Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (8 page)

Now as Letta headed home to prepare an evening meal for herself and her brothers—“And show ’em the letters so they can learn ’em, too,” she’d confided—Caroline’s stomach twinged. The sustenance of the morning’s apple had long since abandoned her. She’d locate the nearest café, partake of the biggest meal on the menu, and then use the telephone in the boarding hotel’s lobby to call Noble and give her first day’s report. She hoped she would be able to inject as much enthusiasm into her recitation as Letta had with hers.

Two blocks up the street Caroline detected the aromas of fresh-baked bread, roasting meat, and cinnamon—a nearly intoxicating combination. She
forced her tired feet to hurry and came upon a small white building with a recessed doorway and the name Durham’s Café painted in square blue letters on a board above the porch. She cupped her hands beside her face and peeked through a slit in the green-checked curtains hanging behind the plate-glass window. An L-shaped counter with tall stools provided seating. All but one were already filled, assuring Caroline of the café’s popularity.

With her stomach twisting in hunger, she entered and crossed to the lone available stool, situated between a middle-aged man in a dark suit and a younger man in stained dungarees and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. She stifled a groan as she climbed onto the stool, the muscles in her legs and back resisting the movements. Not until Caroline had settled herself at the counter did she notice no other female filled a seat. And every male—those on her right and those on her left—gazed in her direction. Forks froze midair above enameled tin plates. All conversation ceased. Faces registered either humor or confusion. Eyebrows rose or descended.

Caroline glanced nervously up and down the row of faces. Had she inadvertently entered a male-only establishment? Such places existed in larger cities. She pressed her palms to the worn but clean counter, prepared to dash out. Before she could move, however, a round-faced woman with a starched, ruffled apron covering her ample front bustled from a door on the far right, balancing three plates in her hands. “All right, Reggie,” she announced in a bright, warbling voice, “got your stew, biscuits, an’ pie. Tom, your pie’s—”

Her gaze found Caroline, and she stopped so suddenly one fluffy biscuit scooted off the edge of the plate and hit the floor with a burst of crumbs. The woman’s mouth dropped open in surprise, then curved into a smile of welcome. “Well, I’ll be … Hello there, honey. What’s your name?”

Caroline flicked another uncertain glance across the gathering of men. “I … My name is Caro—Carrie Lang.”

The woman bustled to the counter, her gray skirts flapping above the toes of her battered brown boots, and plopped the plates down with a whack. “I’ll getcha another biscuit in a minute, Reg.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she edged to the opposite side of the counter and then stretched her hands toward Caroline. “I’m Kesia. Kesia Durham.”

Caroline gripped the warm, leathery palms. Despite her feelings of discomfiture, she couldn’t help but smile. The woman radiated friendliness. “Hello, Miss Kesia.”

Kesia aimed a stern frown at the young man on Caroline’s left. “Where’re your manners, Patrick?” She turned the frown on the older man on Caroline’s right. “You, too, Willis. All you fellas, quit gawkin’ at the poor girl an’ eat your supper. You act as though you ain’t never seen a female before.”

The younger man, Patrick, shoved his fork into the pile of greens on his plate. “Well, Kesia, I ain’t. Leastwise not such a purty one in here.”

Caroline cringed. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she addressed Kesia. “Is this a … gentlemen-only eatery? If so, I—”

Kesia’s laughter rolled, her face crinkling merrily. With her white mobcap, plump, rosy cheeks, and ruffly apron, she reminded Caroline of a drawing she’d seen of Mrs. Claus. “Oh, honey, forgive me, but such a question.” She wiped her eyes, still chuckling. “No, no. I tend to cater to a mostly male crowd, but that’s just ’cause females generally have their own kitchens an’ fix their own dinners. We ain’t used to seein’ naught but men resting their elbows on my servin’ counter.” She reached out and gave Caroline’s cheek a gentle pat. “But your pretty face is a welcome sight, especially when you take a gander at this sorry lot o’ fellas.”

The men grinned, none seeming to take offense.

“But enough jawin’.” Kesia plunked one fist on a beefy hip. “You must be hungry, hmm? Tonight I’m servin’ stew an’ biscuits, beans an’ ham with collard greens, or pot roast with mashed turnips, carrots, an’ peas. Which o’ those tickles your fancy, honey?”

