The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek (25 page)

He wanted that.

“Girls, get over here and pick up your shoes,” George shouted out the back door.

Carol and Gretchen dashed in from the yard. Each grabbed her own sandals and said, in union, “Sorry, Daddy.”

They hugged his legs before heading upstairs without a whimper or a complaint or a put-upon sigh, no sign of rolling eyes.

A miracle. Ouida’d witnessed a true miracle.

She wouldn’t have believed this months ago. Nor would she have believed what the house looked like. The living room was neat and fairly clean but under the coffee table were some books. A few toys lurked in a corner. Crayons spread across the small table he’d brought downstairs for the girls. A little clutter, enough so that the old George would have been overwhelmed. Now he didn’t even blanch when he spotted a dust bunny, which he’d always considered to be a seed of destruction and plague.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. Her husband had dressed for work in his usual well-tailored suit, silk tie, and gleaming shoes.

He looked the same—well, maybe a little harried—and sounded the same—except his voice held a note of exasperation occasionally, perfectly natural for the father of two—but he acted differently. No longer the passive man who barely lived with the rest of the family, he’d taken hold, seemed in charge.

“Help me to my feet,” she said. Feeling like a Weeble—she both wobbled and occasionally fell over—she grasped his hand and struggled to stand. After a few months, she now spent most of the day out of bed, often in George’s seldom-used recliner with her bootless leg elevated. She took care of herself, fixed lunch, started dinner, went to the bathroom, all that as long as she kept the cane close to lean on when she had to stand. This week, they planned to move the bed back upstairs, and she could take a bath again.

“Got to get on the road.” George glanced at his wrist. Unfortunately his expensive watch had been a casualty of a conflict over chocolate versus white milk a week earlier. He looked at the wall clock, which was a little askew. After the first fifty attempts to straighten it, he’d given up and now merely tilted his head to read it. “I’ll be back by six with dinner.”

That evening at six o’clock exactly—of course—George pulled into the driveway.

Dinner. Ouida pushed herself to her feet, then clutched her stomach. It had been bouncing around all day. She couldn’t be pregnant, could she? No, she’d had morning sickness with the others and this wasn’t morning. She’d thought making love on a bed in the middle of the living room when the girls might wake up seemed risky. George found that element of danger exciting—he was not always staid.

Carol and Gretchen ran downstairs and dashed to the window to wait for their father.

“I’ve got dinner,” he shouted as he came in.

“What did you get?” Carol jumped up and down in excitement.

“Fried artichoke hearts with furry gravy,” he said.

When the girls broke into laughter, George beamed.

But the mere thought of fried artichokes with furry gravy added to the odor of what he’d really brought home and hit her hard. Her insides clenched and burned. Must be the flu that Bree had mentioned, the one that had hit all her friends. Ouida struggled to keep her insides truly inside her.

“Hi, sweetheart,” George said after he put the bag on the kitchen table and came back to stand in front of Ouida. “How are you doing? You look a little pale.”

At exactly that moment and before she could even turn her head or put her hand in front of her mouth or shove him away, she lost the battle.

She vomited.

Even worse, she’d thrown up on George. When she finished heaving and spewing, she opened her eyes. Still standing in front of her, he looked down. She followed his gaze.

The eruption had hit only the bottom few inches of his beautifully tailored slacks, but his shoes—oh, dear, his beloved shoes, his adored oxfords with the lovingly cared-for, formerly brilliantly shining leather—were covered with her afternoon snack. How devastating for him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. When he didn’t answer, she lifted her eyes to his face.

Stunned, that’s how he looked. He’d changed a great deal, he’d become the George she’d fallen in love with and married, but even that much freer George wasn’t the kind of man who appreciated being thrown up on.

Was there anyone who did? Mothers got used to it but didn’t look forward to such an occurrence. She didn’t know what to say, how to soothe him, so she watched him, stricken with guilt and humiliation.

At first George drew himself up very straight. His stiff neck seemed to elongate as he stared down at the wreckage of his shoes.

