Forever Friday (6 page)

“He’s a well-educated boy,” Annise had said one evening while putting away the supper dishes.

“I know, Mother.” Huck stacked several plates and handed them over. “But there are lots of educated men.”

“And—missed a spot on this one—and he’s a member of our local congregation. Brother Ralph Leggett says Clark hasn’t been absent from a service since he can remember.”

Huck inspected the plate. “The same Brother Leggett who can’t remember to button his suspenders, so he paid the price last Sunday during ‘Stand Up for Jesus’?”

Annise ignored the remark. “You know what I mean. Heaven forbid you marry someone from a different denomination. Remember your brother.”

“Cutter’s still single, Mother. Is there something about him I should know?” Huck smiled and glanced at her mother, who remained expressionless.

“I mean your oldest brother’s wife, Helen, my only daughter-in-law who refused to change her church affiliation once she knew the truth.”

Huck slid the plate underneath the final stack. It wasn’t dirty, just a bit different in design. Helen was probably closer to God than anyone in the entire Huckabee clan.

It wasn’t long before Clark began hinting at marriage, planning each moment of time together. To Huck their relationship reeked of predictability. As college graduation neared, he’d become businesslike with their relationship, even domineering. To complicate matters, she’d begun doubting that he was her soul mate, so evaded all proposal attempts.

When they graduated from SHNI and Huck landed the job at Sidney Lanier, Clark wanted to follow. However, his father was president of Huntsville’s First National Bank and quickly offered his son a
junior vice-president’s income and prestige. That’s when Clark purchased the big diamond. Huck never really intended to accept it, but he asked her in the middle of the Huckabee Christmas afternoon domino game. Ethan was in the process of skunking several sons, their wives, and a number of grandkids when Clark suddenly dropped to his knees, slipped the ring on Huck’s finger, and offered his eternal fidelity. Before she could answer, her mother and most of the others welcomed Clark into the family, dragging him into the kitchen for his pick of celebratory dessert. Her father dropped his final domino and grunted. Then jammed a chaw of tobacco between his teeth and retreated outside to chew and spit off the gallery. Cutter followed.

Huck watched the front door slam. Her father and twin brother would eventually accept Clark into the family. It would just take time, and perhaps a few hundred domino games. Someone called Huck’s name from the kitchen. She stood, glancing at her father’s empty chair. His last domino lay facedown. How did he always know what to keep and what to throw away? As if on cue, her mind flooded with thoughts of Mister Jack. She’d asked him the same question. And suddenly, his answer made her uncomfortable. “Look deep into a man’s eyes and you’ll see his hopes and dreams.”

Huck shuddered. Clark was constantly spouting about his hopes and dreams. Somehow, she’d never seen them in his eyes.

Clark arrived at Mrs. Thompson’s boardinghouse at eight o’clock sharp to take Huck to dinner. They drove to a refurbished downtown building and pulled up out front. “Redoing these old dinosaurs into elite
restaurants is all the rage,” he stated proudly as the valet opened Huck’s door. “And talk about a good investment.”

Pickwicks’ elaborate entryway reminded Huck of pictures she’d seen in travelogues of Elizabethan mansions. And instead of one large dining room, there were several smaller ones, all hearth and candlelit cozy, each one elegantly furnished.

“This is lovely,” Huck said as soon as they were seated. And then the restaurant’s name suddenly made sense.
The Pickwick Papers
was Charles Dickens’s first novel. She breathed deeply. Perhaps the evening would turn out better than expected.

A white-gloved busboy served ice water, while another placed an embroidered napkin in Huck’s lap. A waiter appeared with menus, his movements as starched as his uniform. “Please take your time,” the waiter said. “Prime rib is our house specialty. I’ll return momentarily for your order.”

Clark fixed his gaze on Huck’s left hand. “I love coming to Houston to see my diamond ring,” he said casually.

Huck glanced down, having considered it
hers
. “Just the ring?” She repositioned the napkin in her lap.

“You know what I mean. I also love seeing who’s attached to it.” He laughed and studied his menu.

“An extremely tired woman is attached,” Huck said. “I’ll be recording grades in my sleep tonight. My classes have been diagramming sentences for the past two weeks. I’ve tried to make it interesting to them, but—”

“How about that prime rib?” Clark interrupted. “It’s served with new potatoes in a white wine sauce.”

“I’d rather have a small beefsteak, well done. And a salad.”

“That’s what you always order.”

“Prime rib’s too rare for my taste. You know that.”

Clark raised his chin and leaned forward. “I think since I went to all the trouble of escorting you here, you’d want to honor my suggestion.”

“Fine.” Huck was too tired to argue. And after the day she’d had, she’d rather talk than eat anyway.

The waiter returned, took their order, then spun on a heel and marched away. Huck continued her story. “As I said earlier, I’ve been teaching my classes how to properly diagram sentences.”

“That’s nice, not that they’ll find it useful in a career.”

“And what do mean by that?”

“Oh, Huck, don’t come undone. This is the age of science and industry. Do you think the Wright brothers invented flight by defining subjects and predicates?”

“Of course not, but they had to succinctly write about their discovery.” She paused. “And since we’re on the subject, what does banking have to do with our modern age?”

He laughed. “Finance controls everything. Without the proper backing, no great invention would ever make it out of the laboratory. Successful industry depends not only upon investors who believe in science but us banking wizards who are savvy enough to make a profit for all concerned.”

