“Maybe you ought to back up and look at the big picture.”
“What do you mean. . .‘big picture’?”
“Now don’t get riled.”
“I’m not riled!”
Mitch’s laugh did nothing to soothe Beth’s jangled nerves. Sitting up, she growled into the phone, “I’m going to hang up.”
“No, Lissie, come on—listen to me.”
Beth crossed her leg and bounced her foot.
“That guy said you’d have to live in. . .what’s the name of the town?”
“Sommerfeld.” The word was forced between gritted teeth.
“Sommerfeld. But just for three months. You’d be out of there by Christmas. You’d have the money in hand to start our business right after the first of the year.”
“But, Mitch—”
“Besides, that town full of. . .what’s the religious group?”
Beth huffed. “Mennonites.”
“That town full of Mennonites has to be loaded with antiques. I mean, those people don’t buy new stuff very often. There’s bound to be tons of things you could pick up—probably for a song—to put in our boutique.”
Beth stood, her stomach fluttering. “You want me to go?”
“Like I said, it’s only three months. Drop in a bucket.” His chuckle sounded again. “I could live in an igloo in Antarctica for three months if it meant gaining a pocket full of cash and a storehouse of goods for our business.”
“Fine.” Beth grated out the word. “I’ll book you an igloo in Antarctica, and you can leave in the morning.”
Mitch’s full-throated laughter rang. “Oh, Lissie, you are too cute.”
Dropping back to the bed, Beth sighed. “I’m not trying to be. I really don’t want to go to that town.”
“Not even for the money?”
“No.”
“Not even for the antiques?”
“No.”
A slight pause. “Not even for us?”
His persuasive undercurrent melted a bit of Beth’s resolve. “Mitch. . .”
“Three months, Lissie. That’s not such a huge price to pay for our future, is it?”
Beth fell backward, bouncing the mattress. “You are so annoying.”
Another chuckle. “But lovable, right?”
Despite herself, Beth released a short giggle. “So. . .if I go, will you come, too?”
A snort blasted. “Yeah, I can imagine how well I’d fit in there. As inconspicuous as a snake in a jar of jelly beans.”
Beth giggled, thinking of Mitch’s hair that curled over his collar in the back and stuck up in gelled spikes on top of his head. Not even one of those flat-brimmed black hats would make him blend in with the Mennonites if they all dressed like Henry Braun.
“But,” Mitch continued, “I think you should take your mom.”
Beth released a low whistle. “No way. Mom will never set foot in Sommerfeld again.” Flat on her back, she stared at the ceiling, remembering the pain in her mother’s eyes when she explained to eight-year-old Beth why she had no grandparents to visit at Christmastime like her friends had.
“But it would give you some company.” The persuasive tone returned. “And surely she knows how to run a café after all the years she’s spent working in restaurants. A working café would bring in more money than one that’s sat empty for a while. She’d help you out, wouldn’t she?”
“I couldn’t ask her to!” Beth rolled onto her stomach and propped herself up with her elbows. “She hasn’t seen her family since I was two weeks old. That’s more than twenty years. Imagine how hard it would be for her to go back.”
“Aw, let bygones be bygones.” Mitch’s flippant tone raised Beth’s ire. “For the chance at maybe thirty thousand smackers, she can set aside her differences.”
Beth set her jaw, allowing her lack of response to communicate her displeasure at his uncaring attitude. After a long pause, Mitch’s voice came again, more subdued.
“Lissie?”
“Yeah?”
“At least ask her. There’s not much mothers won’t do for their kids.”
Beth knew that. Mom had given up her entire life for her—sometimes working two jobs to be sure they had a decent place to live and the extras like braces and gymnastics lessons and a vacation every summer. Beth hadn’t had to pay a penny for college—Mom had squirreled away enough money over the years to cover the cost of her associate degree in interior design. If Beth asked, Mom would go. But was it fair to ask?
“You gonna think about it?”
Mitch’s voice jarred Beth back to the present. “Yeah.” She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good girl.”
