Minnesota

New Friends

Connie sat at a small bistro table near a bay window. She stirred her coffee, taking small bites of her cake, enjoying the soft cream center. Every move of her sore muscles a sweet memory of the recent caving trip.

Monique came walking up, throwing open the bistro's door, hurrying toward Connie. Monique’s pale skin glowed, her dark brown eyes sparkled. Connie had never seen her friend this excited, this happy. Had she known Bruce had that effect on Monique, she would have ordered this reunion a long time ago.

Connie couldn’t help herself, she smirked as she asked; “Did you even return to the hotel last night?”

Monique stuck her tongue out, then smiled. “We had a lot of catching up to do.”

Monique pointed toward the full glass of water before Connie, “Do you mind? This heat’s making my tongue stick to my teeth.”

Connie pushed the glass toward her friend. She watched Monique empty half of the water before she continued.

“I could use a strong cup of coffee. Is there anyone here or do I go behind the counter and do the self-service thing?” Monique turned, looking for the waitress. The cafe was tiny, fitting a dozen tables, each with no more than three chairs.

  The midday sun brightened the place, small dust particles dancing in the light. Across the entry door was a glass display case, showing off the daily baked goods. The waitress was nowhere to be found.

The only other patron, a man in his early thirties, of small stature and dirty blonde hair, stood up. He had been sitting in the far corner, focusing on a tablet screen. His piercing blue eyes stared at them as he passed their table. Under his gaze, Connie became nervous, doing everything to control the need to fidget. She exhaled with relief when he continued toward the display counter.

“Nena, I need some more coffee; today, if possible.” He yelled at the wall with a clear, even-toned voice. A young woman emerged through the wall.

“Oh, there's a door there. I didn't see it behind all the shelves,” whispered Connie.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beckwith.” The waitress mumbled and reached for the coffee pot. She hissed as her hand touched the hot glass before she managed to get a good grip. Then she followed him to his table and filled his cup. “Yeah, sorry doesn't do it. Well, don't stand around I’m sure she wants something else.” He nodded toward Connie while saying the last part, gesturing at Nena, as if dismissing a servant.

Monique coldly measured the man. Turning to Nena, she smiled. “A cup of coffee for me, I'll be polishing off the remainder of my friend's plate.” Monique bared her teeth at the unpleasant man.

Nena scuttled back behind the counter, got a coffee cup and came to their table. “Can I get you anything else?” She asked, voice soft, demure.

“We're fine, thanks.” Connie smiled at Nena, feeling a bit maternal toward her after Mr. Beckwith's rude behavior.

“You do know you don't actually have to put up with it, right? The 'customer is king' line isn't really valid anymore.” Monique asked in between bites of Connie's leftover cake. Nena shrunk visibly at the suggestion of self-assertion.

“I have things to clean, excuse me.” Nena whispered before disappearing behind the display counter.

Monique looked after the young woman. “Wow, I was ignored.”

Connie grinned, gazing a Monique. She's been wanting to ask Monique about Regina, what she knew about her. And she wanted to tell Monique that she was mad at her for not confiding in her. Only to tell herself that she was making a bigger deal out of it than it actually was. Why not just ask her? Too easy?

Monique glanced up. “You’ve been brooding the last few days. What’s going on?” Connie sighed, starring at the plate in front of her. Connie’s long, slim finger picked up the crumbs of the left-over cake, piling them up in a neat little heap. “You’ve known for years that Regina has been a business partner at the investment firm I used to work at. Yet, you never said that you knew her. But you do, don’t you?”

Monique deflated into her seat, “shit.” Before she could say anything else, a shadow crept over them. Both women looked up. The unpleasant customer, Mr. Beckwith, towered next to the table.

“I know your type, you feminists, men-hating old hags. Not everyone needs saving from your imaginary monsters.” He hissed at them.

Connie winced, took one look at her friend and knew what would be next.

“Excuse me? Not putting up with your hostile bullshit doesn't make me a feminist. Wanting to castrate you for being an asshole, well, that's a different angle.” While she lectured him on his incorrect assumption, Monique's back straightened. Her hands moved toward the full coffee cup. Connie knew what her friend was thinking, so she pulled the coffee cup out of Monique's reach. Jerk or no jerk, he didn't deserve to be doused with hot coffee.

“Duane, I’m glad you're still here, can you help me lift some of those flour sacks?” A tall man, arms and apron covered in flour, approached. Even his dark-brown hair had a few sprinkles. Duane didn't react and the flour man put his hand on Duane's shoulder. “Duane?” Mr. Beckwith flinched. With it, the curse of a promised fight was broken.

“Yeah, sure, I'll help you. Damn visitors need to learn our ways, though.” Duane walked away, but not without a final stare at Monique. The subject of his criticism was eager to return the favor.