“I’m so sorry. I know how much you love those shoes.”

Behind him, she could see the girls clutching each other’s hands and, eyes wide, watching their parents, studying the mess covering their father’s feet.

He lifted his eyes to her face, his expression and body relaxed. “Gretchen, get your mother a pan from the kitchen, then bring a couple of towels. Carol, get her a wet cloth and a glass of water.”

Then he looked at her gently. “I’m sorry you’re sick.” After inspecting her hand, he took it in his. “It must be terrible to have gone through so much and, now that you’re getting better, to have this happen.” He took a towel from Gretchen and tossed it over the stuff on the floor. He took the rag Carol handed him and wiped Ouida’s face gently. “Rinse your mouth out.” He handed her the water. “Then let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.”

At that moment, Ouida fell in love with George even more deeply because she knew, really knew, how much he loved her. He loved her more than his dignity, his sense of smell, and those formerly gorgeous Ferragamo shoes.

“How are you doing?” George greeted Adam at the front door Wednesday evening as the preacher entered the living room to see Ouida on the sofa, with a cup of coffee on the end table at her side. She wore a bright aqua top, her shiny curls bristled around her head, and she glowed.

“You’re looking well.” Adam settled on a chair across from her, then glanced from Ouida to her husband. They both glowed.

“Yes, well, yes,” Ouida stammered. “Adam, we’ve worked matters out between us, and we have some news for you.”

“Oh?”

“First, I’m going to hire a manager for the firm.” George sat and took his wife’s hand. “A manager who’ll take care of the day-to-day details and give me more time to spend with the family.”

“It will mean less income but we’re fine,” Ouida said.

“Or maybe not. Could be more help will lead to expansion,” George explained. “But I don’t care, as long as I can spend more time with the girls and…and the new one.”

“The new one?”

“Yes, Preacher, that’s the second bit of news. We’re expecting. I’m due in seven months.”

“Isn’t that wonderful,” Adam said sincerely.

“Not on George’s schedule at all. Earlier than he’d planned.”

“But I’m really happy about it.” George gazed at her with deep adoration.

This looked like a George whom Adam hadn’t known existed, a completely different and much more approachable George, a George in love with his wife and not ashamed to show it.

Ouida was pregnant, Adam thought as he walked back to the parsonage. It seemed almost like calving season around here. A terrible, stupid, misanthropic thought, Adam realized as soon as it hit him, but envy had overwhelmed his good humor and usual love for others.

After all his years of being a bachelor, he suddenly discovered he wanted a family just like everyone else, his friends, his neighbors. But he’d fallen in love with a woman who didn’t act as if their relationship would end up in a family. She seldom allowed him to touch her, and only when she initiated it. In fact, they were more like buddies, he and Gussie. Buddies who went to movies together or met for coffee.

He wanted more, much more.

If he broke up with Gussie, he didn’t have many choices of other women to bear his children.

Whoa, had he really considered breaking up with Gussie?

Yes, they’d been “together” for nearly two months, and she still refused any physical intimacy other than holding hands now and then and an occasional kiss. Last week, he’d put his arm around her shoulders and she’d allowed it for a few seconds before she subtly twisted away. He’d gotten the message.

What was wrong with him? Why had he allowed such a platonic relationship? Why had he settled?

Oh, not that he wanted to jump into bed with her. No, that was a lie. He did, but he knew it would be too soon for her and against his belief in commitment and marriage. Plus as a minister, he’d accepted that people held him to a higher moral standard. But could they start with a little cuddling and three or four kisses at a time?

They were going to meet for coffee again Monday. Of course: coffee. He’d allowed them to get into this rut where Gussie felt comfortable and he felt frustrated: coffee in Marble Falls and once in a while a movie or a date where they drove separate cars. She seemed perfectly content with this. He wasn’t.

He wanted more.

Was he expecting too much too soon from a woman who’d been raped? They should discuss that, talk about the physical relationship. Would there ever be a physical relationship?

