by Caryl McAdoo
Yes, Audrey definitely loved it, especially the six Tiffany-style stained glass shades that hung over the L-shaped counter. The hues of green, lavender, and blue in the grassy dragonfly pattern were her favorite colors. And the island behind her that separated the serving area from the over-sized stove and sink, a perfect touch.
She turned and rinsed the rag. “I love the whole house from what I’ve seen, but the kitchen’s by far my favorite. It has as many square feet as my entire apartment.” She walked over, rinsed the rag out, then finished wiping up the woman’s mess.
“Sorry, didn’t I get it well enough? All I usually do is shrimp and lobster.”
Audrey ignored the apology. “According to Preston, this counter is solid granite from right here in Texas.”
“Why, imagine that.” Charlotte pulled her fingertips over the cool stone. She walked toward the east wall and nodded toward the ten foot, glass-front floor-to-ceiling cabinets. All sorts of collectibles filled them, and arranged across the highest shelve, an interesting medley of old hurricane lamps finished them off.
“I just love antiques, don’t you? See that pretty oil lamp up there? The one that has the round etched glass globe over its long necked pedestal? It’s got a cast iron base.”
“The fifth one over?”
The southern beauty counted with her finger. “Yes, ma’am. That’s it. I think if we could get it down, you could see that that little gold sticker right at the top is the original Scottish label. A lovely piece. I believe it even has all original parts, too. Sure looks like it - the brass details, china knobs. Why, it appears the lamp’s hardly been used since it was new well over 100 years ago.” She turned back to face Audrey. “I’d place it in the mid to late 1800s.”
Maybe something a little more solid than air filled that pretty head after all. “I’m impressed. How did you know all that?”
“Oh, my Granny loved antiques. Had her own shop right up until the day she died. When I was just a tiny bitty thing, she used to drag me all over kingdom come searching for pieces to keep it full. She did a right smart business out of that little storefront. By the time I turned fourteen, she had me appraising for customers and setting the shop’s prices.”
“Well, I’m sure Mr. Preston was duly impressed. I’d say you have more than a couple of steps up on the others since he obviously shares your love of old things.”
“Maybe, but I’m not sure he knows.”
A closer inspection of the first cabinet’s contents earned a chorus of ooos and ahs and why-lookie-here’s from the Southern beauty. Remarks made on different items supported her Granny story, too.
Audrey shook her head and continued lunch preparations.
Dorothy swished into the room and flopped in the nearest chair. Her clipboard slammed to the table with a jarring slap. “I’ve got it all lined out, but we have a lazy little bimbo among us, ladies. The nerve of some people! She races to claim the biggest room then has the audacity to tell me she doesn't ‘do domestic’ - like she's some kind of princess or something. You know?”
Audrey sliced the last tomato and picked up a purple onion. “You’re speaking of the baby girl who came in late aren't you? Vicki wasn’t it? I pegged her from the start.”
The woman nodded. “That's the one. And obviously,” she made imaginary quotation marks with her fingers, “the only one to hear her tell it.”
Audrey covered the plate of sliced onions with a patterned dishtowel. “When she drug herself in this morning, I thought, now there's a boy-toy if I ever saw one. The way she headed straight for that room, you’ve got to figure she must have had the grand tour.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Grander tour than I had anyway, and no telling what else. Did either of you get to look around when you interviewed?”
“Not me, and you know, I don't care if she's Preston's personal prostitute. Nothing gives her the right to speak to me the way she did.”
“Now, Dorothy.” Marge stood in the doorway. “Don't be too hard on her. She was a bit rude to me, too, but we need to be tolerant and kind to one another. I’m sure we’re all feeling a little awkward. I know I am.” She came in and sat across from the offended woman. “She looked like she had a rough night, and you probably just caught her at a bad time.”
Audrey laughed. “You’ve got that right. Told me this morning she’d stayed up until three. She blew the last thousand of her bonus on a fling.”
“See?”
Dorothy scooted to the edge of her seat. “Oh, don't be so naïve, you know? That little twit will walk all over us if we let her, and I, for one, do not intend to allow it.”
