“In a house fire when I was ten,” she stated matter-of-factly, as if reporting the daily weather forecast. “My papa woke me from a sound sleep and hauled me out of our burning house. When he ran back inside to get my mama, he never came back out.”
A shiver skipped up his spine as he imagined the crippling fear she must have endured while she waited for a glimpse of her parents, followed by the overwhelming grief of realizing they weren’t coming out. “That had to be terrible for you,” he finally said.
She fumbled with her napkin and shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve had plenty of years to deal with it. My sister was an amazing second mother to me, stricter than my own mama, but only because she carried such a weight of responsibility on her shoulders. Losing my husband was probably worse than losing my parents. Is that an awful thing to say?”
“Not at all. One day, you’re raising kids together, and the next, you’re alone, trying to figure out how to be both Mommy and Daddy to your sons, not to mention struggling to run a business and bring in enough money to support the three of you. That’s tough.”
She sniffed and raised her napkin to dab her eyes, which brimmed with moisture. “Please, let’s not talk about me anymore.”
He grinned and couldn’t resist reaching across the table to touch the tip of her nose. “Then, what shall we talk about?”
She gave a tentative smile. “You.”
“Me? No, I’m boring.”
“Tell me about the restaurant where you worked in New York.”
She sure could be a persistent little thing. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Well, why did you leave it—and New York, for that matter?”
He gave a long, laborious sigh, fiddled with the edge of his cloth napkin, and tapped his boot under the table. “I got tired of the big city—the sights, the sounds, the smells, the massive crowds of people—so, I jumped a train and came to Wabash.” He grinned. “Is that good enough?”
Her expression sobered. “Jumped? As in, didn’t pay for your ticket?”
“Yep. No secrets there. Rode in a freight car with a bunch of bums.”
A frown flitted across her features. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. But you had a job in a fine restaurant….”
“I never said it was fine. It was a job, and that’s all. Nothing special about it.”
“But I thought Joe—”
He sucked in a deep breath. “I got a lot of practice and honed my skills, but that’s about it.”
“What about the name of the restaurant?” Blamed if she wasn’t a nosy little doe. But then, he could hardly fault her. It still rocked his boots off that she’d hired him at all, hobo that he’d been—and probably still was in her eyes.
“The name slips my mind,” he fibbed. “You see, we mostly called it by a nickname, and there were lots of those.”
“Really? That’s strange. I still remember the name of the first place I got a job. The Lukens Lake Hotel. I was a senior in high school, trying to earn some money for college. Little did I know I’d meet Frank that summer at a church picnic, and he’d sweep me straight off my feet before I had the chance to entertain one more notion of college.” A faint grin played around her pretty lips, just enough to tease her dimples out. “My, that was a long time ago. Anyway, that was my first job—and I remember the name of the place like it’s imprinted on the back of my hand or something.” She paused. “Well, what were the nicknames you used for the establishment?”
How quickly the tide changed! One minute, they were discussing how to attract new clientele to the restaurant, and the next minute, she was trying to elicit details about his past. To avoid further inquiries, he stood up and feigned a yawn. “I think I’ll turn in, Olivia Beth. Cute name, by the way.” He tried to steal one last glimpse at her dimples, but they had vanished. “I’m anxious to get this new venture off the ground. I’m glad you’re on board with it.”
She flicked an imaginary crumb off the table. “You do carry around your share of secrets, don’t you, Will Taylor?”
“Does it bother you that you don’t know everything there is to know about me?”
“Not in the least. I just want to be sure you aren’t hiding something that might create problems later.”
“I wouldn’t want that, either.” He reached inside his pocket and drew out his pocket watch. “It’s getting late. You want me to walk you up the back stairs?”
“I’ve been walking myself up those stairs for well over a year now, Mr. Taylor. I think I can manage.”
“So, we’re back on formal terms, are we?”
She drummed her nails on the tabletop and cast him a brittle smile. “Good night.”
