Marie wiped her hands on the calico apron that reached from her bodice to below her knees. As had been the case more than twenty years ago, commuters from the surrounding smaller communities on their way to their jobs in the larger cities pulled off the highway to enjoy breakfast at Lisbeth’s Café. The place had bustled with activity from six on. Now, at nine thirty, the breakfast rush was over, and she welcomed a moment to lean against the counter and catch her breath.
Her denim midcalf-length skirt felt scratchy against her bare legs, and she shifted a bit so the fabric wasn’t brushing her skin. When Beth had spotted her this morning, dressed in the straight denim skirt and button-up blouse, she had raised her eyebrows. Marie had raised hers, too, at Beth’s rattiest pair of jeans and skintight baby T that left a half inch of midriff showing. “Wouldn’t you like to at least put on a sweater?” The suggestion had been made gently, but Beth immediately flared.
“You told me I could be comfortable, and this is comfortable.”
Marie had held up her hands in defeat, but she’d wondered over the course of the morning just how comfortable Beth really was. She’d spent the entire morning hiding in the supply closet, “doing inventory,” with her cell phone pressed to her ear, talking in hushed tones with anyone she could rouse.
She could hardly blame Beth for wanting to stay out of sight. Of course, the customers from out of town hadn’t reacted oddly to her presence, but the handful of Sommerfeld citizens who came in for morning coffee and conversation had stared unabashedly, their gazes darting away when she met them directly. Their only comments to her had been those necessary for ordering—no friendly greetings or idle chitchat.
Deborah hadn’t greeted her or Beth cheerfully, either. Even now, with no customers in the café and the opportunity to visit, Deborah sat on a stool on the opposite side of the kitchen, her back to Marie, her nose buried in the Mennonite Review. The only communication with her this morning had been brisk instructions on how things were done. If Marie had her druthers, she’d be hiding in the closet, too, but someone had to wait tables and run the cash register.
A stack of dishes awaited washing. Marie sighed as she stared at the towers of white and blue ceramic plates, bowls, and cups. They’d need to be finished before the noon traffic came in, which Deborah had indicated was so light they might consider closing the café for the midday hours. She and Beth would discuss that later, but whether they decided to close or not, the dishes had to be washed.
Marie decided she wasn’t going to be the one to do them. Waiting tables and making sure the café stayed stocked with the needed items for serving was enough of a task without adding dishwashing to the list. Beth would have to carry a share of the load.
She marched to the supply closet and stepped inside, closing the door so their conversation wouldn’t carry to Deborah’s ears. Beth, engrossed in a cell-phone exchange, held up her hand in a silent bid for patience. Marie waited, leaning against the closed door.
“Okay, I’ll start checking. Yes, I’ll give it my best shot—you know how persuasive I can be.” Beth’s soft, intimate chuckle raised the hairs on the back of Marie’s neck. “Well, listen, Mom’s in here, so I’ll talk to you later. Love you, too. ’Bye.” Beth flipped the phone closed and smiled. “Mitch has some great ideas for adding to our boutique’s inventory. I’m going to start visiting the farms this afternoon, asking if the farmers have any items to sell. He said he’d get a small business loan to pay for the stuff, then we’ll pay that back when we sell the café.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Marie crossed her arms and gestured with her head toward the kitchen. “Honey, Deborah cooks, I serve customers and take the tabs. We need someone to run the dishwasher.”
Beth tipped her head, her brows low. “Trina told me she’d been working here with your aunt. I’ll bet she knows how to work the dishwasher. I wonder where she is.”
“I wasn’t speaking of Trina,” Marie chided. “I was speaking of you. I need you out there.”
Beth crunched her face into a scowl. “I don’t think I can stand working with that woman. She’s such a sourpuss.”
“You won’t have to work with her. As I said, she’s cooking. The stove and the dishwasher are on opposite sides of the kitchen.”
Beth huffed. “But I’d really like to start making those visits.”
