The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (26 page)

That anger seemed weaker and more juvenile now than it had when it had kept him alive after the amputation. Back then, he wanted to wave the handicap in front of the general, flaunt it, make him suffer for all the man had done to Sam, the screwed-up thinking that had ended in his nearly bleeding out next to his best friend. His dead best friend who wanted to do whatever Sam did—and Sam had wanted to be exactly like the general.

They’d entered the marines together, he and Morty, to serve and honor. Morty hadn’t come back and he’d come back without a leg. He needed revenge for those losses, but it didn’t feel as good as he’d believed, as he’d hoped.

Not that he’d allow second thoughts to stop him. Could be the longer he made the general feel bad, the sooner Sam would feel better.

But he couldn’t forget the tears on the general’s face the other night and his words the next morning. They might not have been tears. Could have been a reflection. And the words? The general had to know how he’d warped his only son’s beliefs and sent him off to war. How could he possibly expect Sam to call him “Dad”?

Now that he had something to fight the general with, he wasn’t about to let go of it until the man suffered. One night of the general’s regret did not make up for an entire childhood of neglect. Besides, people didn’t change, not at his father’s age. He’d go back to normal after the novelty of seeing his son with just one leg wore off, and Sam wasn’t about to be made a fool of when he did. With that, he added more weight and struggled to lift it.

“Hey, that’s enough, big guy,” Willow said.

He turned to see her leaning against the wall only a few feet from him.

“What are you trying to prove?” she asked.

Couldn’t tell her. His plan was neither sane nor admirable, but it kept him going.

The sight of her—so patient, so gorgeous, so tenacious—calmed him.

“Showing off?” she asked. “Save that for someone who’ll appreciate it, Captain.”

Those words were an ego buster.

“Not, of course, that all the women in the department don’t enjoy the sight of your terrific shoulders and abs, but we’re attempting to hold ourselves back.”

The general laughed. Sam felt like an idiot.

“We want you to work on building up the muscles in your thighs, too, but first”—she nodded Christine, the PT assistant, away—“I need to talk to you.”

When she settled on the bench only two feet from him, he could smell that vaguely citrus fragrance he thought of as Willow’s. He took a deep breath. As Aunt Effie would’ve said, he was smitten.

Then he remembered the general and glanced at him. The general looked back and forth between his son and Willow and nearly grinned. He appeared pleased, at least as much as the general indulged in such shallow emotions.

“General Peterson, why don’t you come over here? Next to us?” Willow hesitated before she looked at Sam. “Do you mind if your father listens in?”

What could he say without sounding petty? Oh, he didn’t mind
acting
petty, but preferred to behave like a better man around Willow.

“Whatever you think is best.”

The general stood—straight and tall, the only way the man knew how to stand—and marched over to them.

She lifted Sam’s leg, rested it on the bench, and gently turned it. “The prosthesis fits well. No bruising, no rubbing.” She placed his foot on the floor. “How does it feel?”

“Fine.”

The general patted Sam on the back, sort of like he was saying,
Good boy
.

Sam felt like a puppy.

Then Willow proceeded to study his thigh, pushing and prodding with a cool, professional demeanor. Finally satisfied, she said, “I’m releasing you from three-times-a-week physical therapy, Captain.”

Stunned, Sam sat silently, mouth open. Would he see her again? He didn’t believe they’d built enough together to cause her to stop by his house on her own. Maybe if he kidnapped her sons, she’d come over to ransom them.

Before he could say anything, she added, “But that doesn’t mean you’re free of this place.” She lifted her arm and waved it inclusively around the area. “I have several new patients arriving next week for initial evaluation, so I’m turning you over to Mike and Christine and reducing your appointments to one every two weeks. We still need to keep an eye on your progress and add a few exercises as you build your strength.” She glared at him. “I expect you to keep up the regimen at home.”

“Oh, he will,” the general stated.

Sam attempted a grin because he knew this should sound like good news. It probably would have been if he hadn’t hoped to, somehow, make Willow fall in love with him right here, next to the physical therapy table.

The general patted him again.

“I’ve printed out your exercises.” She held out a folder. “We’ll send some weights home with you. All the instructions are in there.”

“Great,” he muttered.

“Mike and Christine’ll take great care of you.”

