Chapter 17
“SO DID YOU GET THE JOB OR NOT, MRS. DUNHAM?”
Miss Mary pinned Josephine with that look as Calla lifted golden fried chicken from the cast-iron skillet and piled it high on a platter.
Unable to admit she’d flat-out refused Jack Daniel’s offer earlier that day, Josephine glanced through the open doorway to the dining room where tenants would arrive any minute for supper.
No sign of Jack Daniel yet, and with any sliver of luck, he wouldn’t show.
When she’d returned to his office that afternoon to say she’d changed her mind and would accept the position, he’d been nowhere to be found.
So she planned to be there first thing in the morning.
She was relatively certain his offer would still be open. But if she told Miss Mary she’d gotten the job, then he showed up tonight saying otherwise . . . Josephine wiped damp palms on her skirt.
“Mr. Daniel offered me the position, ma’am, but I—”
Miss Mary turned. “But you what?”
“Well, I . . . I—”
“Lying is not one of your gifts, Mrs. Dunham. But your determination to hone that talent only makes matters worse. So I’m going to ask you one more time—”
Josephine cringed. “I refused the offer because I didn’t realize he owned a distillery. I thought it was . . . another sort of business.”
Miss Mary stilled. “And you object to working in a distillery because . . .”
“Because I am opposed to drinking, ma’am. I’ve seen the misery it brings. Especially to women and children.”
Miss Mary studied her. “And I reckon you know my stance on it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Daniel made me aware of that fact.”
“And I reckon you’re wondering why I’d send you there.”
“I might have,” Josephine admitted. “If I hadn’t learned how scarce jobs are in Lynchburg. At least for someone like me.” She lowered her gaze. “You knew I needed work, and you knew he needed a bookkeeper.”
“That’s precisely why I sent you, Mrs. Dunham.
You have skills Jack Daniel sorely needs.
And his business, while not to my personal taste, provides for dozens of families.
Folks take pride in their work there, and the place is growing, which means Lynchburg will be the better for it.
” She frowned. “Didn’t you see the shingle hanging out front on the porch? ”
“Yes, but it says Jack Daniel D-I-S-T.” Embarrassed, Josephine looked away. “I took that to mean distributors.”
Miss Mary snorted then laughed outright. “Jack Daniel Distributors? Oh glory be . . .” She nudged Calla. “Our dear Uncle Jack for sure distributes, doesn’t he?”
Calla smiled faintly, eyes on the chicken, not a trace of burnt on it. “Yes, ma’am, he sure do. Now that’s the last of the meat. The mashed taters are ready, too. I’ll get the apples and fried okra dished up.”
“Hands down, Calla Lilly, you’re the best cook in Moore County,” Miss Mary added matter-of-factly. “And I’m blessed to have you.”
Calla’s smile softened, and the name Miss Mary had used—Calla Lilly—didn’t go unnoticed. About to comment on the beauty of it, Josephine felt Miss Mary’s gaze.
“So,” Miss Mary continued. “What’s your plan to secure that job?”
“I’ll be there first thing in the morning to ask Mr. Daniel to reconsider.”
Miss Mary nodded. “My guess is Uncle Jack’ll be tickled to see you coming. Though he’s likely to have a bit of fun with you on the front end.”
“After our meeting this morning, that’s not hard to imagine.”
Miss Mary yanked the rope on the bell and the already-familiar clang echoed throughout the house, announcing to tenants and any guests waiting on the front porch that supper was about to be served.
Miss Mary glanced at the bowl of steaming potatoes mounded high, a generous dollop of butter pooling in the center. “Mrs. Gibbs isn’t able to help us tonight. Would you carry those potatoes in? No serving. Just set them down and—”
“Quickly back away before destroying anything else?” Josephine finished for her.
Miss Mary’s eyes lit. “I wasn’t going to say that, but yes. Exactly.”
Josephine followed Miss Mary’s lead and placed the potatoes on the table then turned to go.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before, madam,” a gentleman seated at the end said, his attention moving over Josephine’s face. His accent pegged him as a Northerner. “Are you new to town?”
“This is Mrs. Dunham,” Miss Mary cut in.
“She’s helping us out for a while.” Miss Mary’s fleeting look in Josephine’s direction held a world of private meaning.
“Mr. Prince is one of our favorite tax revenuers who stays with us pretty regular. The revenuers make sure our dear Uncle Jack is keeping things on the right side of the law.”
