Читать книгу A Turn in the Road - Debbie Macomber - Страница 12

“Look, the café’s still there!” Ruth called from the backseat. Annie had been driving since Richland, with Bethanne knitting beside her. Ruth leaned forward, thrilled about the opportunity to see her old friend again. When she’d met Marie, she’d been pregnant, away from family and friends, and in a marriage that hadn’t started out in the most positive way.

They’d moved to Pendleton because that was where Richard’s first job was. He’d wanted to make a good impression on his employer; he’d been young, ambitious and eager to prove his worth. Her husband of less than a year had worked long days, abandoning Ruth to countless hours alone in a rental house in this town where she didn’t know a single soul. Meeting her neighbor, Marie, had been a lifesaver. Ruth had needed a friend, a connection with someone. She hadn’t really been prepared for the pregnancy, and she suffered from violent bouts of nausea that lasted through most of the day.

Not only did Marie become her friend, she’d taken Ruth under her wing, recommended her own obstetrician and driven Ruth to and from her first few appointments. She’d shared baby clothes and maternity outfits with her. Best of all, she’d taken time for long afternoon chats, despite the fact that she had children of her own and often helped her parents at the roadside restaurant.

Ruth had lived in Pendleton for only a couple of years, but she never forgot Marie, even though her own life had changed—and improved—soon after. The effort to stay in touch lasted several Christmases but eventually they’d lost contact. Still, Marie’s friendship had brought her comfort and support all those years ago.

The café sat back from the road, surrounded by a gravel parking lot, just outside the Pendleton city limits. The white paint had long since grown dingy, and the windows looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in months. A sign out front announced Home Cooking.

“Looks like it’s still in business,” Ruth said, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.

“I told you this was a good idea,” Annie said. “You’re glad we came this way, aren’t you, Grandma?”

“Very glad,” she said, and it was true.

“The sign on the building says it’s Marie’s Café,” Annie pointed out.

“She must’ve taken over from her parents,” Ruth commented. She grabbed her purse and was practically out of the car before Annie had pulled to a complete stop. She didn’t wait for the others.

The café door creaked as she opened it—and then came to an abrupt halt. It was as if she’d stepped back fifty years. The café was the same as she remembered, right down to the aluminum paper napkin dispensers and the tabletop jukeboxes. The booths had the identical red vinyl upholstery, but surely the seats had been recovered, probably more than once. The plastic-covered menus were tucked behind the ketchup and mustard containers, which stood next to the salt and pepper shakers.

More afternoons than she could recall, Ruth had sat in one of these very booths with her infant son at her side as she drank a cherry soda and talked over life’s challenges with her friend.

At one stage, soon after Grant’s birth, Ruth had been ready to admit her marriage was a huge mistake. She wanted to end it. Marie had listened and been sympathetic to her tales of woe. Richard spent so little time with her and their son that Ruth was convinced he didn’t love her, that he never really had. Their marriage was a sham, she’d told her friend, and it was better to own up to her mistake and get out now before their lives became even more complicated.

Marie didn’t attempt to talk her out of her decision; all she’d really done was ask Ruth a few questions. As she answered, Ruth realized how important it was to do whatever she could to make this marriage work. Not only because of their son, but because marriage was supposed to be a partnership and that required something from her, too. An honest commitment, a genuine effort … In the back of her mind, and it embarrassed her now to admit this, she’d felt she could always go home, back to Florida….

Back to Royce Jameson. She suspected Bethanne had picked up on the fact that there was more involved in this reunion than meeting her high school friends, much as she looked forward to that. Royce would be there, too; Jane had written her with the news. The possibility of seeing him again had everything to do with wanting to return to Florida. They’d been high school sweethearts—an old-fashioned term, perhaps, one Annie might have scoffed at, but it was true. They’d been so young and so deeply in love. But she’d hurt him terribly and even after all these years she wasn’t sure he’d forgiven her.

The last time they’d stood face-to-face was the summer after their high school graduation. They’d held each other and they’d kissed, vowing that nothing would ever come between them. He was leaving for boot camp and she was heading off to college. They’d promised to love each other forever and ever. Six months later she was engaged to Richard.

Their final conversation had been horrific. Ugly. She’d taken the coward’s way out and written him from college that she was marrying Richard. Back then Royce was in the marines and stationed in California before being deployed. When he received her letter he’d phoned her at her college dorm, angry and hurt. She’d listened while he accused her of terrible things. The conversation was one of the most painful of her life, and she’d sobbed for hours afterward.

