The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek (28 page)

Didn’t fool Hector. He came into the bedroom and sat on the side of the bed to scratch Chewy’s ears. “Had a good time. Pop, you can go to sleep now. I’m home.”

As the fall grew closer to winter, leaves changed, at least the little bit they changed in Texas. Most of the green leaves stayed the same. Some of them turned a bright red, but the rest looked as if they’d rusted.

With basketball practice starting, Hector and Adam didn’t get much time to play ball together, but a lot of kids in the neighborhood used the hoop in the parking lot. Adam joined occasionally and considered those contests good for the relationship of the church with its neighbors.

He and Janey rode the family-of-the-team buses to Hector’s out-of-town games in Bandera and even as far as Dripping Springs. Hector’s play had improved so much, Adam knew he could no longer challenge him. Not that he’d confess that to the kid. Bobby, a feisty and intelligent point guard, attracted scouts as well. The team looked great, well coached and intense.

“We’re going to have a great year,” Adam emailed his sister, attaching a picture of Hector going up for a rebound that had been in the newspaper.

The next day, Hannah wrote back, “What’s the matter?”

He sent an email about another win, the coach, and Hector’s improvement playing point forward.

“I don’t care about the coach.”

Adam reread those words. Hannah had never been a fan of athletes, but she sounded angry and mean. Probably under a lot of stress. He wished he could help her.

He read on. “I don’t really care about basketball unless you’re playing. I do care about Hector and hope to meet him and Janey someday, but what’s wrong with you?”

He wrote back, “Leave me alone.”

She answered, “Okay, now I’m really worried. What’s wrong?”

He solved her persistence by not answering. Nothing she could do from Kenya.

Wrong. Hannah wrote their mother, who emailed, “Your sister tells me there’s something wrong. What?”

He couldn’t ignore his mother. Well, he could, but it was useless. She could challenge the Widows for the title of most relentless. However, she also knew when to shut up, a skill the Widows and his sister should learn.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he wrote back and copied it to his sister. “Leave me alone.”

Both did.

“I don’t think that new blond woman is going to work,” Winnie said. “She’s not minister’s wife material. Entirely too worldly and here for only six months while her bank opens a branch down on Highway 29.”

“Only six months?” Birdie asked. “The preacher can’t work that fast.”

“Where does that leave us?” Blossom asked. “Where can we find another single woman?”

“We should send out a message to the churches in the area, see if they have any single women who might be interested in a minister,” Winnie suggested. “Send it to the president of their women’s group and ask for suggestions.”

“Winnie, will you be in charge of that?” Birdie asked, to regain control. Then she looked at each woman. “What ideas do you have to help us find a wife for the preacher?”

“We tried Reverend Patillo, but that didn’t work out.”

“Oh? The Presbyterian minister?” Blossom asked. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Birdie snorted. “Absolutely nothing.”

“That was the problem,” Mercedes added.

“Then Bird recognized that if Pastor Adam and Reverend Patillo got married, the children might all attend the Presbyterian Church with their mother. Might could live in the manse instead of the parsonage.”

“Oh, dear, no.” Blossom gasped. “That would ruin everything. We need their children at the Christian Church.”

“Exactly,” Birdie said. “So we have to come up with something to keep those children in our church.”

Each took another sip of coffee. “I could check with my neighbors about their daughters or nieces,” Blossom volunteered.

“Most important, we have to find him a wife everyone will like and will make the preacher happy,” Winnie said.

“My sister in Abilene has a daughter.” Immediately after Blossom said the words, she shut her mouth firmly and puckered her lips as if maybe, if she just sat silently, everyone would forget what she’d said.

“Well?” Birdie asked.

“I forgot, she’s a nun. But they would share a common interest in theology and churches.”

“Don’t need a celibate woman for the preacher,” Birdie said. Good thing Blossom had other good attributes like having a very good cook and knowing just how to entertain, because nothing she said ever contributed to the discussion.

“I’m concerned.” Mercedes looked around the group. “I don’t see anyone better for Pastor Adam than Gussie Milton. I really don’t.”

The others murmured agreement.

“I think Gussie’s the one. We should do everything we can to bring them back together,” Mercedes said. “That has to be our goal.”

After a moment of silence, Blossom suggested, “We could invite them for dinner at my house.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Birdie said as she nodded at Mercedes.

As soon as Adam hung up, he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window.

What do the Widows have in mind?

