Bygones (13 page)

Beth scowled. “What I remember about Jesus from Sunday
school is that He was loving to everybody. If Jesus resides in a heart, shouldn’t a person’s behavior show that? I sure didn’t see much lovingkindness in the way your dad treated us today.”

Marie turned away, pain stabbing with the reminder of her father’s stern, condemning posture. She sighed. “Yes,
Christian
means
Christlike
. And sometimes people don’t do a very good job of emulating Him.” Turning back to Beth, she leaned her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands together. “But you can’t let the way my father treated us today make you think ill of all Christians or all Mennonites. That wouldn’t be fair.”

Beth pushed to her feet. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and reached for another sweater. “Of course not. That would be like your father thinking all non-Mennonites are horrible people. I sure wouldn’t want to be like that.”

Marie sat in silence, watching as Beth emptied the box of clothing, then reached for a second box. When Beth continued to work without looking in her direction, she finally sighed, rose from the cot, and moved to the doorway. “Well, I guess I’ll go make us some sandwiches.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, then—”

“My phone’s recharged. I’m going to try to reach Mitch again.” Beth closed the door in her mother’s face.

Marie stood for a moment, staring at the wooden door, battling with herself. She understood Beth was upset. Angry. Hurt. When Beth was little and had a problem, Marie had always insisted she talk it out until they reached a workable solution. But now? She wasn’t sure they would find a solution to this situation if they talked from now until New Year’s. Her father was set in his ideas and unlikely to change.

She’d never thought about it before, but J.D. Koeppler and Beth
were a lot alike—both headstrong, unwilling to bend. A humorless chuckle found its way from Marie’s chest. She supposed neither would appreciate the comparison. Through the door, she heard Beth’s voice and assumed the cell call had gone through. With a sigh, she headed to her own room to put away her clothes. She really wasn’t hungry, either.

M
arie 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 heart 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.