The Atheist's Daughter Read Free Page B

cleaned the restaurant’s windows,” Kristin said. “Somebody painted the wooden shutters.”
    “Maybe they’re finally putting it up for sale.”
    Taking the car keys, Kristin opened the car’s trunk. “I think I’ll check it out.”
    “Now?”
    “I’ll walk home. It’s not far.”
    “It’s miles from here.”
    “I could use the exercise.” She started across the parking lot. Taking measured steps, she fought the urge to run.
    Please, please, please, Mister Piotrowski . Prove miracles can happen. Open your restaurant again.
    Help me escape from Winterhaven.
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
    Piotrowski’s Café remained exactly as she remembered it. Two stories tall, its gingerbread trim and arch-top windows were meant to suggest a whimsical European eatery. While stylish touches decorated the lower level, the second story’s charm was diminished by patches of cracked trim and a strip of gray stucco.
    Although she didn’t remember any of its customers complaining about the café’s appearance, Kristin felt the building’s need for repair detracted from its appeal. When she shared her thoughts with Martin Piotrowski, he offered his own opinion.
    “Customers come here for the am-bi-ance,” he said, breaking the word into three pieces, “they’re in the wrong city. They want mood-lighting, they can go to Ashfork or Lincoln City. In Lincoln City, all of the swanky places used mood-lighting. People get hungry there, they pay fifty dollars plus tip at some fancy lunch place. The food won’t be very good but they’ll get a candle on their table.”
    Martin believed in what he was saying. Opening his business, he sincerely thought good food, good service, and fair prices were all any restaurant needed.
    “That and an ad in the Pennysaver,” he told her.
    Poor deluded Mr. Piotrowski.
    He was in front of her now, his thin frame visible through the building’s open door. He swept the floor, the broom’s bristles pushing at the dirt in short, steady strokes. Climbing onto the front porch, she ran a hand through her hair. She tugged at the bottom of her blouse, smoothing its wrinkles.
    Shoulders back, she entered the building. “Mr. Piotrowski?”
    His pale blue eyes glided over her before returning to the floor.
    “Is there – ” Kristin paused, trying to find the right words. “I mean, are you opening your restaurant again?”
    The broom stopped moving. Holding its shaft in his large-knuckled hands, he gave her his full attention. “You of all people. You should know.”
    “Pardon?”
    “This isn’t a restaurant. It’s a café.”
    “I’m sorry. I mean – I do know that.”
    “Restaurants are for loud and noisy people who don’t care what’s on their plate. Give them something frozen, stick it in a microwave, they don’t even notice. What do they know about quality? They eat biscuits and gravy. They eat those Sloppy Joes.”
    “Yes.” With this single word, she tried to imply that eating Sloppy Joes was the equivalent of shoving your face into a pig trough.
    “A café is discrete. A café is for the discerning few. When you worked here, we never had more than eight customers at a time. Did we?”
    She shook her head.
    “That’s why I went out of business!” He laughed. “Eight customers, what was I thinking? I should have served the biscuits and gravy.”
    Leaning his broom against the wall, he opened his arms. Kristin stepped inside them, giving him a hug.
    She realized with surprise that she was now taller than the old man. In the months since she’d last seen him, he seemed to have shrunk. She could feel his ribs press against her from beneath his white cotton shirt.
    She squeezed her arms around him, her gaze resting on his balding head and its thin wreath of black hair. “I missed you.”
    He stepped back. “It’s been too long.”
    “I called.”
    “Message machines, I hate them. Put your finger on the wrong button, you erase everything. Everything!”
    “I sent you a card