All she knew of Royce’s life in recent years was that, like her, he hadn’t attended any of the previous reunions. And, like her, he’d lost his spouse.

In the end, of course, Ruth had stayed with Richard and later given birth to Robin. She’d heard from Diane, her high school friend, when Royce had married. It’d been a good time in her own marriage and she was happy for him. She wished him well.

“Can I help you?” A woman in her late sixties or early seventies hurried out from the kitchen, wearing a white apron. Yellow rubber gloves covered her hands; she appeared to be the dishwasher.

“Marie?” Ruth asked tentatively. “Is that you?”

Marie came a step closer. “Ruth? Ruth Hamlin?”

They both gave a shout of recognition and advanced toward each other, arms outstretched, laughing and talking at the same time.

“I’d recognize you anywhere,” Marie claimed.

“You look wonderful.”

“I’m an old bat,” Marie countered, still laughing.

“Me, too.”

They embraced like long-lost sisters, hugging each other and clinging hard.

Bethanne followed Ruth into the café and watched the two women embrace. When Annie had suggested they spend the night in Pendleton, Bethanne had her doubts. She was loath to disrupt Ruth’s careful plans. Yet from the moment they’d crossed the Columbia River, her mother-in-law had been animated, reminiscing about the early years of her marriage, the cities in which she and Richard had lived and the friends she’d made.

“Bethanne, Annie,” Ruth said, turning to them, her face aglow. “Meet Marie. She was one of my dearest, dearest friends all those years ago.” She shook her head, then hugged Marie again. “Annie’s my granddaughter and Bethanne, her mom, was married to Grant.” She lowered her voice but Bethanne could hear every word. “Officially, they’re divorced, but I have high hopes of a reunion now that my son has come to his senses.”

“Hi,” Annie said, and raised her hand in greeting.

Bethanne decided to pretend she hadn’t heard Ruth’s comment and smiled at the other woman, who seemed five or ten years older than Ruth. Marie’s hair had gone completely white and her face was heavily wrinkled. The years hadn’t been nearly as kind to her as they had to Ruth.

“Where is everyone?” Ruth asked, looking around the café. Many of the tables had yet to be bused. The counter was cleared, but a couple of syrup bottles remained, standing in sticky puddles.

“When Richard and I lived here, there wasn’t a seat to be had, day or night. Don’t you remember we used to quote Yogi Berra? We said the place had gotten so popular, no one went there anymore.” She giggled like a schoolgirl and so did Marie.

“Everyone wants to stay close to the freeway these days,” Marie lamented. “Thank goodness the bus still stops here. Otherwise, I’d be out of business for sure.”

“Your mom’s chicken-fried steak was the best I ever ate,” Ruth said. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted gravy that good, before or since.”

“It’s still on the menu. A heart attack on a plate, as they say, but it’s my bestseller.”

“No wonder.”

“I was about to close up shop,” Marie said, drying her hands on her apron. “Maggie phoned in with the flu and my dishwasher’s out sick, too. I don’t have any choice.”

“I thought the bus stopped by every day.”

“It does, but I can’t cook, wait tables and wash dishes all by myself.” She frowned, shaking her head helplessly.

“Has the bus come by today?” Ruth asked.

“Not yet.” Marie glanced at her watch. “It’s due in another forty minutes.”

Annie tugged at Bethanne’s sleeve and whispered, “We could pitch in.”

Marie stared at them. “Could you? I mean, I’d be willing to pay you. I’m afraid if I close for even one day, the bus company might not renew my contract and then I’d be flat out of business.”

Ruth shoved her sweater sleeves up past her elbows. “I’m a champion dishwasher, at your service.”

“I can bus tables,” Annie offered.

“Uh.” Bethanne hesitated. She was thinking she should wash dishes.

“Come on, Mom, you’d make a great waitress.”

“Nothing like a pretty girl to build up business,” Marie told her, grinning as she said it. “And I could certainly use the help.”

“Then I’d be delighted.” The last time Bethanne waited tables had been the summer after she graduated from high school. She’d gotten a job working at the local Denny’s. The experience had convinced her that she wasn’t waitress material. It’d been hard work, lifting heavy platters and busing tables. In addition, she’d discovered that people could be demanding, rude and insensitive. But she’d be able to manage for a few hours.

“I’ve got another apron in back. Let me get it for you.” And Marie bustled into the kitchen, with Ruth close behind.