“Okay, that's enough now, Monique!” Connie took hold of her friend's hand.

Monique turned her head, “little man's syndrome - he thinks he has to make up for it with a big mouth.” She ridiculed.

Connie patted her hand, trying to calm her. “Getting into a public fight won't cure that. Take a deep breath, he isn't worth it.”

Her black, shoulder-length hair bobbed gently as Monique nodded. “You're right.” Monique stared at the table, her heavily ringed fingers turning the coffee cup. Her chest rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths. Monique poured a generous amount of creamer and sugar into her cup. She stirred the mixture with such vigor that a miniature tornado formed.

“You’re right, I do know her. So does Bruce.” Monique sipped her coffee. “But I can’t talk about any of it. I need you to be my friend and not ask me.” She put down the cup, leaned back, her arms crossing in front of her chest. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I told you to keep copies of the documents we found in Lance’s office. And why I never educated you on how wrong you were about your assumption of them being ‘just’ bank statements. You’re better off not knowing details. I’m protecting you, so leave it be. Please.”

Connie slumped backward. “You’re talking about trafficking.” She paled.

Monique startled. “No, don’t say that, never, ever say that. Listen to me …”

But Connie knew she was right. “No, you listen. You know I left Weintraub LLC because of what we found in Lance’s home office. I’m not an idiot, I do have a master’s degree in business. I knew it didn’t make sense and it had to be partly illegal. I just didn’t know how. I never put it together. But before I left, a couple of our office assistants came to me, asking not to be assigned to any accounts of Praeda Inc. Rumor had it that company was a front of trafficking. I didn’t pay attention, thought it was nonsense.”

Monique shrunk away, paling.

“Dear God.” Connie whispered.

She wanted to ask her friend, beg her to tell her anything, when the tall, flour covered man approached. “Good morning, I’m Lars, owner and baker at Café Noir. I hope Duane’s behavior hasn’t turned you off your stay in Minneapolis.”

Monique tilted her head, her hair falling on to her cheek. “These types are everywhere. We’re used to it. But it’s nice you worry about us. Thanks. Sit, have a cup of coffee, on us.” Monique pointed toward the empty chair in between them while throwing furtive glances at Connie. Using Lars’ appearance as a stopgap to the uncomfortable conversation.

“So, where you guys from? What kind of dessert did you try? Did you like it?” Lars burst out with questions the moment his body hit the chair.

Monique laughed at his unabashed curiosity. “Seattle. We’re here on vacation and to get my friend over her post-divorce blues.” Monique obliged his inquisitiveness.

Lars looked sadly at Connie. “Oh, I’m sorry. Divorce can't be easy.”

Connie waved her hand.  “It gets easier with every day. By the way, aren't you a bit curious for a mid-westerner?”

Lars laughed. “Yeah, kind of. Guess I've been a bit lonely since my wife passed away.”

Monique and Connie's faces went from relaxed to fear in one second. “You're looking for a wife?”

Lars raised his hands. “No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I’m saying I'm more talkative since she passed away.”

The petite waitress approached their table. Lars looked up at her. “I'm done with the cleanup. Did you need me for anything else?”

He shook his head. “No. But Sarah left a message. She’s asking if you changed your mind about taking her on as a roommate.”

Nena glanced at Connie and Monique, then at Lars. Silence stretched between the four of them. Then, Nena motioned her head toward the display counter. Lars nodded. “I’ll be back.” He stood up and followed Nena. The distance wasn’t enough, though. Connie could hear every word.

“Lars, don’t make me be friends with her. She’s horrible. She’s with that bad guy, remember? The one that beat her, and she came to live with me, but went back with him after he showed up at three am at my place? I can’t handle that again.”

Lars reached for Nena’s shoulder. “Kiddo, I am not making you be friends with her, and I do remember. I didn’t realize how you felt about it. So, it’s okay. I was thinking about it because you wanted a roommate to safe money for your trip. Besides, I thought you two could talk it out, in case she’s ready to leave for real this time.”

Connie pretended not to listen, but Monique had no such quarrels. She snorted at Lars’ last sentence. “She needs professional help, like a woman's crisis center and not drag Nena, or someone else, into it. Next time you talk to her, ask her how many times she’s already left him, and I'll bet you it’s a lot. Wife beaters don't take prisoners and there's a real chance Nena could get hurt. Besides, from the looks of it, you already have a bully in your life.” She motioned in the direction of the table where Duane had set not long ago.

Nena’s eyes widened. Connie tried to figure out if the young woman was upset that her conversation was overheard. She couldn’t.

Nena looked at Monique. “She’s left him six times in three years. I already asked.” Her posture straightened. “Besides, I want a useful roommate, like someone who can teach me how to cook. Sarah can’t boil water.”

Connie smile. Good luck with that, young lady.