The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek (19 page)

The tone of every voice suggested activities of vice and perversion that he could never have taken part in—and certainly not in the short time he and Mattie had been together.

“Ladies,” he began again. “I am not married. I have not been keeping company with Gussie Milton although I would like to spend more time with her. You—” He glanced at each woman. “None of you are in charge of whom I see and when and how.” He stopped to attempt to think of more words and added, “Or why.” Then he waited for a reaction.

“He’s right,” Mercedes said as the other Widows contemplated his words. “I’m sorry, Preacher. You’re right. It’s none of our business.” She took Miss Birdie’s arm. “We need to leave him alone.”

“She’s right,” Blossom added. “I’m sorry, Preacher.”

Miss Birdie hrrmphed but allowed herself to be guided away.

And Adam breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had met the Widows and he had won.

Not that he considered this a final victory.

They’d been emailing back and forth for three weeks, Gussie and Adam. Oh, there had been distractions, like when her father had been hospitalized for pneumonia a week earlier. She’d known that coughing had meant something, but had she been able to force him to see a doctor? No, and he’d only decided to when he could no longer breathe.

He’d spent four days in the hospital, then come home so weak he could barely stand. Her mother was beside herself with worry and not really strong enough to care for him. Her blood sugar had gone up due to the stress.

Gussie’d hired a nurse to come in during the day, but when she was home, the entire weight of care fell on Gussie. Not that it bothered her, not that she’d complain, but she did worry about her parents as well as about her ability to care for them as they aged.

She’d told Adam this in emails. He’d supported her and let her unload her worry on him, had probably saved her from more worry than she could have handled alone.

They’d missed church this morning because her father was still so weak. She couldn’t leave him at home alone, and her mother still dithered about him. As she finished cleaning the lunch dishes, Gussie heard the doorbell.

“Don’t move, Mom. I’ll get it.”

Worn out and disheveled, Gussie opened the door to see—oh, please, no!—Adam standing there.

“Well.” She forced a smile on lips that hadn’t seen lipstick for nearly forty-eight hours. Nevertheless, although she felt exhausted and knew she looked terrible, she was happy to see him. “How nice to see you.”

It was. He looked great in jeans and a knit shirt. Nice plus good looking and throw in the sudden rush of pure joy and a spark of desire she wished she could ignore—all that equaled perfect man. If she were looking for one.

Oh, shut up
, she told herself. Whether she’d been looking or not, an attractive man of exactly the kind she’d have chosen for herself stood in front of her.

“Who is it, Gussie?” her father shouted.

“Come on in.” She stepped back to allow him to enter. “My parents are in the living room. Everything’s a mess. Sorry. The maid didn’t drop by today. Not that we have a maid. I’m it. Or her. Maybe she.” Why couldn’t she stop babbling?

She led him into a room with the Sunday newspaper spread over the furniture and covering bits of the floor. Her mother sat on the sofa reading with a glass of lemonade on the table beside her while her father, still wearing pajamas, reclined.

“Mom, Dad, this is Adam Jordan, the minister at the church in Butternut Creek. You’ve heard me talk about him.”

Her mother’s gaze leaped toward Adam, then moved back and forth between Gussie and Adam. Her father kept his eyes on Adam, searching for clues. Was this man good enough for his daughter? To Gussie’s chagrin, his scrutiny shouted that question.

Embarrassed by her father’s inspection and aware of how terrible she looked, Gussie still grinned because Adam was here.

“These are my parents, Yvonne and Henry Milton,” she said, waving toward them.

Adam, much more comfortable and at ease than she, approached her parents and shook their hands. “I wanted to bring you something, but flowers aren’t good for someone recovering from pneumonia and candy isn’t good for a diabetic. Instead, I bring best wishes for a speedy recovery from the congregation in Butternut Creek. You still have a lot of friends there.”

“Oh, that’s why you’re here.” Her father continued his examination of the man who’d dropped in. “Bringing best wishes from the church in Butternut Creek?” he said, disbelief obvious in his voice.

