A Table By the Window by Lawana Blackwell Page B

an embroidered scarf. Loretta handed her one of two white-haired women with arms linked, standing in front of a shop window. One woman smiled as if on the verge of laughter, the other smiled only with her eyes, as if struggling to maintain decorum for the photographer.
    â€œThis is your grandmother,” Loretta said, tapping the glass over the more serious-looking woman.
    â€œReally? And my Aunt Helen with her?”
    â€œIt is indeed.”
    The framed portrait in the center was of an older man with strong chin and eyeglasses. “He must be my grandfather.”
    â€œHmm. Probably so.” Loretta took it from her and handed her the last frame. “Look at this one.”
    Linda, smiling and beautiful, stood beside a mechanical horse as she held an unsure-looking red-haired child in the saddle. Tears stung Carley’s eyes.
    Loretta patted her shoulder. “This isn’t the one Mrs. Walker brought to the office. Would you like me to help you look for more?”
    As tempting as it was, Carley had a more pressing wish. “Thank you, but I’ve kept you here long enough. But do you think you could show me where to find my aunt before we go back for my car?”
    â€œWhy, of course,” Loretta said. “I have all the time in the world. That’s the beauty of having your own husband for your boss.”
    Auld Lang Syne Antiques sat shoulder to shoulder with The Katydid and Three Sisters Antiques, on the west side of Main Street between Second and Third Streets. A bell tinkled softly over the door as Carley followed Loretta inside. Shelves and glass-fronted cases displayed everything from ironware to wooden bowls, depression glass to pottery, toys to silverware. They gave off faintly musty aromas mingled, appropriately, with that of potpourri. At the counter, an angular-faced woman with chestnut hair was wrapping tissue around a bowl and pitcher for a woman wearing a cranberry-colored cloak.
    â€œPam Lipscomb,” Loretta whispered of the woman behind the counter. “Works for Mrs. Hudson. Her daughter’s in Iraq, bless her heart.”
    â€œMiss Helen?” Pam said over her shoulder.
    A curtain moved to the side and a woman of about seventy came through a door carrying a box. “This should do it, Pam.”
    â€œWe have more customers.”
    â€œOh.” The woman handed her assistant the box, looked up, and went stone-still.
    â€œHi, Mrs. Hudson,” Loretta said, gently nudging Carley forward. “This is Carley.”
    The customer turned with bemused expression as Carley’s great-aunt hurried around the counter and opened her arms. “Oh, goodness, child!”
    â€œIt’s good to meet you, Aunt Helen,” Carley said, caught off guard by the embrace.
    â€œAnd it’s wonderful to meet you.” Aunt Helen’s silvery hair smelled of a fresh perm, her shoulders of Estée Lauder’s White Linen. “What I wouldn’t give to have Cordelia here!”
    â€œI’m sorry I never…”
    â€œShush now. None of that.” She stepped back a bit, holding Carley at arm’s length. She was full-figured, an inch or so taller than Carley, and wore a black wool sweater and gray skirt that stopped between calf and ankles. Below the tear-lustered hazel eyes, her soft cheeks were faintly rouged. Pearl earrings clasped her earlobes.
    â€œAren’t you pretty as a picture!” she exclaimed. In spite of the “shush,” her voice bore no trace of a Southern accent. It had a strained texture that sometimes comes with age, but was nonetheless pleasing to the ears.
    â€œMr. Malone said you talked Grandmother into looking for me. Thank you for that.”
    â€œOh, but it didn’t take much talking, child.”
    It was as if a piece of the hodgepodge puzzle that had made up Carley’s life so far snapped into place. She had a history extending beyond Linda. And perhaps it was a good history after all. Her