Bygones (11 page)

Everything was so
plain
. Walls painted white, with not even a wallpaper border or paneling to break the monotony. White square tiles bearing gray speckles covered the floor. The wide glass windows that stretched across the front of the café at least wore curtains—blue gingham café-style, with little gold plastic loops attaching them to the gold metal rods that divided the windows in half. She stepped onto the front walk to check out the front of the café in the sunlight, but the curious looks from passersby sent her scuttling back inside.

Perched on the edge of the black vinyl seat of one of the highbacked wood booths that lined both sides of the eating area, Beth kept her back to the window. Fifties-style tables and chairs filled the center of the room. Leaning forward, she skimmed her fingertips over the sheeny surface of one table, thinking of a diner back in Cheyenne that had similar tables. In that restaurant, with LPs and music-industry memorabilia decorating the walls, the tables had seemed retro. Here they just seemed out-of-date.

“I suppose,” she mused aloud, “someone might consider these trendy. Maybe I should cull a few for my boutique.”

The back screen door slammed.

Beth jumped up. “Mom, I’m glad you’re back,” she said, charging toward the doorway that led to the kitchen. “Guess what? I got—”

She came to a halt when she spotted a teenage girl in the kitchen. Her pulled-back hair covered with a little white cap and the yellow gingham dress that hung just below her knees marked her as Mennonite. Beth nearly giggled when she spotted the girl’s white athletic socks and leather sneakers. The footwear seemed out of place with the rest of the outfit. Of course, despite her shoes, she fit the whole town better than Beth ever would.

Beth caught the hem of her shirt and pulled it over the waistband of her low-slung jeans. Meeting the girl’s gaze, she offered a self-conscious smile. “Hi. The café isn’t open.”

The girl giggled, her brown eyes sparkling. “Oh, I know. I waited tables for Miss Koeppler before she died. And my mom and I have kept it going the last couple months. But I saw the lights on and figured someone must be in here, so I thought I’d come introduce myself. I’m Trina Muller.” She crinkled her nose. “Well, actually Katrina. But I’ve always preferred Trina. My grandpa calls me Katrinka.” The girl looked toward the radio as an inappropriate lyric blasted.

Beth scuttled over and flicked the O
FF
button. “Sorry about that.” She grimaced.

The girl shrugged. “You didn’t select the programming, did you? So don’t apologize.” She stepped closer to Beth, a warm smile lighting her face. “You must be Marie Koeppler’s daughter, but I don’t remember your name.”

Beth slipped her fingertips into her jeans pockets and leaned against the counter, hunching her shoulders. “Mom named me Lisbeth after her aunt, but I’ve always gone by Beth.”

“Ah.” The girl giggled again. She sure was a happy thing. “So you have a nickname, too.”

“My boyfriend calls me Lissie,” Beth blurted out.

Trina’s brown eyes nearly danced. “Did you know my uncle was your mom’s boyfriend before she left town?”

This was intriguing. “Who’s your uncle?”

“Henry Braun.”

Beth’s jaw dropped. She straightened, her hands slipping from her pockets. “You mean the Henry who came to tell me about. . .?”

Trina nodded. The little ribbons that dangled from her cap bounced with the movement. “He and Miss Koeppler—your greataunt Lisbeth—were very good friends. They both loved your mom a
lot. Neither one ever seemed to get over her leaving with that truck driver and not coming back after he died.”

That truck driver has a name
, Beth’s thoughts defended.
Jep Quinn
. She folded her arms across her chest, her heart pounding. “She would have come back if it weren’t for my grandfather.”

Trina lost a bit of her sparkle. “Oh, I know. My uncle Henry always hoped—”

The screen door slammed again. A tall woman in Mennonite attire stepped across the threshold. Trina looked over her shoulder, and her face flamed pink. She linked her fingers together and pressed them to her ribcage, a smile quivering on her lips. “Hi, Mama.”

“It’s like Grand Central Station around here,” Beth muttered.
Hadn’t Mom said this place would be empty on Monday?

The woman stormed in, her chin held high, her gaze pinned on Trina. Without so much as a glance in Beth’s direction, she let loose a tirade that made Beth’s ears burn. “Katrina Deborah Muller, you were to go directly to the grocer and home again. I can see from your empty hands that you never even made it to the grocer. What are you doing in here talking to. . .” She waved a hand in Beth’s direction, still without looking at her.

