Bygones

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He frowned, the café clatter making it hard to hear. He plugged his open ear with his finger. “Yes, this is Henry Braun. May I help you?”

  “Henry, this is Marie.”

  He nearly dropped the receiver.

  “Do I need to take that?”

  Deborah’s strident tone made Henry spin around, tangling himself in the spiraling cord. He shook his head. “No, it’s for me.” At Deborah’s nod, he turned his back on her and hunched forward, an attempt for privacy.

  “Are you there?” Marie’s voice sounded again, still timid.

  “Yes, I’m here.” Henry cleared his throat. “What—what can I do for you?”

  A self-conscious laugh sounded. “Well, they say it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, and Beth has exercised that prerogative.”

  Henry’s heart began to pound.

  “Have you notified my. . .parents yet?”

  “No.” Henry swallowed. “I only just now got into town. I haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet.”

  “So it isn’t too late for Beth to meet Aunt Lisbeth’s condition?”

  The lump returned to his throat. “No, it isn’t.”

  “She’ll be relieved to hear that.”

  “I–I’m sure she will,” Henry’s voice squeaked. He cleared his throat. “When does she plan to arrive?”

  “I expect it will take at least a week to get things squared away here, probably more like two. Do you need to know a specific arrival day right now?”

  Henry shook his head, his thoughts racing. “No, of course not. But the house will need airing and a few groceries brought in. If—if you let me know a couple of days ahead of time, I’ll make sure things are ready for her.”

  “Thank you.” Her warm tone coiled through Henry’s chest. “But don’t go to any extra trouble. We’ll bring food from our cupboards here, and I’m capable of airing a house.”

  Henry jerked upright. “Y–you’re coming, too?”

  “Yes.” The word was nearly whispered. “I plan to keep the café running.”

  Henry looked over his shoulder at Deborah, who stood with her hands on her hips, scowling at the shelf above the grill. A satisfied smile creased her face as she yanked something down and sprinkled it over the sizzling eggs. He pictured Deborah and Marie side by side at that grill. An involuntary snort blasted.

  “Henry?”

  Marie’s questioning tone brought him back to reality. “Yes?”

  “Should I use this number to reach you?”

  He rubbed his chin. He could give her the number for his shop, he supposed, but for some reason he felt the need to distance himself a bit. “Yes,” he said, a niggle of guilt he didn’t fully understand twisting his heart. “Deborah will get the message to me.”

  “All right. Thank you. I—I suppose I’ll see you soon.”

  He wished he could guess what she was thinking. “Yes.”

  “Good-bye.”

  The line went dead. Henry held the receiver for another few seconds before slipping it onto its cradle. He looked across the room to Deborah.

  She shifted her gaze to meet his, then frowned. “Henry, you’re about to fall asleep leaning against the wall. Go get some rest.”

  He nodded, covering a yawn with his hand. “If you’re sure you don’t need me.”

  She flapped a hand at him. “Go. We’ll be fine. Trina and I have found our stride.”

  “All right then. I’ll see you later.” He didn’t wait for her reply, simply exited through the screen door and headed to his car. Not until he was backing out of the little parking area did he realize that Deborah hadn’t even asked how his visit had gone.

  “So you’re really going to do it.” Sally sat across from Marie, a coffee cup hooked to her finger. “You’re going home again.”

  The restaurant was blessedly empty after its normally frenzied Saturday. The women sat in a secluded corner booth, away from the two teenage busboys who mopped the floor on the opposite side of the large dining room.

  Marie slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her. She ducked her head at Sally’s comment, chuckling ruefully. “I’d hardly call it going home. That denotes some sort of waiting welcome. I doubt I’ll have that.”

  Sally shook her head, her bleached-blond curls bouncing. “Then why do it? That girl of yours is twenty years old—plenty old enough to make the trip alone. Why put yourself through it?”

  Over the years of working together, Marie had confided in Sally many times. They had both raised daughters alone, although Sally was alone due to divorce rather than widowhood. Still, the pair had shared woes and worries and laughter. Marie saw genuine concern in Sally’s eyes now, and her heart expanded in gratitude.

