Lena

 

 

 

"I didn't expect to see you today!"

Mrs. Lynn is a sweet old lady, but her voice is as pervasive as that of a strong man. I jerk in surprise, even though I knew she must be around. The diner just opened, and while I'm usually one of the first ones here, she's always quick to follow.

I turn around, smiling at her standing in the doorway leading from the guest room to the kitchen in the back. She’s slowly unwrapping the bulky, red scarf she's wearing around her neck to protect herself from the biting cold outside.

"Aileen took the day off," she says, her words muffled by her scarf. "I expected you to take another rest day, as well."

I shake my head. "We can't both disappear on the same day. Someone has to be here."

"I'm here!" Mrs. Lynn argues. "And so is Alfie! That should be more than enough for the two or three customers we can expect today."

"Two or three customers?" I repeat, chuckling. "Why so pessimistic, Mrs. Lynn?"

She tilts her head to the side and eyes me as if I'd just uttered the most stupid thing in the world, as she eases the zipper of her thick winter coat down and shrugs the heavy coat from her shoulders.

"Have you seen the weather outside?" she asks. "People would be crazy to leave the house today. The roads are a disaster. They closed all the airports in the area, too."

My eyes widen in surprise. "Really? It’s that bad?"

She nods fervently, her gray locks springing away from her head in a ruffled mess when she removes her hat. "They say it's the worst blizzard we've had in years."

"Huh," I murmur, all the while fixing the apron around my waist. "I wonder how all those people at the convention are going to make out."

The words fell from my mouth without a second thought. I bite at my lip, as if I'd somehow spoken out of turn, even though it’s natural to worry about people you only met, served, and talked to a day before.

People you've bumped into. People whose shirts you've ruined. People who are built like…

Mrs. Lynn hangs her coat on a wire hanger and shrugs. "I doubt they'll get very far. Let's hope they know how to cozy up to stay warm in that lovely convention center."

She winks at me. The convention center in the neighboring town does bring in good business for us and other local stores on a regular basis, but it's a well known fact that the building is probably one of the ugliest ones every built. It's very pragmatic, its only purpose to be a large, cold, and empty space for holding meetings, conferences, conventions, and exhibitions. We often cater these events, depending on their size, and because of that our tiny diner has been able to make a name for itself. We're know for our melt-in-your-mouth homemade doughnuts and hearty trademark sandwiches. The events themselves that we cater rarely if ever mean much to me. All that matters is the size of the event. I need to know how many mouths to feed, but I don't need to know anything else about the people we’re serving.

Like the convention we catered the day before yesterday. I know very little about it, other than it seemed like it was being organized by a typical big city business – and that the infamous Conner family was part of it. There were a lot of men in expensive, dark suits, a few women here and there in business suits, and a handful of ladies sporting something a bit more colorful and feminine, probably wives and girlfriends. It exuded the impression of the kind of company I would never like to work for.

"I'm going to start the coffee," Mrs. Lynn announces, as she shuffles over to the coffee machine. "We should get ready for breakfast."

I nod and make a move to get back out to the guest room, when she calls me back.

"Oh, how's that little rodent doing?" she asks, winking as I turn to face her with an exasperated gasp.

"Her name is Risu," I tell her. "And she's doing a lot better."

That little rodent Mrs. Lynn referred to is a young squirrel I rescued about a week ago. I didn't plan on rescuing animals since Oma died, but it's been harder to stop than I anticipated. After so many years helping her care for any injured or ill wildlife in our forest, it just comes naturally to me, I guess. I haven't been to the wildlife rehab center in a while, but I still donate when I can, and Oma's house is still considered the place to go for anyone who finds a wild animal in need.

That's how I met Risu. A neighbor found her, frozen and starved, with a broken limb. She would have died had she been left to fend for herself.

But she wasn't. She was brought to our house, a tiny ball of fur, shivering with cold and fear, looking up at me in a way that made it impossible to reject her.

I took her in, even letting her live inside the house, because winter is brutal and I can't trust that she'd be okay left out in the compound we have built in our garden. Squirrels are not meant to be kept inside, but for now she's safer inside with me than she'd be outside. After all, I don't plan on keeping her, once she's doing better and the weather turns a little less harsh, no matter how much I've grown attached to her.

Mrs. Lynn smiles at me, and I know what she's going to say before she opens her mouth.

"Just like our Hannah," she says. "She could never say no when one of those little creatures needed her help. You're so much like her."

Her voice is heavy with sadness, and she sighs when she sees that same shadow of sorrow flicker across my face.

It's been almost a year since my Oma died, almost a year since I lost the last member of my family. She had been taking care of me since I was in high school, but our roles reversed around the time I was about to graduate. She wasn't even that old, and I'm sure she could have lived another ten years, maybe more, if that son of a bitch cancer hadn’t taken her.

"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Lynn says. "I didn't want to-"

"It's fine," I assure her. "Don't worry about it."

I cast her a half-hearted smile and then make my way back to the guest room. Mrs. Lynn had been a friend of my Oma for decades, and I know that her death must have been just as painful for her as it was for me. She has been trying to take care of me ever since Oma died, but I never let her. I've been a caretaker for too long to let anyone carry that burden for me.

After all, I'm doing okay. I'm fine.

Or I will be. Some day.

I take a deep breath before stepping through the doorway, just in case there's already a customer waiting for me. I don't really expect one because it's still early and we just opened, but when I return to the front, there’s someone sitting at the counter. A well-built man, dressed in black.

Not just any man.

It's him.