Some deviltry made Beth reach out and shake that waving hand. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lisbeth Quinn, but you can call me Beth.”

The woman jerked her hand free. A brief upthrust of her lips masqueraded as a smile. “I am Deborah Muller.” She spun back to her daughter. “To the grocer’s, Trina, and then home. We’ll discuss this more thoroughly later.”

Trina scurried toward the door.

“Good-bye, Katrinka,” Beth called. “It was very nice meeting
you
.” She emphasized the last word enough to give Trina’s grumpy mother a not-so-subtle message.

Trina sent a quick, impish grin over her shoulder before slipping through the door.

Her mother started to follow but then turned back. “Will you and your mother be handling the café starting tomorrow, or do you prefer to have some help?”

Beth wanted to snap back that she and her mother would be just fine, thank you very much, but she managed to think before she spoke. “If you and Trina are willing to continue for a few more days—to give Mom and me time to settle in and learn the ropes—it would be very helpful.” She didn’t add a thank-you.

Deborah Muller nodded brusquely. “Very well. The café opens at 6:00 a.m. I am always here by five. I’ll see you then.” She zipped out the door before Beth could reply.

Five a.m.?
Beth groaned. She stomped to the door and peeked out. The alley was empty. Good! Maybe that would be the last of the visitors. She smiled, remembering Trina’s grin. How old might the girl be—fifteen? Sixteen at most, probably. A little too young to become a friend, Beth decided, but good to talk to. . .if she would keep her comments about “that truck driver” to herself. And not mention Mom’s old boyfriend. Henry Braun and Mom. . . Beth closed her eyes for a moment, remembering Henry’s attentiveness and offers to help this morning. Mom had greeted him warmly and invited him in. . .which was more than Beth could remember her mother doing with any man in all of her growing-up years.

A frightening thought straightened Beth’s spine. Surely Mom didn’t still harbor feelings for that Mennonite man. The idea left her vaguely unsettled, but she snorted and pushed the notion aside. Mom was here to help her, plain and simple. Beth puffed out a breath and shook her head. No sense getting worked up over nothing.

The café seemed too quiet after the Mullers’ brief visit. She clicked the radio back on, turning up the volume loud enough so the
dining room vibrated with the beat of the music. She grinned. That should keep anyone else from venturing in! Leaning on the counter that held the cash register, she plucked up a menu and examined the café’s offerings, humming with the music. When someone tapped her on the shoulder, she released a squawk and nearly threw the menu over her head.

Mom’s laughter rang. “I wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on you if you didn’t have that noise cranked so loud.” She covered her ears with her hands. “Can you turn it down?”

Beth zipped around the counter and slid the volume bar to the lowest level. “I’m so glad you’re back.” She gave her mother an impulsive hug. “It’s been lonely here, except for my intruders.” Briefly, she described her visits by Trina and Deborah. “That woman!” Beth huffed. “She acted like I had leprosy or something. I know we’ll need her help for a while—at least until we get the hang of things here—but I wanted to just drop-kick her out the back door.”

Mom stretched her lips into a grimace. She sat on a stool next to a long, metal counter and sighed. “We’ll need to continue using Deborah, if she’ll stay. We won’t be able to run the café ourselves.”

“Why not?” Beth slumped against the counter. It felt cold against her hip, and she shivered.

“Honey, I can wait tables and order supplies. But I can’t do the cooking. I’ve never cooked in a restaurant before. And unless you want to learn how to do it. . .”

“Oh, boy.” Beth heaved a huge sigh. “You mean I’m going to be with her every day?”

Mom chuckled softly. “Deborah isn’t that bad. She’s just always been a little. . .bossy.”

Beth raised one eyebrow and tipped her chin.

Mom laughed. “Okay, a lot bossy, but we’ll need her expertise if you’re serious about keeping the café going. Or”—she lifted her
shoulders—“we can close it and bide our time.”

Beth sighed. “It’s tempting, but Mitch said a working café will bring in more cash. One that has sat closed will have to rebuild its customer base.”

“Are you sure about this?”

Beth grinned. “Since when do you let me make such important decisions?”

“Since you became the recipient of an extensive estate.”

“Oh, yeah.” Beth grimaced, flipping her hands outward to indicate her surroundings. “Quite the estate.”