“How very sweet of you,” her mother said. “So thoughtful. Thank you.”

For nearly a minute, they all looked at one another and smiled and nodded their heads. Little by little, Adam looked more and more uncomfortable until Gussie drew herself together and said, “Sit down. Let me bring you a glass of lemonade.”

She dashed toward the kitchen, then through it, out the hall door, and to the bathroom. As she ran, she could hear her father peppering Adam with questions. She fluffed powder on her shiny nose, smeared on lip gloss, and combed her hair. The best she could do for now.

By the time she got back to the living room with the lemonade, she hoped her father hadn’t asked anything embarrassing, like
What are your intentions toward my daughter?

Surely he wouldn’t. But she hadn’t brought a young man to meet them in years, not since high school. Not that she’d brought Adam home, but…

Oh, sit down and stop overthinking.

She gave Adam his glass and settled on the chair next to him.

He smiled at her and her heart fluttered. Oh, dear. Had she regressed, again becoming a girl whose pulse beat faster when a good-looking man smiled at her?

Well, yes, she guessed she had. It felt good.

After nearly fifteen minutes of her father’s questions and Gussie’s efforts to silence him, Adam stood. “I don’t want to wear you out and need to get to Austin for hospital visits,” he said. “Good to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Milton.”

“Don’t be so formal. I’m Yvonne and my husband’s Henry.”

Her husband didn’t look happy that this upstart who showed an interest in his daughter should call him anything but
sir
, but he didn’t oppose the suggestion.

“Why don’t you walk Adam outside, make sure he knows how to get to Austin,” Mother suggested.

As if anyone could get lost between Roundville and Austin, but Gussie did as directed. She’d have gone anyway.

“Thank you for coming,” Gussie said as they headed down the front walk. “We all really appreciated it.”

“Gussie,” he said when they reached his car. “I’d like to see you again.”

“With my father’s illness, I don’t know when…”

“I understand, but I want to see you.”

“I’ll email you.” She grinned. “I have to apologize for my father’s behavior.”

“Hey, he’s a father. You’re his daughter. He cares.”

They gazed at each other, Adam with questions in his eyes that she didn’t want to hear or respond to. Finally, he said, “Okay,” and got into the car, turned on the engine, which responded with a mighty growl, and drove off with a wave. She watched him and wished she didn’t have to go inside. She knew a grilling lay ahead.

Fortunately her father had left the living room. Probably worn out already. Although his weakness usually worried her, right now she could only be glad she’d escaped his interrogation for the time being.

Not that her mother’s questions would be any easier, only not quite so much like the Inquisition.

“He’s a very nice young man, dear,” her mother said. “How lovely of him to visit us.”

“He was on the way to Austin to make a hospital call.”

“Do you really believe that?” Her mother shook her head. “Don’t fool yourself. He came to see you. Oh”—she held her hand up—“I know he said he came to see us, but you know very well he wouldn’t have dropped in on two elderly folks if we weren’t your parents.”

Because Gussie didn’t know how to respond to Adam’s visit or her mother’s observation, she said, “I’m going to my room,” and escaped. She had some thinking to do.

That evening, she opened her saved emails and read all of them from Adam. Every one confirmed what she already knew. Adam was a nice man. That part didn’t scare her. It was the being-close-to-him-and-feeling-his-masculinity part she feared. She knew if she didn’t respond to his visit, he’d give up on her. She most assuredly didn’t want that. Time to make up her mind and take action.

“Meet me in Marble Falls for coffee a week from tomorrow? Dad goes to the doctor Friday. Surely he’ll be strong enough for me to leave him with Mom for a few extra hours by then.”

O
uida glanced at herself in the mirror of the half bath to check her hair and makeup. George had called twenty minutes ago to tell her he’d passed through Marble Falls. He should arrive home any minute, and she liked to look her best for him. She must be getting better if her appearance had become important.

