Bygones (5 page)

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.

H
enry 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 stepped 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?”

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?”