Marie quirked one brow. “Beth, you asked me to come with you and help, which I’m very willing to do, but you’ve got to help, too.” At Beth’s grim expression, she suggested, “Maybe you can ask Deborah if Trina can come in tomorrow and operate the dishwasher for you, but for today, I need you.”
“I’m not asking Deborah anything.”
Marie released a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Beth scowled.
“You. You look exactly like your grandfather with that stubborn set to your jaw.”
As Marie had suspected, the reference to J.D. Koeppler provided the impetus for action. Beth tucked the cell phone into her jeans pocket and pushed past her mother. Marie remained in the closet doorway and watched Beth stalk to Deborah’s side.
“Mrs. Muller.” The use of the respectful title made Marie’s chest swell with pride.
Deborah turned her head, meeting Beth’s gaze. She didn’t smile. “Yes?”
Although Beth folded her arms over her chest in a battle stance, she maintained an even tone. “I wondered if it might be possible for Trina to come in tomorrow and run the dishwasher.”
Deborah set the newspaper aside. “Will you be here?”
Beth shrugged. “I’ll be in and out.”
“Trina is at an impressionable age. Her father and I wish to keep her focused on those things we feel are important to her spiritual and emotional well-being.”
Beth glanced at Marie. Irritation flared in her eyes, and Marie held her breath, hoping her daughter would think before speaking. Beth dropped her arms, slipping her fingertips into her back jeans pockets, then faced Deborah again. A slight smile curved her lips. “I assure you I have no intention of corrupting Trina. She’s a cute kid, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt her. She’ll be safe here.”
Deborah seemed to examine Beth’s face. Beth stood still under the scrutiny, waiting. Finally Deborah gave a brusque nod. “I’ll ask her father. If he says it’s all right, she can come tomorrow.”
Beth shot Marie a triumphant grin before turning back to Deborah. “Thanks.”
Deborah returned to reading her paper, and Beth skipped across the tile floor to Marie’s side.
“Piece of cake.” Slinging her arm around her mother’s shoulders, she said, “Okay, show me how to work this big ol’ monstrosity.”
Beth held her cheerful mood the remainder of the day, much to Marie’s relief. Although Deborah never openly spoke to either of them, she lost a bit of the tight look around her mouth as the day progressed, giving Marie hope that she might soften in time. She had no desire to walk on eggshells the entire duration of their three months together. She doubted she and Deborah would return to their old friendship, but she would be satisfied with the loss of tension between them.
Henry was among the supper patrons. When Marie delivered his plate of pot roast, potatoes, and seasoned green beans, he smiled. “When the place is closed, I’ll come by.”
Marie’s eyes flew wide.
His cheeks, wearing a slight shadow of whisker growth, blazed red. “To show you the books from the past several weeks while Deborah has been in charge. She asked me to keep the records since math is not her strong suit.”
Business. Nothing personal. Marie nearly wilted with relief. Or regret? She rubbed her eyes. She must be tired if she was having thoughts like that. “Thank you, Henry. I’ll stick around.” She hurried away before peering into his brown eyes raised any other odd feelings.
Beth left the moment the last plate came out of the dishwasher, but Deborah stayed close when Henry flopped the ledgers open and showed Marie the expenses and income from the past two months. Her hea
rt twisted when she witnessed the change in penmanship in the columns, and she couldn’t resist running her finger along the lines penned by Aunt Lisbeth’s hand.
“All of the monies made have gone directly into the café account at the bank in McPherson,” Deborah said, her brown eyes sharp. “It’s all there.”
Marie glanced again at the ledger and frowned. “Haven’t you or Trina kept anything for your labor?”
Deborah pursed her lips. “Of course not. I wouldn’t presume to do that for myself.”
“But that’s hardly fair.” Marie flipped a few pages, searching for prior entries concerning the payment of employees. “If you’re working, you ought to be paid. Here.” She found what she wanted. Pointing at the numbers, she looked at Henry. “This shows an hourly wage plus tips being paid to Trina when she worked with Aunt Lisbeth. We need to figure out what she would have earned over the weeks after Aunt Lisbeth died and get her caught up. We also need to pay Deborah for—”
“I do not require payment for doing a service for a dear friend.” Deborah’s firm voice brought Marie to a startled halt.
