Free A Table By the Window by Lawana Blackwell

Templeton, from next door opposite the Paynes’ side. Bundled in a brown cloth coat, she was stoop-shouldered, with a face as wrinkled as old parchment. Her gray hair was drawn back into a bun and covered with a paisley scarf. She thrust out a plastic grocery bag containing two pint jars.
    â€œMayhaw jelly,” she drawled when Carley took out one with ruby-colored contents. “And the other’s figs. I’m eighty-two years old and still do my own cannin’.”
    Carley could do no less than invite her inside. But she declined.
    â€œMy boy, Chester Junior, and his wife, Joy Nell, is carryin’ me over to my sister’s in Lumberton in a little while. Your grandmother used to give me rides to the senior citizen center every Friday. That’s when we do quilting. I can’t hold a needle anymore, but I can sort pieces. We sell them at the Fourth of July fair.”
    â€œReally? Did my grandmother make the quilts on the beds here?”
    â€œShe did.” The aged eyes watered. “Don’t seem right—her just not getting up one morning like that. I kept pushing the doorbell….”
    â€œI’m glad she had you for a friend,” Carley cut in, fearing her visitor would break down into tears.
    Mrs. Templeton seemed to draw something from her own reserve. She blinked, nodded, and asked where Carley lived.
    â€œSan Francisco.”
    â€œMy, my. You ever been through one of them earthquakes?”
    Carley smiled. “Not any that were strong enough to notice. But I’ve only lived there six months.”
    â€œWell, I don’t think I’ll be visiting you there. At my age, it’s hard enough to stay upright when the ground is still.” She declined Carley’s offer to escort her home but did consent to having her elbow held down the steps. On the ground, she offered the use of her telephone any time Carley wished.
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Kordalewski.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œMrs. Templeton, ” Carley corrected.
    Having had two neighbors call seemed to put a stamp of authenticity on Carley’s right to stay. She brought in her bags to the front bedroom. The double bed would not be as luxurious as the Comfort Inn’s king-size mattress, but it was more roomy than the single beds and sofas she had slept on from her earliest memories.
    She hung some clothing in the empty closet, folded the rest in a drawer, and carried her toiletry case to the bathroom. Lighting the white porcelain wall heater, she wondered if people got used to the inconvenience. But then, not heating the entire house for one person appealed to her innate sense of frugality.
    She set her toiletries about on the counter, and smiled at a half empty bottle of White Linen. Which sister had influenced the other one? In the chilly back bedroom, she tried not to imagine her grandmother’s lifeless form on the bed. She pulled out a dresser drawer and caught faint aromas of sachet and Downy. Flannel and knit nightgowns were folded with precise corners. Carley ran a hand along their softness.
    Three months, she thought with a lump in her chest. Ships passing in the night. What if Mr. Wingate had found her before her grandmother died, before she knew anything about the will? Would she have been persuaded to come? She hoped she would have had the decency to do so, especially after learning her grandfather had died earlier.
    From the chifforobe she took out a yellowed pasteboard box with Women’s Slippers, Size 8 printed on the end. It had the weight and rustle of papers inside. A peek under the lid was rewarded with the sight of photographs, almost to the top.
    She carried her treasure to the kitchen table. Fortunately, names and dates were penned on the backs. Most were of Linda. Even her mother’s baby pictures were recognizable from the shining cap of blonde hair. A black-and-white strip from a photograph booth showed a much-younger version of the man in the dresser