The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek (6 page)

Adam allowed her words to hover between them before he asked, “What will you be doing with your time?”

“I could play bridge.” She sighed. “But I’m tired of that. A lot of gossip, and I know too many rumors were going around about Jason and me to enjoy it anymore.” She paused. “I could become a docent at the art gallery, but that’s in Austin.”

“A long drive, and you wouldn’t be making new friends here in Butternut Creek.”

She bit her lips, then shook her head. “I don’t know.” Tears appeared in her eyes. “I’m really not good at anything except taking care of Jason and being his hostess.”

Adam handed her a couple of tissues.

She swallowed and dabbed at her eyes. “Pastor, I have no skills. I’ve had hired help all my life, even as a child. They’ve always done everything.”

“Aren’t you in charge of the help? Didn’t you plan the receptions and dinners and parties for your husband? I imagine you’re a good organizer.”

“Well, yes, I am that, but there’s no need in this group for an organizer with Birdie and Winnie around.”

“Maybe you’ll find another way to fit in. Please, give it another try. I truly believe you’ll be a great addition.”

She nodded, wiped her eyes once more, then placed the tissues in her purse.

Had the message gotten through? Adam could only hope it had. Blossom needed the Widows. He only hoped the Widows saw accepting her as an act of kindness.

“Good morning, Adam.”

A glorious morning was always made brighter when he saw Ouida with a plate covered by a napkin.

“I’ll carry this to the church,” she said as if he couldn’t quite manage that.

Following her, Adam couldn’t help but notice that the short overalls Ouida wore made her backside look as wide as a football lineman’s—not that he made a habit of watching women’s derrieres. She wore a yellow striped T-shirt, sunny and happy like Ouida, but today she seemed determined about something and her usual stroll had become almost a march. Because Chewy slept in, only Adam followed.

“Where’s Gretchen?”

“She’s spending this week with my sister up in Plano.”

By the time they’d entered the church, waved at Maggie, and entered the minister’s study, she’d slowed down a little. She placed the plate in the middle of Adam’s desk and turned to look at him.

“Umm, do you do marriage counseling?”

“I can and I do,” Adam said although he didn’t feel nearly as confident as his answer sounded. “What do you need?”

“Oh, not for me and George.” She shook her head. “But I have some friends… All right, it’s about George and me.” She dropped into a chair in front of his desk. “You know that from what I said before.”

When she sat, he did, too.

He waited. She didn’t speak. He templed his fingers and watched her. He’d learned long ago—actually, last year in seminary—that listening brought more information than asking questions, usually. If it didn’t, he could ask questions.

“You won’t try to convert me, will you? You know we aren’t religious people.”

“Yes, I know. You’ve told me that.”

“That’s right.” Apparently convinced he wouldn’t force faith on her, she said, “You probably think we’re an odd couple, George and I. I told you that before, but it’s the way I need to lead into what I’m going to say.” She stopped. “And to get my courage up to share. I told you I loved his logic and his thoughtfulness, his ability to deliberate while I leaped into things.”

Adam nodded this time.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. “But he doesn’t help me with logic and I can’t make him less serious because I never see him.”

“Never?” Adam repeated.

“You know he’s always working. He works weekends. The girls barely know who he is.”

“He’s runs a business, Ouida.”

“Don’t take his side,” she warned.

Adam sat back to listen, only listen.

“Besides, he was like that before he started his company. He’s away so much I sometimes wonder how the girls were conceived.”

Adam didn’t comment on that, only hoped she’d move to another topic.

And she did.

“
Kowalski
. Preacher, do you know the origin of that name?”

“It’s Polish, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Ouida picked up a muffin and broke off a piece. Once she finished that, she placed the partially eaten muffin back on the plate and said, “It’s the housekeeping I have problems with. George—his middle name is Miloslaw. If you spell it in Polish, it has lines through both
l
’s.”

