Not that he is stuck up or a snob, Kari admitted. It is just such a different culture here.
“May I recommend the three-course lunch special?” he inquired.
“Please. I wouldn’t know what to order here.”
When the waiter went for their first course, Kari didn’t have to wait long for Clover to address what she was most hungry for.
“Would you like me to share my memories of your father now, Miss Kari?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
He smiled and stroked his silver goatee for a moment. “Well, let’s see. I met Michael when he was about fifteen years old and I was nearly sixteen. I remember, because not long after we met, his mother became ill.
“What was he like then? Michael was a strong, independent young man, somewhat given to getting himself into trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Oh, he skipped classes, took up smoking for a time, and generally rebelled against his uncle. That sort of thing. They had a love-hate relationship at the time. Michael loved him; his uncle loved him back, but Mr. Peter, if you recall my saying so, was not an easy person to get close to.”
“How did you meet my father?” Kari asked. She was breathless with anticipation.
“My father, Leonard Brunell, took me with him to call on Mr. Peter at his office. Michael happened to be there and, while the adults were talking, we struck up a conversation.
“We attended the same college prep school, so we recognized each other, but we ran in different crowds at the time. I liked Michael right away.”
“Why? What about him did you like?”
“Well, he was a natural-born leader, for one thing, with an engaging personality. Mr. Peter didn’t like that Michael was outgoing and friendly in a trusting way. As I came to know later, Peter trusted no one, and he didn’t want Michael trusting anyone either.
“When Michael’s mother Alicia became ill, Mr. Peter’s response was very different from Michael’s. Mr. Peter heard the prognosis and accepted it with little emotion, while Michael struggled to accept that nothing could be done for his mother.
“Mr. Peter made sure Alicia had the best care including around-the-clock nurses but, as his way was, he treated the situation as a problem in logistics rather than responding with compassion for Michael’s impending loss. Michael felt alone in his grief.
“Michael and I were close friends by then. We took classes together and collaborated on our schoolwork and projects. He would often be at our house doing homework—that is, until Alicia became ill. As long as she was ailing, I went to their house to do homework. Michael wouldn’t leave the house except when necessary.
“After she passed, it was the opposite. Michael couldn’t stand being in the house knowing she was gone. He started staying the night with us—until Mr. Peter made it known that Michael didn’t have his approval to do so.
“Mr. Peter began directing Michael’s schooling more closely after Alicia passed—all to shape Michael to someday work with him and eventually take over his business. Michael, on the other hand, hated financial work. He was wonderful with people, though.
“High school graduation was a relief for Michael. He went off to college and, I suppose, to find himself. He became involved in campus ministries and soon emerged as a young leader.
“And you know the rest of the story,” Clover finished, “At least as much as I know. I’m sorry I can’t fill in the blanks.”
“Clover, I’ve been thinking about something.” Kari looked down at her plate, avoiding his eyes—eyes that always seemed to know what she was feeling. Kinda like Ruth, Kari realized. “I, um, you know I’m divorced?”
“Yes. I know.”
Kari fixed her eyes on the fancy window poufs. “I don’t want to keep my married name of Hillyer . . . but I also don’t want to go back to my adopted name, Friedman.”
“I can understand that.”
Kari looked at him now. “After two failed marriages and an adopted ‘family’ that was more dysfunctional than the foster care system, I don’t even know what my name really is, Clover. In a way, I’ve spent my whole life trading one name for another.”
He didn’t say anything, but his pale blue eyes were compassionate.
Kind.
Simple kindness is going to kill me, Kari thought, trying not to choke on her emotions.
“I . . . would it be legally possible for me to get the Granger name back?”
“Of course, Miss Kari. I think it would be most fitting, don’t you? Would you like us to take care of it for you?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Kari mumbled.
“It will take a few months, I believe, but the process is straightforward.”
“Good. The sooner the better.”
Oskar, true to his word, ordered the work that needed to be done on the house so Kari could move in. By the middle of the second week, sooner than Kari had expected, he called to say that the house was ready.
