The Braxtons of Miracle Springs by Michael Phillips Read Free Book Online Page B

atmosphere of the place. It was dark despite the candles on all the tables, and the decor was too gaudy for my taste with red and black flocked wallpaper, big gold light fixtures, and two or three paintings of women on the walls whose expressions I didn’t much care for. The sorts of men scattered about at the tables didn’t look or sound like the kind you’d want to spend much time with. It wasn’t what you’d call a family restaurant, and I knew from his face that Christopher felt a little uneasy too. But by the time we sensed that perhaps we’d made a mistake, it was too late. The eight or ten tables about the large room had been mostly filled, and people were already being served the famous food we’d been hearing so much about.
    Despite the questionable atmosphere, the meal was absolutely delicious.
    We were served savory potatoes, pork roast with fruit compote and gravy, yeast rolls, and chard in a fried egg mixture. All the items on the menu were familiar enough, but each one had a distinctive and different taste. It was obvious Mammy Pleasant’s chef knew how to prepare things to enhance rather than diminish their natural flavors. The coffee served with the dessert, too, was strong and flavorful without being bitter. It was the best coffee I think I’d ever tasted.
    As we ate, we talked lightly amongst ourselves, but I think we all felt a little bit intimidated by the surroundings. All except Mr. Kemble, that is. He spotted several people with whom he was acquainted and walked over to chat. He was having a great time. He’d been trying his best to find a way inside the place again ever since his first visit!
    The rest of us, however, did more staring and watching and listening than we did conversing. I suppose we all felt like country folks around all those fancy-dressed city men. Suddenly I realized that Laughing Waters and Becky and I were the only women seated in the room, although there were fancy-dressed women among the servers.
    I didn’t know what I’d write about in an article. If I stuck to the food like some restaurant columns I’d read, the assignment wouldn’t be too hard, because in all honesty it was one of the best meals I’d ever eaten. I didn’t know if I’d be able to write very much about a dinner, though. How much time could you take describing something you’re just going to stab with your fork, chew up, and swallow?
    By the time dessert arrived, Christopher had grown more and more quiet. I could tell he was very uncomfortable.
    As we began to eat the apple cobbler, he suddenly stood and excused himself, saying he wasn’t feeling too well.
    â€œI just need some fresh air, Corrie,” he said to me. “I’m sorry. Please, all of you, go on ahead. I’ll be back in a minute or two.”
    Then he turned and left the room by the front door.
    I watched him go, knowing there was more to his departure than not feeling well. For Christopher to turn down apple cobbler was unheard of. And he’d been feeling perfectly fine all day.
    I tried to make conversation. I’m glad Mr. Kemble didn’t seem to notice, but the others knew something was wrong. The editor, however, was too busy relishing the cobbler.
    As my eyes followed Christopher, I unconsciously saw him pass someone on his way out the door. I was watching Christopher so intently I paid almost no attention to the man walking into the dining room as he left. It was only later, as I recalled the scene, that I realized there had been a faint hint of recognition even then.
    At the moment, however, I turned back to the table and the cobbler on the plate in front of me.
    About three minutes later, suddenly the limp conversation at our table was interrupted with the last voice I ever expected to hear. It had been years, but I knew it instantly.
    â€œCorrie Hollister . . . it is you!”
    I looked up speechless, my face pale. Mr. Kemble was already