Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 6

  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

  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 s
tare 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.”

  “That sounds perfect, Kesia. Thank you.” He waited until she bustled off and then nodded toward the bowl of pie resting undisturbed in front of Carrie. “If you’ve got any qualms about trusting Miss Kesia’s cooking, set ’em aside. Your mouth’ll surely thank you for letting it taste her peach pie.”

  Carrie wrinkled her nose prettily. “I’ve already indulged in her delectable pot roast and vegetables, so I’m aware of her culinary skills.” She scooped up an acorn-sized blob of whipped cream with her finger and poked it into her mouth. When she licked her lips clean, she captured the little spot of gravy as well. “I’m not reluctant to trust her pie. I’m just too well sated at the moment to risk adding more to my stomach.”

  Oliver blinked. He’d struggled to maintain his workman’s style speech in front of this woman, and suddenly he understood why. She spoke like someone with breeding, inviting him to do the same. He blurted, “You’re educated.”

  She drew back, her eyes widening in alarm. “Wh-what?”

  Father always fussed about Oliver consorting with the underprivileged. “They’ll likely pursue you to gain access to your wealth. A man with money must always be diligent against gold diggers.” He’d heard the warning so many times it rang through his memory without invitation. But if she came from a background similar to his, he could set aside his reluctance to get to know her better.

  He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to keep their conversation private from the others still enjoying one of Miss Kesia’s homemade dinners. “Where did you study?” His heart beat with hope. “Abroad?”

  Her face paled. “You’re mistaken. I’m not educated.”

  He frowned. “You must be. The way you speak, the words you choose.”

  She shook her head with great emphasis. The coiling strands of hair trailing down her neck slapped against her shoulders, and one delightful corkscrew curl slipped loose from its moorings to frame her cheek. “I read a lot, that’s all. I’m particularly fond of English literature. Have you ever read Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress? It’s one of my favorites.” Her hand trembling slightly, she lifted her fork and pressed the tines through the pie’s flaky crust. She took a bite, swallowed, then sent a quavery grin at him. “You were right—this is scrumptious.”

  Oliver watched, puzzled, as she shifted her focus to the pastry. She meant to turn the conversational tide. But why? Did she fear he’d tell Hightower she possessed education that qualified her beyond the position of a mere toter? A hopeful thought entered his mind. If he divulged his background of affluence, might she repay him in kind with an honest answer?

  He opened his mouth, prepared to spill his secret, but he caught himself and clamped his jaws shut. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not until he’d examined every aspect of factory work. When he became its manager, he wanted a plan in place to ascertain his workers were content on the job. Happy employees were hardworking employees—that was Father’s motto. And what better way to learn what was needed than to move among the workers, becoming one of them? But if he told even one person the entire truth, word might spread through the factory, and then the workers would keep their distance from him the way they did with Hightower. They’d never trust him with their concerns.

  “Here you go, Ollie.” Kesia slid a plate of biscuits and a large bowl of stew in front of him. Steam rose from the bowl, creating little beads of condensation on the peach fuzz above her upper lip. “Sorry it took me so long. That scroungy cat showed up at my back door again, yowling loud enough to scare the moon out of the sky. So I tossed it some scraps to shut it up.”

  Oliver hid a smile. Kesia’s disgruntled tone didn’t fool him. She liked that old yellow-and-white-striped tabby. And Carrie’s actions—pretending to bury herself in a piece of pie—didn’t fool him, either. Anyone could see she was only chopping it into pieces rather than eating it.

  Kesia must have noticed Carrie’s destruction, too, because she frowned at the bowl. “Here now, you’re makin’ a mess of that pie. If you ain’t hungry, just leave it.”

  Carrie’s cheeks glowed pink. She put down her fork. “I’m sorry, Miss Kesia. I hate to waste it, but your good pot roast dinner filled me quite adequately.”

  Kesia’s smile returned. “No worries. It won’t go to waste. I’ll feed it to the cat.”

  A bemused grin twitched at the corners of Carrie’s mouth. “The cat eats peach pie?”

  “The cat eats anything I throw at it.” She rolled her eyes, feigning great disgust. “I’m just sure as sure it’s expectin’. Won’t be long, an’ I’ll be runnin’ over with kittens. An’ then what’ll I do?”

