Missing Your Smile (15 page)

“Will you give me Mr. Moran's phone number?” Susan asked, trying to keep her breathing even.
Why is this so hard? I've used the phone in the phone shack at home many times. But this is like…well, this is totally something else. I've never called a tax person who wanted to take me out to eat
.

“Right here,” Laura said, showing her the number. “Take your time. I'll take care of the shop.”

Susan waited until Laura left and closed the door before she dialed. She listened to the ringing of the phone in her ear.

“H&R Block, Mandy speaking,” a woman's voice said. “How may I help you?”

“Ah…” Susan cleared her throat. “I need to speak with Mr. Moran.” Apparently he didn't answer his own phone. But of course he wouldn't. He was a tax person. There were secretaries who worked for tax people.

“Just a moment,” Mandy said. The phone clicked.

Susan clutched the receiver and waited.

Suddenly he was there. “This is Duane Moran.”

“Ah, Mr. Moran,” she managed.

He laughed. “Hello, Susan. Duane is fine. Have you changed your mind about lunch, I hope?”

“If you still want to take me. Laura said she would take care of the shop.”

“Always a darling, Laura is,” he said. “How about twelve sharp? Will that work for you?”

“Yes, certainly. At the diner? Shall I meet you there?”

“I'll save a booth by the window, okay? And, Susan…”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad you can come.”

“Yes. Well, thanks. I'll see you then.”

“Goodbye,” he said.

“Goodbye.” She pressed the receiver against her chest, feeling the redness move all the way up to her cheeks. She had made the call! Who would have thought such a thing possible just a few months ago? She, Susan Hostetler, had just called a
gut
-looking
Englisha
tax person to accept a lunch invitation. That was enough to make even the cows standing in the fields at home blink in astonishment!

Susan cracked open the door and glanced out. The line was lengthy in front of the counter. There was nothing like work to soothe jittery nerves! Stepping up beside Laura, she waited on customers.

“What time?” Laura whispered as she got an order together.

“Twelve sharp,” Susan answered as she continued working, the line becoming even longer.

“I shouldn't be going,” Susan whispered. “We're getting really busy.”

Is there still time to call Duane and explain?
raced through her mind.

Laura didn't answer but kept working, moving deftly between the pastries and the cash register. Finally at five minutes before twelve, Laura said, “You better go now.”

“But the line?” Susan said, almost moaning.

“Go!” Laura's voice was firm. “I've been busy before. This is not new to me.”

Susan wiped her hands and took off her apron as customers glanced at her. She walked past them, ignoring their looks.

Yah
, she thought about saying out loud.
I'm going to see an
Englisha
man for lunch. Just stare at me. As if I don't feel bad enough already—and guilty
.

Outside, the noise of the noonday traffic swept over her. As she made her way down one block to cross at the light, she broke out in a nervous smile as she once again thought that here she was, Susan Hostetler, going to have lunch with an
Englisha
man.

A few people were standing at the light. She got in line, looking with them across the street to the traffic signal. Finally the little white man in the black box signaled
Walk
. The waiting pedestrians surged forward, Susan moving too. In the rush and the crowd, Susan suddenly lurched as something caught at her foot, wrenching her shoe and sending her in a forward fall. Her hands went out to break the spill, the impact solid on the palms of her hands, the pain stinging all the way up to her shoulders. A groan escaped in protest against the pain before she stifled the cry, clamping her lips together. A woman stopped and asked if she was okay. She quickly nodded, embarrassed by the fall. She stood up and, with an upward glance, saw the little man in the traffic box turning red and holding out his hand. The signal had changed, and soon automobiles would come crashing her way.

But her left shoe! It had come off and now lay five feet away, tipped over, the low heel broken off. The waiting cars, their fierce-looking grills staring at her, were ready to claim their rightful place in the intersection. She'd have to leave the shoe and move to the curb. It was ruined anyway. As she reached the curb, she turned to see the cars were already moving through the crosswalk. A large blue van ran directly over her abandoned shoe, squashing it into a flat piece of black in the middle of the street.

Susan took a step forward on the sidewalk, feeling the up and down motion of her hips. At least she could walk, and she didn't have far to go.
Great!
What would Mr. Moran think when she came limping into the diner, one foot wearing only a sock. A true country hick, no doubt. One who couldn't even walk from the bakery to the diner without losing her shoe. “He'll have to think what he wants. He's the one who asked me to come,” she said aloud. She continued to walk, trying to minimize the up-and-down motion. Thankfully, nobody around her seemed to care.

So where is that diner!
Yah
, right over there, a block ahead
. One thing was for sure, that tumble had cleared her head. It felt as clean as a cloudless sky in the middle of a summer hayfield.

S
usan approached the diner, trying to see through the front glass window. What a sight she must make, one foot shoeless. She still walked down the middle of the sidewalk. Already the concrete bit into the sole of her foot, pressing odd objects against her skin, no matter how carefully she stepped. She could feel something running slowly down from her skinned knees—probably blood, but at least it was hidden by her dress.

