Page 12 of Shelter
But instead of telling Cole the obvious, I just frowned at him. “Then what’s it for?”
The impatience leaked out of his face. His jaw set, and Cole blinked at me three times. Then he just stared. He stared right at me like he wanted something. Like he wanted me to tell him something important.
But I could only stare back, lost.
Finally, Cole broke his gaze, shaking his head. “Never mind,” he muttered. Then he slid away from the door. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m out here. Got it?”
For a moment, I just watched him, totally confused. Cole Whitehurst was hiding from a party in his own house.
Cole Whitehurst.
But after a few seconds, I nodded. “Got it.” And then I slipped into the kitchen, my eyes still on him until I shut the door.
“Elise, get an apron on and take the pastry shells out of the oven,” Mama ordered as soon as she saw me. I could tell by her voice she was still mad, and I knew I’d be punished somehow, but I also knew Mama’s wrath wouldn’t last long as soon as I got busy.
And I loved helping Mama in the kitchen, especially for a fancy party. She was an outstanding cook, and I was proud of her work. Mama was proud too. And I knew she was only mad at me because she’d been counting on my help, and without it, the food she put out wouldn’t be as hot as she wanted, or a platter of hors d'oeuvres in the dining room would stand empty longer than it should.
I pulled on an apron and some oven mitts and did as I was told.
“Can you set those out by the crawfish etouffee while I finish slicing this pork roast?” Already, her voice had softened, now that I was here doing what I had said I’d do.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, looking forward to the time when we’d be able to take our supper in the kitchen, just as soon as the entree items had been taken out. We’d have to be quick, of course, to be ready to serve the desserts before the guests had to wait on them, but after a day of play, my stomach was rumbling.
* * *
Even though itwas a Friday night, the party in honor of a woman just back from the hospital did not run late. Mrs. Abigail went to bed around ten, saying goodnight to her guests as Mr. Whitehurst pushed her wheelchair to her temporary bedroom downstairs. The family all slept upstairs, but given her condition and the history of the offending staircase, Mr. and Mrs. Whitehurst had relocated downstairs until her recovery was complete. At Mrs. Abigail’s departure, her remaining guests took their cue to leave, and Mama and I set about cleaning up.
Mama had told me I could go to bed, but I didn’t want to. Moving into the guesthouse had changed a lot of things for us. The Whitehursts had given Mama a raise, of course, because her work days were much longer. But they also let us live in the guesthouse for free, so this meant Mama had more money in her pocket. Whenever I helped her, she paid me out of that pocket, and I wasn’t going to pass that up when the work was as easy as washing fancy dishes after a party.
Besides, I now wanted my own set of sidewalk chalk.
So, I stood at a sink full of suds and washed and rinsed silver, china, and crystal while Mama gathered up the tablecloths and set the furniture in the front of the house back where it belonged. I didn’t mind. Mrs. Abigail’s china pattern was beautiful. The dishes were a soft cream, rimmed in gold, with pink, yellow, purple, and blue flowers on the edges of each plate and bowl. A bouquet of the same flowers dressed up the sides of the cups, pitchers, and other accent pieces.
The flowers made me want to learn how to paint so I could add their design to something of mine. Something plain that needed to be prettier. Like the wall opposite my bed or the inside covers of my school books.
Once, I’d asked Mama what the china pattern was called, and she’d said,“Castle Garden.”
Castle Garden.
Was there any more perfect name for something so beautiful?
I saved the plates for last because they had the most detail and were my favorite. When I was done with those, I wiped down each dish so we could put them away dry while Mama stood in the laundry room, loading the washer with tablecloths and napkins.
Shetsked.“I’m missing one of the napkins,” she muttered, shaking out a tablecloth in search of it. Then she looked up at me. “Baby, would you go hunt for it? Someone might have dropped it under a table or behind a chair.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said before drying my hands.
I slipped out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Mama had left the lights on, but she’d also replaced all twelve chairs that had been moved aside for the buffet spread that evening. I dropped down on hands and knees to see if I could spot the missing napkin. It was easy enough to find from my position, but the fine linen napkin the color of vanilla ice cream was pinned under the foot of one of the middle chairs, pressed against the polished hardwood floors.
I scurried around the head of the table and was just about to reach for it when I heard the soft click of the front door.
I held my breath. After the last guest had left, the Whitehursts had all gone to bed so we could clean up.
Or at least I thought they had.
And if they had, who had just come in the front door?
And then a light flicked on in the front hall, its glow visible through the living room just ahead of me.