He nodded and left her sitting there by the window, where dusky sunlight sifted in and cast long shadows around the room. It took all his willpower to keep from turning around to see if she watched him walk away. Ten to one, she had her gaze pinned on his back, probably with eyes narrowed, as she speculated about the secrets he kept. My, how Olivia Beckman intrigued him, tested him, amused him, attracted him, and scared him willy-nilly. She came from a completely different world from him, and they had next to nothing in common. Darned if she wasn’t a captivating, refined, independent woman with two sweet sons, and he an ex-con!
What could she ever want to do with a man like him?
***
The days that followed went by in the usual flurry of busyness. Livvie decided to lay off probing Will for secrets from his past, at least for now. Everybody seemed to take to him like a pup to its littermate, and Coot Hermanson, whose opinion she valued above most others, had nothing but glowing things to say about him. “He’s a fine cook. Likable, too,” he’d said one afternoon when she had stopped at his table to chat during a lull. “Looks to me like you picked a winner, Liv.”
“I had very little to do with picking him. Joe’s the one who talked me into it.”
“You don’t sound completely sold.”
She’d leaned across his table and shoved a damp cloth over the surface, wanting to appear busy. “He’s so tight-lipped about his past, Coot. Makes me wonder if he’s hiding something important.”
With a harrumph, he’d pulled at the sparse whiskers on his chin. “I wouldn’t worry. From what I know of him, he’s a fine Christian man.”
“With secrets.”
“Oh, most people have secrets. He’s not obliged to tell you everything about himself, is he?”
She’d rubbed an aching spot at the base of her spine. “I guess you’re right. As long as he keeps my customers coming back, it shouldn’t matter.”
And keep customers coming back he did, especially when his new plan was put in motion. As predicted, Alex and Nate had jumped at the chance to create signs to advertise the family recipe campaign, which they had decided to call Family Feast. With the help of Sally Morgan, the girl Livvie had hired to watch them during the day, they had made posters to fill the windows. Sally, a cheerful, chubby girl with a saucy sense of humor, was the perfect match for her sons’ vibrant personalities and boundless energy. She did the lettering and most of the artwork on the posters, and Alex and Nate added color with every crayon in their box of Crayolas. Already, folks were talking about the Family Feast and whispering among themselves about certain recipes they felt confident would qualify.
After much discussion between Cora Mae, Coot, Will, and herself, plus some input from Sally and the boys, they’d come up with a slogan—“We’ll Test It, You Taste It!”—and a start-up date of Tuesday, June 29. With Norm Maloney’s help in phrasing, Livvie had placed an advertisement in the Daily Plain Dealer with a headline that read, “Family Feast: An Eating Extravaganza at Livvie’s Kitchen Every Tuesday and Thursday Night.” The ad explained the rules simply: folks could drop off a copy of a treasured family recipe in the decorated box by the door, and, every week, Olivia Beckman and Will Taylor, the new cook, would sift through them, select the front-runners, test them out, and then vote to determine the best one. Winners would receive a f
ree meal for the entire family and some royal treatment, as well—a harmonica serenade by Mr. Taylor, provided he wasn’t too busy at the stove. All were welcome to enjoy the featured meal on these special nights for a flat fee of $3.50 per family. The remaining weeknights would be business as usual.
Livvie only hoped that the event would live up to its name.
***
Clem could hardly believe he’d come all the way from New York City to this squirrelly place. Stupid town hardly qualified as a metropolis. It had a few main streets, a city hall, a library, a train station, and some grocery stores. “What a Podunk place,” he grumbled to himself as he scuffed along Market Street past the Hotel Indiana on Friday evening. He’d been here exactly three days and, so far, hadn’t run across one measly piece of evidence that Will Taylor was about. He’d wandered by service stations, hobby shops, and meat markets; he’d even lurked around a few factories and watched the workers come and go between shifts, but there’d been no sign of him. Shoot, Clem had begun to worry that, even if he saw the guy, he wouldn’t recognize him. It’d been ten years, after all.