“Miss Kari? Oskar Brunell here. Good news! The plumbing has been checked out, the gas turned on, and the Bodeens have done a thorough cleaning.
“I’ve also taken the liberty of having a telephone line installed under your name. Presently the house has only one phone, but the phone company has upgraded the system and added these new modular phone jacks to every room in the house. You can purchase additional phones and plug them in wherever you would like them.”
“Oskar, that is wonderful—thank you so much!”
“My pleasure, Miss Kari.”
Kari still could not move in until she had readied a bedroom to sleep in, so over the next two weeks Kari shopped. And shopped.
For someone who has never shopped—except when absolutely necessary—I am getting pretty good at this! Kari laughed to herself.
For an instant the parsimonious budget David kept her on flashed before her.
All so he could wine and dine his mistresses! Kari pressed her lips into a tight line and pushed the hurtful memories aside.
Under Lorene’s guidance and knowledge of New Orleans’ stores, Kari bought a good mattress, box spring, and pillows. Then she chose a bed set that she adored—comforter, dust ruffle, and pillow shams—of deep, dusty mauve, beige, and cream.
Then they bought complementary linens—three sets!—and filled the bathroom with towels, a thick bath rug, and shower curtain and liner; soaps, bath salts, and aromatic oils; and a wealth of vitamins, cold medications, toothpastes, mouthwash, shampoos, and other toiletries.
“We could stock a third-world drugstore with all this,” Kari grumbled. She stopped complaining when she saw how personal and inviting her bathroom looked.
Then Lorene called a friend who was an interior decorator. Aided by (and sometimes in spite of) the two of them, Kari chose paint and wallpaper for her bedroom. Within days, her father’s old room was transformed. No longer a young man’s room, it was transformed into a woman’s boudoir, comfortable and tasteful without being frilly or fussy.
“I love it,” Kari admitted, sinking down on the bed.
And then Lorene took her shopping for clothes.
“I’m really more of a jeans and boots girl,” Kari protested as Lorene pulled her into some rather “snobbish” shops.
“My dear, you’re not a girl; you’re a woman. While jeans and boots are comfortable and carefree—you may be surprised to hear that I own a few pair of comfortable jeans myself—a woman requires both definition and taste to exemplify who she is in the world. And you are somebody, you know.”
“Because I suddenly have money?” The words, almost spoken in anger, came out with a cough as Kari managed to choke on her tone.
Clover and Lorene have money, but I would never dream of calling them snobs, social climbers, or aristocratic. They simply aren’t.
“Not at all, Kari. You were somebody when you had nothing. You are somebody because God made you somebody. People who are insecure in who they are don’t understand that God made us in his image and likeness. That m
akes us somebody, somebody special. We’re not to be haughty or proud or act higher than others who are also made in his image and likeness, but we can be secure in his love for us.”
Lorene smiled at Kari. “After all, God set his seal of love upon us by pouring out his Son’s blood for us. That makes us valuable. Somebody. And we should act like it.”
Kari, laden with shopping bags, almost stumbled. For on those whom you have poured your Son’s lifeblood, you have also placed the most value. Can any earthly treasures be worth more?
It was déjà vu, the most unlikely of coincidences.
Right?
Kari didn’t know anymore. She was experiencing far more “coincidences” lately than she cared to scrutinize too closely.
At the end of their shopping day Kari owned three beautiful ensembles with coordinated shoes, stockings, handbags, and jewelry. And Lorene had pounced upon colorful blouses, sweaters, and slacks, declaring, “This is perfect for you, Kari! The color suits you to a ‘T.’” or “With your long legs, you can wear these charming cropped-style pants.”
Kari also had lovely new underthings and nighties and a score of accessories—scarves, gloves, and belts—“extras” she’d never dreamed of spending such money on before.
Tomorrow she had an appointment with someone whom Lorene assured her was the best stylist in New Orleans. “He will add grace and chic to your hair, Kari, although it is naturally thick and such a gorgeous color already!”