“Interesting. I didn’t realize the Polish alphabet—”

But it seemed Ouida was really wound up. Her words poured from her over his. “George is third generation of the family born here. His great-grandparents immigrated nearly a hundred years ago. Everyone in the next generation was Polish. His mother came from that background, and you should see her kitchen. Do you know how often she mops her kitchen every day?”

“Once?” he asked, although that seemed excessive to him. Before the arrival of the Firestones, he only mopped when the floor got so sticky his shoes made sucking noises when he walked across it. Since then, Hector and Janey shared that chore on a weekly basis.

“Five. Five times a day, after every meal and again if anyone has a snack.”

“Really?”

“Polish people are very neat, clean people. That’s fine but I’m not Polish and I’m not Susie Homemaker.” She nodded decisively. “Oh, not that there’s anything wrong with being Susie Homemaker if a woman wants to be that. Or a man, although he’d probably be Stanley Homemaker.” She forced her lips together as if trying to keep the words from tumbling out. “What I mean,” she said slowly and clearly, “is that we’re all different. George’s mother and grandmother may have been really tidy people, but does that mean I have to do what they did?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not,” she agreed and leaned back in her chair.

This certainly wasn’t a marriage counseling session. For one thing, the husband wasn’t here. For another, it had taken off without him. This seemed more like the crumbling of a dam during the spring thaw with all the flotsam and jetsam of Ouida’s life gushing through the gap.

“Ouida, I’m not sure…,” he began in an attempt to harness the flood and sift through the detritus.

“George expects me to be the same kind of housekeeper, but I’m not.”

She sniffed. Adam handed her a Kleenex.

“You have two little girls.”

“His mother had five children, but she kept the house spotless.” She blew her nose. “My mother was neat but she wasn’t irrational. We didn’t mind a little dust or an unmade bed or a footprint on the kitchen floor. Do you?”

“No, I—”

“George’s mother took those embroidered linen runners off the top of the dresser every week, every single week. She’d wash, starch, and iron them before she put them back on.” She sat back in the chair. “Starched and ironed those dresser scarves every single week.”

“What’s a dresser scarf?”

“It’s a piece of linen about this size.” She measured length and width with her hands. “It goes on the dresser for…I don’t know why. Maybe decoration. Could be to protect the dresser but they don’t. They aren’t waterproof. A spill would go right through.” She shrugged. “But his mother gave me a pair that she’d embroidered at a wedding shower. I should have known they meant trouble. I should have realized I was not the kind of woman who’d take good care of those dresser scarves, not like Magda did. But it’s the boxer shorts I hate most, ironing them.” She sighed.

“You starch and iron George’s—” Adam stopped, pretty certain he didn’t want to discuss this and wondering why he’d asked for clarification.

“No starch. Just iron.” She nodded. “That’s how he likes them. That’s what his mother did for her husband and all the wives in the family back through the centuries of Polish women who married Kowalskis. And his shirts. Those I do starch.”

“Why not take the shirts to the laundry?”

“George has a chart. It shows how much better and cheaper it is for me to do his shirts, less wear and tear on the fabric so the shirts last longer. Besides, he says I use the right amount of starch and the ones done at the laundry irritate his neck.”

“Have you ever heard of permanent press, wash and wear, no-iron?”

“They don’t look as crisp as George likes. He wants the front—” She placed a hand on her chest. “He wants it crisp and without wrinkles. But, you know, I think it’s the boxers I mind most. Who sees them?” She stood, looking resolute. “That’s where I’m going to start, with those boxers,” she said with a vigorous nod. “I’m going to tell him I’m not going to iron them anymore.” She held a hand in front of her, palm forward. “Don’t try to talk me out of this. If he doesn’t like that, he can take care of them himself.” With that, she placed the remaining muffins on a napkin on Adam’s desk, picked up the plate, and stomped off.

Why hadn’t she thought about this long ago?

Ouida nearly skipped across the parking lot and the lawn of the parsonage.