When Blossom called to invite him to a little get-together at her home, suspicion filled him. It had the fingerprints of the matchmakers all over it.

And yet it could be nothing more than a thoughtful invitation from Blossom, a dinner party for him and a few others. She hadn’t specified who else would join them, and he was too polite to ask. The words
Are the other Widows going to be there?
had trembled on his lips, but he’d swallowed them.

He had to warn Gussie. He didn’t want her to be embarrassed and he couldn’t face her again, not with the Widows clucking around and matchmaking. Of course, if they hadn’t invited Gussie, the email would seem strange. But if they had, she’d appreciate the warning.

Maybe they’d invited another woman, in which case he’d have to go and act polite. Maybe they’d dug up a woman who fit him. Maybe they hadn’t. Regardless, he couldn’t turn down an invitation from a church member no matter how suspicious it sounded. He looked forward to getting to know Blossom and eating the wonderful dinner he knew her cook would prepare.

Just in case the invitation came from the Widows’ usual motive, he wrote a quick email to Gussie and sent it. Later that evening, he received a message from her.

“Thanks for the heads-up. The invitation was on my computer when I got home. I declined. They never give up, do they?”

No, they didn’t, but now he could look forward to a great meal and chagrined Widows.

G
ussie couldn’t sleep. Every night, she tossed and turned and found herself staring at the ceiling at three o’clock, knowing she’d have to get up in a few hours. In an effort to gain a little rest, she breathed in and out, deeply, and recited the Lord’s Prayer. After thirty minutes, she felt closer to the Lord but even farther from sleep.

After a few days during which she dozed during slow periods at work, Gussie set a pattern to soothe her to sleep. It started with a long, hot bath, after which her skin was so wrinkled she felt like a shar-pei puppy. After that, she listened to relaxation CDs. She followed all the instructions, but no matter how long she stayed in the tub or how far she descended on the fantasy elevator or how warm and relaxed she felt lying in the imaginary sunshine of the flower-covered meadow, she could not make the final descent into deep, restful slumber.

On the advice of friends, she drank warm milk, chamomile tea—not on the same evening—put a lavender sachet under her pillow, and ate a graham cracker. None worked. She refused to try feng shui because she could not believe having the bottoms of her feet face the door would help in the least.

Finally, she dug through the drawer where she tossed stuff and pulled out a little machine that played various soothing sounds. She’d never found sounds of the forest relaxing because the birds tweeted so loudly. Her father had ruined sounds of the sea, telling her he could hear calls for help from far away. The sound of rain made her have to get up and go to the bathroom, hardly conducive to deep sleep, and thunderstorms woke her up. She chose the soothing babbling stream. After replacing the batteries, she placed it on her bedside table, turned it on, relaxed in bed, closing her eyes and, again, breathing deeply and rhythmically.

Five minutes later, she’d fallen into a deep slumber.

When she woke up in the morning two hours later, she realized she spent far too much time preparing herself for a few hours of sleep. She needed to do something different. She needed help, and she really needed sleep.

If there was anyone Gussie did not want to see that afternoon, it was Clare.

Actually, she had a list of people she would prefer not to see. It included many citizens of Butternut Creek, but Clare’s name appeared at the top.

And yet Clare’s huge black SUV sat in the parking lot of her studio. She was just too tired to have this conversation and yearned to drive off without stopping at the studio, but she couldn’t. She had a disk filled with photos she had to download and print. Besides, she hadn’t seen her best friend in such a long time.

Several times Gussie had emailed Clare that, although she and Adam had split, she was fine. Clare knew her too well to believe it. Then, in her most recent email, Gussie had foolishly mentioned the invitation from the Widows for their matchmaking dinner and Adam’s warning. When she confessed she’d turned down the invitation, Clare had called her immediately. Gussie’d allowed the machine to pick up. But Clare would never give up, even if she had to show up in person towing all three children with her. When she heard honking behind her and realized she held up a line of traffic, Gussie turned into the lot and parked. Once inside, she saw Clare holding her youngest, Ashley. She knew she couldn’t hold her friend at arm’s length. She could not resist mother and baby. Clare had pulled out every weapon she had. How unfair.

Gussie hardened her heart—one last effort to escape Clare’s loving insistence. Then Ashley gurgled.

Darn it!

“Okay,” Gussie said, giving in. “Let me have the baby. Come into my office and we can talk. I don’t have any more appointments today.” She waved to Justine behind the reception desk. “Go on home. I’ll close up.”

