The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (34 page)

No, that was a bunch of bull. It wasn’t nearly as bad, but she made him feel the loss less.

The boys came by once or twice a week. He liked that. But they’d looked so hopeful back when he and Willow had gone out, when they’d thought he and their mother would be together. Guess it was a good thing they hadn’t raised the boys’ hopes. Now they knew he’d never become their new father.

The realization of the lonely life ahead of him without those three would’ve about broken his heart if he weren’t a marine. Marines didn’t suffer from broken hearts and marines didn’t give in to emotions.

Still, over the last few weeks the certainty had grown that he needed Leo and Nick and Willow in his life. Yet he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

“Son?” the general repeated.

How long had he been waiting for an answer while Sam’s brain had wandered off?

“Not tonight,” Sam said.

When his father left without another word, Sam flicked the set off, tossed the remote on the sofa, and glared at the dark screen.

Communication, that’s what Willow had said. Get rid of the anger inside. Bring it into the open and face it, share it, stop allowing it to run and ruin his life.

He pushed himself to his feet, walked into the dining room, picked up a pen and several sheets of paper from the computer area his father had created in the corner, and sat down. For a few minutes, he just stared at the paper and drummed the pen on the table. Then he started to write.

Within minutes, the floor was covered with balls of wadded-up paper. On the table he’d amassed a pile of napkins he’d used to wipe his cheeks because every effort to write what had happened hurt so much tears ran down his face.

But he didn’t stop. When he had one page pretty much the way he wanted it, he started on the next. It took fewer attempts to get this right because once he got going, the story flowed from him with the tears.

An hour later, the four-page letter completed, he wiped his face one last time. He’d discovered there were times a marine needed to expose all the anger and pain, reaching down deep to haul it to the surface and expose it. Doing that wasn’t a bit wimpy, especially the page about Morty. Unlike Morty, Sam had lived through the battle, had survived to relive and write about every bloody moment of it.

Finished, he folded the pages and stuck them in an envelope, not sure what he’d do with them. Probably should share everything with the general. Now that he’d started reliving the past, he probably should go to the meeting with him, maybe next week. If his father had made an effort to change, Sam could, too. He pushed up from the table and wandered into the living room with the envelope in his hand.

But he hadn’t written the letter for the general, although he would give it to him to read later. It wasn’t for the other vets, even though he knew he needed to attend a session or two, maybe more, as well as the AA meetings. No, he’d written the account of his experiences in Afghanistan for Willow, but he didn’t know if he had the guts to share it with her. In fact, at this moment, he knew he didn’t. He couldn’t. Writing about the event had about killed him.

He tossed himself on the sofa and leaned back. If he didn’t share with her, he’d lose her. He couldn’t take that. He had to admit: He was in love with the woman, had been from the first time he saw her.

He loved her.

Holding the envelope in front of him, he studied it. Did he love her enough? Opening up to her would hurt both of them. He didn’t know if he could bear to watch her read his words, but he did know he couldn’t mail something like this to the woman he loved, couldn’t expect her to read it alone.

“Preacher, it’s four o’clock Friday afternoon. What are you still doing here?”

Without looking up from the surface of his desk, Adam knew who had entered, and not just from her voice. If he glanced up, he’d see the pillar standing at the door, tapping her foot.

He looked up. She was.

“Working on my sermon,” he explained, knowing it would make no difference what he said. When Miss Birdie made the trip to the church and had fire in her eyes, Adam knew she owned him for the next hour.

“You can do that later.” She attempted to stomp into the office, impossible to do in her rubber-soled shoes but she made a pretty good attempt.

“It’s four o’clock,” she said. Then, more loudly, she repeated, “Four o’clock on Friday.”

What was she talking about?

“The parade.” Her tone suggested he had the brain of a gnat.

When he heard the words, Adam realized he did have the brain of a gnat.

“The parade,” he said as he jumped to his feet, grabbed a jacket, and struggled to stick his arms in the sleeves while running after the pillar. She moved faster than he’d thought she could, across the highway, down the block, and onto the square.

The square and Adam had a transitory relationship. Because he wasn’t a tearoom-and-antiques sort of guy, his visits had been limited to renewing his driver’s license at the courthouse annex and occasionally joining Mattie for lunch at Tea Time, a restaurant that served the quiche and sweet persimmon tea she loved, or grabbing a meal at the diner.

Now he was running through a mob of crazy football fans. Like there was another kind. As he joggled through them to the other side of the square, Adam greeted people he recognized from church and from games. He spied Mercedes about fifty feet away. Finally, Miss Birdie stopped on the edge of the curb next to her friend and motioned Adam to a place behind them.

“I saved your places,” Mercedes said.

“This is the best side to view the parade from. That’s the reviewing stand.” The pillar pointed to a table only a few feet to the right. “The kids really strut their stuff as they pass here.”

“Every high school class and some of the classes from the middle schools build a float.” Mercedes stood on her toes to look across the square. “Should start any minute.”

“The bands march and the teams and clubs ride on the back of trucks.”

That riding in the bed of a pickup seemed dangerous to Adam but appeared to be an old Texas custom. Not that they’d be speeding through; the students should be safe.

Across the street, he spotted Willow and Nick and waved. Where was Leo? Maybe in the parade. Sam stood at the corner maybe twenty feet from Willow, keeping his eyes off her so carefully Adam guessed the romance wasn’t going well. He needed to drop by with pizza soon because he knew Sam wouldn’t call him.