Marie stared at the woman for a moment. Deborah’s brown eyes were as determined as they’d been in her youth. Rarely had anyone won an argument with Henry’s sister. Recalling some of their girlhood spats, Marie had to swallow an amused grin.
She processed possible means of convincing Deborah to accept payment for her time in the café, but she came up empty until Deborah’s words, “service for a dear friend,” repeated in her mind. The smile she’d been holding back found its way to her face.
“Deborah, I very much appreciate you giving to Aunt Lisbeth in such a wonderful way. You were a good friend to her, and I thank you. But as you know, I’m going to need you while Beth and I are here. I can’t, in good conscience, allow you to continue working without pay. Not for Beth and me.”
Deborah flicked a quick glance at Henry, who seemed to be biting down on the insides of his lips.
Marie continued. “Will you please sit down with Henry and discuss a reasonable wage? And we’ll put you officially on the payroll, starting today.”
For long seconds Deborah stood silently, her gaze boring a hole through Marie, but finally she released a sigh. Running her fingers down the black ribbons of her cap, she gave a nod. “Very well. Starting today.”
Marie drew in a deep breath of relief. One battle won.
“I’m going home now. Henry, are you coming?” The pointed question left no alternative for him but to rise to his feet.
“Of course. I’ll see you again tomorrow evening, Marie.” He headed for the back door.
Marie shot a startled glance at his back.
Deborah made another of her pursed-lip faces. She leaned toward Marie and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “Henry has eaten nearly all of his supper meals at the café for the past twenty years.” Her stern gaze flicked in his direction for a moment before returning to Marie. “When the café closed for the evening, he took Lisbeth home.” Her stern countenance softened a bit. “I’m sure he misses her. They were very good friends.” Then she straightened her spine, her grim expression returning. “But he has accepted her loss, and he isn’t seeking a replacement.”
Marie felt certain Deborah was attempting to deliver a message of some sort, but tired from her long day, she couldn’t decipher it. She merely nodded, acknowledging the words. Deborah removed her apron, slipped on her sweater, and followed Henry out the back door.
When Marie returned to Lisbeth’s house, she found Beth at the kitchen table with the lamp burning. A crude map, drawn on notebook paper, lay on the checked tablecloth.
Beth looked up and flashed a smile. “Look here, Mom. I drew this from the one on the post office wall. I can use this when I start my antique hunting tomorrow. I plan to hit every house in town, as well as all the farms around Sommerfeld. Maybe all of them in Harvey County. Who knows?” She suddenly frowned. “You look beat. Why don’t you go soak in the tub and then hit the hay?”
Marie smoothed her hand over Beth’s head and delivered a kiss on her forehead. “Thanks, honey. I think I’ll do that.” She took a lamp from the edge of the kitchen counter, lit it, and started for the hallway. Before turning the corner, she peeked back at Beth. “Oh, just a reminder, before you take off on your hunt tomorrow, remember to come by the café just in case Trina’s father doesn’t allow her to come work.”
“Oh, he’ll let her.”
Marie propped a hand on her hip. “You’re certainly the confident one.”
Beth smirked. “I just have the feeling that mom of hers wants to keep her under her thumb, and what better way to do that than have her stuck at the café all day?”
Marie chuckled and headed to the bathroom. How well Beth knew Deborah already! When she was stretched out in Lisbeth’s oldfashioned porcelain tub, staring through the lace-covered window to the starry sky, Deborah’s parting comment about Henry accepting Lisbeth’s loss returned. She frowned. What was Deborah intimating? When understanding dawned, she almost laughed out loud.
Marie had been given a subtle warning not to try to replace Lisbeth in Henry’s life. Sinking a little deeper into the scented bubbles, she closed her eyes, smiling. Deborah had no reason to worry. Those Xs Beth made on the calendar each evening would add up fast, she’d be on her way, and no one need even remember she’d passed through. Including Henry.
For some reason, her heart seemed to pinch with the thought.