The approving tone sent a shiver down Beth’s spine. He seemed to be counting the money already. “No guarantees, Mitch,” she reminded him.
His chuckle, which was becoming annoying, rumbled one more time. “You know, Lissie, I think I know your mama better than you do. ’Bye, babe.”
Beth stared at the blank screen on the cell phone for a long time before flipping it closed. She sat up, placed the phone on the whitewashed nightstand, and replayed Mitch’s arguments. Maybe he was right. Three months wasn’t that much, considering the payoff.
Beth looked around her simple bedroom with its secondhand furniture. Mom had always given her the best she could afford, even if it meant doing without something herself. How many of the clothes in her mother’s closet came from Goodwill? Even though she was on her feet all day, she never bought the expensive, cushy shoes but chose discount stores so she could do more for her daughter. Mom gave and gave and gave. Maybe it was time for Beth to give back.
If Beth went to Sommerfeld and met the condition of the will, she’d be in a position to pay her mom back. Take her shopping and let her pick out an outfit that didn’t come from the clearance rack. Or maybe take her on a vacation. Mom had told her how Dad promised to show her the United States from shore to shore, but she’d gotten pregnant and couldn’t travel. And then, of course, he’d died.
Even though Beth had never met her father, she still missed him. Mom had tried so hard all her life to be both mother and father. . .to keep Beth from feeling as though her life was incomplete. She’d done a great job, but there was that constant spot in her heart where a father’s love should have been.
Beth rose and moved to her dresser, picking up the framed snapshot of her parents, taken when Mom was about halfway through her pregnancy. Dad stood behind her, his chin on her shoulder, his hands cupping the gentle mound of her belly. A lump filled Beth’s throat. Her daddy would have loved her. She just knew it. And he would never have cast her aside, the way Mom’s dad had done.
She set the picture down, her lips pursed, forehead creased. That old man should not get the money meant for her.
“Well,” she mumbled, turning toward the bedroom door and sucking in a big breath, “the only way to find out what Mom thinks about all this is to ask her.” She headed for her mother’s bedroom.
Henry pulled into the first gas station he encountered when he entered Kimball, Nebraska. Dusk had fallen, and the air had a nip in it as it whipped around the pumps and pushed at his hat. The odor of gasoline filled his nostrils, reminding him of the smell that surrounded the truck stop where Marie spent her days.
She was still pretty, he acknowledged, as he forced the nozzle into the opening of the fuel tank and clicked the handle. The modern clothing and short hairstyle hadn’t been to his taste, but her blue eyes still had their sparkle, and the cleft in her chin was as appealing as it had always been.
As a young man, courting Marie, he’d wanted to kiss that little cleft, but bashfulness had held him back. Looking at her today, he’d had the same impulse. His stomach clenched. Who would have thought a man of his age would harbor such a boyish whim? It was best to put those thoughts aside. Marie had made her choice. She made it twenty-three years ago when she climbed into Jep Quinn’s semi and rolled down the highwa
y without waving good-bye.
Lisbeth had meant well, but her good intentions would accomplish nothing. Henry remembered the brief message enclosed in the envelope with Lisbeth’s will, a message meant only for Henry’s eyes. If we can bring her home, home will find its way back to her heart, and she will be ours again. Yes, Lisbeth had known how Henry still felt about Marie. But Henry knew how Marie still felt about Sommerfeld. He’d seen it in her eyes when he’d given her daughter the condition for receiving Lisbeth’s inheritance. Marie would not come home again.
The pump clicked off, signaling a full tank. Henry removed the nozzle, hooked it back on the pump, and closed the gas cap. Leaving the car at the pump, he went inside the convenience store. He selected his supper—a plastic-wrapped sandwich and a pint bottle of milk—and paid for it and the gasoline at the register. Ignoring the curious stares from two teenagers at the magazine rack, he returned to his vehicle, climbed in, and aimed his car east on Interstate 80. He estimated that tomorrow morning’s sun would be creeping over the horizon when he arrived in Sommerfeld.