“Whatever you think.” Marge rose and straightened her long skirt.
Audrey sat the knife in the sink and rinsed the cutting board. “Anyone want to round up everybody? It’s almost noon. Sandwiches are ready, and the soup's hot.”
“Hey, we're here.” Dorothy raised her chin and smoothed her neck. “They all heard Mr. Preston say noon, you know? I sure hope he plans to explain more than he did this morning about what he expects from everyone.”
Marge glanced at her, shrugged, then disappeared. Charlotte, now standing before the sixth cabinet, continued to scrutinize the knick-knacks. Audrey grinned. What had she gotten herself into? In the beginning, the whole concept seemed fun, now she wasn’t so sure.
What reason under the sun would Preston have to invite so many diverse women to participate in his bazaar game? But then maybe there had been lies on their applications, too. She turned and sighed aloud. “Oh, well.”
Marge came back with three women. “Vicki didn't answer when I knocked, but to remind everyone who’s who, Natalie, Holly, and Virginia.” She pointed at each lady beside her respectively. “Dorothy, Charlotte, and Audrey who you can thank for lunch.” Marge took a seat at the far table. Wasn’t hard to see why Preston had chosen her. She exuded kindness and grace. That lady would be one to keep an eye on.
The kitchen buzzed with the women’s exchange of information and a few thank-yous for the lunch preparations. Audrey filled the tureen at the stove then moved the soup to the serving counter. “Welcome, welcome, but it’s no big deal. I love to cook, and I’m in heaven in this kitchen. It's so well designed.”
“My wife's dream." The male voice turned all heads, including her own. Preston stood at the far end. “Nancy and I stayed awake many a night talking about all the things she wanted in here.”
“Well, I just love all these cabinets with all their wonderful treasures. You really do have some exquisite pieces, Mr. Preston. Why, this collection must have taken years.” Charlotte returned to the serving area and picked up an empty plate.
Dorothy stepped over to the host and gave him her Miss America smile. “Everything's ready.”
Audrey could hardly believe her ears. Like she had anything to do with it. The nerve of some people.
The credit-taker looped her arm through Preston’s. “How would you like the tables arranged?”
He patted her hand. “Sorry, but a problem’s popped up, and I don't have time for a sit-down lunch today.” He politely freed his arm then gestured toward the plate of sandwiches. “Audrey, if you would be so kind as to sack up four of those. Hate to miss the soup. It smells great.”
“Maybe you can have a bowl when you come in.” She pulled out a drawer and retrieved a box of plastic bags.
He looked impressed. “Found your way fast, girl.”
“Not really. That's where I would have put them.” She met his gaze and smiled, then stuffed two sandwiches into each bag.
Preston paused at the door on his way out. “We'll have a sit down at six.” He spun. “Dorothy, use that long table.” He pointed toward the north wall. “The leaves are in the closet on the porch. Seat everyone by age. Me at the head with the oldest on my right, in order, around to the youngest on my left.”
“Yes, Sir.” The organizer seemed thrilled with such explicit instructions. “Anything else?”
He shook his head then hollered back on h
is way out. “Leave Jorje a place at the other end.”
The belle choose a sandwich from the tray then leaned over and covered her mouth. “Do you suppose he's gonna eat four sandwiches for lunch?”
“Maybe he's taking two for Jorje.” Audrey smiled.
“I don't like that wetback of his.” Dorothy got in line behind Miss North Carolina. “He's got shifty eyes. You know? Probably carries a pistol in his boot.”
Holly—her name was easy to keep straight because her chest resembled Dolly’s—took a deep breath then exhaled. “You sure have an imagination. He doesn’t have shifty eyes, and how would you know whether or not he’s a wetback? I’d bet he’s legal.”
“I have to agree with Holly.” Marge knitted her brows. “The day I came to interview, Jorje seemed very nice, polite, too. I’d say he's shy maybe, not shifty.”
“Well, I don't care what any of you think. Mexicans are all alike, you know? The whole bunch of them.” Dorothy waved off the room and filled herself a plate. “We'll need some bowls.”
