Emma, Mr. Knightley, And Chili-Slaw Dogs Part 13

Caroline sighed. They'd been at it for hours. First there was finding the websites and signing up to be a vendor. Lexi didn't have a credit card or bank account, so Caroline had put in one of hers. The forms had been irritatingly long, but they'd finally finished the sign-up process. Then they had taken pictures of all her art for two hours. Finally, the walk-through directions suggested they put the pictures up in a bundle, but she didn't even know if her internet connection could handle that kind of file transfer. She wasn't low-tech, but getting the pictures onto the site was proving more than Caroline could handle on an empty stomach.

"Let's break for lunch. I'm sure it will make more sense after we have some food in us."

"Excellent." Lexi stretched and yawned. "And when this takes off, my dad will have to see that I'm right."

"How did it go when you told him?"

Lexi stood up and followed Caroline to the hallway. "I haven't told him yet."

She stopped. "Not yet?"

Lexi looked uncomfortable. "Well, I thought I might wait a short while. Since it's just him and me, I don't want to be fighting with him until I have to. I have all summer. And cla.s.ses don't start until September."

Caroline nodded. "I suppose you're right, but don't put it off too long." She led her down the long hallway to the front stairs. As they got closer to the kitchen, she could smell fresh baked cornbread.

"Bless Angie's heart. I thought I was going to have to make myself a sandwich." She smiled at Lexi, but the girl didn't respond. Of course, she was used to grabbing lunch and making do.

"I'm spoiled and I know it," Caroline said. "I like to walk into the kitchen and be served a hot meal, three times a day. I don't know if anybody has it better than I do."

"About half the population, probably." Lexi grinned. "My dad likes his food hot and on the table at six every evening. I sort of wish I'd been born a man so someone would serve me dinner for the rest of my life."

She laughed, realizing Lexi was right. "My mother doesn't understand why I don't want to get married, but I have everything I need and no one wants me to cook for them."

Lexi paused on the landing of the stairs and shook her head. Her dark eyes were wide with surprise. "You're not looking to get married?"

"Not really." Caroline shrugged. "Like I said, I just don't see the benefits right now. I haven't even gotten my career off the ground." Or gotten it back off the ground, since she'd abandoned the corporate ladder mid-step.

"That's just so weird to hear a girl say that. I mean, everybody wants to get married."

"Well, not me." She tried to sound cheery but Lexi was reminding her of how very different they were. Sure, there were girls who had gone through college on the husband hunt, but most of her friends were focused on a career path. It just wasn't about getting a man anymore. There were better ways to happiness.

Lexi followed her down the stairs to the kitchen. A pot of homemade chicken soup and dumplings sat on the stove. A pan of cornbread was cooling on a pad on the granite counter. She plopped into a chair and inhaled the tantalizing kitchen scents. "Is it like this all the time? I could so get used to this."

"Not all the time." Caroline smiled a little. If only Lexi had seen the Frankencake, she wouldn't be so jealous of the sunny yellow kitchen with the industrial grade appliances. An image of the cake was followed immediately with a vision of Brooks. It came so quickly she didn't have time to push it back. His sandy blond hair a little too long, brushed back from his forehead. Those deep dimples that appeared when he was trying not to smile. The way the stubble on his jaw looked like sand in the sunlight. The way he had to stoop down to hug her.

"Are you okay?" Lexi's voice cut into her thoughts.

"Sure." She blindly reached for the buffet where the china was kept. Blinking furiously, she swallowed back the ache in her throat. It was silly to fight over Lexi's scholarship. She made her own decisions, no matter how much they wanted to influence her. In the end, she was a grown woman making her own choices.

"I think my whole house could fit in this kitchen."

Caroline turned, hand still on the cabinet k.n.o.b. "Come on, maybe just your bedroom."

Lexi shook her head. "No, we live in a studio at the back of the gas station. There's a screen divider between my bed and where my dad sleeps. I decorated the back so it has all my art projects where I can see them, but it's... probably just about the size of your kitchen."

She turned back to the cabinet, feeling dread build inside. The kitchen was maybe forty feet by fifty feet. It was big, sure. But the size of someone's house? The idea shook her to the core. Brooks' words came back to her louder than ever. No, Caroline, she won't be waking up and realizing that, because she's not you.

She pushed away the memory and reached into the cabinet for the china and stopped short. In the antique hutch were stacks of white china plates with a light green ivy pattern. She drew one out, barely believing her eyes.

"Oh, those are real pretty." Lexi pointed to the plate in her hand. "I saw those on special down at the Walmart Supercenter. They only came in a box of forty pieces so it was just too expensive for me and my dad."

