Finding A Family. Judy Christenberry
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heard something behind her and turned to see a young man hurrying out of the barn in her direction. She stood there in the afternoon sun, watching his approach.
“Howdy, ma’am. Are you Maggie?”
She smiled in relief. “Yes, I am, Mr. Brownlee.”
“No ma’am. I’m not the owner. He’s not here. He asked me to make you feel at…home. Who’s he?” Larry asked, gesturing to the bundle of little boy in her arms.
“He’s my son. May I take him in where it’s cool? He’s getting a little heavy.”
“I’ll take him.” She shook her head so he stepped around her and held open the back door. “Did you mention to Hank that you’d be bringing him?”
She came to an abrupt halt in the kitchen and turned around. “Yes, I told him. Is there a problem?”
“I guess not,” Larry muttered. “Uh, your bedroom is through here.” He led her to the room behind the kitchen. After looking at the room, he said, “I guess Hank didn’t have time to fix it up much,” he muttered.
“That’s all right,” Maggie told him. The welcome hadn’t quite been what she was hoping for, but she could handle it.
Larry pulled down the grimy coverlet and discovered there were no sheets on the mattress.
“Can you find a sheet or quilt I can lay Timmy on?” Maggie quietly asked.
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Larry had no idea where those things were. He found Mr. Brownlee sitting in his usual place in the living room. “Sir, where are the sheets?”
At first there was no change of expression. It was as if Carl Brownlee hadn’t heard him. Then he frowned. “In the hall closet.”
Larry hurried there and found a folded sheet. He grabbed it and headed for the back bedroom.
Carl actually came out of the living room. “You don’t need to stay with me, Larry.”
Larry turned around and backed toward the bedroom. “No, sir. This is for the housekeeper.” Then he ducked into the room and laid the folded sheet on the bed.
Maggie, whose arms were aching with the weight of her son, breathed a sign of relief. “Thank you. If you’ll just unfold it a little.”
Larry did so and she laid her son down and gently covered him with part of the sheet.
“Who’s that?”
She whirled around to see a frail old man leaning against the door frame. “That’s my son, Timmy. I’ll try to keep him out of your way.”
“I like kids.”
Maggie smiled, unaware of the effect of that smile. “I’m so glad to hear that.”
Carl nodded slowly.
“Want me to help you carry your stuff in?” Larry offered.
“That would be nice if you have the time, but I can manage if you have work to do.”
“Nothing that can’t keep.”
“I’ll watch the child,” Carl said, his gaze never leaving the little boy.
After she and Larry reached her car, she asked, “Is he okay?”
“I think Hank told you in his letter. His dad’s been sad—I mean, depressed, since his wife died.”
“When did she die?”
“A year ago last May.”
“And part of my job is to take care of him?”
“Hank thought—I mean, he’s not much of a cook. And he thought you could make Carl feel better.”
Maggie flashed that beautiful smile again. “I understand, and I’ll do my best.”
By the time Larry left the house, after a well-cooked supper in a kitchen that already looked better, he was sure Hank had done the right thing. He didn’t know why Hank had changed his mind about hiring a widow for his father, but the woman was a beauty and kind, too. And boy, could she cook.
She’d asked Carl what he liked to eat. His response had been his usual response, namely “nothing.” But Maggie had told him what Timmy liked. The little boy asked for cookies, cake, hamburgers, all the things children like. To Larry’s surprise, Carl had agreed with him.
Things were going well.
The bed in the room behind the kitchen was a single with an old mattress. Though Maggie longed for her queen-size bed in Kate’s house, the smaller bed suited Timmy just fine. He’d fallen asleep soon after she’d put him down.
She returned to the kitchen to find Carl still sitting at the table.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have any dessert tonight, Carl. You need fattening up, you know. Would you like a cup of decaffeinated coffee while I make a chocolate cake for tomorrow?”
That seemed to be a strange idea to him, but he finally nodded.
She fixed two cups of coffee. Then, having checked the cabinets’ contents, she pulled out what she needed. “You’ve got a lot of good equipment here. It’s going to make my life easier.”
She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but he finally said, “My wife was a good cook.”
“I bet she was. Tell me about her.” She didn’t rush him. Going about the business of making a cake, she waited for him to answer.
Finally, he began talking, slowly as if his voice was rusty. But his voice increased in volume and speed as if she’d started an avalanche. She listened, occasionally asking a question or making a comment. By the time the cake was baked and iced, he’d fallen silent at last. She looked up to find tears sliding down his cheeks.
She took out two saucers and cut two pieces of cake, a large one for him and a smaller one for her. She handed a plate to Carl. “We need to test the cake to see if it’s good enough for Timmy.”
He slowly picked up a fork and took a bite of the cake.
Maggie watched him closely. She hadn’t had time to read the note the man’s son had left her. She hoped she hadn’t done anything wrong.
After he’d eaten several bites of cake, she said, “At first, it’s hard to talk about someone who’s gone. My husband died two years ago, just before Timmy turned two. But I found it got easier the more I talked about him.”
“Yeah,” Carl said, not looking up.
“I hope you’ll tell me about some of the meals your wife cooked. I could try to make them again, though I’m probably not as good a cook as she was.”
“The cake is good.”
“I’m glad. I was so pleased to see the big back porch when we got here. I think Timmy will like playing back there, and I’ll be able to keep an eye on him as I do my chores.”
“I might—I might sit in the rocker sometimes, to keep him company.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful! Timmy hasn’t been around men much. It will be good for him to have a friend.”
After she finished her cake, she began cleaning up the dirty dishes calmly and efficiently, keeping an eye on Carl without him realizing it. “What do you like for breakfast, Carl? Bacon and eggs?”
“Eggs and sausage,” he said, as if he ate it every morning.
“Okay. At six-thirty?”
“That’s when Hank will want it. I—I don’t get up that early.”
“Neither does Timmy. How about we eat around eight, until Hank gets home.”
“Yeah, that’d be good. I really like this cake.”
“Do