“I hope I don’t spill coffee on anyone,” Bethanne worried. “Or mix up all the orders.”

“Mom, like Grandma always says, don’t borrow trouble. We’ll do great.”

As little as ten minutes ago, Bethanne had been sitting quietly in the car knitting a wedding gift for her future daughter-in-law. Now she wore a pink apron with a frilly starched border. She looked like a character in some movie about a diner, and since she wore the uniform, she might as well play the role. She purposely tucked the pencil behind her ear, then reached for the order pad and slipped it in her apron pocket.

“The specials are listed on the chalkboard outside,” Marie explained. “It might be a good idea to memorize them.”

“Gotcha,” Bethanne said, and walked outside. She studied the blackboard. Ham and redeye gravy was first, followed by macaroni and cheese. The third special was pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy. Apparently, Marie was fond of smothering food in sauce.

She’d finished familiarizing herself with the specials when she heard the roar of motorcycles in the distance. The sound was deafening as it drew closer. “What is it about men and motorcycles?” she muttered as she went back inside.

“How long before the bus gets here?” Annie asked. She wore her own apron and carried a cleaning rag and a gray plastic tub piled high with dirty dishes.

“About twenty minutes,” Marie called from the kitchen. “Listen, you might fill the water glasses now. It’ll save you time later.”

“I’ll do that,” Bethanne said. She found a pitcher and set about pouring water into each glass. While she was at it, she figured out how to work the coffee machine. Meanwhile, Annie washed the counter, cleaned the tables and put out silverware.

The roar of engines thundered to a stop just outside the café and, shortly after, four burly men dressed in leather vests and calf-high boots walked in as if they owned the place.

Bethanne stared at them. They paused by the door and looked around. Bethanne wasn’t easily intimidated, or so she’d always thought, but these men seemed like the real thing. Road warriors. They were everything Grant’s sister had warned them about. Not that Bethanne knew anything about biker culture, but to her inexperienced eye, two of them looked halfway decent and the other two looked suspicious. She certainly wouldn’t trust any one of them with her daughter. Come to think of it, they were four women alone …

A prickle of fear went down her spine and she stood there paralyzed, unable to move or even breathe. She could imagine the headlines now. Four Women Raped and Murdered. Biker Gang Suspected. If anything happened, Robin would blame her. Not that it mattered, seeing as she’d most likely be dead.

Annie’s eyes connected with hers. Deciding not to give in to her overactive imagination, Bethanne straightened. “You gentlemen can sit anywhere you want.”

The older one, with the short, skinny ponytail, said, “We generally do.”

The others laughed. The four of them slid into a booth and studied her as though she were a fresh piece of meat and they were hungry wolves.

“I’ll take your order in just a minute,” she said, pretending to ignore their menacing demeanor.

Annie held her mother’s gaze and then scurried into the kitchen. Bethanne trailed her at a more leisurely pace, unwilling to show how intimidated she actually felt.

“Do you know those men?” Ruth asked her friend, peering into the café from the kitchen entrance. “They look like they belong to some rough-and-tumble gang.”

“Bikers stop by here all the time. Don’t let them scare you,” Marie said. “They all like to act tough, but underneath they’re pussycats.” She was busy stirring a pan of gravy and didn’t even glance out. “Besides, their money is as green as anyone else’s.”

“Right.” Trying not to reveal her fear, Bethanne removed the order pad she’d stuck in her apron pocket, took the pencil from behind her ear and headed back out.

“What can I get you boys?” she asked, forcing herself to act as if she was in a theater production. Or one of those diner movies. All she needed was a wad of gum to go with the attitude.

“Boys?” Again it was the older man with the ponytail who responded. “Do I look like a boy to you?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” she said, holding her ground. “Would you like separate checks?”

“Please.” The one who answered was the most tanned of the group, which suggested he’d been on the road the longest. He had intense brown eyes and wore a leather bandanna tied at the base of his neck. His leather vest looked well-worn and he had on fingerless gloves. She almost mentioned that she was knitting a similar pattern for her son’s fiancée—but she didn’t. It was a good bet that he wouldn’t be interested in her latest knitting project.

“Cheeseburger, with double pickles and no onion,” the man sitting across from Ponytail told her.

Bethanne wrote that down. She looked over at the biker next to him, who ordered macaroni and cheese. Leather Bandanna ordered a bowl of chili and Pony tail wanted the pot roast special.