She’d never realized the joy of going to the bathroom alone before she’d needed help for that most private of activities. The cane and a walking cast made getting into the small half bath difficult but she could do it. If she stuck her foot far to the right, balanced on the sink—she hoped she wouldn’t pull it off the wall—and the doorknob, she could fall gently onto the toilet. Her greatest joy came from not having to ask someone to pull her panties down. In the restricted space, it wasn’t easy, but she had conquered that.

Independence. After weeks of casts and slings and the hospital and nursing home, she now measured independence in tasks she could do, and she treasured every one. She’d no longer complain about anything, not ironing boxers or mopping the kitchen. If she could go back to the week before her fall, if she could trade off somehow, have a do-over, she’d iron whatever George wanted her to but, “Please, Lord,” she whispered, “I don’t want to fall down the steps to learn this lesson, not again. I understand.”

Then she’d realized she’d prayed. Oh, not a good prayer. More like a mixture of magic and blackmail with a sprinkle of faith, but she’d addressed the words to God. The preacher had influenced her far more than she’d realized. Did that count as good or bad? And did she really want to pray to a God who’d allowed her to fall down the steps so she’d learn a lesson? She didn’t think so, but she’d talk to Adam about that.

As she considered her odd moment of faith, the front door opened. George was home.

“Ouida,” he called from the living room.

“I’m back here,” she shouted.

He didn’t hear her, of course. Her voice didn’t make it through the closed door, across the kitchen, through the dining room, and around the corner into the living room. His did.

“Ouida?” His voice held a note of panic. He dragged out her name so it sounded like, “Weeeeeeeeeeee-da!”

Not that she’d ever compare George to her cocker spaniel Daffy, but she felt as ineffective and helpless now as she had back then. She could hear his footsteps going up the stairs and echoing above her as he ran through the second story. She heard his steps sounding softly on the stairs to the third floor, then nothing. Had he gone up to the attic playroom? How did he think she’d climb those steps? She’d hobbled up to the second floor only once. She’d come back to the first floor by bumping down on her bottom most of the way.

She still slept in the living room, although no longer on a hospital bed. They’d moved the queen-size bed downstairs, and she got to sleep with George next to her. And he thought she’d climbed two flights to the attic?

George must have come down because she now heard him above her on the second floor. If she still had her crutches, she’d bang on the ceiling, but she didn’t and the cane didn’t reach that far. Nonetheless, she had to try something. Using the wall and the sink, she leveraged herself to her feet, then leaned to pick up the cane. As she did, she felt herself overbalance. Before she could catch herself, she toppled against the door. It popped open and deposited her on the kitchen floor.

She lay there for a moment and did a quick inventory of her body, fearing she’d hurt herself again. Despite an ache in her good shoulder, which she’d fallen on, and her hip, she felt okay but she’d never be able to get to her feet. No, not alone, and George was too busy running around upstairs searching for her to give her a hand.

“George,” she shouted, but she didn’t hear movement toward her.

She looked around her. If she could get to the kitchen counter, she could probably pull herself to her feet, maybe. That irritating boot cut down on her mobility and balance so much that she needed something to hold on to, but her shoulder still hadn’t gained enough strength that she trusted it.

“George.”

Crab-like, she moved along on her stomach, impelling her body with both hands and her left foot. When she’d almost arrived, she heard George descending the stairs.

“George!”

“Ouida?” he called.

“In here,” she shouted.

She heard him run through the living room and dining room. When he arrived at the arch between the kitchen and the dining room, he stopped for a second before he said, “Ouida,” and rushed to her. “What happened?”

When he knelt beside her, she turned her head and gazed up at him. His eyes were huge; his face, white.

“I’m fine. Just help me up.” She reached her hand out, but he leaped to his feet.

“No, no, you stay there. Don’t want to make your injuries worse. I’ll call nine-one-one and get the preacher over here.” He turned and took two long strides to reach the phone.

