The Table and Mr. Tensdale
(Summer Lovin' – Book 1)
by
Rebecca Milton
***
Copyright © 2014 Rebecca Milton - All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and locations portrayed in this book and the names herein are fictitious. Any similarity to or identification with the locations, names, characters or history of any person, product or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional. - From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. No responsibility or liability is assumed by the Publisher for any injury, damage or financial loss sustained to persons or property from the use of this information, personal or otherwise, either directly or indirectly. While every effort has been made to ensure reliability and accuracy of the information within, all liability, negligence or otherwise, from any use, misuse or abuse of the operation of any methods, strategies, instructions or ideas contained in the material herein, is the sole responsibility of the reader. Any copyrights not held by publisher are owned by their respective authors. All information is generalized, presented for informational purposes only and presented "as is" without warranty or guarantee of any kind. All trademarks and brands referred to in this book are for illustrative purposes only, are the property of their respective owners and not affiliated with this publication in any way. Any trademarks are being used without permission, and the publication of the trademark is not authorized by, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owner.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
*** As a Special Gift for buying this book you are entitled to another 31 GREAT FREE BOOKS P-L-U-S incredible deals on new books and collections! For information on where to get all this — instantly and without any cost whatsoever — please see the last page of this book, right after the story ends ***
The Table and Mr. Tensdale
There was a table. That’s all. A heavy, hardwood, six foot by four foot table.
“Too big for me to move,” Mrs. Greyson, landlady, widow, flesh-mountain, told me. “So, I leave it here for whoever rents the place.”
I stood looking at the table, and it didn’t bother me. It was old but very sturdy, very solid. Its legs were thick and square. Nothing fancy about this table, it was pure utility. I could imagine years of meals on this table. Years of hands touching it, moving it. How many gifts had been wrapped on it? How many cups of coffee had been sipped while sitting at it? How many memories made, stories told, sadness shared, laughs born? This table had a life, history, and I was more than happy to have it.
“So,” I said, “this is all the furnishings then?” I asked Mrs. Greyson, “Because the ad says furnished apartment.” She dropped her eyes to the floor, coughed a little and deflected the question by continuing the tour.
“Large windows, lots of light all day long,” she said, moving with a heavy step through the place. “Kitchen in here, small but, you don’t need much. Gas stove, refrigerator, that’s new, had that put in... Oh, let’s see, no less than eight years ago. Still hums along like a dream.” She patted the relic of a refrigerator with a meaty hand like it was a pet and smiled at me.
“Yes, the kitchen seems fine for my needs, but the advertisement says furnished apartment.” I held the newspaper out to her, but she smiled past it.
“Bedroom in there, good sized, one huge closet,” I followed her down the short hall to the bedroom still holding the newspaper out to her, the ad, which I had circled with a red crayon, was on top. She opened the door to the closet, and it was, indeed, large and deep. But still... “And down here is the bathroom.”
She continued walking away from me, ignoring my insistence that the apartment wasn't furnished. She opened the door to the bathroom, and I gasped, it was enormous. Large windows, bright sunlight coming in. A beautiful vanity with a sink, cabinets, shelves and the tub. Oh, the glorious bathtub. Over six feet long, deeper than a wading pool. Lovely, ornate claw foot tub. I stood looking at it in awe.
“Yes,” Mrs. Greyson whispered. “She’s a beauty, usually what gets them in the end.”
I was lost in the dream of long, luxurious baths, with candles and, if I was feeling rather decadent, a glass of wine. The tub was glorious. However, I snapped back to reality and turned to the woman.
“Mrs. Greyson, the tub is lovely and the closets and the kitchen, but,” I held out the paper again. “Your ad specifically says furnished apartment.”
She could avoid it no longer. She took the paper from my hands. Her glasses rested on her bosom and hung from a chain that ran around her thick neck. She lifted the glasses to her eyes and read the ad.
“Well?” I said.
“This is a mistake,” she said, dropping her glasses and handing the paper back to me. “The ad should say semi-furnished apartment. I am going to go down to that newspaper office this afternoon and give them a piece of my mind.” She lurched out of the bathroom, and I followed her.
“Semi-furnished,” I said to her hulking back. “How is this semi-furnished?”
“Well,” she said, “there’s a table.” She said this without irony. So that was the semi-furnished apartment... A table.
“If you don’t like it, then don’t take it,” she said, a little edge to her voice now. That made sense. The problem was that I really wanted to live alone...
I had graduated college two weeks before and had come up on a train the day after school ended to interview for a job as a teacher of English literature here in Stockton. St. Claire's was a small liberal arts college, in a small town. The interview had gone well, so I had been offered the position, and I had planned to move in as soon as possible. Because it was my first teaching job, I wanted to spend my summer preparing for the coming year and getting myself settled. I dearly wanted my own place.