Mom rose from the stool and turned a slow circle, her gaze wandering around the quiet kitchen. “Actually, honey, this is a precious gift. This was Aunt Lisbeth’s life. Essentially, she’s given you everything she valued.” Her tone turned wistful, her eyes misting. “It might not seem like much by the world’s standards, but to her. . .”

Beth put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “It’s hard for you to be here, isn’t it?”

Mom blinked rapidly and shook her head. “No. I have a lot of good memories from here. I spent nearly every day with Aunt Lisbeth from the time I left eighth grade until I married your dad. In fact”—she quirked a finger—“come with me.”

Beth followed her mom to the dining room, to the table closest to the front door. Mom pressed both palms against the tabletop. “Right here is where your dad was sitting the first time I saw him.” She closed her eyes and arched her neck, smiling as she relived some important moment. “He caught my eye. . . .” Opening her eyes, she grinned at Beth. “Even though I knew better than to flirt, I was human enough to enjoy boy-watching. And your dad made boy-watching a pleasure.”

Beth sat at the table and rested her chin in her hands. “Tell me about it.”

“Oh, honey, I’ve told you a hundred times how I met your dad.”

“So make it a hundred and one.” When Mom still hesitated, Beth affected a pout. “Pleeease?”

With a deep-throated chortle, Mom sat across from Beth and imitated her pose—elbows on the table, fingers cupping her face. “Well, when he came in, he was all sweaty. Hair drenched, clothes soppy. . . I could tell he’d been in the sun far too long.”

“And you brought him a glass of ice water, which he guzzled in three seconds.”

“Yes. So I immediately brought him a second glass, and he looked at me—”

“—and winked and said, ‘A girl who knows a man’s mind—what a rare find.’ ”

Mom pulled back, lowering her brows. “Hey, who’s telling this story?”

Beth giggled. “Okay, I’ll be quiet.”

Mom rested her chin in her hands again and grinned. “Even though fraternizing with outsiders was frowned upon, he was impossible to resist. He was so handsome and friendly. . .and so
stuck
.” She laughed, her eyes twinkling. “His semi had broken down, he had no way to leave, and the café was the only place in town to hang out.”

Beth, remembering the next part of the story, frowned. “Mom, why didn’t you ever tell me Henry Braun was your boyfriend?”

To her amazement, Mom’s cheeks blotched red. “Who—who told you that?”

“Based on your reaction, it must be true.” Beth folded her arms on the tabletop. “You told me Henry fixed Dad’s engine, but you never mentioned you were dating him.”

Mom dropped her gaze, running her fingertips along the chrome edge of the table. “It wasn’t important. And we weren’t dating.” She shook her head, wrinkling her nose. “At least, not the way you and Mitch are dating. We were just. . . He and I. . .” Releasing a huff, she
said, “There was never any formal agreement between us.”

Beth thought about Trina’s statement that Henry never got over Mom’s leaving. Maybe there hadn’t been a formal agreement, but Henry must have been serious. “Still, it had to have been weird for him. You know, fixing Dad’s semi so he could get back on the road, then seeing you leave, too.”

“I suppose.” Mom shifted her gaze, seeming to peer out the window.

Suddenly curious, Beth leaned forward. “Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you’d stayed? You know, if you’d married Henry instead of Dad?”

Mom jerked her gaze around, her eyes wide. “No.”

Beth snorted. “Oh, come on. Be honest.”

Mom became very interested in a scratch on the tabletop, her brows furrowed as she ran her fingernail back and forth in the furrow. “In all honesty, Beth, no. When I left Sommerfeld. . .the second time. . .” Briefly, her gaze bounced up to meet Beth’s before returning to the scratch. “I never looked back. I didn’t
let
myself look back. It was too painful, I guess. I wouldn’t be here now if—”

The sound of a clearing voice intruded. Beth looked toward the kitchen. Henry Braun had pushed back the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. He stood framed in the doorway, and a second man—older, with bushy gray eyebrows and a stern face—stood behind him, peering over Henry’s shoulder with a frown. The older man stepped around Henry and took a step into the dining room.

Mom gasped, and Beth shifted her attention to her mother. Her face had gone white. One hand rose to smooth her hair, and her throat convulsed.

Beth looked again to the gray-browed man and understanding dawned. She stood. “Hello, Grandfather.”