Fraying at the Edge (20 page)

Lexi tucked her tail, but she hurried to him.

“That is one incredibly obedient dog.” Ariana sipped on her coffee.

“She's a good one.” Quill crouched, patting her. “Sorry, girl. I wasn't thinking. You okay?” He looked up at Ariana. “Her heart is pounding like crazy.”

Ariana dumped out her coffee and poured water into the cup. “She looks like I've felt almost constantly since last month.” She passed the plastic lid to Quill.

“Like
we've
felt, Ari.” He gave Lexi the water and stroked her. “We've been hung on the Thunderhawk for a while now.”

Was that true?
He always looked and sounded so calm, but after a moment of reflection, knowing all she did now, she realized it was true.
They'd
been on a roller coaster for a long time.

Quill stood. He stepped closer, leaned in, and pulled the hood to her coat over her hair. “This, here tonight, means the world to me.”

This moment felt like one from their past, before secrets and disappearing acts ripped them apart. But she didn't live in the past. Neither of them did. And it was time to focus on the future.

“I'm desperate to see Rudy.”

Quill opened the bucket list. “Then let's see what we can do about that.”

S
kylar was behind the counter, near the cash register, wiping off endless crumbs from muffins and biscuits. Apparently there were breakfast breads that Susie and Martha knew how to bake. Skylar had made the coffee the last two days, and she wasn't the only one who'd enjoyed refills.

“Hey,” Martha whispered while peering out of the pass-through that separated the kitchen from the dining area. She gave a thumbs-up while mouthing the words
you're doing a great job.

No she wasn't, but Skylar nodded. Customers' food had found its way under her nails. She had spent most of her time hurrying back and forth as she took orders at the counter, handled the cash register, picked up plates of food at the pass-through, and delivered them to the diners. In between those things, she cleared tables and took the dirty dishes to Martha, who thanked her each time and washed every item, including whatever Susie used while cooking.

So much for Skylar just pouring coffee.

Early Sunday morning, while everyone was distracted with life, Skylar took Cody's advice and went through the Brennemans' medicine cabinets. In Salome's side of the house, Skylar found some pain pills that had been prescribed around the time Salome's last baby was born. The prescription was for just ten pills, but there were still six in the bottle. Skylar had stolen three of them, confident no one would be the wiser.

She used the last one yesterday before her first day of work. So last night she sneaked back into Salome's bathroom to get the rest of the pills, but the bottle was missing. Why? Had Salome realized what Skylar had done? Or maybe Salome had needed the medication. Whatever happened to the last three pills, it wasn't as if Skylar could ask anyone about them.

Susie came out of the kitchen, pulling something out of the hidden pocket of her black apron. “Hey, Sky, would you look at this?” Susie unfolded a page from the catalog. “Do you mind if I call you Sky?”

Actually Skylar minded everything. Absolutely everything. But even in her state of forced detox, she could see the sincerity in Susie's eyes and hear it in her voice. “Sky is fine.” She took the slick page and noted the circled espresso machine. Skylar had the jitters from the lack of drugs, so the paper trembled, and on a scale of one to ten, she was an eight when it came to irritability. Cody's words about sabotaging the place tempted her.

When talking to Abram, Susie, and Martha about making changes to the café, she wasn't certain of her motivation for making various and expensive suggestions. But after brainstorming solutions, she got a weird sensation that she knew what this place needed…and she actually wanted to lend a hand. Now she knew that her desire to help had come from the drug high.

Skylar laid the paper on the counter. “Whatever. It doesn't matter which one you choose.”

Susie blinked. “But I thought—”

“Look, any machine that works would be better than no machine.” Skylar took her damp rag and a dish bin to a messy table.

“Okay, thanks.” Susie sounded baffled, but she folded the paper and returned to the kitchen. She'd been cooking nonstop since before dawn. Abram moved from one jam to the next, helping whoever needed it the most—Susie, Martha, Cilla, or her. Skylar had been surprised at the amount of work required for just a few customers at a time.

Of course half of the reason every job was so labor intensive was that the Amish were skilled at doing everything in the most time-consuming, difficult manner possible. Like making toast. Rather than buy bread from a bakery or grocery store, Susie and Martha made loaves of bread from scratch, sliced it, and used a camp-stove toaster, which toasted only one side of the bread at a time.

Making toast and squeezing fresh orange juice was Cilla's job. At least for the fresh juice they had a hand press for Cilla to use.

“Excuse me?” An old man held up his empty glass. “Refill of water.”

Skylar nodded. If she didn't get out of here soon, she'd start screaming at the customers or, worse, at the stranger sisters, who were definitely making an effort to welcome and be kind to her.

What would it be like if the café was ever packed?

She got the pitcher of water and returned to fill the man's glass. Abram glanced from behind the pass-through, clearly checking on her. Could they stop that? Especially him. He had barely spoken to her today. But like Martha, Susie, and Cilla, he was a worker. He seamlessly moved from serving customers to cooking for them. When he had a minute, he cleaned tables and floors. She'd yet to see him take a break. Was this what she would have been like if she'd been raised as his twin—an unfriendly, stoic pack mule?

She glanced at the clock. Only an hour before closing. On the one hand, the end of the day couldn't come soon enough. She had tip money, which meant she could buy cigarettes from the gas station up the road. Maybe she'd ask to walk to the Brennemans. That would allow her the time and privacy to make her purchase.

But why hadn't she seen Cody yet? He'd promised to come today. Maybe he was lost. That thought brought some comfort, except he'd found a lone tree near the Brenneman home in the middle of the night last week. Maybe he was waiting until they were about to close, thinking the café wouldn't be as busy then and she'd be freer to talk. That made sense, and she took a deep breath.

