Read Online A Place at the Table by Susan Rebecca White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Rebecca White
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h-e-l-l. My throat hurts just being near him, aches and tightens so that breathing feels like work. Which is helpful, in a way, because it keeps my mind off the tears pushing at my eyes, tears that I will not let fall. Will not. But then they do. Pool over and run down my face, landing on my khaki pants. Hunter glances at me, his eyes showing disgust. But he does not say a word. He’s as scared of Mama as I am.
The doorbell rings and Mama strides out of the kitchen, stopping short of the door to take a breath and say a quick prayer. In Gracious Servings this is something she advises all hostesses to do in that second before greeting their guests. Ask the Lord to calm your nerves and open your heart to the festivities ahead.
After her pause, Mama throws open the door. “Well, hello! Welcome! I am so delighted to have y’all!”
And in spill the ladies, along with a scent of mixed floral perfumes.The last one to enter is Mrs. Lacy Lovehart herself, so luminous I stand as if at attention. I have seen her on television before, but in person she is brighter, magnetic. And tall—at least five foot ten in flats, which I recognize from Vogue as Jack Rogers Navajo sandals, the ones Jackie O made famous when she wore them in Palm Beach.
Lacy’s hairstyle is much more modern than Mama’s, falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She wears a sleeveless shift in her signature color of peach, her arms toned and tanned as if she plays a lot of tennis. She wears a necklace of big, round silver beads, and on her arm is a silver bracelet weighted with charms. But it is her face, her glowing skin, her wide eyes, that suck me right in.
Mama turns and smiles at Hunter and me. Her smile means it is time for us to come forward with our offerings for the ladies. I lift the tray of lemonade off the coffee table; Hunter hoists the tray with the crab dip and crackers.
I make my way to the buzzing hive of pastels and perfume, offering them the lemonade, which Mama has poured over cubes of frozen lemonade, so when the ice melts it won’t weaken the drink. For the occasion she has pulled out her crystal tumblers, “EBM” etched into the glass. Hunter follows behind, offering the dip and a napkin to each lady. He doesn’t speak so much as he grunts, but they get the message and ooh and ahh as they put the dip in their mouths.
Lacy does not take a lemonade off the tray. “Aren’t you precious,” she says. “But might you happen to have a peach iced tea?”
I glance at Mama, worried.
“Oh, Lacy, I’m so sorry. I have Coca-Cola, sweet tea, and coffee, but I don’t have any peaches. Man ate the last one this morning.”
Well, that’s a flat-out lie. Mama hasn’t bought any peaches at all this summer. She says none of the ones at the grocery store have looked any good.
Mrs. Lovehart lifts a glass of lemonade off of my tray. “Thiswill suit me just fine,” she says. “Though you should try peach iced tea one day. It’s simply wonderful!”
It is as if Mrs. Lovehart is in a commercial. I glance at Mama to see her reaction. She looks irritated.
“I could run over and see if they have any peaches at the Seven-Eleven,” I volunteer.
“A boy with initiative will become a man with leadership skills!” says Mrs. Lovehart, touching my forearm with her manicured hand. “Very impressive.”
She winks at me, a wink I’ve seen her give before on television.
“Thank you, Bobby, but I think we’ll be fine,” says Mama, her lips tight. “Now please, ladies, have more crab dip and lemonade, and then these boys are going to say their good-byes so we can get down to business before we enjoy our lunch.”
A moment later and we are dismissed.
• • •
Hunter takes off down the driveway, probably on his way to Dixon’s. I make my way into the woods behind our house. The air is softer here. Walking beneath tree limbs, bright with green leaves, I am able to distract myself, a little, by listening to the noises of the
The doorbell rings and Mama strides out of the kitchen, stopping short of the door to take a breath and say a quick prayer. In Gracious Servings this is something she advises all hostesses to do in that second before greeting their guests. Ask the Lord to calm your nerves and open your heart to the festivities ahead.
After her pause, Mama throws open the door. “Well, hello! Welcome! I am so delighted to have y’all!”
And in spill the ladies, along with a scent of mixed floral perfumes.The last one to enter is Mrs. Lacy Lovehart herself, so luminous I stand as if at attention. I have seen her on television before, but in person she is brighter, magnetic. And tall—at least five foot ten in flats, which I recognize from Vogue as Jack Rogers Navajo sandals, the ones Jackie O made famous when she wore them in Palm Beach.
Lacy’s hairstyle is much more modern than Mama’s, falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She wears a sleeveless shift in her signature color of peach, her arms toned and tanned as if she plays a lot of tennis. She wears a necklace of big, round silver beads, and on her arm is a silver bracelet weighted with charms. But it is her face, her glowing skin, her wide eyes, that suck me right in.
Mama turns and smiles at Hunter and me. Her smile means it is time for us to come forward with our offerings for the ladies. I lift the tray of lemonade off the coffee table; Hunter hoists the tray with the crab dip and crackers.
I make my way to the buzzing hive of pastels and perfume, offering them the lemonade, which Mama has poured over cubes of frozen lemonade, so when the ice melts it won’t weaken the drink. For the occasion she has pulled out her crystal tumblers, “EBM” etched into the glass. Hunter follows behind, offering the dip and a napkin to each lady. He doesn’t speak so much as he grunts, but they get the message and ooh and ahh as they put the dip in their mouths.
Lacy does not take a lemonade off the tray. “Aren’t you precious,” she says. “But might you happen to have a peach iced tea?”
I glance at Mama, worried.
“Oh, Lacy, I’m so sorry. I have Coca-Cola, sweet tea, and coffee, but I don’t have any peaches. Man ate the last one this morning.”
Well, that’s a flat-out lie. Mama hasn’t bought any peaches at all this summer. She says none of the ones at the grocery store have looked any good.
Mrs. Lovehart lifts a glass of lemonade off of my tray. “Thiswill suit me just fine,” she says. “Though you should try peach iced tea one day. It’s simply wonderful!”
It is as if Mrs. Lovehart is in a commercial. I glance at Mama to see her reaction. She looks irritated.
“I could run over and see if they have any peaches at the Seven-Eleven,” I volunteer.
“A boy with initiative will become a man with leadership skills!” says Mrs. Lovehart, touching my forearm with her manicured hand. “Very impressive.”
She winks at me, a wink I’ve seen her give before on television.
“Thank you, Bobby, but I think we’ll be fine,” says Mama, her lips tight. “Now please, ladies, have more crab dip and lemonade, and then these boys are going to say their good-byes so we can get down to business before we enjoy our lunch.”
A moment later and we are dismissed.
• • •
Hunter takes off down the driveway, probably on his way to Dixon’s. I make my way into the woods behind our house. The air is softer here. Walking beneath tree limbs, bright with green leaves, I am able to distract myself, a little, by listening to the noises of the
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