“That’s something I can do.” Charlotte sat her plate down and started fanning cabinets.
Audrey opened the right one on the first try. “Here they are, sweetie.” She smiled warmly at the blank expression on her helper's face. “The bowls?”
“Oh. Why, yes. Thanks.”
The buzz returned as the women fixed their plates, filled their bowls, and began eating. Audrey got hers last. When finished, she put her dishes in the sink then retired to her room. Didn’t have any idea who would clean the mess, but the job didn’t belong to her. She’d done her part.
She busied herself with a new Ann Everett mystery for an hour or so before returning to the kitchen. Only one lady remained. The diminutive dark-skinned woman with a long ponytail stood over the sink, but Audrey couldn’t remember her name. The girl wrung out the dishrag and hung it folded across the sink's divider.
“Hello again.” She nodded and smiled.
“Hi. Hope you don’t mind if I have to ask your name. I’m not as good with remembering as I used to be.”
The girl looked up and grinned sheepishly. Her almond eyes shone as black as her hair. Her exotic Polynesian features made you wonder where she hailed from or what mix she was. “Oh, no prob. I’m Natalie Bastian from Austin. Where’re you from?”
“Grew up on a sheep ranch near Meridian, south and west of here, but I've spent my adult life in the big city, Houston. So what do you think of this place so far?”
“It's okay. I mean the house is wonderful and everyone seems nice. It's… Well, it's hard for me to get to know new people sometimes, especially women, and there’s so many. I can’t imagine why Mr. Preston chose me, or even why I accepted either. I think it was something in his eyes I couldn’t resist.”
“He’s handsome enough all right. I’d say don’t worry about the others. After a few months with this group, I’m thinking we’ll know each other plenty well.” Audrey looped an apron over her head and tied it behind her waist then put two chickens she found in the refrigerator on to boil.
“You cooking dinner, too?”
“It isn’t a chore, I enjoy it.”
“God bless you for that. I was never much good in the kitchen. I can’t figure out what I want to do, but I knew I could handle clean up. Sure surprised me when no one else stayed to help, though.”
Audrey picked through fruit in an enormous bowl on the counter. “I guess everyone’s still feeling their way around.”
The pixie excused herself, and Audrey rinsed her selections. She hummed while she cut a salad in the peaceful quiet. A few of the varieties of fruits she couldn't identify, but chopped them, tasted to see they were good, then added them if they were. Only tossed one that had too many seeds. Topping the creation with whipped cream and nuts, she sat the salad in the refrigerator to chill.
“Audrey?”
Her back was to the door, but how could she miss that accent? “Yes, Charlotte?”
“I just can't seem to find a TV anywhere around here. Have you seen one?”
Audrey squatted in front of the fridge and rummaged through the crisper. Balancing her choices in the apron skirt, she answered without looking around. “No, come to think of it, I don’t guess I have. Maybe there aren't any.”
“But my stories.” She looked as if she might actually shed tears. “Why, I never dreamed I'd have to miss my stories. How will I ever keep up?”
The girl's seriousness tickled Audrey, and she couldn’t help but chuckle. “Charlotte, how old are you?”
“Why, thirty-three. But what does that have to do with anything? Why is it you ask?”
“Oh, seems to me you need to get a life if a silly television show means that much. I never understood a soap’s appeal. They are certainly not anything akin to real life.” She stood, spilled the contents of her apron into the sink, then rinsed the vegetables, stopping only long enough to grab two cutting boards. “Want to get me some potatoes from the pantry?” She went back to scrubbing. “Thought we’d have chicken and rice, but you know how some men like potatoes with every meal.”
“Sure.” The semi-airhead slash antique-specialist walked around the corner. “Uh, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can't find the pantry.”
Audrey laid her head back and closed her eyes. “Do you see the arched door there in front of you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There’s no reason to call me ma’am, Charlotte. I’m not that much older than you. Open the door.”
“Well, my gracious, I never. Would you just look at this. Why, I've never laid eyes on such a huge pantry in my life! It’s a whole room, isn’t it?” Her face popped into a curtained window beside the stove. “Lookie. Here I am. I bet this used to be the back of the house, huh? That fancy door sure doesn't look like it belongs to a pantry, does it? So how many potatoes did you need?”