I have worn my hair long and trimmed it myself for so long, Kari thought, that I can’t remember the last time I went to a salon.
Lorene mentioned other outings she intended to schedule—one for makeup, another for a manicure—but Kari, keeping a close eye on the gracious older woman’s energy, replied, “I hope you will give me a few days to catch up, Lorene. All of this gallivanting around has worn me to a frazzle.”
Lorene murmured her assent, and Kari thought she noted a touch of relief around Lorene’s mouth.
Kari said goodbye to her hotel suite to spend her first night in the house. She climbed between her new sheets and read from Rose’s journal until she could no longer keep her eyes open. She yawned, placed the journal in the drawer of her nightstand where it would be safe—and then slept like the proverbial baby.
When she woke in the morning she stared around her bedroom, appreciating how it looked in the early light. She reveled in the thought that it was hers.
Mine, she thought. This room is mine. This house is . . . mine? She wasn’t quite ready to say “mine” about the house. It still felt like Peter Granger’s house, not hers.
She sniffed. Is that coffee?
Slipping into jeans and a t-shirt, she padded down the back stairs to the kitchen. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee . . . and something else, something very delicious . . . wafted up the staircase.
If this is a cooking and coffee-making burglar, I wonder if we can come to a mutually satisfying arrangement: He pilfers a priceless antique and leaves me with food and liquid treasure.
Kari sniffed again and opened the stairway door leading into the kitchen. A tiny woman engulfed in a large apron stood before the open oven door. She was pulling out a tin of something . . . popovers? Kari’s mouth began to water.
“Good morning,” Kari said.
The woman shrieked and dropped the tin into the sink. “There! Ya skeered th’ wits outta me!” She turned, holding her hand over her heart.
“I was thinking something similar when I woke up and realized someone was in the house with me,” Kari answered evenly.
“What? Mr. Oskar din’t tell ya he hired me t’ do fer ya?”
“No; Mr. Oskar didn’t tell me he hired anyone to ‘do for me.’” Kari’s eyes flew over the small woman. She was small, thin, and her hair, under a worn kerchief, was black with silver strands throughout. Something in her mouth, the shape or set of it, reminded Kari of someone but she couldn’t quite place who.
The woman lifted the tin of popovers from the sink. “There. Not many ruint. Plenty for yer breakfast.”
She set the tray on a hot pad, pulled off the oven mitt, and offered her hand to Kari. “Azalea Bodeen. I’m Toller’s mom. Been lookin’ forward t’ meetin’ ya.”
Kari shook hands, muttering, “Kari Hillyer. I would have been looking forward to it myself if only I’d been told.”
Silently she started planning just how she’d bawl out Oskar for scaring her out of several years of life.
“Said I sh’d start today, Oskar did. Din’t know he’d not told ya. Would ya like coffee first?”
“Indeed I would,” Kari relented. Azalea poured and handed her a thick mug and Kari hung her nose over the cup, inhaling the nutty aroma. Then she tasted it.
“Ohhh.”
“Good, yeah? M’husband always liked m’ coffee real well. I’ll have breakfast on th’ table in five minutes, Ms. Hillyer.”
“Kari. Please call me Kari.” Kari was already on her way to the table, sipping Azalea’s magical brew, her stomach calling for popovers.
Kari called and regaled Ruth that night with her tale of meeting Azalea. They laughed so hard, Kari had tears running down her cheeks.
“I’m not kidding—I smelled that coffee and thought, ‘If that’s a burglar, I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.’” Kari wiped her eyes. “She’s about as plain and as plainspoken a person as you will ever meet, Ruth. But her popovers? To die for.”
“Well, I’m jealous. I’d love someone to ‘do’ for me.”
“I don’t know. I’m so used to doing everything myself. I don’t think I’m ‘aristo’ enough to have someone wait on me. At least Azalea’s attitude isn’t subservient. I couldn’t handle that.”