He reached up to feel the wound inflicted by Florence when she’d hurled that brass candlestick across the room at him during their last scrap. Blasted woman had been madder than a junkyard dog when he’d told her he was cutting out, which hadn’t made a jot of sense to him. Considering how much they hated each other, he would have thought she’d be glad to see him go. Of course, it was his money she’d miss. “Who’s gonna buy our groceries an’ pay our rent?” the fat wench had wailed. Clem kicked a twig out of his path and sauntered on, grousing at the memory of her hitting him square alongside the face and leaving a gash so deep, he probably should have had the doc stitch it up. Then, he snickered, recalling how he’d charged at her and grabbed a wad of her straggly hair, thrown her to the floor, and kicked her in the gut.
Horses trotted and cars whizzed up and down the street, while other pedestrians crossed wherever they could find a gap in the traffic. Clem stopped at the corner of Market and Miami, crossed the street, and headed for a little diner called Fred’s Place. It looked like a dive, which suited his budget fine. Man, he missed his own moonshine. He’d have to ask around to see where he could buy some fresh booze.
Fred Place’s was dark and dreary inside—and mostly empty. He had a feeling Fred couldn’t afford the electric bill. “Howdy,” came a voice. A shrimpy-sized fellow emerged from the bar, behind which the wall was lined with empty shelves. Blamed Prohibition! The guy wore an apron that was stained red, probably from raw meat, and his thin, white mustache matched his balding head of hair. “Help ya?”
“Yeah, I could use some supper. You must be Fred, eh?”
“That’s me. Take a seat anywhere ya please.” The fellow gave him a closer glance. “Geez-oh-Pete, who’d ya meet up with, mister? That’s a nasty-lookin’ cut ya got there.”
He was getting plenty sick of the remarks complete strangers made about his face. For the hundredth time, he touched his palm to the tender, swollen wound. “This? Oh, couple o’ cans toppled off a shelf and fell on me.”
Fred shook his head and gave him the sympathetic stare he’d grown accustomed to seeing. “That had to’ve smarted.”
“Yeah.” Clem noticed a couple of other diners seated toward the back of the room, and one in the middle, across from the kitchen, who glanced up from his newspaper. Clem averted his eyes and shuffled to a table against the wall, then pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I ain’t got much of a menu selection,” Fred said, ambling over to the table. He handed Clem a soiled sheet of paper with a few items listed on it. But Clem didn’t need to see “Vegetable beef stew” to know it was an option; the aroma filled the restaurant, and his stomach let out a quiet growl. “You’ll see a bunch o’ stuff got scratched off. I’ll be closin’ down my place in the next month or so.”
“That right? Business is bad, eh?”
“Competition’s pretty stiff. Wabash has its fair share o’ restaurants and diners. In its time, my place was thrivin’ pretty good, back before the stinkin’ gover’ment banned booze sales.”
“I hear you. Most harebrained thing they could’ve done, passin’ that eighteenth ’mendment.” He glanced at the long, empty bar. “This used to be a saloon, did it?”
“Sure ’nough. Folks said I oughtta make the best o’ things, step up my cookin’ skills an’ such, but I never took much interest. Well, now I’m payin’ for it. Yep, we’ll be closin’ ’er down end o’ July. The missus and me are movin’ to Texas, where our three kids settled a few years ago. My son says he’s got a job for me in some factory. S’pose that’s where we’ll live out the rest of our days.”
The fellow liked to talk. “I’ll take some of that stew.”
“The stew, huh? Good choice.”
He didn’t have much of a choice, as far as he could see. As he handed the menu back to Fred, he leaned forward and whispered, “You wouldn’t happen to know where I might get me some home-brewed booze, would you?”
Fred jerked back, and his shoulders went as straight as boards. “No way, mister. I keep my nose clean.”
“Oh, ’course you do. I’m not questionin’ that one bit. No, sir. I just thought you might know of someone who…you know…but never mind. Sorry I asked. I’ll take a Coca-Cola, if you’ve got it.”
Shaking his head, Fred walked away and disappeared into the kitchen. Several minutes later, he returned, carrying a tray. In front of Clem, he set a bowl of steaming stew, a few packets of crackers, and a tall glass of soda with a straw.