“So far.” Mr. Prince paused overlong as he looked around the table. “The man has never given us cause to question. But we’re watching close as a hawk on a bunny in case he ever does.”
Everyone laughed at his joke, Josephine included, and Mr. Prince beamed with somewhat awkward pleasure at their response. She couldn’t say what, but something in his demeanor struck her as a little odd. Not threatening. Just a little off-center, perhaps. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Prince.”
“Welcome to Miss Mary’s,” a middle-aged gentleman sitting down beside Mr. Prince chimed in. “I’m Mr. Tom Motlow, president of Farmers Bank here in Lynchburg.”
Josephine gave a tilt of her head. “I admired that building today, sir, as I passed through town.”
“Why thank you kindly, ma’am. If we can be of service in any way with your financial dealings, please let me know.”
Josephine just nodded.
“It’s nice to have another female in our midst,” an older woman added as she took her seat. “I’m Miss Thelma Livvy, a teacher at a local school.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Livvy,” Josephine answered. “I was a teacher, too.”
Miss Livvy’s expression brightened. “What ages did you teach?”
“The younger ones at first, then gradually moved to the upper grades.”
“The upper grades? I’m impressed. You’re still quite young.”
Josephine smiled, appreciating the comment but feeling a homesickness when thinking of her students. And Sarah.
“The fine gentleman at the end,” Miss Mary continued, “is Mr. Roughton Waggoner. He owns a store on the square where you can find everything you need, no matter if you knew you needed it or not.”
More laughter, and the man nodded silently in her direction. Josephine sensed his quiet nature.
Miss Mary continued the introductions—each sharp, warm, and perfectly fitting. The woman had a gift for hospitality and wit, and Josephine resolved to stay on her good side.
Another gentleman entered and conversation ebbed as he took the last seat, casting Mr. Motlow a dismissive glance before tucking his napkin in his lap.
“Mrs. Dunham, this is Mr. Will Parks.” Miss Mary’s tone took on the guarded calm of a teacher heading off a squabble. “Mr. Parks has pledged to open Lynchburg’s first automobile store—once Mr. Henry Ford has his newfangled Model T ready. Haven’t you, Mr. Parks?”
“I sure am, Miss Mary. Might be another two or three years, but mark my words, Ford’s Model T will change the world. And I’m going to do my part to help it along.”
“Hear, hear!” Mr. Prince said a little too loudly.
Mr. Motlow cleared his throat. “I just hope the Model T is a better contraption than Ford’s Quadricycle.
” He laughed under his breath. “Some horseless carriage that turned out to be. And for two hundred dollars? Why, I wouldn’t do anybody in this town the disservice of loaning them the money for such a bucket of bolts. ”
Mr. Parks flushed crimson. “Don’t start with me tonight, Tom Motlow. I am not in the mood for your tomfoolery!”
Mr. Motlow smiled, his gaze sweeping the table. “I recently heard of a fellow who named his Ford after his wife. He said he did so because he can’t control either one.”
Laughter erupted, and though Josephine was tempted, she didn’t join in. Not seeing Mr. Parks’s reaction. Nor Miss Mary’s, who appeared none too pleased.
“However,” Mr. Motlow continued, “I will say that Ford really is a family car. There’s a hood for Mama, a tank for Papa . . . and a rattle for Baby!”
More laughter, and Mr. Parks shoved his chair back. Miss Mary was behind him in a flash.
“Calla, our wonderful cook, has prepared all of your favorites tonight. Especially yours, Mr. Parks. Chicken fried up golden brown and those candied apples you love so much. We’ve got fried okra and pinto beans with smoked ham hock, mashed potatoes fairly floating in butter, and rolls coming hot from the oven.
And for dessert, fudge pie for everybody who cleans their plates.
” She winked. “Now let me say the blessing, thank God for the friendships in this house—”
Josephine caught the look she gave Mr. Motlow.
“—then we’ll dig in and eat while it’s still hot.”
Josephine bowed her head. All followed suit except for Mr. Motlow, whose grin lingered beneath closed eyes.
She counted twelve tenants in all. And no sign of Mr. Bobo. Five mismatched dining room chairs lined the far wall, and she got the impression that if more people showed up, Miss Mary would simply squeeze them in.
She had no idea how many rooms were in this house or how many beds each accommodated.