Having lived with girls all through college, I believed that, once I graduated, the mark of a true adult woman in the 1940s was to have a place of her own and be self-sufficient. Of the six places I had seen, three were in such vile shape, I couldn’t possibly live there. One had a lecherous man as a landlord who assured me several times that he lived just under me and was happy to pop in any time I needed anything.
The other two were shared apartments. The girls who lived there seemed quite nice and I am sure I would have gotten along, but, after four years of sharing everything, I mean everything, I wanted very much to be on my own. My parents, though not rich, had put together a little sum for me to get me started and this place, if it was furnished, fell exactly into my budget. But only if it was furnished. I knew I should have walked away, but everything else about the place was so right, so charming and the tub, I didn’t know what to do.
“Well,” I said at last, mustering my courage. “If you agree to drop thirty-five dollars off the rent, I’ll take the place.”
“Thirty-five dollars,” Mrs. Greyson gasped, “that’s quite a lot, my dear.” It was, I knew it, but I was determined to hold my ground.
“I agree. It does seem like a lot,”
I said, trying to remain calm. “But, your ad does say furnished apartment, and I do not believe the printers made the mistake. Now, we can argue this, or I can go down to the newspaper office myself and ask them what they think.” She looked at me with a bit of disdain, but I could see she wasn’t up for a fight.
“Thirty,” she said with a harsh nod.
“Done,” I said and extended my hand. She looked at it for a moment and then gave it a weak shake. “Shall we sign the contract?” She huffed, and I followed her to her house which was just across the street. We sat at her kitchen table, and I signed the agreement, made sure she crossed out the original rent price and wrote in the new price. As we chatted, Mrs. Greyson seemed to soften a little.
“You know,” she said, “there may be some things down in the basement, nothing too fancy, but maybe some old chairs and such. You can help yourself to whatever you find down there.”
“That would be wonderful, just as long as you don’t decide to tack on that thirty dollars later and tell me that you furnished the place.” It was a risk, but, I said it as sweetly as I could and she cackled with joy.
“Honey,” she said, patting my hand, “you have a future as a landlord with that kind of thinking. But, no, you just go down there and take what you need. Be between us.”
When everything was settled, I took the keys, walked back to the place and sat on the large table looking over my first apartment. I was nervous, but also a little giddy about being on my own.
I walked to town. Stockton was a marvelously small town. The central village had a grocery, a general store, a few shops, a restaurant and a bar. I went to the general store and had the telephone turned on, and the bill put in my name. I cannot imagine anyone so pleased to have a bill in their name as I was that day. I bought a mop, a bucket, some sponges and cleaning fluid. I went to the grocery and got some bread and cheese. I had no pots or pans, so I couldn’t cook anything yet. I didn’t mind. I knew it would all work itself out. I returned to my apartment and cleaned it top to bottom.
The sun was sinking low by the time I was done. I sat on the floor with my dinner and a glass of water. Fortunately, the last tenant had graciously left me two glasses and a chipped plate. I called my parents and spoke to my father. I told him about the place and how I had the landlord take thirty dollars off rent. I could feel his pride bursting through the phone. My mother worried that I had nothing, but I told her all would be well. When I hung up the phone, I said that to myself.
“All will be well,” I whispered to the room, to the table, to the walls. “All will be well.”
College seemed like four years of preparing for life, putting things off for the future. Now, here I was, alone, ready and looking forward to the adventure starting. “All will be well,” I said again, and I knew it would be true.
***
Three days later, as I scrubbed clean two fine, straight back chairs I had found among the cobwebs and mice in the basement I heard a truck come to a stop outside and heard a knock on my door. I opened it to find a delivery man with a large box on a dolly.
“Morning, Miss,” he said, handing me a clipboard to sign. “This here is a heavy box, best let me bring it in for you,” he said and I showed him into the main room. He put the box in the middle of the room, remarked on the table, tipped his hat and off he went. I opened the box and found a letter from my parents. They were proud of me, happy for me and wished me the best of luck.
In the box were two different sized iron skillets, two pots, dishes, silverware, cups and glasses, a coffee pot and one of my old teddy bears. Also was a small envelope. Inside was a clipping from the Sears & Roebuck catalog. The clipping was a beautiful little bed. A small note attached read, Should be arriving in three days, love, Dad. I sat on the floor and wept. They were so good to me, and I was determined to make them proud.
***
Within two weeks, I had my house set up. Dishes in cupboards, the bed arrived and fit beautifully in the bedroom. I scavenged chairs and an old dresser from the basement. The table I used for dining, writing reading and anything else I needed. I was very happy in my little home. I had shipped my books from college, and they we scattered all over the apartment in little piles and stacks.
I liked the feeling of moving among them and started to talk them at night, thinking of them as little friends. The summer was lovely in Stockton, and I was preparing my lessons for the coming school year, determined to make an impression, leave my mark on the minds of the students who would grace my room.