  Oliver, his gaze on the turn of Carrie’s delicate jaw, said, “You’ll give them peach pie, too, because you can’t resist feeding any hungry creature that comes along.” He nudged Carrie lightly with his elbow. “You’re new here, so you probably don’t realize Kesia doesn’t ask for money in exchange for the food she serves.”

  Carrie turned a startled look at Kesia. “You don’t? But then how—”

  “Now that ain’t quite all the way true, Ollie. Don’t be makin’ me out to be some saint.” Kesia, her lips set in a scowl, snatched a rag from her apron pocket and set to scrubbing the spot where the filling from Carrie’s pie had splashed over the edge of her bowl.

  Oliver chuckled. Kesia was the closest thing to a saint he’d ever met. He clarified, “She doesn’t ask a set amount for the food she serves. She lets every person put whatever he can afford into the bucket as payment. And if some can’t afford anything at all, well”—he shrugged—“she feeds ’em anyway.”

  Tears swam in Carrie’s eyes, deepening her irises to a rich, dark chocolate. “That’s so kind of you, Miss Kesia.”

  Kesia grunted, but her cheeks wore bright red banners. “Oh, listen to his ballyhoo. He’s just finaglin’ for another packet o’ ham an’ cheese sandwiches—that’s what he’s doin’.” She shook the rag free of crumbs and jammed it back into her pocket. “If you’re wantin’ more sandwiches for tomorrow’s lunch, Ollie, just say so. No need to carry on like a carpetbagger.”

  He and Carrie exchanged a grin, and awareness of their silent communication filled his chest. He forced his attention back to Kesia. “I do need a box lunch for tomorrow.” He gave Carrie a questioning look. “And Miss Carrie might need one, too. Am I right?”

  Carrie sighed, scrunching her face into an embarrassed grimace. “He’s right, Miss Kesia. I … I don’t cook.”

  Oliver’s curiosity rose another notch. The only women he’d encountered who didn’t cook were women of wealth, who had staff to see to meals.

  “You don’t cook?” Kesia’s graying eyebrows flew high. “But—” She covered her mouth with two fingers. Sympathy softened her expression. “Oh. You were orphaned. I s’pose you didn’t have a mama to teach you, then.” She patted Carrie’s hand. “Well, don’t you worry. I’ll fix you up with a real nice lunch. Ollie here favors my smoked-ham-and-white-cheese s
andwiches. Make the cheese myself with milk from a nanny goat. That sound all right to you?”

  Carrie smiled, but Oliver noted that it wavered. “Your ham-and-cheese sandwiches would suit me just fine.”

  “I’ll go put ’em together for you right now. Yours, too, Ollie. An’ I’ll throw in a piece or two of the gingerbread left over from this morning’s breakfast.” Kesia scurried through the kitchen doorway.

  Oliver contemplated Kesia’s comment about Carrie being an orphan. Might it be, following her parents’ demise, someone robbed her of her inheritance? If so, her work at the factory would make sense. He rested his elbow on the counter, leaned in, and asked softly, “Miss Carrie, about you losing your parents … Did—”

  Carrie slid from the stool. “I’ll be sure to reimburse Miss Kesia well for the dinner.” She must have had more bites of the pie than he’d realized, because cinnamon and peaches wafted on her warm breath. She hurried to the bucket, her skirts swirling, and retrieved a little purse from her pocket. She scowled into the purse’s belly. His heart tripped. How much could she afford to pay, considering the small amount a toter earned at the factory?

  He angled his gaze to his plate to allow her privacy. A solid clunk sounded. Oliver gave a start. Unless she’d tossed it into the bucket with force to feign a large contribution—and he couldn’t imagine her doing such a thing—she had dropped a heavy coin. He waited until she’d slipped out the door. Then he briefly abandoned his supper to peek into the bucket. On top of the scattered pennies, nickels, and dimes, a silver dollar glinted up at him.

  Oliver stared in amazement at the coin, envisioning the woman who’d paid twice what he’d ever deposited into Kesia’s bucket for a meal. She must be rich. And educated. Yet she worked as a toter in his father’s chocolate factory.