“Don’t mean to keep botherin’ you, but you ever hear of a Will Taylor?” Clem asked. “Moved here a few weeks ago, I believe.”
Fred scratched his chin, which looked as if it hadn’t seen a razor in a few days, and frowned. “Can’t say I have. Sorry ’bout that. It’s a big town, though.”
“Yeah, big town,” Clem muttered.
He nearly inhaled the stew and asked for several refills of Coca-Cola. When he was almost finished, Fred brought him a newspaper. “It’s a day old. I nearly tossed it, but then, I got to thinkin’ ya might like to read ’bout the local news. Where ya from, by the way? Ya never did say.”
He wasn’t about to tell the guy squat about himself. “Oh, around. I’m just passin’ through, actually. Good stew, by the way. I like the seasonin’ you put in it.”
“Ya like that? It’s a combination o’ spices ’n’ herbs, a recipe I perfected with lots o’ practice. ’Bout the only thing I can make good, though. Umm….” He looked in either direction, then tossed a folded piece of paper onto the table. “That there’s a place where you can go to get ya some booze,” he muttered under his breath. “Ya never heard it from me, though, ya got that?”
Clem reached up and slid the paper off the table, stuffing it quickly inside his shirt pocket. “Much obliged,” he murmured in return.
Just then, the door opened, and both men turned. An armed officer strolled slowly toward them.
Fred stiffened. “Howdy, Sheriff.”
As he always did whenever he laid eyes on the law, Clem tried to make himself invisible. He lowered his head and used the newspaper as his shield.
Fred cleared his throat and gave Clem a sidelong glance. “Excuse me, mister, but I got to tend to the sheriff. He comes in here most every night for my stew.”
Clem nodded. “You go right ahead.” He patted his pocket. “Thanks for…the newspaper.”
The sheriff passed by with nary a look in his direction, his boots thudding beneath his bulky frame.
Clem relaxed a little and let his eyes fall on the rumpled periodical. He digested the first headline, skimmed over the article about some recipe contest at a place called Livvie’s Kitchen, and then nearly choked on his soda when the words started registering. “Well, I’ll be a mule’s hiney,” he muttered to himself. “I found the slimy so-and-so.”
Chapter Eleven
“Let thy mercies come also unto me, O Lord, even th
y salvation, according to thy word.”—Psalm 119:41
Business was slow on Saturday, but what had Livvie expected? It was a spotless, sunny day, and almost everyone was outside, picnicking by the river, chasing butterflies, fishing, boating, working in the garden, or otherwise enjoying the weather. The boys had gone to Margie’s house for the day, unable to pass up their uncle’s invitation to take a ride on his tractor.
When Margie had offered to keep them overnight and take them to church in the morning, Livvie had relented. She knew she ought to be the one taking them to Sunday school and church, but she was secretly glad to have her sister do it, instead. When Frank was alive, they hadn’t missed a single Sunday, and he’d be having fits about now if he knew how lax she’d grown since then. Why, her Bible had even collected a layer of dust. Not for the first time, she shoved down the mound of guilt that pressed at her heart’s door. Somehow, a seed of bitterness had sprouted within her toward all things spiritual, and she couldn’t seem to uproot it.
After saying good night to Emmett Wilson, her final customer, Livvie closed the door behind him and locked it, then flipped the sign around. As she did so, she glanced out the window and noticed a fellow leaning against a lamppost not ten feet away, his legs crossed at the ankle, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Something about him caused a lump to form in the pit of her stomach, and her discomfort grew when he made eye contact with her, touched the brim of his hat, and tipped his chin. He wore a tattered shirt, baggy denim overalls, and big boots, but his most salient feature was the deep gash on his left cheek.
She tried to tell herself that she had nothing to fear, that he was just being friendly, but the fellow kept staring, as if he meant to have a word with her. It was hard to imagine what he’d say, though, as she had never seen him before. A tiny shiver started at the base of her neck and shimmied down her spine. She averted her gaze to a boy darting across the street with his dog. When she peeked again at the peculiar man, he hadn’t shifted his stance, but he now wore a leering smirk. As quick as she could, she jerked the window shade down.
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