"At the Walmart?" Caroline couldn't help repeating the words. Her voice had gone all whispery. She turned the plate over to see a Corelle marking on the back. She felt a pulse pounding in her head and she opened the next cabinet door. And the next. And the next. All the Ashley family china was gone, replaced by a Supercenter special. Her stomach clenched and she took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

"And the bowls and salad plates, too!" Lexi came to lean over her shoulder. "You could throw a party with all of this."

Caroline nodded dumbly. A terrible idea had occurred to her and she could barely bring herself to open the slim drawers at the front of the buffet. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the bra.s.s handles and pulled. The drawers that held the silver were full but not of the familiar pieces she'd held at every meal. Stainless steel gleamed brightly back at her and she shut the drawer with a smothered cry.

"Did you slam your finger? I've done that, it hurts like a son of a gun."

"I'm okay." She turned and tried to smile. "Let me get you some chicken and dumplings. I need to go ask my mother something, if that's okay."

"Sure, not a problem!" Lexi settled at the table.

Caroline filled the brand new bowls with shaking hands, grabbed a spoon without looking too closely at the imposter silverware and dashed upstairs.

"Mama!" She knocked on the bedroom door and waited for a reply. She thought she could hear her mother talking, but the sound stopped and footsteps approached the door.

It swung open and her mother stood there, blinking at Caroline as if she'd been asleep. Her blond hair was flat on one side and her eyes were puffy. The room behind her was hurricane-style mess of clothes strewn across the floor. Drawers hung open, throw pillows were piled on the floor, and a chair was covered in what looked like half her closet. She smelled faintly of whiskey. "What's wrong, honey?"

"Mama, the china is gone! And the silver!" Her heart was pounding in her chest.

To her surprise, her mother just nodded. "Marshall said those plates were too old for that beautiful kitchen. He brought me that set with the ivy. It was real expensive but I think it's important to upgrade once in a while."

"Too old? They were antique Stubbs pearl ware from 1850. Of course they were old! And the silver? What happened to the silver?"

"I bent one of those spoons one day, just trying to get some peanut b.u.t.ter. Really, they are just not made well. Marshall brought the new set and it's practically indestructible." She waved a finger as if she needed spoons to withstand a stress test before use.

"Daddy loved that silver." She rubbed her face and tried to swallow back the tears. He used to tell her how the Cincinnati company had to make the twisted stems just so or the balance would be off and no one wanted an unbalanced spoon. He usually let out a chuckle at that part because the idea of balanced silverware wasn't something most people spent a lot of time on.

Her mother's face went dark. "He loved it but I never understood why. It's my family's silver. Why did he love it when it wasn't even his? And those old trunks and buckets and pots. They look horrible, all stained and catawampus."

Caroline sucked in a breath. "You mean the firkin bails, the ones that look like an old wooden bucket?"

"Right. Most of them had cracks and nicks and dents. Marshall took them off my hands and brought some really pretty stacking totes. They're see-through and fit right under the bed."

Her mind went to the ancient camel top trunks in the attic, the hand-hooked rug in the entryway, the pots that had hung over a fire before the kitchen had been wired for electricity. Most were tucked away, out of sight. She hadn't even realized they might have disappeared. Until now.

"I never knew you hated all of the antiques, Mama." She'd heard the grumbling but never really paid any attention. Caroline sagged against the door frame.

"Oh, I didn't care that much, but when Marshall reminded me that our house has a reputation to uphold, I had to agree. I can't have junk like that hanging all over."

She shook her head, not even knowing where to start. Her home had been raided of everything that connected it to her ancestors and in the place were left cheap, disposable reproductions. All in the name of upholding the family reputation. She took a long look at her mother for the first time in months.

Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose was red. This wasn't due to crying. This was a woman who had been drinking hard liquor and it wasn't even noon. Her heart sunk to her shoes as she realized her mother had a problem with more than grief. Her father's death had been sudden and terrible, but her mother had never faced it. She was drowning her grief in whiskey and hiding in her bedroom.

Caroline had never felt so alone in all her life. Her eyes filled with tears without her permission. All she wanted to was to call Brooks and tell him the whole story. But she couldn't do that. They weren't really speaking anymore.

And that hurt more than losing any of the rare family antiques that Marshall had carried off.

"That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other."- Emma

Chapter Sixteen.

Brooks almost stepped back as Caroline swung open her front door and glared. Her expression was one he didn't usually see. Maybe one he hadn't ever seen before. It was the face of a woman who was ready to go toe-to-toe with someone she absolutely despised.

"Hey." So, it wasn't the smoothest beginning, but she'd thrown him off his stride.

Her face relaxed into a light frown. "Hey."

He shuffled his feet, wishing she'd invite him inside. Was their friendship so broken that they couldn't have a conversation past the threshold?

"I thought you were Marshall. I'm ready to drop kick him into Louisiana."