But as she headed back into the kitchen, she caught the friendly interactions between tenants, heard the tink of utensils as people ladled sumptuous food onto their plates, and it occurred to her that Miss Mary Bobo’s Boarding House was far more than meals and beds.
It was community. Friendship. A place of belonging.
And even a place for friendly rivalry, it would seem.
And while the warmth of that settled deep inside her, it also sharpened the ache of standing on the outside looking in.
Later that night, she lay awake on her cot in Calla’s small quarters in the old cabin out back, staring through the window beside her bed into the dark night sky. No stars. No moon. Only blackness. Her heartbeat felt heavy and sluggish in her chest.
The salve Calla had smoothed over her face was pungent and not yet dry, so she kept her cheek angled away from the thin pillow stuffed with cotton batting.
She’d eaten supper with Calla in the kitchen, every bite better than the last. When she’d said so, Calla had waved off the compliment. “Cooking’s about all I know, Josephine. That and cleaning and sewing. I know gardening too, I reckon. I’m fair to middling at growing things.”
While Calla’s humility was admirable, Josephine doubted anything the woman did was merely fair to middling. The custard in her fudge pie melted on the tongue, the pastry absolute perfection. Atlanta restaurants would have lined up to hire her.
But Josephine knew the truth, even with all the education she’d amassed through her life, Calla and likely everyone in this town possessed more practical skills than she did.
So much for being “the youngest but most mature candidate” the Atlanta Educational School Board had ever interviewed. A lot of good that did her now.
Behind her, Calla moved about the room preparing for bed.
Josephine shifted on the cot, careful not to reveal she was still awake.
Grateful for Calla’s loan of a nightgown, she tugged at the too-short sleeves and tried to get comfortable.
Her belly was full, but the hollowness inside her felt cavernous.
After supper, she’d brushed the dust from the skirt and blouse sewn by Dodge Coburn’s late sister and returned them to Miss Mary—relieved to have them out of her care. Then she’d soaked and scrubbed her own clothes and hung them by the fire to dry.
“Josephine,” Calla whispered after a minute. “If you’re still awake, you want some tea? Got some chamomile that might help you sleep.”
Josephine sniffed, willing her voice steady. “No thanks. But I appreciate it.”
Soft footsteps approached, but she didn’t turn, not trusting the ache in her throat. A gentle hand smoothed her hair, and her resolve nearly crumbled.
“You’re going to be okay, young miss,” Calla said softly.
“I know you’re affrighted, being so far from home and on your lonesome.
Or leastwise, it feels that way. But you’re not alone.
Not hardly. Wherever we go, the good Lord sees.
He knows. And he’s got grace—” Her fragile voice broke. “—even when we got none for ourselves.”
Josephine drew in a shuddered breath. At last, she turned. “Thank you . . . Calla Lilly,” she whispered.
Calla laughed softly. “You heard Miss Mary earlier.”
“It’s a beautiful name.”
“My mama gave it to me. She said it comes from stories her mama told her about the most beautiful flowers growing back home, right along the riverbanks. White, pink, yellow, purple, even a dark red-brown. Big old trumpet-looking blooms with leaves shaped like Indian arrowheads.” She sighed.
“Mama wanted me to remember where my people came from. So she gave me this name.”
Josephine’s chest ached at what Calla said, and didn’t say. She reached from beneath the covers and clasped Calla’s hand. “It’s wrong,” she whispered. “People owning people.”
Calla held her gaze for a long moment, the distant night song of crickets moving closer in the silence. “It sure is. And it’s wrong, too . . . a man beating a woman.”
Josephine swallowed. “It sure is.”
Giving her hand a final squeeze, Calla moved away.
Minutes later came the soft whistle of the kettle, the slosh of water, and the faint clink of a spoon. Josephine glanced back to see Calla rocking gently, stirring honey into her cup from the little blue bottle. The chair creaked in steady rhythm as she sipped.
At last, Calla crawled into bed. The ropes beneath the hay-stuffed mattress groaned softly, then the lamp went dark. Josephine pulled the thin blanket to her chin, the night air cool and damp. But sleep wouldn’t come.
Sometime later, the mantel clock chimed twice on the hour, worry keeping rest at arm’s length.
What if Jack Daniel changed his mind? At the same time, accepting the job felt traitorous.
If given the opportunity to explain herself to fellow suffragists, she hoped they would understand.
But if the roles were reversed . . . would she?
Without that job, Miss Mary would send her straight back to Tullahoma—where authorities waited.