Sunrises. . . New beginnings. . .My dear heavenly Father, being near Marie again has given my heart funny ideas. It would not bother me a bit if You were to remove all memories of her from my mind.
Despite his prayer, the image of Marie’s tousled hair, blue eyes, and delicate cleft chin refused to depart.
Marie’s bedroom door cracked open and Beth leaned in, only her head and one shoulder appearing.
“Mom?”
Marie set aside her book and removed the discount-store reading glasses from their perch on the end of her nose. Patting the patch of mattress next to her knees, she invited, “Come on in, honey.”
Beth crossed the floor on bare feet, her head down, long hair hanging in tousled curls over her shoulders. Maternal love swelled up, creating a lump in Marie’s throat. In spite of all the regrets she carried, having and raising Beth made them all worthwhile.
Beth sat on the edge of the mattress and picked up Marie’s discarded glasses, twirling the plastic frame between her fingers. “I was just talking to Mitch.”
As always, mention of Beth’s boyfriend made Marie’s scalp prickle. She couldn’t pinpoint a reason for it—the young man was intelligent, polite, and treated Beth well. But there was. . .something. “What about?”
“Aunt Lisbeth’s will.”
Marie nodded. “Quite a surprise, wasn’t it?”
“I’ll say.” Beth sighed. Her head still low, she peeked at her mother through a fringe of thick lashes. “Mitch thinks I’m foolish for not meeting the condition.”
Marie listened as Beth outlined all of Mitch’s arguments. When Beth had finished, she asked, “And how do you feel about it?”
Throwing her head back, Beth huffed at the ceiling. “It makes me mad. I mean, it’s not really fair to say, ‘I’ll give you this if you do that.’ It’s like what your dad did to you.”
Marie tipped her head. “What do you mean?”
“You know—saying you weren’t his daughter anymore because you chose to marry my dad and leave the community. It’s putting conditions on love.”
Marie nodded slowly, lowering her gaze to her lap.
“I guess what makes me madder than the condition on the will,” Beth continued, her voice quavering with fervency, “is the idea of your father getting the money that should be mine.”
Marie jerked her chin upward, looking at Beth’s profile.
Beth turned her face, meeting her mother’s gaze. She blinked several times, licking her lips. “Mom, if I decided to do what your aunt Lisbeth said—if I decided to go to Sommerfeld—would you come with me?”
Marie pressed backward against the pile of bed pillows, her hand on her chest. Beneath her palm, her heart pounded like a tom-tom. “Go. . .to Sommerfeld?”
Beth nodded. “I don’t know how to run a café, but you do. We could keep it going, which would give us a little income during the months we have to stay there, and Mitch says a functioning business will raise a better price.” She set the glasses aside and took her mother’s hand. “Mom, I know it’s hard for you to think of going there. I know there are bad memories. But the money from that café and the house can give me my dream business and let me do things I wouldn’t be able to otherwise.”
Marie felt as though something blocked her voice box. She couldn’t find words.
“I don’t expect you to answer now.” Beth squeezed Marie’s hand. “Just think about it. If you say no, I’ll understand, but. . .” She paused, sucking in her lips for a moment. Giving Marie’s hand a final squeeze, she let go and stood.
She zipped across the room and left, closing the door behind her.
Marie stared at the closed door, all the points Beth had made ringing in her ears. Money to start the business, possibility of accumulating items for the boutique, putting Lisbeth’s money into the hands she chose. . .
How Marie wanted to help her daughter. But return to Sommerfeld? A rush of memories cluttered her mind—memories she hadn’t allowed to surface for years. She closed her eyes, smiling at recalled funny moments, feeling the prick of a tear at touching times. Then one picture loomed over the rest. Her father, his face set in an angry scowl, his finger pointing toward the door, his voice booming, “You made your bed, young woman. Go lie in it!”
Her eyes popped open, sweat breaking out over her body. She trembled from head to toe. Return to Sommerfeld? How could she do it? Then she thought of Beth’s pleading eyes.
Marie’s head drooped, as if the muscles in her neck had given way. She could not deny her daughter the means to achieve her dream. As difficult as it would be, she would return to Sommerfeld. For Beth.