“No; that wouldn’t be your style, Kari. So what else have you been doing?”
“Would you believe shopping? Lorene Brunell has taken the bull by the horns with me and has about worn me out! We’ve been going here, going there, trying on this and that and the other. I have a completely new wardrobe with more clothes than I’ve ever owned in my life.”
“No! The shame of it!” Then Ruth growled, “Now you listen here, Kari Hillyer: If you are grumbling and whining about shopping—even an iota—you just call your dear friend Ruth. I’ll come and relieve you of your heavy burden pronto.”
Kari could hear Ruth muttering to herself, “I could sure use a new wardrobe. I could sure use a makeover! The nerve of her—complaining!”
Ruth’s good-natured ribbing was comforting to Kari. I am so blessed to have such a good friend, she realized.
Then she frowned. Blessed? The Bible belt must be rubbing off on me. And she shuddered a little.
Over the following days—with Kari insisting on a reasonable pace—Lorene pushed ahead with her shopping and makeover goals. Kari looked in the bathroom mirror and, in spite of her reluctance, thrilled over what the stylist had done with her hair. The man had kept the length but had layered her hair and trimmed its sides in front so that they curled gently, framing her oval face.
“You have wonderful hair, Miss Kari,” he’d murmured, “and such striking eyes!” The style looked classy but it was perfect and easy to maintain.
Kari glanced down. Her nails were now a soft, muted pink and she looked comfortable but fashionable in black cropped slacks, black slip-ons, and a loose sweater.
The doorbell rang; Kari smiled at herself in the mirror and ran down the stairs to answer it.
“Miss Kari?” It was Oskar’s unmistakable voice outside the front door.
“Oskar! It’s so good to see you. What brings you here?”
He backed away from the doorway and gestured grandly toward the driveway. “Your chariot awaits, madam.”
Kari glanced at the driveway and did a double take: There sat the Coupe de Ville, its top down, cherry-red paint and chrome trim glowing in the sun.
“Oh, Oskar!”
She raced down the steps, almost tripping over her own feet. She had been out of the house when Os
kar had the car towed away three weeks ago, and she hadn’t seen the Caddy’s interior before. Now she ran her hands over the white leather, supple and creamy, amazed at how good it looked and felt.
She walked around the car, taking in every detail. “Brand-new white sidewalls,” she breathed. “Wow.” The wheel rims sported the glowing red Cadillac emblem, the chrome-topped fins sparkled, and “Coupe de Ville” was spelled out in chrome above the trim on the rear panels.
“The Peters Brothers almost paid me to do this job,” Oskar joked. “Really, though, they put a rush on it and loved every minute of getting your car road-ready. They even made me quite an offer for it.”
“What! It’s not for sale, is it?” Kari almost panicked.
Oskar laughed. “No, ma’am, it surely is not. It is all yours.” He dangled the keys and Kari grabbed them the way a child grabs candy.
“Can I drive it, then?”
“Waalll,” Oskar drew the word out as long as he could and lapsed into an overdone Southern drawl. “I’m thinkin’ them Peters boys din’t put all that-there effort into it so’s you could park it in th’ drive jest t’ gawk at it all th’ day.”
He reverted to his usual voice. “Want to take her for a spin?”
“And how!”
Kari soon realized that the car was bigger—larger and just more—than anything she’d driven. She took hold of the steering wheel—half white and half shiny red. It felt stiff and hard in her hands but turned easily.
Power steering! Kari gloated. And power windows! The Cadillac even had two-way seat adjustment!
She examined the interior minutely, noting the classy pin-and-button tucked upholstery and the heavy use of chrome—more chrome than she’d ever seen in a car. Every part of the dash was surrounded by sparkling chrome: the speedometer that proudly boasted 0 to 120 miles-per-hour, the clock, the radio, and the trim that bled onto the door interiors.
Kari stared at the speedometer in awe. “Will it really go 120 miles an hour?”
Lost Are Found (A Prairie Heritage, Book 6) Page 12