“Free for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m home in an hour. I feel like Charley’s. Is that all right?”
“Sure,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood for anything more formal. My father liked Charley’s Diner because it was his chance to meet some of his old friends and toss around stories and their form of gossip. Charley’s was a sort of hangout for men involved with the construction industry.
It was designed like an old 1950s diner, with faux-leather red booths with pleated white centers and chrome edges and base tables. There was a long counter with swivel barstools, lots of Formica and chrome, but there were also a dozen retro dinette sets, again with lots of chrome and Formica. The floor was a black and white checker, and although some of them didn’t work, there were miniature jukeboxes at the booths and on the counter. Consequently, there was always music but nothing anyone my age would appreciate. Actually, I never saw any of my school friends there.
Charley Martin was the original owner. He was well into his seventies, although he looked ten years younger, with his full head of salt-and-pepper hair swept back and on the sides as if he had just run a wet washcloth over it, maybe with a little style lotion. He was stout, with the forearms of a carpenter, both arms stained with tattoos he had gotten in the Philippines when he was in the navy. Dad called him Popeye. He pretended to be annoyed, but I could see he liked it.
“Is it just the two of us?” my father asked cautiously, obviously assuming that the note of sadness he had heard in my voice had something to do with Kane. Perhaps my little romance had crashed on the rocks like a little sailboat.
“Yes. Kane went home. His sister is arriving for her Thanksgiving break tonight,” I quickly added to wash away his suspicions.
“That’s nice,” he said. “I’m going to cook up a storm for us.” I knew what he was thinking now. Kane’s family’s preparations for a family get-together on Thanksgiving would remind me of the hole in my heart, too. “See you soon.”
After I hung up, I went to get into some of my homework so there wouldn’t be much when we returned. I had left Christopher’s diary on the bed. When I picked it up to put it under my pillow, I was so tempted to open to the page where we had left off. Maybe it was a good idea to read ahead now, I thought. I would know what to expect and how to react to the way Kane would react, especially after seeing the way he was today. That was a good rationalization for it, but then I feared he would know I had read ahead and that would break our trust. Besides, I really had to get into my homework. My father could linger at Charley’s.
And linger we did. Everyone there wanted to hear about the new construction on the old Foxworth property. I listened politely as they debated some of the new materials and techniques versus the old tried-and-true. I didn’t want to interrupt or complain that we were staying too long. I could see how happy my father was talking shop with some of the men he’d known since he had first begun in Charlottesville. With any reference to my mother, even a passing one, he would shift his gaze to me and then find a way to change the topic. Finally, he was tired himself, and we left.
“Some of those guys are so set in their ways they’re like petrified trees,” he joked on our way home in Black Beauty. It rode rough, but he kept the engine purring.
He hadn’t mentioned this at Charley’s, but as we drew closer to home, he decided to tell me.
“The darndest thing,” he said, “but I was given quite a challenge today. ’Course, there’s enough time to adjust things, and I suppose it works with the architecture. No structural problems with the roof.”
“What is it?” I asked, wondering if he would ever say.
“Oh. There’ll be no attic. I mean, there’ll be a crawl space but no actual attic. ’Course, lots of houses don’t have attics today. Wasted space for most. Things go to these storage places you rent or just get given away. No one wants memories.”
“So why is it so weird?”
“Oh, it’s not so weird. It’s just that the original plan had a sizable attic, and then this new order came down the pike,” he said. “But how does that saying go? Ours is not to reason why . . .”
He didn’t finish the line, and I didn’t want to finish it for him: “Ours is but to do and die.” Either he didn’t want to mention it or he really didn’t care to make the connection, but eliminating an attic in the new structure suggested to me that the new real owner didn’t want even the idea of an attic on that property, and yet other things were shared with the old structure in this new one, like views from windows; it was a puzzle.
When we got home, I went right to finishing my homework and studying a bit for a history quiz. Unlike on most nights, my father didn’t fall asleep in front of the television. He did some paperwork, then decided to turn in early and stopped by to say good night.
“Tomorrow’s Friday. You have any plans yet?” he asked.
“Nothing for Friday yet, but expect to,” I replied. “Tina Kennedy is having a party Saturday night, which we might attend, but tomorrow night there’s a new movie we both want to see. I guess we’ll go for something to eat first. Are you working till the same time?”
“With daylight savings time, it gets dark now, not much choice,” he replied. “Don’t worry about me. Have a good time.”
“I can do both,” I said, and he laughed.
I had a message from Kane on my voice mail. He just said to call him when I could.
“Problems for Darlena?” I asked as soon as he answered. I was thinking of their first dinner with Darlena’s boyfriend.
“No, not really. My mother was cordial, as cordial as a queen might be to a servant, but we got through it. My father grilled him as if he had come to ask for a job. Darlena should get herself and him through the maze and return to college after the holiday with only minor scars.”
“Is your mother really that bad?”
“Let’s just say when she’s seventy, she’ll be a leading candidate for the Olivia Foxworth award.”
“Oh, stop,” I said, and he laughed.