There were four apartments in the house, two empty for the summer and one occupied by an A. Tensdale. I never saw Mr. or Ms. Tensdale. I didn’t know which it was. Whoever they were, they were quiet and gave me no worries. One day, Mrs. Greyson came by to ask if all was well, see how I was doing. I invited her in for tea. She was in awe of what I had done to the place.
“Certainly going to ask for that extra thirty,” she said when she sat down. “And probably more when I rent this place again.” I smiled, proud of what I had done. “But, you’re not planning on leaving soon, are you dear?” I assured her I was happy there and didn’t expect to leave anytime soon. We chatted about the town, about my job, college and what not. She was not a happy woman.
“Be happy now,” she told me. “Life is a tragedy coiled in the cocoon, waiting to blossom into a full blown living hell.”
She had been married, but her husband left her, a drunk, and a gambler. She had raised two sons alone, one of them had recently died in the war and the other had gone off to California and she hadn’t heard from him in over six years.
“The things that make you happy now, hold on to them, keep them simple, and keep them close. The rest... it’s just heartbreak.”
She looked into her teacup and was silent for some time. I felt sorry for her, but I didn’t believe it was true. My parents were happy; they worked hard and had love to give. I refused to believe that life was heartache waiting to burst out on me. I told her so, and she smiled soft and distant.
“Of course,” she said, patting my hand as she did. “You’re young, what else would you think?” We chatted a while longer and then she had to go, had to get some work down. I walked her to the door and then asked her.
“A. Tensdale,” I said. “Who is she? I never see her.”
“He,” Mrs. Greyson said. “Mr. Tensdale. He’s a very nice man, little older than you. He’s been there for about two years now. Hardly see him much. Keeps to himself. Shouldn’t give you any trouble.” She left, and I closed the door.
“Andrew Tensdale,” I said to myself. “What an evocative name.”
***
The mysterious Mr. Tensdale stayed on my mind for a few days and then, with the reading, writing, making perfect my house, he drifted away, and I forgot about him altogether. Until...
“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice warm and easy. He was sitting on the corner of the porch in a chair, his feet up on the railing. I was coming home from the town center with some groceries and a few books I had ordered and picked up at the general store. He had sandy hair, longer than the current fashion but not unkempt. He needed a shave, but that added to his obvious charm. His eyes were a clear blue that sparkled even in the sunlight.
“Good afternoon,” I said, not stopping as my bags were heavy, and I wanted to get some things inside and into the fridge.
He didn’t rise to greet me or help me and, despite his striking good looks, I found that to be rather rude. I pushed into my apartment and put my things away. I was curious about the man on the porch and gave in to curiosity. I stepped out on the porch, and he was still there. I smiled and nodded to him.
“Tensdale,” he said, still not rising. I crossed to him and extended my hand, no need for us both to be rude.
“Emily Hazel,” I said and gave his hand a good solid shake. He smiled.
“Did your father teach you to shake like that,” he asked. “It’s a good firm handshake.”
“My father taught me to
stand up for myself,” I said. “My mother taught me never to be rude.” He chuckled, and I felt as if he was making fun of me.
“Am I being rude, Ms. Hazel,” he asked and slowly rose to his feet. “My apologies.” He gave a small bow and took my hand. “Alexander Tensdale,” he said. “At your service day or night.” He then kissed my hand, and I felt flush. He smiled and, despite my body’s reaction, my mind told me he was still mocking me in some fashion. I chose to ignore it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tensdale,’ I said and gave him a slight curtsey. This made him laugh out loud.
“Please,” he said. “Alex, call me Alex.” I nodded, told him it was a pleasure but had work to do and left him. Inside I sat at my table and worked on a lesson plan, but Mr. Alex Tensdale and the kiss on my hand stayed in my mind.
***
On Saturday morning, there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find Mr. Tensdale.
“Good morning,” he said. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I fear I was not at my best when we first met.” He seemed different, shyer, and less confident than when I had met him on the porch.
“You were just fine,” I assured him, his new behavior making me want to take care of him. “I had no problems with your behavior.”
“Nonetheless,” he went on. “I don’t feel we had a proper meeting and I... I was wondering if you’d care to allow me to make it up to you.”
“Oh,” I said. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“Well, I propose you walk with me through Memorial Park, there is a small arts festival going on, a lovely brook and... um... that’s it. That’s all I have to offer. What do you think?” He made me smile, and I agreed to the walk.
“Wonderful,” he said. “I shall return in two hours to gather you and off we’ll go.”
He disappeared up the stairs, and I took a hot bath, put on a sundress and waited for his return. Two hours passed and he did not knock. I stepped out on the porch and found him there, sitting in the chair, his feet up on the rail.
The Table and Mr. Tensdale Page 1