  “If she’s going to keep Aunt Lisbeth’s café going, she’ll need me.”

  “Didn’t you say that man’s sister was running it?” Sally placed her mug on the table and played with the handle, running her finger in a circle inside the loop. “She could keep running it. You don’t really need to go.”

  The feeling that had plagued Marie for the past two weeks as she packed items and made the dozen arrangements that precede a move now returned. She didn’t understand the odd longing; she only knew she had to answer it.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Sally huffed. “Because Beth can’t do without you?”

  “No.” Marie’s voice lowered to a husky whisper. “Because I need to. . .” But she couldn’t finish. Need to what? Put things to rest? Exorcise a ghost? Burn a bridge. . .or build one? She wasn’t sure.

  Sally reached across the table and gave Marie’s hand a pat. “Listen, honey, you think I don’t understand? My daddy did to me exactly what my Cindy’s daddy did to her—walked out the door and never looked back. Even though yours didn’t leave you physically, he left you emotionally when he sent you away.”

  Pain stabbed Marie’s heart. Even after all the time that had passed, the heartache of that moment—when she stood in her parents’ doorway with her fatherless baby wailing in her arms and saw only condemnation in her father’s eyes—was as sharp in remembrance as it had been in the living.

  Sally tugged her hand. “You’re going back there to see if he’s changed his mind, aren’t you?”

  Marie sighed. “Maybe.”

  Sally took another sip of her coffee, her lowered gaze pinned to Marie. “Well, three months isn’t so long, I suppose. A person can bear just about anything for three months.”

  Marie smirked. “Even handling this place without my help?”

  “Humph.” Sally plunked her empty mug on the table. “Did you see the replacement Jimmy hired? Can’t be more than nineteen and barely a hundred pounds dripping wet. I’ll be doing all the lifting and serving while she stands at the counter and flutters her eyelashes at Jimmy all day.”

  “Oh, Sally.” Marie shook her head, smiling at her friend. “At least I know you’ll miss me.”

  “You know I will.”

  “Thanks for letting Cindy sublet my apartment.”

  Sally flapped a hand in dismissal. “Oh, that was nothing. It was time for her to spread her wings a bit, find out what it’s like not to have Mom around to pick up her dirty socks and pay her phone bill. It’ll be a growing experience for her.”

  “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to feed my fish and take care of my furniture.” Marie quirked one brow. “She will feed my fish and take care of my furniture, won’t she?”

  Sally laughed. “She’s not perfect, but she is kind to animals and isn’t a vandal. I’m sure your fish and furniture will be fine.”

  “Good.”

  Sally’s brow creased. “Marie, can I give you a word of advice?” All teasing had left her tone.

  Marie shrugged, offering a silent invitation.

  “Be careful. I know it’s been a long time, but those hurts haven’t completely healed. If you go there with the expectation of being brought back into the fold, and your daddy tosses you aside again, you’re going to have open, b
leeding wounds.”

  Marie shook her head, forcing a smile. “Now didn’t I just say I don’t expect a big welcome?”

  “Yes, that’s what you said,” Sally countered, her eyes flashing. “But saying and believing are two different things.” She leaned back, pinning Marie with her steady gaze. “And I know you pretty well, my friend. You and me—we’re a lot alike. Underneath, we’re still little girls looking for our daddies’ approval.”

  Even though she tried not to think about it, Marie knew Sally was right. The absence of her father’s love was a hole that had never been filled.

  “Does he know you’re coming?”

  A weight settled on Marie’s chest. “I’m sure he does. Henry told both my father and my other aunt that Beth would be claiming her inheritance. As to knowing when I’m coming. . .” She shrugged. “That depends on whether Henry shared my arrival time with my parents. I only called him at noon today. I didn’t want him going to a lot of extra work to get things ready for us.” A smile tugged at her cheeks. “You see, in Sommerfeld, people don’t do physical labor on Sunday. And I didn’t leave him anything but Sunday to prepare for us.”