“Oh, sure.” He drummed his fingers on the surface of the bench. “But what about you and me?” Sam asked, then slammed his lips shut as he remembered where they were and who was watching. “I mean, you’re no longer my therapist,” he added with a pathetic wink, as if he expected that to convey his meaning and interest in the new relationship. Yes, really pitiful.

“That’s correct.” She stood.

“Thank you.” The general took her hand and shook it. “I appreciate all you’ve done for my son. Maybe you’d like to join us for dinner.”

“Sir, I can ask her out on my own.”

“Of course you can.” He glanced at his son before turning the charm on Willow. “What I’m planning is a celebration of a milestone in Sam’s recovery. You and your boys,” the general continued. “And Sam and a lady friend of mine, Winnie Jenkins.”

“Thank you for asking, but… ,” she began.

“Your boys love Sam. Maybe we could go to a movie they’d enjoy.” The general took her hand again and poured on the charm. “We’ll have a great time together.”

“Dad,” Sam muttered, surprised that, because he’d slipped into his teenage years, he’d also slipped back into using that word.

When the general turned toward him with a grin—when had the man started grinning all the time?—Sam added, “Stop interfering.” Then he turned to Willow, knowing what her response would be but hoping not. “Would you join us?”

“I can’t, Captain.” She grimaced. “You know why. I’m not ready. You’re not ready.”

“How ready do you have to be to go to a movie with my family?” the general argued.

“Dad.” There, Sam said it again. Let that distract the old man. “She said no. Respect that.”

“It’s very nice of you, General.” Willow held her hand out to shake his. “Thank you for the invitation, but no.”

“Pick you up at six?” The general held on to her hand.

“No, but thank you again,” Willow said.

“I’m not giving up.” The general winked. Sam felt sure his father’s wink was one of the signs of the apocalypse. On top of that, Willow must think they were the winkingest family in the state.

Then the thought hit him. As the general held Willow’s hand and smiled at her and invited her to dinner with the family, Sam knew why. He realized what had happened.

The general had become one of the Widows.

Sam was doomed.

He sneaked a glance at Willow as she walked away and realized being doomed didn’t sound bad at all. If he couldn’t pull this off on his own—and he hadn’t been notably successful—he shouldn’t turn down help from anyone.

H
ector tossed Adam the basketball. With a fake to the right, Adam drove toward the basket, leaped, and slammed the ball down for the last play in a close victory.

“Hey, Pops,” shouted one of his teammates. “You’ve got hop.”

Adam grinned. He had hop. What a great compliment.

“Pretty good for an old guy,” Hector said.

Pops shook his head. He’d gone from a baller with hop to an old guy.

As the players began to pack up their belongings, Adam grabbed the ball and shrugged into his sweatshirt. The temperature in September fell once the sun disappeared.

“Hey, Pops.” Hector ambled toward him. “Can we talk?”

“Sure. What’s happening?”

The two never talked much, other than basketball. Adam knew Hector had a younger sister and life wasn’t easy for them. He’d kept the door closed tightly on his life off the court, and Adam hadn’t pried.

“It’s about my sister… I wonder if…” He searched for words. “I wouldn’t ask if I could handle the situation myself, but I can’t.” He swallowed. “I’ve tried.”

“Go ahead.”

“Umm… my mother died five years ago and my dad… he isn’t much of a father. He aims to be, but…” Hector shrugged.

Adam didn’t say anything, afraid he’d cut off the words.

“He’s an addict. Lost his job about a year ago. Got arrested two weeks ago. Possession with intent. Can’t make bail.”

Adam had read that in the “Arrests” column of the weekly newspaper. He hadn’t been sure that Harold Firestone was Hector’s father. He should have asked. His excuse? That hadn’t been their relationship. Wrong decision for a minister—and yet it was because he was a minister that Adam had been careful not to push Hector away by intruding in his life.

“We don’t have money to pay the rent next month. Do you know anyplace we could get assistance with some bills or a place we could live? Not for me.” He pointed his thumb toward himself. “I can get along on my own, but I need a safe place for my sister.”

Adam studied the kid who attempted to look cool and manly, to show no emotion, but he could see how tightly he clenched his jaw and looked away.

“You don’t have money to pay the rent for October? Why didn’t you talk to me about this?” Why hadn’t Adam approached him? “Why didn’t you ask earlier?”

Hector shrugged. “Not your problem, Pops.”

“I’m a minister. I’m supposed to help people.”

He bristled. “Don’t need charity, Pops. Not for myself.” He glared. “But I need help for Janey.”

