The Woods at Barlow Bend by Jodie Cain Smith Page A

collection. She had fairy tales and adventure stories, science fiction and mysteries. She would even let me borrow books to take home. Miss Hendrix trusted that I would return the books in pristine condition and quickly, and I kept her trust by doing just that. Momma called me a “voracious reader”, and I liked the idea that I was voracious at something.
    I miss ed Miss Hendrix terribly. She was a lovely, petite woman in her early twenties. Every day, she would pin her blonde hair back just above her ears. Her cotton dresses were always immaculately presented, as if freshly pressed each morning, and she would greet each of us at the door, with her gleaming white teeth and soft, pink cheeks. Once, I asked Miss Hendrix why she had not married. She grew up in Frisco City, the daughter of the general store owners. She returned to Frisco City and her parents’ home on Oak Street right after attending teacher’s college in Birmingham. I couldn’t understand why a woman as delightful as Miss Hendrix was unmarried.
    “W e all must choose our own paths, Hattie,” was her simple yet cryptic reply. Before Miss Hendrix, I had never heard of a woman choosing not to marry.
    My current path at the hotel and café in Grove Hill was certainly not of my choosing. School had been replaced by seemingly endless days of mindless tasks. I woke well before dawn, dressed in the dark so I wouldn’t disturb Meg, and headed down to the café on the street level of our hotel. I started the coffee first. When the hotel was full, we went through several pots each morning, so I had to make sure we had several in reserve when the guests arrived for breakfast and quickly drank their first, second, and sometimes third cups. Next, I helped Henrietta with the biscuits, making them exactly according to Aunt Matt’s recipe. Miss Henrietta had no problem using Aunt Matt’s recipe, especially because it was the same as hers. Country ham was heated on the stovetop in a large cast iron skillet that was so heavy I had to use both hands to lift it. Luckily, Miss Henrietta, a colored woman who only needed one hand to lift the cast iron skillet, was a very good cook and a tireless employee. No matter how early I headed down to the kitchen, Miss Henrietta was already fast at work.
    Daddy and the children would come down the stairs around seven. I served the kids breakfast at a little table tucked in a corner of the kitchen, and then turned my attention to the customers in the dining room. Daddy, Meg, and I served the guests as they arrived downstairs from their rented rooms or stopped in for a bite on their way to work.
    Most of our hotel guests were migrant workers in search of a new start at a mill or factory, but only earned enough money for a couple of nights before moving on to the next stop on the L&N rail. Many of our café customers, however, were long-time residents of Grove Hill. The Clarke County Courthouse was three blocks down Main Street from our café, so several of the attorneys, bailiffs, sheriff deputies, and clerks stopped in for breakfast or lunch. Sometimes, I would linger as I cleared away dishes and wiped down tables just to hear the men debate their latest cases over bowls of stew, sausage gravy, or fried pork chops.
    The café wa s small, but lovely. Each table was preset every night with coffee cups, silverware, napkins, a small vase with a fresh flower, and a small jar of jelly, usually blackberry or strawberry. Often, guests would comment on how good the homemade jelly was, sweet and bursting with fruit. I found it hard not to swell with pride when I heard their compliments or saw how quickly our hungry companions devoured breakfast. I liked talking with the guests and listening to their stories, especially the odd court cases and stories from the railroad, but I wondered if that was all my life was going to be: serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner to guests crowded around twelve café tables, and listening to the stories of strangers