Oh, Lord, help me. When the words formed in her heart, she wasn’t sure if they were a prayer or a command.
FOUR
Henry parked his vehicle behind Lisbeth’s Café, in the alley beside the empty storage shed. There had been no room out front, all the parking spaces taken by highway visitors. He wondered briefly if Marie had been gone so long she would fail to recognize the differences between Sommerfeld residents’ means of transportation and the vehicles driven by those who lived in the nearby cities.
Her little red car with the white pinstripes would certainly stick out among the Mennonites’ plain, black cars. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. What difference would it make? Marie wouldn’t be seeing any of these vehicles. She and Beth had made their choice. His heart felt heavy at his failure to bring them here. Lisbeth would be so disappointed.
With a sigh, he swung open his car door and stepped out. He stood in the V made by the open door and stretched, straightening his arms over his head. His shoulders ached, and he emitted a low groan.
The slam of the café’s back screen door caught his attention, and he glanced toward the simple beige block building. His niece, Trina, bustled across the ground toward the trash bins, a black plastic garbage bag in her hands. The white ribbons on her prayer cap lifted in the gentle breeze, twirling beneath her chin. She reached the bins and paused, poising her body for a mighty throw.
“Trina!” He trotted toward her in an awkward gait. His stiff legs didn’t feel like moving so quickly. “Let me get that.”
Trina grinned at him, her freckled nose crinkling. “Thank you, Uncle Henry. I hate hefting that thing over the edge. Sometimes I dump it on my head!”
With a chuckle, he swung the bag into the high bin, then rubbed his shoulder. “I’m too old to be sitting behind a steering wheel all night.”
Trina grinned as she fell in step with him and they headed toward the café. “You aren’t old, Uncle Henry.”
His lips twitched as he quirked a brow. “Oh?” He touched his temple. “And all this gray hair is just pretend, huh?”
The girl laughed, slipping her hand through the bend in his elbow. “It makes you look distinguished.”
Henry shook his head. “I think you’re a flatterer, but thank you just the same.”
They step
ped into the café’s kitchen, and Trina scampered to the sink, where she soaped her hands. Based on the sounds carrying in from the dining area, Henry guessed Trina and Deborah were having a typically busy Saturday morning. Deborah stood at the long stove, where she deftly scrambled eggs on the built-in grill.
Trina snatched up two waiting plates from the serving counter behind Deborah and disappeared through a swinging door that led to the dining area.
Henry crossed to Deborah. “Do you need my help?”
She barely glanced at him as she lifted two slices of ham from a tray and placed them next to the eggs. A sizzle sounded, followed by the delicious scent of smoked ham. Henry’s mouth watered.
“You look like you need a long rest.”
His sister’s blunt comment made him grin. “Yes, I suppose I could use one. I’ve been up for”—he consulted the round clock hanging on the wall—“almost thirty hours now.”
“Then go to bed.” Deborah poked the ham slices with a fork and flipped them to the other side, then scooped the eggs from the grill with a metal spatula, sliding them onto plates.
Henry shook his head. “Not if you need me.”
Trina burst through the door, her cheeks flushed. “Three orders of hotcakes, Mama. One with sausage, one with fried eggs—sunny-side up—and one with sausage and scrambled eggs.”
Deborah gave a brusque nod and spun toward the tray of sausage links. Her elbow collided with Henry’s midsection. She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “You’re no help standing in my way. Go home and go to bed.”
Trina’s dark eyes sparkled as she took the plates of ham and eggs. “She’s right. You look like you’re about to fall over. Get some sleep.”
Henry opened his mouth to protest, but the telephone by the back door jangled.
Deborah jerked her chin toward the sound. “If you want to help me, answer that. I have hotcakes to pour.”
Henry reached the phone as it began its third ring. Pressing the black plastic receiver to his ear, he said, “Lisbeth’s Café. May I help you?”
After a pause, a woman’s voice—soft, hesitant—carried through the line. “Is—is this Henry?”
Bygones Page 3