“Where are you living now?”

“We still have the apartment for a while.”

Adam didn’t push about how much longer they could live there, especially without an adult. The whole situation seemed hard enough for Hector to bring up. The last thing Adam wanted was for him to pull away.

“How old is your sister?”

“She’s eight.” He glared at Adam. “I can take care of her in a lot of ways, just not this one.” He shook his head. “She needs a place to sleep until I get things back together.”

“You can’t quit school.”

Adam hadn’t thought Hector could look more menacing, but his expression hardened.

“Don’t lecture me, Pops.”

“What about family? Can they pitch in?”

“After Mom died, we lost touch with her side. My father’s family—I don’t want Janey near any of them.”

“Teachers or coaches?”

Hector stood. “If you don’t want to help…”

Adam held up his hand. “I need to know the facts, Hector. That’s it. Sit down and talk to me.”

Slowly, he did.

“Why did you come to me?”

Hector took a deep breath and looked straight ahead. “It’s not easy for me to talk about problems, but I need to, for my little sister.” He turned to study Adam. “I trust you, Pops. You’ve always been straight, never cheated in basketball, and I like that. Yeah, I trust you and you’ve got that church with lots of people that might could help.”

Adam nodded. “Okay, I’ll check, see what I can find for Janey, but you stay in school, for now. All right? Until we—you and I—work this out. Then we can decide.”

“Then
I’ll
decide.”

Adam watched as Hector turned and loped away. What in the world would he come up with? Not one seminary class had either covered the problem Hector faced or suggested a solution.

But that idea about the parsonage kept niggling at the back of his mind, a solution to two problems. That big old house with all those rooms and one man banging around in it, and those two bedrooms on the second floor with a bathroom between them and the double parlors on the first floor that stood empty except for the dining room furniture.

Adam’s concern wasn’t only Janey. He had to get Hector a place to stay as well, to make sure he got to school and had what he needed.

But what did that entail? Were there permits? Insurance? Should Adam look into being licensed as a foster parent? No doubt about it, he needed help.

Saturday morning during football season wasn’t a good time to meet, and this morning was worse than most. The football game Friday night had gone into triple overtime and the Lions had lost. Still, he had to call the Widows together for an emergency session.

He gazed around the circle: the pillar, Mercedes, and Winnie. “You may wonder why I’ve asked you to come,” he began. Bad opening. Those stilted words showed a pretentiousness he disliked. Also, he could see that Miss Birdie’s feathers had been ruffled, so to speak, by his tone or hint of condescension. “I have a problem. I’m asking you ladies to help with…” He stopped and considered his words. “To come up with a solution.”

Feathers nicely arranged and unruffled after his retreat, the pillar nodded. Taking their cue from her, the other two Widows agreed.

First, he talked about Missy and her mother; then he explained Hector’s situation. “If Mrs. Smith goes back to San Saba, she might not get the care she needs. I don’t know about that for certain, but I do know taking care of Missy and Deanne would be hard on Deanne’s mother, who’s in poor health herself.”

“I do worry about that,” Miss Birdie said.

“With Hector and Janey,” Adam continued, “there’s no one, no family to watch over them.”

All three women nodded in sympathy. Then he laid out the plan to have them all move into the parsonage. Looks of horror crossed the faces of the two original members of the group, but the provisional member smiled.

“How many people is that, Preacher?” Mercedes asked in a steady but unenthusiastic voice.

“Five.” He counted them on his fingers. “Missy, her mother and grandmother, Hector, and Janey.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Winnie looked toward the others and interpreted their glares. “Why not?” she asked, her voice filled with conviction.

“The parsonage is a home.” The pillar nodded, only once but with so much emphasis Adam feared for the muscles of her neck. “For the preacher.”

“And for his family,” Mercedes added with a matching nod with even more conviction.

“Not,” said Miss Birdie, emphasizing each word with a waggle of her index finger. “
Not
a boardinghouse.”

“
Not
a bed-and-breakfast,” Mercedes agreed.

With that, the two original Widows sat back, folded their arms, and glared at Adam.

“I like the idea,” Winnie said. The other two turned toward her and glowered. Bless her, Winnie didn’t back down. She looked back at them and nodded, then turned toward the minister. “I like the idea,” she repeated. “It’s what Christians do, provide for others in need.”