Huck stared past Clark and considered the great author who had inspired the restaurant’s name. His brilliant prose still lived, unhindered by the boundaries of the modern industrial age, while encompassing the heart and soul of all mankind.

“Speaking of banks,” Clark said beneath raised eyebrows, “guess what happened at work today?”

Huck frowned. “It got robbed and there’s no more money for science and industry?”

“Absolutely not.” Clark glanced about the room and lowered his voice. “Please consider the ramifications of your words before speaking. That’s how rumors get started.”

“Clark, dear. I wasn’t being serious.”

“Obviously.” He cleared his throat. “You weren’t being smart either. Don’t turn around and look, but I think one of our shareholders just walked in. He’s liable to recognize me and drop by our table.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about.” Huck smiled sweetly. “I’ll make sure to speak on his level of understanding.”

“See that you do.” Clark paused, then sighed and wagged his head.

When the man didn’t appear, Clark frowned. “You insist on being facetious when I’ve got monumental news to share.”

Huck leaned forward. “News?”

“Well …” He grinned. “I’m being promoted to senior vice-president.”

“Oh, Clark. That’s wonderful.”

“My salary will double, plus I’ll be vested. Naturally there’ll be added responsibilities,” he continued, explaining each one in great detail until the food came.

“Which means we can get married sooner than planned,” he finished as soon as they were alone again.

Huck stared down at her plate and felt slightly nauseous. “I didn’t think we’d set an exact date.”

“Correct. Now we can.” He began eating.

A definitive date was the last thing Huck wanted to discuss, but
Clark seemed intent, which was probably the main reason he’d insisted upon dinner. Perhaps she could redirect their conversation.

“So?” he said between bites. “How about—”

Huck spoke up. “Before the wedding, I was thinking about cutting my hair.”

He swallowed. “Your hair?”

“Into the latest flapper bob. It’s all the rage.”

Clark turned redder than the beef. “I forbid you to snip a single strand,” he said abruptly.

“You what?” In all her growing-up years, she had never heard her father “forbid” her mother to do anything. He might strongly disagree, citing various reasons, but ultimately the decision was her mother’s.

Clark continued. “My future wife will not look like a floozy. I won’t allow it.”

Huck slowly stood and undid her bun, letting her hair fall down her back. People stared.

“What are you doing?” he whispered. “You’re embarrassing me. I demand you sit at once.”

“I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing you, Clark dear.” Huck shook her hair out, making herself resemble a wild, windblown woman. “See? Now there won’t be any question about what you allow or your future wife’s status as a short-haired floozy.”

“You’re acting ridiculous. I demand you sit and keep your voice down.”

“And one more thing …” Huck grabbed a few strands of hair. Holding them at arm’s length, she separated a single hair between her thumb and forefinger. “Is this the one you forbid me to cut? Or is it one of the others?”

Clark glanced about the room, stood, and spoke in a distinct hushed tone. “I will pull out your chair and you will calmly sit.” Reaching for Huck’s chair, he grasped her wrist instead.

“You’re hurting me. Let go.”

“Let go of your hair first,” he replied in a tone indifferent to her pain.

With her free hand, Huck seized her meat knife and slashed the strands in a single whack. Clark reacted with a jerk, providing Huck a chance to pull free. He stepped back.

“Your future wife doesn’t like being ordered what she may or may not do.” Huck set down the knife and inched toward the astounded Clark. “As far as
we’re
concerned, future is a noun that depends upon how
you
invest in the present. An unwise investment means eating the profits. Any good banker knows that.” She released the strands. “Diagram these,
dear
.”

Everyone in the room watched them float onto his plate.

Huck strode outside. By the time Clark had called the waiter and settled the dinner tab, she’d be riding a streetcar back to Mrs. Thompson’s boardinghouse.

Summer 2006

Adam Colby

“Have a great evening, Mr. Colby.” A wide-eyed carhop handed me a soda and a grease-spattered sack. “See you again tomorrow and thanks for the tip.”

I cranked my SUV’s engine, then glanced at my side mirror and watched her skate back inside the burger joint. “A great evening?” I muttered. “Someday, maybe.”

It had been a grueling week, but the Gruver Estate Sale was finally over. At least I had a few days before pricing began on the next one.

That’s what took the most time.

Pricing.

It was a tedious chore Haley had loved … back when she loved me.

Instead of shifting into reverse, I killed the motor, reached into the bag, and selected a scrawny french fry. “Looks as pathetic as my life,” I said blankly to the car parked next to me.

I thumped the fry back into the sack with its burgerless buddies, took a sip of my soda, and checked my cell phone. No calls from Yevette; no messages either. She’d already canceled two of our scheduled
meetings, so I didn’t hold much hope for number three, even though it was supposed to be a charmed digit.

In the message I’d left Yevette concerning our first meeting, I didn’t go into much detail; I just explained I’d handled the Alexanders’ estate sale and had some questions. In scheduling meeting number two, I was a little more desperate and mentioned finding the postcard albums. I figured the woman who’d cared for Mrs. Alexander during her final days would be eager to talk. Either Yevette didn’t know about the postcards or didn’t want them found.

“I have to cancel” was what she’d recorded on my voice mail both times. No reason, or even a sympathetic “I’m sorry.” Just four words as cold as my nightly junk-food supper. It was as if she knew exactly when to call. Exactly when I was busy with a customer and couldn’t answer.