“I’ll have those out for you in a few minutes.” It wasn’t until she gave Marie the order that she realized she hadn’t asked if they wanted anything to drink. The coffeepot was full, so she carried it over to the table, and when they all righted their cups, she did her best to fill them without letting her hand shake. She didn’t want these men to know how nervous they made her.

Bethanne started to turn away when Ponytail stopped her. “Where’s your name tag?”

“Ah … I left it at home. I’m Bethanne.” As soon as she said it, she regretted not giving him a fake name.

“Bethanne,” he repeated, then nodded as though he approved.

“What’s yours?”

“I go by Rooster.”

“Rooster?”

“After the John Wayne movie,” one of the other bikers explained.

“Oh, okay,” Bethanne murmured. “True Grit, right? The original version.”

“Right.”

The biker pointed across the booth at the two other men. “That’s Willie and the good-looking one is Skunk. This here is Max,” he said, nudging the man beside him.

“Bethanne,” she repeated.

The two men across from Rooster nodded. Ignoring her, Max looked out the window. The two other bikers were adding cream to their coffee. Rather than encourage further conversation, Bethanne retreated behind the counter. Her hand trembled slightly as she returned the coffeepot to the burner.

The door opened again, and a steady stream of customers filed into the café. Bethanne glanced outside, seeing that the bus had arrived ahead of schedule. She’d been too distracted by the bikers to notice. She grabbed the coffeepot again and moved toward the counter, which had filled up first. Annie had taken on waitress duty, as well, and the two of them were running from one end of the café to the other. In no time the two coffeepots were empty.

“I need coffee down here,” an ill-tempered man shouted from the rear of the café.

“Coming right up,” Bethanne promised. She started taking orders and shuffled them to Marie as fast as she could. Once the coffee had finished brewing, she hurried to the grouch by the window. He had an entire booth to himself.

“Is this decaf?” he demanded.

“No … I don’t believe so.”

“Get me some decaf.”

“I’ll need to brew that. It’ll be a few minutes.”

“What kind of joint is this?” he complained loudly.

“Would you like me to take your order?” she asked, thinking charitably that he was probably hungry and tired.

“No, I want my decaf coffee.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” he said pointedly, “and the longer you stand here arguing with me, the longer I’m going to have to wait for my coffee. I have to get back on that bus, you know.”

Bethanne realized she should have automatically brewed a pot of decaffeinated coffee. There was simply too much to remember.

“I’ll get it,” Annie called out, and hurried toward the coffee machine.

Bethanne was still taking orders when she noticed the decaffeinated coffee was ready. Dropping off more orders with Marie, she picked up the coffeepot and rushed over to the complainer. He sat with his arms crossed, scowling. He didn’t bother to right his cup so she did it for him, and filled it to the brim.

“You overfilled it,” he snarled. “Now there’s no room for cream.”

“Sorry.” She reached for a second cup and poured again, leaving it three-quarters full.

“That’s only half a cup!” he nearly shouted. “I suppose you intend to charge me for a full one?”

Bethanne started to add more coffee when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Rooster, the older biker, stood directly behind her.

“Listen, buddy,” he said, and the threat in his voice made her shiver. She couldn’t see his face but she saw the reaction of the man with the coffee and he seemed to cower in the booth.

“I’m real hungry, and when I get hungry I get cranky. You’re delaying my meal. Trust me, you don’t want to see what happens when I get cranky.”

The other man didn’t move. In fact, it looked as if he’d stopped breathing. The rattle of dishes died down and conversation fell to a soft hush. Soon the whole café had gone silent as Rooster bent over the man in the booth.

“That coffee’s just fine now, isn’t it?” Rooster asked.

The other man nearly jerked his head off in his eagerness to assure Rooster it was.

“That’s what I thought.” Rooster gently patted Bethanne’s arm as he returned to his friends.

“I think your order’s up now,” she said. He winked as he passed by, and Bethanne did her best to disguise a smile but knew she hadn’t succeeded.

Still grinning she walked back to the kitchen and placed the orders for the four bikers on a large tray and delivered them to the table.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“I didn’t do that for you,” Rooster said, fork in hand. “I like my mashed potatoes and gravy hot.”

She was about to turn away when she became aware of Max, the man who sat beside Rooster, watching her. His eyes, dark and sober, met hers for a long moment. His look seemed to go straight through her and Bethanne felt herself flush. Her reaction embarrassed her but she didn’t know how to explain it. She wasn’t seeking any connection, romantic or otherwise. She was there to do a job—help Ruth’s friend—and that was it. Glancing away, Bethanne hurried back to the kitchen.