She’d been a limp rag for too long. When she’d started to date George, she’d been overwhelmed that he was interested in her, amazed this tall, handsome, intelligent man had fallen in love with plain old her. In exchange for his love, she’d done whatever he’d asked: given up her dream of being an artist, quit school to work so he could finish his MBA, and moved to Butternut Creek because he thought that would be a great place to raise a family.

She’d give him the last point. She loved the little town and she loved her children and, truly, she loved George. But she was overwhelmed suddenly by her complete loss of who she was, her individuality—which she’d been pretty certain she’d had when she’d entered UT.

Now she wanted more—or, perhaps, less. She wanted to find out more about herself, like why had she given up painting? And why had she allowed herself to change so much?

She entered the house and looked around. Much like their lives, everything was neat as if it had been lined up with a yardstick. George had charted out the financial burden of children, and had showed on that chart—expenses of college, et cetera—that they should have another child in two years, then stop. On his chart, the last child would be a boy.

She didn’t want that. Oh, not that she didn’t want another child, but the scheduling of their entire lives on an actuarial table no longer sat well with her. He’d probably also plotted out the date of conception. She used to think George’s compulsiveness added structure to her life, but no longer. Now it drove her nuts.

She
would take charge of their lives now, in little ways like those boxers, and move ahead bit by bit. Perhaps she’d find time to paint again.

Slowly she turned to study the room. It was spotless, and George wouldn’t be home for hours. Why did she struggle to keep it perfect when George was sixty miles away? She and the girls could live here like normal people, then quickly pick up toys and sweep and make it immaculate right before George got home. No more mopping the kitchen five times a day. George might have to get used to a footprint here and a dirty fork there.

She looked out the window toward the church. Poor Adam. She’d gone to him and asked for counseling and she’d hit him with all her woes. She must have overwhelmed him, but after all, wasn’t counseling mostly listening?

Thanks to him, she’d come to a big conclusion: She had no desire to leave, only to change. She wanted to set up a studio on the third floor, taking up a little of the space where the girls played, and paint the beauty of the Hill Country. All she needed was time and maybe a skylight.

Yes, George did run a business, but he could darned well wear freshly washed boxers with a few wrinkles and no one really
needed
dresser scarves.

Maybe after that, she’d stop ironing the pillowcases.

After Ouida left, Adam had looked out the office window and watched her cross the parsonage lawn toward her house, walking with a determination he seldom saw her use.

How had the session gone? Not at all like the case studies they’d discussed at the seminary or he’d read in those marriage counseling books. Ouida had taken off and left him far behind. He hadn’t helped her discover her feelings. She’d pretty much done that herself.

He remembered a line John Milton wrote: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Maybe he’d served by sitting and listening. He didn’t seem to have screwed anything up. Probably should let go of his worry that he’d been inadequate in the situation because, yes, he had been, but he couldn’t go back and change what had happened.

How could he have acted differently? Short of putting his hand over Ouida’s mouth, he couldn’t have asked questions or offered much advice. She hadn’t needed to be led. Could be she only needed to allow the words to flow out and know he’d listened.

Instead of worrying, he wrote a few comments in the file folder he’d labeled
COUNSELING
, put it back in a drawer, and turned to his computer.

Adam checked his email, always hoping to see a note from Gussie. He hadn’t heard from her since the retreat except for the evaluation she’d sent out to all adults. When he’d sent it back to her, he’d added a note, which she hadn’t answered.

What did he expect? She thought of him as a kid, a minister, a camp counselor. She kept busy with her job, her parents, her church. Why had he thought they’d become email buddies, which might lead to more?

But after he’d answered a few messages and written a quick note to his sister, he checked the inbox one more time. Only spam.

It was her last appointment Friday afternoon, almost five o’clock. Gussie was tired; Timmy and Tammy Scheltzbaum, the six-year-old twins who sat stiffly on the stools she’d placed in front of the blue backdrop, were also tired; and their mother sitting in the corner drooped.

“Can you smile?” She always asked that of children who didn’t display an iota of personality in the hope they would sparkle and laugh without her having to resort to funny faces and dancing around.