Once they’d each grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, Gussie and Clare settled in the two comfortable chairs and Gussie cuddled Ashley. Clare didn’t bother with how long it had been and how good it was to see her, or with giving an update on her other two kids. No, she got straight to the point, as usual.

“Gus, do you love Adam?”

Gussie looked down at Ashley, who was waving her little fists in her honorary aunt’s face and making baby noises.

“Gus.” Clare’s voice sharpened. “You know I am genetically incapable of staying out of the lives of people I love. You know I won’t go away.”

The two sat in silence for nearly a minute before Clare said, “But I will leave you alone. Because I love you so much, I will fight my instinct to pry into your personal life. All you have to do is tell me to leave.”

“Yes, I think I love Adam,” Gussie mumbled.

“Does he love you?”

“I don’t know.” Gussie shrugged. “He said he wanted to. I think that meant maybe he does.”

“He’s a minister,” Clare said. “Don’t you think he usually tells the truth?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, let’s try this again.” Clare slid her chair over the laminate flooring closer to her friend. “Do you think Adam loves you?”

Gussie swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Why aren’t you together?”

“You make it sound so simple. Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“Gus, don’t intellectualize. Talk to me.”

She looked at Clare’s expression of love and concern. “I don’t know. I’d really thought I was okay, that I’d gotten over the rape and gotten back my life, until I met Adam. I was functioning, at least.” She would’ve held a hand up to keep Clare from interrupting but both were full of baby. Instead she glared. “Yes, you mentioned, often, that you saw signs, like the guys I’d date for a month and break up with, but I didn’t realize that.

“I don’t think things will work out with Adam. I can’t be with him right now the way he wants, and it’s not fair for me to ask him to wait when I don’t know if…”

Clare watched sympathetically.

“But still, I know I need to do something. I just don’t know what yet. When I’ve worked things out—or even if I haven’t—I’ll get in touch with you. I promise.”

Clare stood and moved toward Gussie to lean down and hug her. “I love you. And you know, no matter what happens with Adam, you need to do this for you.”

“I know. I’m lucky to have you as a friend. Most of the time.”

“And don’t you forget that.”

“Nothing has worked.” Birdie felt like crying. Never had she faced such a failure. She glanced around at the Widows gathered at the diner to discuss the crisis.

“It was a setback, but we haven’t tried that much.” Winnie spoke up—as usual. “We had that dinner without Gussie, but what else could we have done?”

“I don’t know what to do next,” Mercedes said. “We can’t give up. If we do, we’ll lose one of our core tenets.”

“We could wait until another single woman moves into the area,” Blossom suggested.

“Not likely.” Winnie shook her head disconsolately. “The economy and the attractions of Austin draw young people to the big city.”

“But wasn’t the dinner party nice?” Blossom asked. “Even if only the preacher and the three of you showed up. I had a nice time.”

No use explaining to the woman that the purpose hadn’t been to chat with the preacher.

“Mac and Bree tell me that Gussie is set on taking care of her parents,” Birdie explained. “Seems she’s very devoted to them.”

“Do you think maybe she won’t or can’t commit to the preacher because of them?” Winnie asked.

“My, my,” Blossom said. “That does make sense.”

“What do we do about it?” Mercedes asked. “Other than taking dinner down to Roundville and dragging the preacher along, I don’t see a solution.”

“Tea,” Blossom said.

The other three turned to stare at her.

“We could take tea to them.” She batted her eyes. “To Gussie’s parents and talk to them about the situation. A polite chat over tea.”

Who’d’ve believed it? Blossom had come up with another good idea.

“You’re right,” Mercedes said. “Surely they’d be interested in what’s going on.”

Winnie pulled her ever-present notebook and pen from her bag. “All right, let’s brainstorm.”

Within ten minutes, the Widows had a plan and a purpose and renewed dedication. Gussie Milton and the preacher would get married if the Widows had to follow them down the aisle with pitchforks.

“Pops, you know the Widows aren’t going to give up on you,” Hector said as he cleared the table. “Bree told me that.”

Great.

“Not going to give up on you and Gussie,” he clarified, though Adam knew what he’d meant. “Bree says they thought about that blond lady but didn’t think she was right for you.”

Good news
.

“As far as we can tell, whatever they have planned will take place sometime soon, maybe this week.”

“They have
plans
?” Oh, please, no. Their ideas always meant inexorable determination on their part and deep humiliation on his. “What do they have in mind?”

