Bridge to Haven by Francine Rivers Read Free Book Online Page B

Bessie’s. The bell above the door jangled, and the new waitress glanced over before returning her attention to half a dozen male customers sitting on stools at the counter. She had brown hair in a neat French twist,revealing a lovely, if somewhat remote, face. The blue apron tied at the waist over a plain white blouse and black skirt hinted at a nicely curved figure. The men cajoled, but she served each with a cool, business-only smile and a reserved demeanor.
    The swinging doors from the kitchen bumped open, and Bessie came out with three breakfast plates stacked up one arm and another in her hand. “Good mornin’, Zeke! You’re a little late today. Your booth is waiting for you. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll be right with you.” She served four men dressed in work clothes sitting near the front windows.
    Before sliding into his usual spot near the back, Zeke poked his head into the kitchen to say hello to Oliver, harried but keeping pace with the morning crowd. “I see Bessie found a new girl.”
    “She’s a good worker. Started last night. Kept up without a problem. Bessie has her fingers crossed.”
    Zeke left him to his work and took his seat. He liked sitting in back, facing front. That way he could see everyone who came in. Dutch often stopped by, and they’d have a cup of coffee and talk for a while. He’d finally come to church, where Zeke introduced him to Marjorie Baxter. It took a few months of casual conversation before Dutch asked Marjorie to dinner. “We talked about you all evening,” Dutch told him with a grin. “Now that we’ve exhausted that boring subject, we can get on to other things.” Zeke couldn’t have been more delighted when they started seeing each other on a regular basis.
    The new waitress looked his way again. He smiled and gave her a nod of silent greeting. Usually he could guess people’s ages, but this woman perplexed him. Thirty-five? She moved quickly, as though accustomed to this kind of work. She looked tired around the eyes, not physically tired, but world-weary, worn down. When she returned his smile, it didn’t touch her eyes.
    Plates delivered, Bessie snatched a mug off the shelf and headedfor him. “You usually beat the crowd.” She set the mug on the table and poured a steaming cup of black coffee without spilling a drop.
    Zeke thanked her and wrapped his cold hands around the warm porcelain. “I took a longer walk this morning.”
    “Beats me why you walk at all when you have that sweet Packard 740 to drive around.”
    Mitzi Martin had shocked him a few months after Marianne’s death when she insisted on giving him the 1930 Packard 740 Roadster that had been parked in her garage for who knew how many years. “You need a car, and I have one that’s sitting in a garage collecting dust. I want you to have it.” She had her mind made up, and all Zeke could do was gratefully accept the offer.
    Even after several years, though, he still felt conspicuous behind the wheel of Mitzi’s car, and he only used it when he had to be somewhere in a hurry or had to go farther than his legs could carry him in a reasonable amount of time. He’d only taken it out once last week, and that was to give Mitzi a ride in the countryside. They talked about Abra. She’d been playing every Sunday for church, though under protest. “She’s nervous about playing in front of everyone, but she’ll get used to it. It takes time.”
    Abra still didn’t have much to say to Zeke. She called him Pastor Zeke now, instead of Reverend Freeman, which was an improvement. He told her once how proud Marianne would be to see her playing piano for services. She said Mitzi told her the same thing and that’s why she’d agreed to play, in memory of Marianne. She’d said it in a perfectly polite tone, but he’d felt the stab just the same. Mitzi said she was looking at things through a child’s hurt. “Whatever happens, she’s going to know every hymn in the book, and something