A flood of relief went through him. So the fighting stance wasn't meant for him at all. "He still hanging around here?"

She waved him on into the house and shut the heavy door behind him. "Come in the kitchen. I'll show you."

Minutes later he gazed into the antique buffet, mouth open. "All the silver? And the china?"

"Every last bit. He didn't even really pay her. A few hundred dollars and... this stuff." Her voice was thick.

"Oh, Finley." He reached out instinctively and pulled her close. He'd come over to make some peace with her, but that would wait. Under his hands she felt fragile. She dragged in a shaky breath.

"You know what I hate the most?" Her voice was m.u.f.fled by the front of his shirt.

"What?"

"I look at those dishes and I see my daddy. I see birthdays and Christmases and that time I got a perfect score on my Physics test and he made me waffles for dinner." She clutched him tighter. "I see him carving the turkey at Thanksgiving and trying that awful ca.s.serole I made in high school with the pickles and raisins."

He choked back a laugh. "Pickles and raisins?"

She lifted her head, face streaked with tears. "Tammy Wiggins said it was the best thing she ever made. She thought it was pretty funny that I fell for the joke." A small smile appeared. "Daddy got about three bites into it and I think he just couldn't force down any more. But he never said anything."

Brooks put a hand to her cheek and wiped a tear away with his thumb. He was going to say something comforting and sensible. His gaze dropped to her lips, swollen with crying. He was suddenly, painfully aware of how tightly she was wrapped in his arms, how close they were from head to toe.

He took a step back, away from her, away what he would have given anything to touch. But he didn't have any right to her, not that way.

Clearing his throat, he said, "Is anything else missing?"

She slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. "I haven't found it all yet." She reeled off a list of items that ranged from Civil War era to fifties kitsch.

"Looks like he's into American primitives, although that vintage Pyrex serving set could have been worth something."

"It's so depressing." She looked completely defeated. He wanted with everything that was in him to hold her close and make it all better. But neither of those were options. One wasn't prudent and the other wasn't possible.

As if realizing he was there in the middle of the week, in the late afternoon, when they were not really speaking to each other, she looked up. "Did you come here for something?"

She blushed. "That didn't come out right. I mean, did you come here for something other than listening to my tale of woe?"

He smiled. "I know what you meant. And yes, I'm here on a mission. I was right in the middle of working on press release for the Civil War Trust and my phone kept going off. I wasn't going to answer it because Parker's Cross Roads is going to be made into a parking lot if they can't outbid a developer by next week, but..." His voice trailed off. He had thought it might be Caroline. "Anyway, Debbie Mae wants us to try on our costumes before the big dance."

Caroline's eyes widened. "Right now?"

"I'm not sure. She's been trying to call you but you weren't answering." He supposed she'd been taking stock of how much of the house had been raided. The idea gave him a fresh wave of fury mixed with a desire to find Marshall and wring his neck.

"Let me call her." She looked around for her phone, patting her pockets.

"Here," he dialed and held out his cell.

When she hung up, she said, "Well, I guess we're all meeting at Badewood. I'll go change."

"Do you need to tell your mother?" She'd seemed to be keeping Caroline on such a short leash, he couldn't imagine that she could leave without permission, even to Badewood.

Her eyes were shadowed and her mouth went tight. "She's... resting."

Something in her expression spoke of a whole other story, but she obviously didn't want to tell it.

Caroline stood up. "Are you ready, Mr. Knightley?"

"Huh. Why couldn't I have a really good name like Jubal Early? Or Zebulon Baird Vance? Mr. Knightley sounds so..." He shrugged.

"n.o.ble? Refined?"

"Sissified. And why don't we use his first name? Does anyone even know it?"

"We can ask Debbie Mae. She's the one who's in love with all things Austen. You could always be Sylva.n.u.s Cadwallader going as Mr. Knightley. A reporter in disguise, looking for a story."

"Have you been studying up on your Civil War? Cadwallader was an interesting guy. I could do that."

She poked him in the side as she walked past. "Just because I'm not completely obsessed with the War doesn't mean I don't know anything."

He opened his mouth give a retort, but something else occurred to him.

"Finley." He cleared his throat, not sure how to start.

"Wait. Is this about our little disagreement?" She stacked a few gla.s.ses in the old copper sink, not meeting his eyes.

"Little?" He hoped that was the biggest argument they ever had, and the only one.

"I don't think we should talk about this. It'll only make us mad. Can we just call it a difference of opinion and leave it at that?" She walked toward him, laying a hand on his arm. Her face was deadly serious. "I can't stand being at war with you."

His gaze dropped to her hand and he wondered if now was the time to speak. He wasn't prepared, hadn't thought of how to compose his feelings into something that made sense. His heart jumped into his throat. "It was a terrible week."