Page 8 of Coffee Shop Girl
“Yes. Right. Of course. Come on.”
Lizbeth whispered something to Ellie, who straightened. I’d never known Ellie to truly fear anything. Rage snapped like fire in her eyes, simmering into a slow-burning coal. Even when I’d seen her last at seven years old, on the second-worst day of my life, she hadn’t been scared. No, she’d been angry.
Not much had changed.
Lizbeth put an arm around Ellie’s shoulders and rushed past me into the shop. There wasn’t far to go. Right next to the back door were the spiral stairs. The hallway that led to my office emptied right into the main coffee shop. Lizbeth shuffled off to the side, eyes darting around. I shut the door firmly behind us. Not until I locked it did Lizbeth relax. Even then, she reminded me of a frightened rabbit poised to skitter off.
“Can we talk?” she whispered.
“Of course.”
“I ... I didn’t know if you’d...”
Her uncertainty stung, but it wasn’t her fault. Lizbeth, Ellie, and I hadn’t seen each other in years. Not since Mama died. Even now seeing them brought flashes of Mama back, because Ellie looked just like her. The three of us hadn’t parted well after the service.
A thousand questions welled up in my mind, but I bit them all back. A healing split on Ellie’s lower lip didn’t need explanation. Nor did the slight discoloration around Lizbeth’s left eye.
Shoving aside my shock, I said, “Are you hungry? Let me close the shop and get you something to eat. Then you can tell me everything.”
* * *
Twenty minutes—andhalf the dry pastries in my display case—later, their appetite had finally slowed.
Ellie grimaced and held her stomach. Lizbeth hadn’t attacked the food with the same zest and seemed to be in less pain. She stared at me over the rim of her green tea. I picked a cheese stick apart without eating it, satisfied by the way it splintered into fragile strings.
My gaze dropped to the bruise around her left eye. There were probably others. Mama had married Jim when I was seven, but Dad kept me away from him. Something undeniably ugly had always festered in his eyes.
It had clearly broken free.
“We’re a good fit, doll,” Mama had said after first introducing me to Jim. “You don’t need love if you can find a good fit.”
The numbers told the real story. Lizbeth was born seven months after their suspiciously quick wedding. It had never been clear whether Mama loved Jim or a roof over her head more. He was sullen and quiet, like a storm cloud. Maybe Mama’s death four years ago had brought the hideous monster out.
“Jim?” I asked quietly.
A gentle breeze blew through the closed shop, stirring Lizbeth’s dirty copper hair. They smelled like forest and sweat and body odor. An angry scratch marred Ellie’s right cheek.
Lizbeth hesitated.
“What happened?”
Lizbeth and Ellie exchanged a glance. As usual, I couldn’t read Ellie.
“Dad got worse after she died,” Lizbeth said, her voice barely a whisper. “Not right away, but slowly. He just...”
“Lost it?”
Lizbeth nodded.
A rush of regret slipped through me. I hadn’t been in contact much, but I hadn’t deserted them, either. Christmas presents. Birthday cards. Occasional phone calls. Lizbeth had my number, and we’d text sometimes. That had slowly faded over the last year. Most of our contact had been obligatory.
“How often did he hit you?” I asked.
Lizbeth chewed on her bottom lip with a shrug of one far-too-skinny shoulder.
“Enough.”
I slowly and carefully reached across the table. She let me touch her chin. I tilted her head back so I could see the bruise in the growing light of day.
