
Andrea smiles. “Not really.”
THREE
May 1972
Joan retrieves a stack of recipe cards from a drawer in the kitchen and sits down at the Formica kitchen table. Her mother handed these cards to her just weeks before her wedding to John. “If you can follow the steps of a recipe,” her mom said, “you can make anything.” Joan’s trouble was following the steps; she usually managed to make a blunder and the recipe never turned out like her mom’s. Her mom, Alice, had written down her favorite tried-and-true recipes and the ones that Joan loved the most as a child growing up. Joan wanted to be a good cook like her mom but had resorted to quick and easy meals each evening. She thumbs through the recipe cards, thinking that if John is determined to make a beautiful table for the holiday season, then she is also determined to put a beautiful meal on it. She stops at a card that reads “Hummingbird Cake.” She used to love it when her mom made this cake but has been afraid to try it on her own, reasoning there are too many ingredients. She scans over them, reading her mom’s notes beside some of the ingredients:
3 large, room-temperature eggs. Put them in some warm water for a few minutes if they’re right out of the fridge.
2 teaspoons vanilla. Pay the extra money for the real stuff!
4 to 6 bananas. Roast them in the oven for best flavor! And keep the peels on! You need two cups.
1 cup pineapple. Buy a fresh one. Don’t waste your time with that canned stuff!
2 cups roasted pecans. Let them roast a few minutes in the oven to bring out their best flavor! One cup is for the frosting.
Joan groans looking at all the extra steps her mother did: roasting bananas and pecans and cutting a fresh pineapple! She walks to the phone on the kitchen wall and dials her mom’s number. “Mom! I’m going to make a hummingbird cake today.”
“Really? Is it the recipe I gave you?” Alice asks.
Joan can imagine the excitement her mother must feel right now. Joan has never been anything close to the cook that her mother is and has rarely shown an interest in cooking. “Yep, your recipe, but good grief! Is all this roasting really going to make that big of a difference?”
“I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about adding just a little bit of heat to those bananas and pecans that brings out the best flavor!”
Joan sighs. She’s stuck with roasting. “I’ve never even bought a pineapple in my life, let
alone cut one” she says. Her mom laughs, talks her through it, and then says, “Can I talk with my grandbabies?”
Joan leans down, looking at Christopher. “You don’t want a hummingbird cake for dessert, do you?” she asks, handing him the phone.
“I do!” Gigi says, making the toy car she’s been playing with fly through the air. “If hummingbirds love it, then I will, too!”
“Then you’ll help me make it?”
Gigi leaps into the air, holding the car like a rocket ship. “Yes!”
Joan chuckles. “Then say hello to Grandma and let’s go to the grocery store. We’ve got a lot of things to buy.”
May 2012
Heddy Gregory sits at a wooden desk with its too-worn top etched with jagged scars and stained with blotches of purple-black ink, and fills out paperwork for a new child at Glory’s Place. This is the same paperwork and the same desk she has used year after year, but today when she presses a ballpoint pen down onto the information sheet, a leg on the desk collapses, making Heddy and the mother of the child gasp together. “Oh, my word!” Heddy says, grabbing the pictures of the children on top of the desk before they fall but letting the cup of pens crash to the floor.
Gloria pops her head out of her office at the commotion. “What’s going on?”
“Apparently Dalton did not fix this leg!”
Hearing his name, Dalton walks across the big room and looks at the desk. “What’d you do, Heddy?” he says, winking at Gloria.
“The question is, what didn’t you do?” Heddy says, leading the mother into the office to finish the paperwork.
“There’s not much that I can do for this leg,” Dalton says to Gloria. “It needs a new one. Do you want me to get it to Larry?”
Gloria shakes her head. “Larry would charge us twice what we paid for it.”
“What did you pay for it?”
“Nothing. We got it out of Miriam’s garage when we first opened, and it was a piece of junk then. Let’s just get it out of here and one of us can get over to Larry’s to see if he has anything we can buy. This space looks awfully big and boring without a table or desk here.” She looks up and notices Lauren chatting with a child on the sidewalk and pats Dalton on the shoulder. “I’ll grab Lauren to help get it out of here.”
The Christmas Table Page 1