Adam studied all three Widows for a few seconds, remembering the points he’d considered last night and this morning. At that time, he’d had them firmly in mind, but he should’ve written them on index cards. At the time, he’d forgotten how a glare from Miss Birdie could paralyze his thought process.

“The parsonage is for the minister and his family,” the pillar stated.

“I’m not married,” he said. “No family. You know that.”

“Of course we do, Pastor.” Mercedes’s voice dripped with compassion. “We’re doing our best to take care of that situation.”

“Although you’ve done nothing to help us,” the pillar added.

Inside Adam smiled. Yes, bless their hearts, they were. Despite the embarrassment it caused everyone involved, they wanted to find him a soul mate in a town not blessed with a surfeit of single women. If they couldn’t find a soul mate for him, they’d settle for a woman he could live with in harmony, if not with passion, for fifty years; together, they’d raise a big family.

“Although I do appreciate your efforts”—Adam chose his words carefully—“I am
still
a bachelor. Even if I were somehow to stumble upon a charming young woman…”

Their expressions showed such obvious doubt this would happen that he forgot where his line of reasoning was heading.

Finally, nearly ten seconds into the silence, Winnie prompted, “Even if you did find a young woman yourself…”

“Even if I found a young woman to marry, it would take me a few months to court her…”

“Not if you got busy,” Miss Birdie stated.

He ignored the words and pressed on. “It would take me a few months to court her…”

The three nodded, as if encouraging him—whether to finish his sentence or start courting, he didn’t know.

“Then let’s say an engagement period of six months or a year,” he said.

“Six months,” the pillar said as if this had been a multiple-choice quiz. “Plenty of time. You need to get the process moving. No namby-pambying.”

“I don’t think that’s the word you want,” Mercedes interrupted. “
Dilly-dallying
is what you’re looking for.”

“Or
shilly-shallying
,” Winnie suggested.

“I don’t care.” The pillar glared at the two other Widows, then turned back to the minister.

“After the wedding,” Adam said before any of the Widows could take a breath. “We’d need some time to get used to marriage…”

“Three months,” Winnie recommended.

“You’re not getting any younger,” Mercedes said gently.

“I wouldn’t even be close to thirty by that time,” Adam objected. They didn’t notice.

“As I add all those numbers up, there won’t be a baby in the nursery until—best-case scenario—two years from now,” Winnie said. “Only one baby, and that’s only if the preacher moves fast. And at that rate”—Winnie showed the math abilities she’d used to run the asphalt company—“it would be four or five more years before that parsonage would be filled with children, assuming they popped out every year or two.”

The prospect of his imaginary wife popping out children at that rate rendered Adam speechless. Even more stunning was their discussion of their imaginary sex life. Solely for the purpose of procreation, of course. He felt an incredible constriction in his chest as these three discussed the begetting process as calmly as they figured the proceeds from the spring bazaar.

“All of which means there’s no reason to keep those rooms unused now,” Winnie concluded. “It will be years before a family fills them. Even”—she turned to face Adam—“if you get busy this year. Right?”

Mercedes and the pillar watched the new Widow, their expressions softening little by little until they turned toward the minister.

He was so dumbfounded by what they might be thinking or what they might say next, his throat closed up.

“Guess she’s right,” the pillar mumbled.

“This would be a Christian way to use the space,” Mercedes said.

Winnie asked, “How well do you know this Hector? Is he an honest young man? Does he attend church?”

“We play basketball together.”

“Oh, yes. Basketball,” the pillar said. “Odd activity for a minister.”

“I’ve always heard Hector’s a nice young man. Honest and hardworking,” Mercedes said.

“Mercedes knows everyone,” Miss Birdie told Winnie before she said to Adam, “From what my contacts in San Saba say, Mrs. Smith is a good, honest woman.”

“Would they pay rent?” Mercedes tilted her head to consider that.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Winnie stated. “That would probably change our tax-free status.”

“And we do want to help a young man and his sister in trouble,” Mercedes added firmly. “Perhaps we could hire him to do some jobs, so he’d have some spending money.”

Stepping back into the discussion, Adam asked, “What do we have to do to make this happen?”

Winnie pulled out her notepad and flipped it open. Pen in hand, she said, “I’ll check about the insurance.”

The Widows took over. Within fifteen minutes, they had considered all the tasks and assigned who would be in charge. Within a week, they’d have beds and curtains and other furnishings donated and the necessary paperwork taken care of. His only job was to call the plumber to check the leak he’d noted in that Jack-and-Jill bathroom.