“Don’t know. Miss Birdie didn’t tell her. Bree could tell
something
was going on because the Widows have been so secretive and she heard your name mentioned when her grandmother took a phone call.” Hector rinsed a place off. “Your name and Gussie’s.”

Adam felt as frustrated as if he were on the deck of the
Titanic
, watching the ship approach the icebergs while he shouted, “Danger ahead!” Nothing he could do would stop or delay the impending and inevitable catastrophe.

The situation required constant vigilance. He could almost feel the ice floe forming around him, but he had no idea where the flood of destruction would come from.

He waited for the tide to submerge him.

Lots of water images and none of them worked together. He didn’t care. He was a scared man, not a poet.

Despite his certainty the Widows would act soon, he heard nothing. Two days, then a week. Nothing happened. The Widows didn’t converge on him. He heard nothing from Gussie. Good news that she didn’t have anything to report on the Widows. Bad news that he didn’t hear anything from Gussie about herself.

Still, he waited fearfully.

And hopefully.

On Friday, the Widows met at the church to go to Roundville. They’d use Blossom’s big, luxurious car that made them feel like they were riding in a softly upholstered cocoon.

“But you’re not driving,” Birdie told Blossom when they all arrived in the parking lot. “When you carried me home from the diner the other day, I thought you were going to kill me.” She reached for the keys as she explained to Mercedes and Winnie. “I swan, she drives so fast and talks the entire way and fiddles with the radio and the air-conditioning, weaving all over the road. Thought we were going to run over every dog and cat on the way. Old Jacob Russell was pushing his walker across the street and nearly had a stroke. Poor man was shuffling as fast as he could.”

Without a murmur of protest, Blossom handed the keys over and they all piled in, Mercedes in the passenger seat with Winnie.

Winnie got her notebook out and flipped it open. “Let’s make sure we’ve checked everything off.” For the next hour, the Widows chatted about the plan.

When the car arrived in Roundville, Mercedes said, “Slow down, Bird. I know how to get there.”

“Don’t show off. I do, too. We used to come here all the time when Gussie’s mother was in charge of women’s programs for the district.”

The two argued about which road to take and which direction to turn until, somehow, they arrived at the Miltons’ home. All four got out. Blossom took the keys to her car, popped the trunk, took out several huge tote bags, and they all marched up the walk.

Before they could ring the bell, the door flew open.

“My, my, my.” Yvonne smiled at the women in front of her. “Birdie MacDowell and Mercedes Rivera, how wonderful to see you. It’s been years.”

“Hello, Yvonne,” Mercedes said. “These are our friends from Butternut Creek, Winnie Jenkins and Blossom Brown, also members of the Christian Church.”

“I’m Yvonne Milton. Please, come in.” She stepped aside and motioned the four inside. “What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, we were just in the neighborhood and thought we’d drop by,” Birdie explained.

Yvonne studied their expressions closely. Roundville, ten miles from the main highway on a winding two-lane road, wasn’t a place one visited on a whim. Too polite to point that out, Yvonne led them into the living room, where Henry read the newspaper in his recliner.

“Don’t get up,” Birdie commanded.

Because Henry knew her well and understood equally as well the futility of disobeying her, he relaxed back in the chair.

“Sit down, please.” Yvonne motioned toward the love seats and took a chair. The six sat quietly and nodded toward one another for nearly a minute because—how could the Widows not have considered this?—after all their meticulous planning, they’d forgotten one thing. They hadn’t decided who would open the conversation and what the chosen Widow would say.

Birdie glanced around. Not one of the Widows looked as if she would say anything. It was up to Birdie. Mercedes and Blossom were too gracious to push ahead and Winnie—well, that woman might say the wrong thing. In a tough situation, the leader had to take over.

“Your daughter won’t marry our preacher because she has to stay here and take care of you.” There. The problem was out in the open.

“What?” Yvonne sat up straight and glared at Birdie.

Henry lowered the footrest on his chair, stood, and strode toward Birdie. Standing only inches away, he demanded, “What gives you the right to say that? Yvonne and I would never come between our daughter and happiness.”

“Birdie MacDowell,” Yvonne said. The words coming from her mouth sounded as if they had brilliant vocal flames surrounding them. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

Birdie blinked. She’d never seen either Milton angry.

“What Birdie means to say,” Winnie began.

The Miltons turned toward Winnie as one and glared.