  “Sneaky.” Sally winked, grinning impishly; then her expression sobered. “So. . .what time will you pull out tomorrow?”

  “By six, if I can get Beth out of bed.” She sent Sally a knowing grin. “It’s a ten-hour drive without stops, and I want to be there before it’s dark if possible.”

  “Well, I can see why!” Sally whistled. “Living in a house with no electricity. . .” She patted her hair. “I’d never survive without my blow-dryer and hot rollers.”

  “Oh, but a person can bear anything for three months.” Marie threw out the teasing comment, her lips twitching in a grin.

  Sally laughed, reaching across the table to clasp Marie’s hand. “And I forgot—you don’t need to worry about your hair because the ladies all wear those little bonnets.” She tipped her head, examining Marie’s hair. “I just can’t picture you in one of those things.”

  Marie touched her head, trying to recall the feel of the starched organdy cap. Too much time had passed—the memory eluded her.

  “Can I take those?” One of the boys approached their table, pointing at the coffee mugs. “Gonna do the last load of dishes now.”

  “Sure.” Sally handed them over, then sighed. “We should get out of here anyway. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow promises to be longer. At least for you.”

  Marie nodded, locating her shoes beneath the table. She slipped her feet into the comfortable leather loafers and rose, extending her arms toward Sally. The women embraced, the hug lasting several seconds, with Sally rocking Marie back and forth.

  When they finally pulled apart, Sally tweaked Marie’s chin. “Now, do like I said—take care of yourself. Don’t expect too much. Bide your time, get that inheritance for your girl, and come on back here and rescue me from that bodacious young’un Jimmy brought on board.”

  Marie laughed as Sally slipped her arm around her waist. They walked to the parking lot together. At Marie’s car, they hugged again. “I’ll see you shortly after the new year,” Marie said, a lump in her throat.

  Sally nodded. “ ’Bye, Marie.”

  The words were delivered on a light note, but something in Sally’s expression as she backed away from Marie’s car left Marie feeling as though her friend believed the good-bye was not a temporary one.

  FIVE

  Henry closed the window over the kitchen sink. Turning around, he leaned against the counter, raised his face, and sniffed deeply. He gave a brief, satisfied nod. Allowing in the crisp fall breeze had done wonders. The house no longer held the scent of neglect.

  Heading into the small dining room, he walked through the path made by the late-afternoon sun slanting through Lisbeth’s hand-sewn lace curtains. The glow highlighted the layer of dust that coated every surface. The open windows had freshened the air, but now he had a new problem to fix.

  With a sigh, Henry returned to the kitchen and scavenged under the sink for a dust rag. He shook his head as he dusted Lisbeth’s furniture, wishing he’d used better sense. Uncovering all the furniture had felt like such an accomplishment, but if he had left the sheets in place until after airing the house, he could have simply carried the dust away when he removed the coverings. That was something a woman would have considered, he was sure.

  Despite having been the caretaker of his own home for the past twenty-some years, he still found little joy in housekeeping. But complaining didn’t make the work go any faster. With another sigh, he turned from the sideboard, which housed Lisbeth’s plain, white dishes, to the oak table and chairs. Pulling out one chair, he swept the dust rag over every inch of its surface, humming to fill the quiet. Trina, bless her heart, had asked permission to help him ready the house, but her father had firmly denied the request.

  “Sunday is a day of rest,” Troy Yoder had scolded his daughter. Then he’d given Henry a stern look, as if he should know better.

  Henry squirmed, remembering the embarrassment of the moment. Yes, Sunday was a day of rest—and he rarely abused the fourth commandment—but what else could he do? Marie hadn’t let him know until yesterday noon that she and Beth would be leaving the next morning. That had only given him Saturday evening to prepare for her arrival. It wasn’t enough time.

  Besides, he assured himself as he headed down the short hallway to Lisbeth’s sewing room, he had waited until after church service to come finish the tasks. Certainly the Lord understood he was performing a mission of mercy. Two women, tired from a long drive, wouldn’t have the energy to do the cleaning necessary to make the house livable.

