Chapter 10 - The Bread on the Table
Four weeks later, the spring thaw had arrived in the valley, turning the red Virginia clay into sweet, damp mud that smelled of wild onion and clover.
The moving van had departed 1442 Elmcrest Drive at ten o'clock that morning.
I sat on the front porch steps, wearing an old pair of jeans and a flannel shirt of Warren’s with the sleeves rolled up to my forearms. Beside me sat Madame Genevieve, holding a thermos of black coffee and two ceramic mugs.
Down at the curb, Warren was loading the last of three heavy iron garden urns into the bed of his pickup truck. He had spent the morning helping the commercial crew ensure that none of the antique door hardware was stripped as the Vance family’s furniture was carried out to a rental truck bound for a two-bedroom garden apartment in West Salem.
Bernice had not looked at me when she climbed into the passenger seat of Sterling’s ten-year-old sedan—the luxury cars had been repossessed by the bank three days after the promotion party.
She had sat with her chin up, her purse clutched in her lap like an iron shield, staring straight through the windshield as Sterling ground the starter twice before the engine finally sputtered to life.
Sterling had not spoken. He looked like an empty coat hanging from a nail, his shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the asphalt as he backed out of the driveway where his colleagues had parked four weeks ago.
"Did the restitution check clear?" Genevieve asked, pouring two inches of steaming coffee into my mug.
"Cleared on Wednesday," I said, watching the steam rise into the cool April breeze. "Two thousand dollars, drawn on Sterling’s remaining retirement account. I endorsed it over to the regional shelter for women in Roanoke."
"Good," Genevieve grunted, taking a sip. "Clean money for clean work. What are you going to do with the house?"
I looked up at the four white columns, at the leaded glass windows that Arthur and I had washed when I was sixteen, at the lawn where I had raked leaves until my palms blistered while Sterling played tennis at the country club.
"The deed transfer to the historical trust closes on Friday," I said. "They’re turning it into an artist-in-residence center for Appalachian textile workers. Three studios on the ground floor, living quarters upstairs. The city council approved the zoning variance yesterday afternoon."
Genevieve turned her head, her sharp gray eyes evaluating my face with that fierce, protective loyalty she had carried for thirty years.
"How much did they pay you?"
"Three hundred and eighty thousand," I replied. "Eighty thousand more than I paid the bank."
"And the profit?"
I smiled—a real smile, deep, slow, and unhurried, that reached all the way to the corners of my eyes.
"Warren and I bought the old flour mill on the river," I said. "The one with the two waterwheels and the brick chimney. The commercial bakery opens on the first of September. Six deck ovens, a retail counter with floor-to-ceiling glass, and a repair shop in the rear where Warren can rebuild vintage carburetors without breathing diesel fumes."
Warren dropped the tailgate of his truck with a solid, metallic clang that echoed across the quiet neighborhood. He wiped his forehead with a blue bandana, looked up toward the porch, and grinned.
"That’s the last of the scrap iron, Mrs. Nichols!" he called out, his voice strong and clear in the morning air. "Are we going home?"
I stood up from the concrete steps.
I didn't look back at the Dutch colonial. I didn't look at the empty windows or the cold chimney that would never again smell of scorched silk.
May you like
I walked down the flagstones, took my husband’s calloused hand in mine, and climbed into the cab of the truck.
As we turned the corner onto the main road toward the river, the radio was playing an old waltz, the sun was warm against the glass, and my hands were completely clean.
