She’d then gone on to tell Caroline every detail of her day, from the opening recitation of a prayer to the teacher’s distribution of homework. Letta proudly held out her personal assignment—to write the first twelve letters of the alphabet on paper the teacher had given her and draw a picture representing the sound each letter made. Of course, she’d also requested Caroline’s assistance, and Caroline couldn’t refuse.
Now as Letta headed home to prepare an evening meal for herself and her brothers—“And show ’em the letters so they can learn ’em, too,” she’d confided—Caroline’s stomach twinged. The sustenance of the morning’s apple had long since abandoned her. She’d locate the nearest café, partake of the biggest meal on the menu, and then use the telephone in the boarding hotel’s lobby to call Noble and give her first day’s report. She hoped she would be able to inject as much enthusiasm into her recitation as Letta had with hers.
Two blocks up the street Caroline detected the aromas of fresh-baked bread, roasting meat, and cinnamon—a nearly intoxicating combination. Sheforced her tired feet to hurry and came upon a small white building with a recessed doorway and the name Durham’s Café painted in square blue letters on a board above the porch. She cupped her hands beside her face and peeked through a slit in the green-checked curtains hanging behind the plate-glass window. An L-shaped counter with tall stools provided seating. All but one were already filled, assuring Caroline of the café’s popularity.
With her stomach twisting in hunger, she entered and crossed to the lone available stool, situated between a middle-aged man in a dark suit and a younger man in stained dungarees and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. She stifled a groan as she climbed onto the stool, the muscles in her legs and back resisting the movements. Not until Caroline had settled herself at the counter did she notice no other female filled a seat. And every male—those on her right and those on her left—gazed in her direction. Forks froze midair above enameled tin plates. All conversation ceased. Faces registered either humor or confusion. Eyebrows rose or descended.
Caroline glanced nervously up and down the row of faces. Had she inadvertently entered a male-only establishment? Such places existed in larger cities. She pressed her palms to the worn but clean counter, prepared to dash out. Before she could move, however, a round-faced woman with a starched, ruffled apron covering her ample front bustled from a door on the far right, balancing three plates in her hands. “All right, Reggie,” she announced in a bright, warbling voice, “got your stew, biscuits, an’ pie. Tom, your pie’s—”
Her gaze found Caroline, and she stopped so suddenly one fluffy biscuit scooted off the edge of the plate and hit the floor with a burst of crumbs. The woman’s mouth dropped open in surprise, then curved into a smile of welcome. “Well, I’ll be … Hello there, honey. What’s your name?”
Caroline flicked another uncertain glance across the gathering of men. “I … My name is Caro—Carrie Lang.”
The woman bustled to the counter, her gray skirts flapping above the toes of her battered brown boots, and plopped the plates down with a whack. “I’ll getcha another biscuit in a minute, Reg.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she edged to the opposite side of the counter and then stretched her hands toward Caroline. “I’m Kesia. Kesia Durham.”
Caroline gripped the warm, leathery palms. Despite her feelings of discomfiture, she couldn’t help but smile. The woman radiated friendliness. “Hello, Miss Kesia.”
Kesia aimed a stern frown at the young man on Caroline’s left. “Where’re your manners, Patrick?” She turned the frown on the older man on Caroline’s right. “You, too, Willis. All you fellas, quit gawkin’ at the poor girl an’ eat your supper.
Now as Letta headed home to prepare an evening meal for herself and her brothers—“And show ’em the letters so they can learn ’em, too,” she’d confided—Caroline’s stomach twinged. The sustenance of the morning’s apple had long since abandoned her. She’d locate the nearest café, partake of the biggest meal on the menu, and then use the telephone in the boarding hotel’s lobby to call Noble and give her first day’s report. She hoped she would be able to inject as much enthusiasm into her recitation as Letta had with hers.
Two blocks up the street Caroline detected the aromas of fresh-baked bread, roasting meat, and cinnamon—a nearly intoxicating combination. Sheforced her tired feet to hurry and came upon a small white building with a recessed doorway and the name Durham’s Café painted in square blue letters on a board above the porch. She cupped her hands beside her face and peeked through a slit in the green-checked curtains hanging behind the plate-glass window. An L-shaped counter with tall stools provided seating. All but one were already filled, assuring Caroline of the café’s popularity.
With her stomach twisting in hunger, she entered and crossed to the lone available stool, situated between a middle-aged man in a dark suit and a younger man in stained dungarees and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. She stifled a groan as she climbed onto the stool, the muscles in her legs and back resisting the movements. Not until Caroline had settled herself at the counter did she notice no other female filled a seat. And every male—those on her right and those on her left—gazed in her direction. Forks froze midair above enameled tin plates. All conversation ceased. Faces registered either humor or confusion. Eyebrows rose or descended.
Caroline glanced nervously up and down the row of faces. Had she inadvertently entered a male-only establishment? Such places existed in larger cities. She pressed her palms to the worn but clean counter, prepared to dash out. Before she could move, however, a round-faced woman with a starched, ruffled apron covering her ample front bustled from a door on the far right, balancing three plates in her hands. “All right, Reggie,” she announced in a bright, warbling voice, “got your stew, biscuits, an’ pie. Tom, your pie’s—”
Her gaze found Caroline, and she stopped so suddenly one fluffy biscuit scooted off the edge of the plate and hit the floor with a burst of crumbs. The woman’s mouth dropped open in surprise, then curved into a smile of welcome. “Well, I’ll be … Hello there, honey. What’s your name?”
Caroline flicked another uncertain glance across the gathering of men. “I … My name is Caro—Carrie Lang.”
The woman bustled to the counter, her gray skirts flapping above the toes of her battered brown boots, and plopped the plates down with a whack. “I’ll getcha another biscuit in a minute, Reg.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she edged to the opposite side of the counter and then stretched her hands toward Caroline. “I’m Kesia. Kesia Durham.”
Caroline gripped the warm, leathery palms. Despite her feelings of discomfiture, she couldn’t help but smile. The woman radiated friendliness. “Hello, Miss Kesia.”
Kesia aimed a stern frown at the young man on Caroline’s left. “Where’re your manners, Patrick?” She turned the frown on the older man on Caroline’s right. “You, too, Willis. All you fellas, quit gawkin’ at the poor girl an’ eat your supper.
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