Susan pushed open the diner door, standing aside to hold the door for a customer coming out.
Where is Mr. Moran?
Yah,
there he is
. Had he seen her approach? No, he couldn't have. He was just turning around.

“Susan!” He greeted her with a smile, standing as she approached the table. “It's so good to see you. And my thanks to Laura for letting you off over your lunch hour.”

“The shop was busy,” Susan said, taking a seat. Had he noticed her shoeless foot? Apparently not.

He was ready to sit down but he stopped and asked, “Did I just see what I think I saw?”

“What did you see?” she asked. Now that was a stupid thing to ask, but perhaps he was asking about something other than her shoeless foot.

“You walked in with only one shoe on. What happened?”

“The shoe—
yah
. It fell off when I stumbled crossing the street. Now it's flat as a pancake and still in the middle of the street.”

“Susan!”

“It's nothing, really,” she interrupted. “Other than wearing my sock out, but that's not a big loss.” Duane still looked at her, which was fast becoming embarrassing. Surely he wasn't going to make a big fuss over this.

“You said you fell.”

“Yes, but I'm okay.”

“You fell in the middle of the street?”

“
Yah
. I was crossing at the light. There were other people with me, and I stumbled for some reason. The shoe stayed there, and the light changed, and
bam
…”

“You could have gotten hurt.
Are
you hurt?”

“No, I don't think so.”
Am I? Come to think of it, my knees do burn a bit. And I can still feel moisture on my left leg
.

“A person just doesn't fall on the pavement without some scrapes happening. Are you sure you're okay?”

What was she supposed to do? Pull up her dress and look? Right in the middle of the diner? With him watching? Not a chance in the world. Not even on the farm. Thomas had never seen her legs, and she sure wasn't going to show them to an
Englisha
man.

“You're sure you're not hurt?” Duane repeated, his voice unbelieving. He was still standing over her.

What should she say? She now felt the blood on her left leg dripping close to her dress hem. It would soon be visible.

“I do feel some blood trickling down my leg,” she said, not able to look him in the face.

“Susan, you have to have it looked after.”

He sounded concerned, but maybe that was his tax person voice. It sounded strong, manly, like he could make things happen just by speaking.

“How?” she asked. “I'm in a restaurant.”

“Are you ready to order?” a woman's voice said behind them. They both turned around. The waitress stood there, pad and pen ready.

“Just a moment,” he said. “We have a problem, I think. Do you happen to have a first aid kit?”

“Sure, in the back. Did someone get hurt?” the young woman asked, concern in her voice.

“Susan skinned her knees outside. I think she needs them looked after.”

“Oh, sure,” the waitress said, sticking her pad and pen in her apron pocket. “Let's have a look and then I can see what I need to bring back.”

Susan clutched the edge of her dress. What was she supposed to do? Thomas would have understood and left the room, but Duane was still standing there. She pulled the dress up, inches at a time, until the hemline was past her knees. She could see blood trickling down her left leg in long, red streams.

“Oh, that's bad,” the girl said. “You'd better come back to the restroom and wash up first.”

Susan felt the hot flush of red creeping up her neck. Had Duane looked? She stood up, daring a quick glance sideways at him. He had been looking, but his face only revealed worry. But then, he saw women's legs every day, didn't he?
Englisha
girls showed their legs all the time. And hers were nothing out of the ordinary.

“I'll take you to the doctor, if you need to go,” he offered.

“I'll be okay.” She moved away from the table, trying to smile. “This is nothing that hasn't happened before. I skinned my knees often growing up.” Now that sounded stupid, like she fell down on the farm every day.

“Sorry it had to happen today,” he said. “I'll wait for you here.”

“Oh,” Susan paused, remembering the time. “You're on your lunch break. Why don't you order and start eating? You don't have to wait on me.”

“I'm sure my boss will understand,” he said, finally sitting down.

The waitress headed to the restroom, calling to one of the other waitresses to watch her tables for a minute. When Susan arrived at the ladies room, the waitress held the door for her. “You did take a nasty spill,” the woman said, wrinkling up her face in a grimace. She pulled down a bench from an overhead shelf. “Now sit here. We use this for little children, but it's clean.”

Susan lowered herself, holding her dress away from her legs, hoping the blood hadn't stained it already.

“We'll have this cleaned up in no time,” the waitress said, running warm water over a paper towel in the sink. “Here,” she said, handing the wet towel to Susan. “I'll get the first aid kit while you're cleaning up. I'll be right back.”

Susan pulled her dress up higher and wiped the blood off. The wound was ugly. Obviously, concrete was much harder than the dirt of Amish schoolyard playgrounds.

The waitress quickly appeared again with the first aid kit. She opened it, selected a tube of salve, and handed it to Susan. Susan squeezed some of the paste on her leg.

“Now this,” the girl said, ripping the paper off two large bandages. She pulled the covering off the bandages, placed the gauze pad over the injuries, and pressed down, leaving the bandages tightly fastened.

“Thanks,” Susan said. “That's better already.”