“George,” she said, her hand still held out. “I really am fine. I fell, but I didn’t hurt anything. Help me, please. I can’t stand up on my own.”

He came back to her, slowly, and scrutinized her. “Are you sure?” When she nodded, he took her hand and put his other arm around her to guide and support her until she stood.

“See, I’m fine,” she said at the exact time a wave of dizziness hit her. She leaned on George’s arm to steady herself.

“No, you’re not.” George nearly dragged her across the kitchen and lowered her onto a chair in the breakfast nook. “I’m going to call…”

“George, I’m really fine. I got up too fast. I’m a little light-headed.”

“Food,” he suggested. “Do you need something to eat? I’ll get you a glass of milk. That should…or maybe a piece of cheese?”

“George, please sit down.” Once he did—all the time inspecting her face, searching for signs of terminal illness or fatal injury, she guessed—she took his hand. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t scare me like that.” He took several deep breaths. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Yes, dear.”

They sat like that, gazing at each other and holding hands, until George said, “I’ve been thinking.” He squeezed her hand and leaned toward her. “I never realized how hard it is to take care of this big house and the girls until I had to do that. I don’t know how you do it.”

She smiled. Nice to be validated. “I love it.”

“I can’t believe I nagged you about being punctual and keeping a schedule. I’m never where I planned to be doing what I think I should. It’s about killed me. I decided to get you maid service, twice a week. Will that help?”

When she didn’t answer because his statement had surprised her—no, stunned and amazed her—he continued. “I’m sorry. I never should’ve said that you have life easy. Trying to do for a few days a week what you do every day of the year wore me out. You need help.”

“Oh, George.” She caressed his hand and smiled at him. For a moment, she kept her eyes on him and treasured his concern. “Thank you, but I don’t need maid service. I love what I do, but I would like to stop ironing so much.”

She paused. “And I’d like to start painting again, when I can use my arm.”

“Anything,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

Maybe she shouldn’t refuse his generosity. She could accept a day or two of maid service a week, if he really wanted that.

Adam glanced around the sanctuary. Attendance usually fell during the summer, but today it had picked up with school starting in a couple of weeks. Probably close to sixty in attendance. The average had swelled to almost seventy, most of the additional number coming from the high school kids Hector and Bree had roped in. The Mexican and African American kids and a few of their parents added texture to the congregation. Not that sixty or seventy people filled the sanctuary, but it didn’t look quite as empty as it had a year earlier.

Sam and his family sat on the side aisle, a consistent four. Actually, add the general and Winnie and that row was nearly filled every Sunday.

Behind Adam in the chancel, the choir still consisted of three women and Ralph. All sat quietly now as they did through the entire service. He wished he could get them to practice, to prepare even a choral
Amen
after the prayer, but that success had eluded him.

The guest organist played a soft prelude but everyone was so busy chatting, they couldn’t hear it.

Mrs. Jurenka, the musician, had confessed before the service that she didn’t hear as well as she once had. She’d showed him some signals he could use to communicate. The idea of motioning to her after the prayer seemed odd, but with their usual organist on maternity leave, they had to hire whoever they could find. Mrs. Jurenka was it this morning.

She’d played the first hymn well although had stopped before the last verse, which left the congregation sputtering to a halt when they realized that the music had come to an end. However, since almost no one sang except Janey, the young people, and a few visitors, the quick finish didn’t much matter.

Later in service, Adam rose to start the prayer. As was his usual practice, he paused several times during the prayer to give the congregation time to meditate.

Not a good idea that morning.

At the first pause, Mrs. Jurenka must have thought he’d finished. Although he had not given her the agreed-upon signal, a chopping gesture, she began to play, “Hear Our Prayer, O Lord,” before he could start the prayer again. He waited but she played on. He gave her the agreed-upon signal, then once more. And again. He felt as if he were splitting logs up there, but she didn’t stop. In desperation, he hissed at her. Oh, he knew she couldn’t hear him, but he felt the need to do something. Throwing a hymnal seemed out of the question. She continued playing. He’d never realized how long that response was, especially when she kept repeating it. Was there some sign he’d missed? Obviously the chopping and the hissing hadn’t worked.