“Can you hear them?” the pillar asked. “Look, you can see them.”

Adam followed her pointing finger toward the first float of the parade and heard the bands as the trucks moved forward. Leo marched with a group of kids behind a banner that proclaimed,
YOUTH FOOTBALL
. As the group went by, Nick kept up a relay, running to Sam then back to his mother at least five times since Adam had been watching, as well as jumping up and down and pointing toward his brother.

Sam waved at Leo, then looked past Nick to stare at Willow. His eyes showed so much longing Adam felt sorry for him but wanted to kick him at the same time. He guessed Sam was the problem in the relationship—but if he was so unhappy, why didn’t he do something?

Nick did. He grabbed Sam’s hand and tugged, not enough to make Sam lose his balance but enough to get him moving. The boy kept hold of Sam’s hand and moved slowly but—as the cliché went—inexorably toward his mother. Expressions of panic and hope alternated across Sam’s face, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t pull his hand from Nick’s.

When the two reached Willow’s side, she turned to look at Sam with a polite nod before she looked back to watch the parade.

Sam watched her profile for nearly a minute, yearning raw on his face. At least, that’s what Adam thought it was. As with most facial expressions and body language, he wasn’t always sure what they expressed, but even an illiterate like him could read Sam.

Fortunately, Miss Birdie had a master’s degree. “Those two look miserable,” the pillar said.

Sadly, they did agree on this one basic fact.

“Bird, we can’t do anything more.” Mercedes glanced across the street. “We’ve done everything we can to bring them together. The rest is up to them.”

“Hrmph.” Miss Birdie shook her head. “I know, I know, but someone ought to…” She stopped speaking as the notes of the “Lion Fight Song” filled the air. “That’s Mac.” Miss Birdie pointed toward the band, waved at her granddaughter, and began to sing along, “Go, Lions, win this game…”

Adam wouldn’t have recognized Mac in her band uniform; the visor on the huge hat covered every recognizable feature. The chin straps made the faces of all the members look alike: chinless wonders with huge fuzzy heads and no other identifiable features.

Even though he didn’t really know which one was Mac, Adam waved and shouted as well, then joined the fight song the second time through. “She’s doing great,” he said with relief.

Miss Birdie glared at him. “She’s not going to lead the band into the fence, you know. They’re just marching around the square.”

After the band passed, a truck with Bree holding a sign that read
VARSITY VOLLEYBALL
drove by the reviewing stand.

“You have great girls,” Adam said.

Without answering, the pillar elbowed him in the side.

“What was that for?” he asked, a little confused. He thought he’d been behaving well.

“Look over there.” She moved her head in the direction of the northwest corner of the square. “Who’s that man with Reverend Patillo?”

“I don’t know.” Tall and good-looking, but Adam didn’t see evidence of an attraction between the two of them. Not like the chemistry Willow and Sam attempted to deny. “Do you want me to go ask?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pastor Adam.” She didn’t have to change expressions. The glare she’d used earlier still fit this occasion. “You might take some interest in your future. If you aren’t going to allow the Widows to help—”

“Meddle,” he corrected.

She ignored him, as he’d expected. “—then you’re going to have to do some of this getting-married-and-raising-a-family business yourself.” She shoved him. “Go over and introduce yourself to the competition.”

With growing confidence in his ability to withstand the pillar’s demands, Adam ignored her and watched the parade.

The day of his meeting with Gussie Milton, Adam arrived at the coffee shop in Marble Falls early and grabbed a table facing the door. How would he recognize her? He had no idea what she looked like. There was a woman in her fifties he thought might be her. She was a little plump and wore a camp shirt and athletic shoes. But she seemed to be there with her husband. Just as Adam was about to approach the couple, the bell on the door jingled.

For nearly a minute, Adam watched a woman of about thirty, pretty and slender in a charcoal-gray suit and high heels. She had dark curly hair tamed by a clasp at the nape of her neck. She stood at the door of the coffee shop and looked around. Then she spotted Adam and a brilliant smile broke out.

The smile said
Gussie
. The rest of her—the polish, the fashion sense—didn’t. He feared his mouth had dropped open, but when he checked, it was closed.

“Hi.” She reached out to grab his hand in a strong grip. “I’m Gussie. It’s great to meet you.”

Yes, it was Gussie. He recognized her voice.

“Let me get something to drink.” She dropped a large canvas tote on the floor beside the table and walked away.

A few minutes later, she returned with two foaming cups, placing one in front of Adam while she sat. With an elegant motion, she dropped her big yellow purse on the floor and at the same time grabbed and placed the tote on the table. Then she pulled out a folder and flipped it open. Every movement done with the speed of a runner and the grace of a dancer.

“Where do you want to start?” she asked, smiling at Adam with an expression of pure delight.

He blinked. This woman was so full of energy and joie de vivre that she left him nearly breathless.

“Sometimes I move too fast. Sorry.” She laughed, the sound he recognized from their phone conversations. Yes, this was Gussie. Whoever would name a girl Gussie?

“My father’s favorite uncle, Augustus,” she said as if she knew what he’d been thinking. “That’s who I’m named for, but I’m only Gussie, not even Augusta or anything elegant or even normal.” She smiled. “Everyone wonders so I always answer before they have to ask. And”—she shuffled through a few papers—“I’m a photographer and graphic designer.”