In spite of Charlotte's help, everything was ready by five forty-five. Dorothy came early, inserted the leaves in the table, then asked everyone's age as the ladies drifted in one by one.
Audrey placed the rolls on the table as the seated women shifted yet again. She looked around, and suggested someone go for Vicki. No one moved. “Charlotte, would you mind reminding her that Mr. Preston wants us for supper at six?”
“Well, actually, truth be known, I’d really like to avoid that young woman as much as possible. I surely don’t mean to be disagreeable, but –”
“Oh, for goodness sakes. I'll go tell her. Why make a big fuss over nothing?”
Dorothy laughed. “You hit the nail on the head, Marge. That bimbo's nothing to fuss over, that's for certain, don’t you know?”
“Who are you calling a bimbo, Chubs?” Dressed in a slinky, sequined cocktail dress, Vicki made her entrance in full make-up with her frosted hair piled in ringlets. How she spent the whole day was suddenly no secret. She glared.
Dorothy didn’t look away. “You know, I imagine you've probably been called worse.”
Audrey slipped between the cat and kitty. “That's enough, ladies. I worked too hard on this meal for you two to ruin it. Now sit down and behave.”
“Vicki, how old are you, dear?” Marge touched her arm.
“Twenty-seven.”
“The youngest. Then you'll sit on this end next to Natalie.” The Polynesian princess waved her fingers. “Right there, dear.” Marge pointed to the empty chair, sat in the one directly across, then turned to her right and smiled. “I thought I’d be the oldest. Aren’t these youngsters something?”
“Definitely.” Virginia looked around the table. “But don’t let their youth intimidate you. Not a one of them have skin any prettier than yours.”
“Aren’t you sweet. I’ve been a Mary Kay customer since my twenties, so will give credit where credit’s due.”
Audrey took her seat across from Charlotte and on the other side of Virginia. “Glad to see you’re beside me since we haven’t got to visit much.” She turned to her right. “You, too, Dorothy. Give u
s a chance to know each other better.” She offered her hand to both, squeezed gently, then included Holly on the other corner. “Have y’all gotten all settled in?”
Charlotte nodded. “I’m all unpacked. I got the upstairs room on the right with a view of the back yard. I think they’re bigger than the ones downstairs.”
Virginia scooted her chair toward the table. “Pretty much. I’m just dying to hear from the man, aren’t you? This whole deal is so odd.”
“I’m all unpacked. I got the upstairs room on the right with the view of the back yard. I think they’re bigger than the ones downstairs.”
Dolly Holly leaned forward. “Well, I sure am. I mean he’s such a hunk!”
The wait wasn’t long. On the clock's sixth gong, Preston and Jorje walked into the suddenly silent dining room. Taking his seat at the head of the table, he fluffed his napkin and spread it across his lap. He took a sip of water then cleared his throat.
"Anyone care to pray before we eat?"
"Thank you, Mr. Preston. I certainly would." Marge bowed her head.
Audrey scanned the table during the prayer. She reached Preston, he’d been doing the same. Their eyes locked. Oh, no, you don't, Mr. Winston Grant Preston. I've played that game before. She stared for a minute then tried to swallow to quell a rising rumble, but couldn’t come up with enough spit. She finally bowed in desperation.
“…we give You praise. Amen.”
“Thank you, Marge.” He picked up the steamed potatoes, helped himself to a large portion, then passed the bowl to his right. “My wife was a praying woman."
Other than the sounds of knives and forks clinking against the eclectic dinnerware or an occasional request to pass something, she and the other diners ate in a relative hush. Did Preston notice the dirty looks Dorothy kept shooting Vicki's direction? Audrey decided he most likely didn't. His obvious gusto for eating kept his attentions pretty well focused.
Finally, he pushed his plate away. “Wonderful meal, Miss McLaudin! I’m partial to fruit salad. You must be a believer in that old adage about the way to a man’s heart.” He leaned back in his chair.