Finding A Family. Judy Christenberry

opened the door and Tim ran to her. “Mommy, Hank made a water cake. It ran away!”

      “I see…. Well, dinner is ready, if anyone’s hungry.”

      All three men stood. Hank said, “I have to go clean up first.”

      “Don’t be slow, boy, or I’ll eat your share.”

      “There’s plenty of food, Mr. Brownlee. Your father was just teasing.” She moved back into the kitchen as they all followed her in.

      “Do you call my father Mr. Brownlee?”

      “No. He’s asked me to call him Carl.”

      “Then you’d better call me Hank.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He went quickly to wash his hands so that he wouldn’t miss the meal.

      When Hank returned to the table, he was determined, despite the aroma he could smell all the way down the hall, to find fault with Maggie and her cooking.

      Impossible.

      He blamed that impossibility on the fact that he’d been eating round-up grub for too long. He’d been starving when he’d arrived home and been confronted with the widow mix-up, meaning Maggie. To make up for all the trouble she’d put him through he had helped himself to a double helping of the mashed potatoes with cream gravy on top, the sweet potatoes with marshmallows, the green beans and the T-bone steaks grilled to perfection. Not to mention the hot rolls.

      Of course, that was the reason.

      Then she brought out dessert.

      Carl nodded in approval. “It looks just like Linda’s carrot cake, Maggie. It’s perfect.”

      Maggie smiled at such lavish praise. “Shouldn’t you wait until you taste it, Carl?”

      Hank wanted to refuse the cake. He didn’t want to know that this woman could bake as well as his mother had. Somehow praising Maggie’s prowess in the kitchen felt like a betrayal of his mother’s memory.

      “Your cake couldn’t possibly be the same as the ones my mother used to bake. How would you—I mean, there are different recipes,” Hank finally managed to get out.

      “Yes, of course there are. But we found your mother’s recipe book. It’s wonderful, just full of great recipes she’d collected over the years. Your father has let me use it to make his favorite dishes, just like she did.”

      Looking around the table at the pleased expressions on his father, Larry and the little boy’s faces, Hank decided to bide his time. He could air his differences with her later. For now Hank simply accepted a piece of cake and picked up his fork. The first bite stopped him in his tracks. It was the same cake his mother had always made. He couldn’t deny it.

      “This is wonderful, Maggie. I didn’t think I’d ever taste a carrot cake as good as Linda’s,” Carl said.

      “You still haven’t, Carl,” Maggie said with a smile. “This is Linda’s cake. I made it, but it’s her recipe.”

      “That’s true. Thank you, Maggie.”

      Hank ground his teeth. He almost put down his fork. Almost.

      “It sure is good,” Larry added, smiling at Maggie.

      Hank practically growled out loud. Was Larry flirting with his housekeeper?

      “Yeah, Mommy, it’s good.”

      Okay, he didn’t mind if Timmy praised his mom. That was to be expected, but Hank did mind that Carl and Larry seemed to be complimenting Maggie to the heavens.

      Looking up, he discovered everyone but Maggie was staring at him. “What?” he asked, frowning.

      “Don’t you like Mommy’s cake?” Timmy asked, sounding as timid as before.

      “Uh, yeah, it’s good.” He even smiled at the little boy, remembering Maggie’s warning.

      “I think you should take his cake away from him,” Carl said to Maggie.

      Astounded by his father’s betrayal, Hank grabbed hold of his plate and glared at Carl. “Why would she do that?”

      “Because that milk-toast compliment doesn’t even begin to do this cake justice and you know it,” Carl told him.

      Hank knew his father was asking for a more…more high-falutin’ compliment, but he was clean out of big words. “I like it, okay? You’re right. It reminds me of Mom’s cake.”

      To his surprise, it was Maggie who rescued him. “I’m more than happy with his praise, Carl. I couldn’t ask for more.” She smiled at his dad…but not at him.

      “I’m really tired, Dad. If you don’t mind, I’ll turn in early,” Hank said, rising to his feet.

      His father, instead of responding, spoke to Maggie. “I raised him better, Maggie, I promise.”

      “What did I do wrong?” Hank demanded.

      “You excuse yourself to the lady of the house, son. Especially when she’s just served you the best meal you’ve had in over a year.”

      “You mean the best meal I’ve had since Mom died, don’t you, Dad?” Hank gulped down the lump he felt growing in his throat.

      Grief over the loss of his mother took him by surprise. He knew his father was having difficulty with his mother’s death, but he’d been fine. He’d kept busy. It was Dad who—he backed from the room, not even able to face his own thoughts, much less the consternation on the faces of the other people in the room.

      No one spoke for several minutes. Then Larry said, “He’s really tired. Didn’t get much sleep, you know.”

      “Of course,” Maggie said.

      “I’d better go talk to him,” Carl said, looking older almost within seconds.

      Maggie reached out a hand to catch his. “No, Carl, I think it will be better to talk to him about it tomorrow morning. We have to respect Hank’s grief.” Carl nodded in agreement and returned to the table and sat down.

      “Do you remember that first night, when you talked about Linda? The words tumbled out of you as if they’d been blocked inside you for months. Has Hank ever talked like that about his mom since she passed?”

      Carl slowly shook his head, a frown on his face.

      “I think the best thing you can do is give him some space…And besides, just because you’re happy with me doesn’t mean Hank is. Perhaps it will be best if Timmy and I leave.”

      “No, Maggie, I’ll insist—”

      “But that doesn’t work, Carl. Didn’t Hank insist that you stop mourning your wife and be happy?”

      “Yeah, he did,” Carl said slowly.

      More softly, she asked, “Did it work?”

      Carl stared at the floor. “You know it didn’t.”

      Maggie patted Carl’s shoulder. “It isn’t your fault, Carl.”

      “I guess you’re right,” he conceded. “Which gets me to thinking. If you helped me to open up about my feelings maybe you could do the same for Hank.”

      The old man’s expression brightened with the thought that he might just have hit upon a compelling reason to persuade Maggie to stay.