Bygones (14 page)

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
X
s 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.

M
arie 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.”

Marie had dashed into the backyard to dance in circles, her hands reaching upward to catch a sunbeam, laughing out loud while Lisbeth watched from the window, laughing, too. When she’d grown a little
older, she’d realized Aunt Lisbeth referred to the Son of God rather than the sun in the sky. The day she’d found the courage to tell Aunt Lisbeth she had finally grasped her meaning, her aunt had tickled her nose with the end of her long braid, making her giggle. “And that proves to me, my darling girl, that you are growing wiser.” Tears had winked in the woman’s eyes as she’d advised, “Always reach for the Son, Marie. Draw Him closer and closer, and your wisdom will grow more and more.”

That afternoon, with Aunt Lisbeth’s gentle guidance, Marie had invited Jesus, the Son of God, to enter her heart and forgive her sins. Lisbeth’s expression radiated joy as she folded Marie in her arms and whispered, “Welcome to the family of God, my Marie.” The look on her aunt’s face was permanently etched in Marie’s mind.

Something trickled down her cheek, and she brushed her fingers over her face. They came away wet, and Marie gave a start. Why was she crying? The answer came at once. How disappointed Aunt Lisbeth would be to know how far her beloved niece had strayed from the Son.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Lisbeth,” she whispered, the pain of her loss striking more harshly than at any time since Henry had delivered the news of her aunt’s passing.

A strong desire to see her dear aunt just one more time washed over Marie. Visiting with her in person was impossible, but she could at least visit her final resting place. She set her now-cold cup of coffee on the red-checked tablecloth and hurried to Lisbeth’s bedroom, shedding her bathrobe as she went.

Fifteen minutes later she was behind the wheel of her car, dressed in blue jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. But as she turned the key in the ignition, she remembered it was Sunday. The cemetery was next to the meetinghouse. And the meetinghouse would be filled with worshipers. She pressed her forehead to the steering wheel, emitting a
low groan. She couldn’t go there now. . .or could she? She closed her eyes and forced her mind to picture the layout of the meetinghouse and its surrounding grounds, including the iron-fenced cemetery.

If she didn’t use the large driving gate in the corner closest to the back doors of the meetinghouse—if she parked outside the fence and walked through the small gate at the back corner of the cemetery—surely she would be unobtrusive enough to escape notice. No doubt Aunt Lisbeth had been buried in the Koeppler plot, which was in the northwest corner, completely opposite the meetinghouse building.

Maybe she should wait until tomorrow. She wouldn’t be working. Maybe tomorrow would be better, she tried to convince herself. But the need to spend time with Aunt Lisbeth became a gnawing ache Marie could not ignore. She twisted the key, bringing the engine to life, and backed down the driveway.