They all sounded wonderful. But considering her empty stomach, Caroline chose the biggest meal, just as she’d intended. “The pot roast, please.” She spotted no price board, but whatever the cost, she’d pay it. She was famished, but even more, Kesia had already earned a place of affection in her heart.

“Comin’ right up.” Kesia spun and headed for the doorway, calling over her shoulder, “Tom, I ain’t forgot your pie. I’ll bring it after I bring Miss Carrie’s dinner. Ladies first!”

To Caroline’s relief the men turned their attention to their plates. The low
buzz of voices resumed, and by the time Kesia returned with Caroline’s overflowing plate and Tom’s pie, she’d set aside her discomfort and was able to take up her fork without a moment’s hesitation. Just before cutting into her beef, she remembered she hadn’t offered grace. She set the fork back on the counter.

Kesia stopped, Tom’s large wedge of cherry pie in hand, and looked at Caroline. “Somethin’ wrong, honey?”

Once again Caroline found herself being scrutinized. Heat flooded her face, but she shook her head and answered. “No, ma’am. It all looks delicious. I just need to bless it first.”

One of the men guffawed. “Good thinking. Otherwise you might get indigestion.”

Kesia waved her hand at the man, scowling. “Hush that. I won’t have you pokin’ fun at somebody who’s got the sense to thank the Good Lord for her blessings, big an’ small. All o’ you, stop your eatin’.” She waited until every last man followed her order. Then she folded her hands and bobbed her chin at Caroline. “Go ahead. Say your prayer.”

Caroline stared at the woman. Aloud? In front of everyone? She’d never prayed before an audience. The men fidgeted, waiting for their opportunity to continue eating. Swallowing a nervous titter, Caroline folded her hands and closed her eyes. She hoped everyone else closed their eyes, too. By now her face must be as bold red as the cherries in Tom’s pie.

“Dear Lord, thank You for this food.” The aroma rising from the plate nearly turned her stomach inside out with eagerness. She amended, “For this
marvelous
food. Please bless the hands that prepared it, and may it give me strength to do Your service. Amen.”

A mumble of voices echoed, “Amen,” and the men dove back into their plates.

Kesia leaned on the counter and beamed at Caroline. “So what brings you to Durham’s, honey? Like I said, I don’t get too many gals in here. Hope you don’t mind if I bend your ear a bit.”

Caroline grinned. “Not if you don’t mind me eating while we talk.” She took her first bite of tender beef. “Oh …,” she moaned around the mouthful. “This is divine.”

“Bay leaf an’ garlic, baked slow in a low-burnin’ oven,” Kesia stated matter-of-factly. “You live around here? Haven’t seen you before.”

Between bites Caroline shared her carefully crafted script of information. The food stuck in her throat occasionally as guilt overtook her. She hated fibbing to this dear, friendly woman. At least some of what she’d shared was truthful—she was an orphan, she had been accepted as an employee at Dinsmore’s factory, and she did reside at the Sherwood Boarding Hotel.

Patrons finished their meals and left, dropping money in a little bucket hanging from a nail at the end of the counter before heading out the door with calls of farewell to both Kesia and Caroline. New men sauntered in to fill the vacated stools. Kesia ran back and forth, serving meals, but she always returned to Caroline and to their conversation as if no interruption had occurred.

Caroline ate every bite of the food on her plate and used a biscuit, shyly offered by the man named Reggie, to mop up the remnants of gravy. The moment she finished, Kesia whisked her plate away and replaced it with a bowl containing a slice of cinnamon-laden peach pie nearly hidden by a fluffy mound of whipped cream. Caroline clutched her stomach and moaned. “Oh, Miss Kesia, I’m so full I’m ready to pop. I can’t possibly eat this, too.”

The woman offered a teasing wink. “Well, then sit there a bit an’ let your dinner settle. Let some room for that pie open up.”

Caroline didn’t think her stomach worked that way, but she sensed Kesia’s pleasure in visiting with a female customer. After the woman had been so kind, Caroline wouldn’t abandon her to the male throng. She propped her chin in her hands. “All right.”