Only a few people remained, scattered throughout the small café.

The door opened, and a man walked in. He was muscular with a beard and black tattoos on his arms and what appeared to be a genuine grin. Other than his size and tattoos, he didn't look the least bit intimidating. She returned to the cash register and set the pitcher on the counter.

He looked around while walking to the counter. “What kind of Amish are you?”

She stifled a sigh. “I'm not.” Surely he was joking. What Amish girl wore tattered jeans and a red cashmere tennis sweater? If he was serious, today could be her final day, and it was only her second day.

His grin grew a little. “You don't look thrilled at my joke. Truth is, you don't pass for Amish any more than I do…Though I do think I would look good in one of those straw hats.”

Glancing out the front window, she searched for signs of Cody. She grabbed the pen from behind her ear, ready to take his order. “You don't have to be Amish to wear a straw hat.”

“No, but you do have to be Amish to make a straw hat look manly.”

“Yeah, sure.” Could he just place his order and take a seat already? “So what can I get for you today?” She looked out of the window again. Where was Cody?

The man leaned against the counter, examining the café. “I've never been to an Amish café before. I was halfway expecting a horse-and-buggy drive-through.”

She couldn't tell if he was flirting or just being friendly. “That's actually clever, but if you suggest it to the owners, I'll have to poison your coffee.”

His smile disappeared, but his light brown eyes held amusement. “Suggest what?” He tapped the counter. “Is Abram here?”

He wanted to speak to Abram? She looked at the pass-through and saw him vigorously cleaning the stove.

“You seem confused.” He grinned. “He's an owner, I think. Your age, thin, wears straw hats. Doesn't say too much.”

“I know who he is, and, yes, he's here.”

“Can I speak with him?”

What did a man like this—a worldly looking, tattooed man—want with Abram? Rather than raise her voice, she walked to the pass-through. “Abram, you have a visitor.”

He looked up from the grill and stared at Skylar as if she were speaking an alien language.

She rolled her eyes and went back to the counter. “He'll be right out…I guess.”

“He's sort of hard to read, isn't he?”

Seemed to her he was sort of difficult, but whatever.

Abram came out of the kitchen and walked directly to the tattooed man. Abram smiled, the first genuine smile she'd seen from him all day, maybe since she'd arrived.

“Jackson.” Abram stuck out his hand. The two shared a firm handshake without breaking eye contact. She hadn't expected that. Abram normally seemed so…immature.

“It's a good-looking place, whether the food is any good or not.”

Abram laughed. “Thanks, but I had little to do with how the place looks. How's work?”

“It's only been a couple of days, but it's moving a good bit slower without you there.” Jackson shifted his weight. “What do you recommend on the menu?”

Abram moved behind the counter. “The special, Amish shepherd's pie, is good. For dessert, whoopie pie.”

Jackson lifted his brows. “What's a whoopie pie?”

“Two cookie-sized cakes with filling between them.” Abram gestured with his hands. “Sort of like a MoonPie but much better. Fresh ones are best, and Martha is making a batch right now. They'll be ready by the time you're finished with the shepherd's pie.”

Jackson looked at Skylar. “I'll have what he said.” He turned back to Abram. “What do you recommend to drink?”

Abram grabbed a mug off the counter. “Coffee?”

Jackson nodded, and Abram filled the mug with hot coffee.

Skylar rang up the order. “Nine seventy-five.”

Abram moved to the register, clearing the amount from the machine. “No, he's a friend.”

Jackson reached into his wallet. “A friend who pays for his food.” He pulled out fifteen dollars and handed it to Skylar. “Keep it.”

That was generous. Would she be allowed to keep the tip? She couldn't believe she was wondering about that. Money had been free and easy when she belonged to Brandi and Nicholas.

Abram waved at Jackson while walking toward the kitchen. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Sure thing.”

Skylar put the money in the register. “Thank you.”

Jackson stayed at the counter for a moment. “What makes a shepherd's pie Amish?”

She shrugged. “It comes with a prayer cap thingy?”

Jackson laughed. “Think I'd look as good wearing that as a straw hat?”

“Definitely.” She motioned toward the tables. “Take a seat wherever you want, and I'll bring it out to you as soon as Abram has it ready.”

“Sure, but remember, I didn't share my suggestion with him about the horse-and-buggy drive-through, so don't poison my food.” He held up his mug to her as if to say
cheers.

When Abram set Jackson's plate on the pass-through, she picked it up and the pot of coffee. She set the plate in front of Jackson.

“Thanks. Looks good.”

“It's not bad.” She glanced out the window.

He turned, looking in the same direction. It took him one second to lose interest, and she envied that.

“Coffee?” He nudged his empty cup toward her.

“Oh.” She refilled his cup, examining the tattoos on his arms.

He took a bite of food. “Wow, that's really good.”

Some of the ink on his arms had symbols and markings she didn't recognize. One tattoo was mostly hidden under his right sleeve.

He set down his fork and pulled back his sleeve. The tattoo was of an American eagle on top of a globe, with an anchor resting in the background. Below it were large letters: USMC. He ran his palm across it. “Marine Corps.”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy.”

“Don't apologize. If I didn't want people to see it, I wouldn't have put it on my arm.” He lowered his sleeve. “I'm proud of my service, but it was a long time ago.”

“Couldn't have been that long ago. You're too young. Midtwenties? Maybe thirty.”

“Feels more like fifty. Seen too much to feel my age.”

The way he said it, the haunted look in his eyes, made her want to know more.

Suddenly the door swung open, and a greasy-haired young man with a stubbled face walked in. His eyes were sunk into his skull, and his skin was so white it was almost translucent.

Cody.