Hoping if she could hear him pray, Mrs. Jurenka would stop playing, Adam raised his voice. “And so we thank you for all the blessings of this day…” But she didn’t stop. “For the beauty of the Hill Country,” he said in an even louder and definitely less prayerful voice. Finally, he screamed, “And for the love of the people around us, for the peace and quiet of this place…”

By this time, the members of the congregation had lost any semblance of prayerful contemplation and were laughing so hard he feared Hector and Bobby would fall out of the pew. Although Willow attempted to remain worshipful and hush her men, Sam and the boys had long since given up an appearance of reverence. Why did Adam have a best friend who laughed at him during the most trying moments of his life?

As his gaze moved around the congregation, he spotted Gussie on the back row of the sanctuary. Why had she visited
today
? Today of all the Sundays in the world when he’d lost complete control of the service?

She was, of course, as amused as everyone else. Although he couldn’t tell from this distance, she seemed to be laughing so hard she was crying, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. He loved Gussie’s laugh, but not now.

Adam had no idea what to do next because he couldn’t shout any more loudly. Then he heard Ralph stand behind him, the chair creaking as he pulled his arthritic bulk up. Adam gave up completely on the prayer and turned to watch Ralph’s slow progress from the choir chairs toward the organ.

What was the man going to do?

The eyes of the congregation followed Ralph’s movements as well. For a moment, Ralph stopped behind Mrs. Jurenka, who had her eyes closed, obviously feeling spiritual as she began the response another time. After a few seconds, Ralph put a hand on each of the organist’s arms, pulled her hands away from the keys, and shouted, “Stop.”

The poor woman leaped off the organ bench. Ralph let go of her arms as she shrieked a piercing high note that reverberated around the sanctuary. “What are you doing?”

“The preacher’s still praying,” Ralph shouted and pointed.

“Oh.” She glanced at Adam and nodded before turning and sitting again, her hands in her lap. Ralph tramped back toward the choir, dropped into his chair with a satisfied, “There,” and folded his hands across his round stomach.

For nearly a minute, Adam waited in the hope he could somehow redeem the situation, but the laughter continued. Finally, he said “Amen” and sat down. He’d never get the congregation back.

After a few minutes, he stood to deliver a shortened sermon. The service ended in plenty of time for everyone to get to Subway long before the Methodists.

As he greeted people at the entrance, Bobby filed by. Unable to say a word because he was laughing so hard, the young man gave Adam a punch in the shoulder.

“Pops, that service wasn’t boring at all,” Hector said and he shook Adam’s hand.

At the same time Hector left the narthex, Adam realized he was alone with Gussie. Except he knew they weren’t alone, not really. Even though he couldn’t see them, he knew the Widows lurked nearby. Smiling, probably, gloating, and, he knew, listening. Gussie approached him and held out her hand.

“Hello,” he said with an effort to sound detached so the Widows couldn’t pick up on how happy her presence made him. He failed. “How nice to see you in church today.” He sounded like an idiot. He could hear himself nearly chirping with pleasure. “How nice to see you,” he repeated in the deep, professional voice he used for prayers. Now he sounded like a minister welcoming a guest. All he had to do was shake her hand and invite her back. So he took her hand, shook it, and said heartily, “Good to see you this morning. Please come back to worship with us another time.”

She smiled up at him and he didn’t worry about how stupid he sounded. Her expression assured him that whatever reason she had for visiting the Christian Church during one of the most embarrassing moments of his life was positive. She was here. Maybe this morning’s service would be counted as a good. Maybe even something they could laugh about together for years to come, he hoped.

Super-cool as always, he demanded, “What are you doing here?” Chirpy, ministerial, demanding—why couldn’t he figure out how to talk to Gussie like a normal person, like a man who found her attractive?