Kesia grinned and poured her a cup of coffee, then bustled to the kitchen to prepare a plate for the latest arrival, an elderly man with an overgrown mustache and a thick gray beard hiding the bottom half of his face. Caroline tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help but wonder how the man would manage to eat. When his food arrived, he solved the problem by clutching the long mustache hairs in his fist and holding them aloft while shoveling beans into his toothless mouth. No one else seemed taken aback by his behavior, apparently accustomed to his odd means of feeding himself. Caroline followed their example and aimed her focus elsewhere.

Kesia leaned on the counter, flashing a weary smile at Caroline. “So you’ve hired on at the chocolate factory, huh? Lots of folks in this neighborhood make their livin’ at Dinsmore’s factory. Do you like it?”

Caroline took a sip of the coffee. “I just started, but, yes, I think I’ll like it. The people are friendly, much like you.” Kesia fussed with the lacy edge of her cap and blushed at the compliment. Caroline continued. “I’m only a toter, but I hope to become a packager.” Packagers rode the elevator to the lowest level, where the chocolates were boxed for shipping. If she was going to learn more about Bratcher’s untimely death, she needed access to the elevator.

“It’s good to have ambitions,” Kesia mused. “Kinda surprised, though, that a pretty young girl like you ain’t aimin’ her sights for a man instead of a job.”

Kesia couldn’t know Caroline held no desire to tie herself to a man who would demand she see to his needs and cater to his wants until he’d drained the life from her. And Kesia wouldn’t know, because Caroline never talked about her real past. Only the manufactured one created by Noble. She forced a smile. “Oh, maybe someday, but for now I’m enjoying my independence.”

Kesia chortled, shaking her head. She smoothed the ruffles climbing across one round shoulder. “Independence is nice, I suppose, but so is marriage. I’ve had both, you know. Spent twenty-two years with my Isaac, an’ I’d say a good twenty o’ them was happy.” She laughed, and Caroline joined her. Then she sighed. “Been
independent
now for comin’ up on ten years, an’ most o’ them’s been good, too. Life’s what you make of it, I suppose.”

Caroline pondered the woman’s statement. To her thinking, life was more trying to make something of what one had been given, but she wouldn’t argue. She started to ask how Isaac had died, but the door behind her opened, and another customer entered.

Kesia straightened, sending a bright smile in the direction of the newcomer. “Here you are! I was startin’ to think you’d found yourself another place to eat your supper.”

A chuckle rumbled. Caroline jolted. She’d heard that low-pitched sound before. Tingles crept up her arms as recognition bloomed. She slowly turned as Ollie Moore strode up to the counter, his cap crushed in one broad palm.

“Ollie,” Kesia said, “this here is Carr—”

“Carrie Lang.” Ollie slid onto the vacated stool next to her, his unusual eyes pinned on her face. “How splendid …” He ducked his head briefly, grimacing, then met her gaze again. “It’s sure good to see you.”

Oliver could scarcely believe his good fortune. He’d wanted time with Carrie, and here she sat like a queen on her throne in Kesia’s little café. A dot of gravy smudged the corner of her mouth, drawing his attention. But he shouldn’t stare at her lips. It might give him ideas. Even though Hightower was nowhere around to chastise them for “fraternizing,” Kesia might not appreciate his kissing one of her customers.

He rested one elbow on the counter and offered a bright smile. “So you’ve stumbled upon Miss Kesia’s place, huh? Lucky you. I’ve eaten nearly every meal here since I started workin’ at the factory coming up on two months now. She’s the best cook in town.”

Kesia flapped her hands at him, her twinkling eyes shining with a fondness he reciprocated a dozen times over. “Now how could’ja know there’s no better cook if you’ve only been eatin’ here?”

Oliver had eaten at the finest restaurants in Wichita, Kansas City, even France. But he didn’t dare say so. He gave a cavalier shrug. “Some things a man just knows. An’ I have to say, I envy the man who snags you for his bride.”

The older woman tittered, her rosy face growing rosier. “Well, you’re a flatterer for sure, but I know how you like my biscuits. Lemme get you half a dozen along with a bowl o’ venison stew.”