Twisting her toe on the hot water spigot, she whispered aloud. “It’s only because being here is bringing back childhood memories. Henry was a big part of my growing up. It’s only natural to think of him maybe more than some others.”
She reminded herself of that thought as the week progressed. On Wednesday she managed to serve Henry his meal without giving him any extra attention. But on Thursday his hand brushed against hers when she placed a newly filled saltshaker on his table, and she felt her face fill with heat. She escaped before he could see her blush and be embarrassed, too. On Friday she pretended she needed to use the bathroom and asked Trina to take his plate. The gregarious teenager acquiesced so innocently, Marie felt a pang of guilt for the deception.
But Saturday evening, even though Deborah carried Henry’s steak and potatoes to the dining room, she didn’t avoid him. He called her name as she scurried by on her way to the kitchen. Pausing several feet away, she peered at him with raised brows, hoping she gave the illusion of great busyness even though the café was only marginally crowded.
“I wanted to ask you a question.” His gaze flicked to the tables on his right and left, communicating his unwillingness to speak loudly enough for any other patrons to overhear.
With a sigh, she approached his table, stopping on the opposite side. “Yes?”
Now that he had her attention, he hesitated, his thick eyebrows knitted. “It’s about. . .attending meetinghouse.”
Marie took a backward step. “That’s a subject best left alone, Henry.” She softened the words with a smile, but before he could say anything, she dashed to the kitchen. She made sure she stayed there until he dropped a few bills on the table, rose, and left.
ELEVEN
Marie poured a cup of coffee from Lisbeth’s tall aluminum percolator, then doctored it liberally with sweet cream purchased from a local farmer. She sank down at the kitchen table and cradled the warm mug between her palms. Across the house, Beth still slept. She’d probably sleep until noon. Marie shrugged a little deeper into her chenille bathrobe and sipped her coffee, wondering what time it might have been when her daughter had put the cell phone away and finally went to bed. The wee hours of the morning, that’s for sure.
She sighed. Beth’s venture wasn’t turning out as she’d hoped. She had visited two families a day, and despite her most polite demeanor and generous top-dollar offers, no one had agreed to sell her anything for her planned boutique. Marie’s heart ached as she remembered her long conversation with Beth last night.
>
“Mom, I don’t understand it. A lot of the stuff I’ve tried to buy is just out in barns or on back porches—not even being used except to stack more stuff on or take up space. Why won’t they sell it to me and make a little money?”
Marie had tried to explain that the Mennonites, traditionally, weren’t interested in gaining earthly wealth, so money wasn’t a motivator to them. Beth had demanded to know what was a motivator. At Marie’s response that helping a neighbor was of more importance than accumulating wealth, Beth had turned derisive.
“These people are so backward.”
Her daughter’s statement had brought a rush of defensiveness. “They aren’t backward, just different. Frankly, I find it refreshing that there are still people in the world who look out for each other rather than constantly scrambling for the ever-loving dollar.”
At that point, Beth’s face twisted into a scowl, and she pushed away from the table with a curt, “Well, they sure aren’t looking out for me by keeping that stuff to themselves. I’m going to call Mitch.” Her conversation with her boyfriend had lasted long into the night. Which meant Marie would have a quiet morning to herself.
She raised the cup to her lips and breathed in the rich aroma of the brew. Having grown accustomed, over the past week, to the fuller flavor of coffee brewed in a percolator, she wondered if the drip-machine coffee from home would seem bland. She chuckled softly. Bland. . . Would she have ever thought she would apply that term to anything in Cheyenne?
She rose from the table and crossed to the window, peering across the stubbly pasture that stretched west of the house. As a little girl, she had stood at this same window with Lisbeth, “watching the wheat grow,” as her aunt had put it. A smile of fond remembrance tugged her lips. She could almost feel the tickle of the ribbons from Lisbeth’s cap trailing along her cheek as her aunt had leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Can you see the stalks stretching toward the sun, sweet girl? A wise wheat stalk reaches toward the sun, and a wise person reaches toward the Son.”
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