His Small-Town Girl

He thinned his somewhat fleshy lips and hitched up the waist of his nondescript gray slacks before turning away with a sigh.

“Oh, the burden of a caring wife,” Hap intoned, following the two men from the room.

“Seems to me you used to call it meddling,” someone said.

“We all do until they’re gone,” another gravelly voice put in before the door closed behind them.

Charlotte shook her head, smiling. “They’re all widowers except for the pastor,” she explained. Tyler didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply nodded. “They live to play dominoes, those four, and really, what else have they got to do? Well, three of them, anyway. Pastor Waller’s nearly twenty years younger than the others, and he’s got the church.”

“I see.”

After an awkward moment of silence, she rose and began to clear the table, saying, “Just let me put these in the kitchen and I’ll point you to your room.”

The idea of going off alone to a cold, less than sumptuous room did not appeal to Tyler. Rising, he heard himself say, “Can’t I help you clean up?”

He didn’t know which of them seemed more surprised. After a moment, Charlotte looked down at the soiled dishes in her arms.

“It’s the least I can do after such a fine meal,” Tyler pressed, realizing that he hadn’t even complimented the cook.

“I suppose your wife expects you to help out at home,” she began, shaking her head, “but it’s not necessary here.”

“No,” he denied automatically. “That is, no wife.”

“Ah.” Charlotte ducked her head shyly. “Well, if it’ll make you feel better to help out…”

“Oh, it will,” he said, lifting a dish in each hand and following her toward the kitchen. “I never expected a home-cooked meal, especially not such a healthy one.” She looked back over her shoulder at that, just before disappearing into the other room. “And tasty,” he added quickly, raising his voice. “Very tasty. Delicious, even.”

Hearing her wry “Thanks,” he stepped into a narrow room with doors at either end.

Countertops of industrial-grade metal contrasted sharply with light green walls and cabinets constructed of pale, golden wood. The white cooking range in the corner by what must have been the outside door looked as if it came straight from the 1950s, while the olive-green refrigerator at the opposite end of the room appeared slightly newer. Tyler noted with some relief that a modern thermostat for a central air-conditioning system had been mounted above the light switch on one wall. He hoped the rooms were similarly equipped.

What he did not see was a dishwasher. It came as no surprise, then, when Charlotte set down the dishes and started running hot water into the sink below the only window he had yet seen in the small apartment. Covered with frilly, translucent curtains in yellow trimmed with green, that window looked out over a small patio lit by a single outdoor light. Leaves swirled across the patterned brick, snagging on the thin legs of wrought-iron furniture in need of a new coat of green paint.

“You can put those down there,” Charlotte said, indicating the counter with a tilt of her head.

Hurrying to do as instructed, Tyler looked up to find her tying that white apron around her impossibly narrow waist again. Quickly switching his gaze, he watched suds foam up beneath the running water as she squeezed in detergent.

“Better take your coat off,” she advised.

He did that, then looked around for someplace to hang it before walking back into the other room to drape it over a chair. It only seemed sensible to pick up the remaining dishes before heading back to the kitchen.

Returning, he found that Charlotte had already made order out of chaos, stacking the dirty dishes as they were evidently to be washed. Glassware came first, followed by plates, flatware, serving dishes, utensils and finally pans. The leftover food had disappeared into the refrigerator, from which she turned as he entered the narrow room.

“I’ll take those,” she said, coming forward.

He surrendered the two plates and platter, then watched her scrape food scraps into a bucket beneath the sink, which she then sealed with a tightly fitting lid before stacking the dishes with the others. Turning, she placed her back to the counter, her gaze falling to the neatly cuffed sleeves of his stark-white shirt. Her mouth gave a little quirk at one corner as she reached for a pair of yellow vinyl gloves and pulled them on.

Wordlessly, she turned to the sink now billowing with suds, and reached for a plate on the stack to her right. While she washed and rinsed, Tyler wandered haplessly across the room, taking in a calendar from a local propane company on the side of the refrigerator and a clock shaped like a rooster over the stove. When he turned he saw a cookie jar in the form of an owl on the opposite counter next to a small microwave and a glass-domed container covering three layers of a dark, rich, grainy cake iced with frothy white. Several pieces had already been cut from it.

“Is that carrot cake?” he asked.

She sent him an amused glance. “Of course. Want a piece?”

A hand strayed to his flat middle, but thinking of the extra time on the treadmill required to work that off, he said, “Better not.”

She hitched a shoulder, handing him a wet plate with one hand and a striped towel with the other. Tyler had hold of them before he knew what was happening, but then he just stood there, confused and out of place.

Plunging her hands back into the soapy water, she asked smoothly, “Are you going to dry that or just let it drip all over those expensive shoes?”

He looked down, saw the dark droplets shining on black Italian leather and quickly put the towel to good use.

“That dish goes in the cabinet behind you,” she told him, a hint of amusement in her tone. “Door on the far right.”

Stepping across the room, he opened the cabinet, found an empty vertical space separated by dowels and slid the dish into it, noting that two sets of dishes were stored there, cheap dark brown stoneware, chipped in places, and the poor-quality flowered china from which he had eaten.

He realized at once that she had served him from her good plates. Both embarrassed and gratified, he left the door open and went back for more plates. A short stack of clean, wet dishes stood on the metal countertop beside the sink.

“Looks like I’m behind,” he admitted unashamedly. “But then, I’ve never done this before.”

She smiled and added another dish to the pile. “I know.”

Laughing, he got to work, making small talk as he dried and shelved the dishes. “How does a woman such as yourself come to be working in a motel?”

Looking out the window, she replied matter-of-factly, “Her parents die and she winds up living with her grandparents, who just happen to own and operate that motel.”

“My condolences,” he offered softly.

“It happened a long time ago,” she replied evenly, glancing at him. “I was fourteen.”

“Eons ago, obviously,” he teased, hoping to lighten the mood. She ducked her head.

“Thirteen years.”

That would make her twenty-seven, he calculated, a good age. He remembered it well. Had it only been eight years ago? At the time it had seemed that thirty would never come and his father would live forever. Yet, Comstock Aldrich had died of pancreatic cancer only nine months ago, leaving Tyler to fill his gargantuan shoes at Aldrich & Associates. After only ten months in the job, Tyler felt old and burdened, while Charlotte Jefford seemed refreshingly young and…serene.

He blinked at that, realizing just how much that calm serenity appealed to him. It fairly radiated from her pores.

“What about you?” she asked.

He studiously did not look at her. “Oh, I’m thirty-five, an executive, nothing you’d find interesting, I’m sure. You mentioned brothers. Older or younger?”

A slight pause made him wonder if she knew that he’d purposefully been less than forthcoming. “Older. Holt’s thirty-six, and Ryan’s thirty-four. Holt was working in the city when our folks passed, and Ryan was in college, so naturally I came here.”

“The city?”

“Oklahoma City.”

“Ah. And these brothers of yours, what do they do?”