Not that he wanted to push her. He just needed to know.

He’d bring it all up Monday. Could be she wanted more, too, and was too shy to take action. He doubted that.
Gussie
and
shy
were antonyms. If her body language when they’d spent the evening with Willow and Sam had told him anything, it was that she felt comfortable with the present arrangement but the idea of anything else—well, she alternated between fear and lack of interest.

For the first time, Adam didn’t look forward to seeing Gussie.

That afternoon, Adam and Gussie met at the coffee shop but decided to walk around the east side of the lake in the autumn sunshine. They chatted about their day, about the health of Gussie’s parents, about church and life.

But when Adam reached to take Gussie’s hand, she jumped.

Not the reaction he was hoping for. Before he could think about them, the words he’d thought all day rushed from his mouth. “I want more.”

Gussie took a step back before she turned to face him. “You want more?”

“From you.”

“I’m very happy with how things are,” she said tersely. “Why change it? This works. And you promised not to push me.”

“Gussie,” he said. He paused, hoping her expression and body language would change from wary to calm and happy. When it didn’t, Adam reached out to take her hand again, but she pulled it away. “That’s what’s wrong. Wanting to hold your hand isn’t pushing. Wanting our relationship to grow isn’t pushy.”

“Feels that way.”

“No, it’s natural. It’s natural for a man to want to kiss a woman he’s seeing. It’s also usual for her to kiss him with a modicum of enthusiasm.”

“We’ve kissed.”

He nodded. “A dozen times, when you’ve allowed it. I wasn’t really allowed to participate as…umm, vigorously as I’d liked, and I felt you weren’t into it.”

“Whose lips were they? I was there.”

He stopped himself from answering. Arguing wouldn’t work, wouldn’t build their relationship, but he had no idea how to explain this to her. She looked like a frightened creature, trapped. Not at all what he’d considered when he’d thought this scene through, but he should have. How could he get through to her without upsetting her?

Dear Lord
, he prayed.
Please give me wisdom and courage and the right words.

“Gussie, I don’t want to argue. I’m stating a fact. Our relationship has stalled. I want more. I want to see you more often. I want to treat you like the woman I’m dating, not like my dear friend or my sister.”

“Oh, so you kiss your sister on the mouth?”

He wanted to tell her that there wasn’t much difference between how he and Gussie kissed and how he kissed his sister except for the part of their faces where the kisses landed. He didn’t. She couldn’t handle that now, and that depressed him greatly.

“What do you expect? What do you want from me?” she asked in a grim voice, as if he’d pushed her toward the guillotine.

“I want…I want what a man wants from a woman, when two people are in a…”

“I know what a man wants.” She shook as she spat the words out. “I know exactly what a man wants.”

“Gussie,” he said patiently and clearly, “I’m not Lennie.”

She took another step back.

“And I’m not attacking you.”

“Feels like it.”

How could he reach her? Not by doing anything that seemed threatening.

“I want a future with you, to see you more. I want to be with you more often. I care about you, and not the way a man feels toward his sister. I want to show you that. I want more.”

For a moment he felt like Oliver Twist holding out his empty bowl.

“I don’t have any more.” She folded her arms in front of her and pulled her shoulders forward, nearly huddling.

He studied her and felt guilty. For a moment, he considered stopping, accepting what she could give. But that wasn’t good, not for either of them.

To build her trust, he worded his next comment carefully. Calming words, not confrontation. “I don’t agree. You have so much love and caring and faith inside you. I only ask that you share them with me, with a man who cares for you deeply.”

Trapped. Gussie felt trapped. She’d never thought Adam, a man who said he cared about her, would give her an ultimatum. Not that he’d threatened anything, but she knew what he meant, what would come next. This was exactly how her previous attempts to date had ended up, only far more quickly.

This time felt worse because she’d hoped things would turn out differently. She’d prayed that Adam would be content with how she wanted to continue. Adam was a better man than the other guys. Those failures should have warned her that she hadn’t healed yet, but denial ran deep.