  Running the rag across the top of the waterfall bureau, he scowled. Turning a slow circle, he looked for the photograph album and basket that used to rest on the bureau. They were nowhere to be seen. He opened drawers and peeked into the closet, but the items weren’t there. His brow puckered as he contemplated where they might be.

  A knock at the back door interrupted his thoughts. His heart skipped a beat as he trotted to the kitchen. Was Marie here now? He began forming words of greeting, but when he peeked through the curtain, he recognized Deborah.

  Surprised, he swung the door wide. “What are you doing here?”

  She held up a casserole dish covered by an embroidered tea towel. “I brought you our leftover supper.” Charging past him, she plunked the dish on the counter. Hands on hips, she glared at him. “I’m sure you haven’t taken the time to eat.”

  He pushed the door closed. “Not yet. I planned to eat when I finished here.”

  “Men.” Deborah shook her head. “What were you doing?”

  Henry waved the dust rag, creating a cloud. He sneezed. “Dusting.”

  Deborah’s eyebrows raised. “With that?”

  Henry looked at the rag, then back at his sister. He shrugged.

  Heaving a sigh, Deborah held out her hand. “Give me that. All you do with a dry rag is push dust around.” When he handed the rag over, she pointed at the casserole and said, “You eat while I dust.”

  After slamming a few cupboard doors, she located a can of furniture polish. Turning, she spotted him still standing beside the counter. “I said eat!”

  Henry laughed. “Does Troy know you’re here?”

  “Of course. As if I would take off without telling him where I was going.”

  “Does he know you’re working?”

  With a sour look, Deborah marched through the door that led to the dining room. He heard her muttering, and he couldn’t help smiling. Deborah had always been like a toasted marshmallow—crusty on the outside but soft underneath. Although he felt a twinge of guilt, he appreciated her taking over the dusting task. He retrieved one of Lisbeth’s forks from a drawer, pulled a stool to the edge of the counter, and helped himself to the creamy chicken-and-rice casserole.

  While he ate, he let his gaze rove around the homey kitchen. Lisbeth’s penchant for bright colors was showcased in th
e embroidered muslin curtains bearing red strawberries and green vines. A matching stamped pattern of berries and vines decorated the white-painted cupboards and walls. He frowned when his gaze encountered the little table crunched in the corner of the kitchen. It had always worn a red-and-white-checked cloth. Where might that have been tucked away?

  And where were those photographs? Raising his voice, he called, “Deborah, do you remember the picture album and the little basket Lisbeth kept on the bureau in her sewing room?”

  A grunt came in response. Henry interpreted it as a yes.

  “They aren’t there now. Do you know where they went?”

  Deborah stuck her head through the doorway. “How should I know? Ask her family—they’re the ones who arranged the service.”

  Henry nodded, thinking back to the day of Lisbeth’s funeral. Had the album and letters been there that day? He couldn’t remember.

  “Where’s Lisbeth’s broom and dustpan?”

  Deborah’s brusque question brought him back to the present. He swallowed and stood. “On the inside of the door leading to the basement. I’ll get it.”

  “No. Stay there and finish. I just want to sweep the front room.”

  “I did that last night,” Henry said.

  She raised her brows but didn’t speak. Obviously he hadn’t done it well enough. She disappeared again.

  Henry ate as quickly as he could, rinsed the casserole dish and fork, then headed to the front room in time to catch Deborah shoving the couch against the wall. He moved her out of the way and repositioned the couch himself. “You even swept under this thing?”

  “Well, certainly. Those dust bunnies always manage to come out of hiding when you least want them to.”

  Henry brushed his palms together and glanced around the room. In the minimal sunlight remaining, the room looked as neat as it had when Lisbeth Koeppler lived. How many evenings had he spent in this room, visiting with her? She’d been like a second mother to him. His heart twisted as a pang of loneliness struck.

  Deborah headed toward the back of the house, broom in hand. She called over her shoulder, “Do the sheets on the bed need to be changed?”