The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek (30 page)

H
ello, Gussie.” With a nod. Fran Finster, Gussie’s counselor, welcomed her into her study. It was a calm room with light blue walls, windows looking out over Zilker Park, curtains of soft blue flowers on a white background, and enough clutter strewn around to look cozy but not sloppy. If this weren’t Texas, she’d probably have a fire crackling in the fireplace. “Sit down.”

Fran didn’t fit the friendly setting. She wore her dark hair in an angular cut that reached her shoulders in the front. With a green shirt, she wore black slacks and what Gussie guessed were comfortable if incredibly ugly shoes.

“How are you doing?” Fran asked, her voice clipped but also filled with concern.

Nice touch, Gussie thought, that note of concern in her voice. Gussie knew the real Fran had the heart of a shark. She dug deep and never forgot a single word Gussie had uttered.

“Not so great if I’m back here.” Gussie settled in a cushioned chair that faced Fran’s desk and leaned back. “I need the tough lady who’ll put me back together.”

“I can help, but you have to do your part this time: to promise to work hard, stay with me, face what you have to, and not run away.” Fran settled in a chair across from Gussie. “You left too early last time.”

“I really believed I was okay, functioning well. The studio has become successful.”

“And your parents?”

“Getting older but still fairly healthy for people in their seventies.”

“If everything is going so well, why are you here?”

Gussie struggled for words, then took a deep breath and made herself speak before she could hide behind her usual dodge of logic. “I ran into something I hadn’t expected. A man.”

“You ran into a man? In your car?”

Aah, she’d forgotten Fran’s play-dumb act. Not that she actually was dumb. Though her tactics differed, she was just as determined as Gussie’s mother. Fran truly was
she who could not be ignored.
But this time Gussie wanted to explain, as hard as it was.

“I met a man I’m very attracted to.” Gussie shrugged. “I didn’t expect that. I should have realized that
not
expecting to find a man attractive meant I wasn’t cured, but I didn’t. As long as life remained on an even keel, I fooled myself into believing I was handling things very well.”

“And this man has made you to look at yourself?”

Gussie nodded.

“Good for him! What’s his name?”

“Adam Jordan.” Okay, that was the easy part. She knew Fran’s questions would become intrusive little by little, but that was good, really. Intrusive meant the counselor would search for the core of the problem. “We met at—”

“Before we go into that,” Fran said, “I want you to tell me about your rape.”

She stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about the rape. I want to talk about Adam and our relationship.”

“Oh, I see. You want to discuss your relationship with Adam,” Fran stated. “Then explain why you are here. You could discuss that with Adam or a girlfriend or your mother.”

Fran watched her expectantly.

Gussie had nothing. If she talked to her parents, they’d look sad and sympathetic, and she couldn’t handle that. Clare would listen but not in silence, and Adam…she couldn’t discuss anything with Adam until she knew how she felt. Fran was right. Gussie leaned forward, head down and eyes closed, and began the story of the rape, the one Fran had forced her to repeat over and over.

When she finished, tears rolled down her cheeks and pain ate her up inside. Until the rape, she’d hadn’t realized mental pain could also become physical anguish.

“There,” Gussie said. “Are you satisfied?”

“Tell me again.”

“Fran, we’ve done this before, over and over.”

“Have you told that story to anyone since our last appointment?”

“Yes. To Adam.”

“How did he react?”

“Fine. He was very sympathetic.”

“And you? How did you do?”

Gussie didn’t want to answer that. She closed her eyes and shut herself up inside.

“You still cry and you still hurt, Gussie. I haven’t seen you for three years,” Fran said. “We have to start from the beginning and build from there again. This time, you have to thoroughly confront that experience, your pain and trauma, but here, in a safe place.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You know what I always say, Gussie. The wound is where the healing starts. Doesn’t do a bit of good to approach the trauma any other way, to tiptoe around what hurts. As you relive the pain, the healing will begin.”

Gussie opened her eyes and forced herself to speak. “I was eighteen and in my second semester of college…”

After she finished the second telling, Fran said, “I’ll need to work with you intensively for at least eight to ten weeks. I also want you to come to the rape survivors group every Tuesday evening.”

“But most of them have been really raped. In dark alleys or in their homes by men they didn’t know. Compared with them, I wasn’t really raped.”

“Gussie, if you did not give your consent, you were raped. You have to deal with it that way, not as something you asked for because you were drunk or because you were in a vulnerable situation. You were violated. That is the definition of rape.”

“But I knew Lennie wouldn’t kill me. I wasn’t that frightened of fighting him off, not like women who are assaulted in an alley.”

“No, but a man you trusted and cared about sexually assaulted you. Until you accept that, you won’t mend. Until you get angry—furious, overwhelmed by rage—about that violation and Lennie’s part in it, you won’t get better. You’re too detached from what really happened. You have to feel.”

Gussie sighed, then took her calendar out and wrote in dates.

“I have another question. Why, Gussie? Why now? You know this thing with Adam still might not work out as you hope.”

“I know, but I have to try. I have to face up to how lonely and broken I am. I want to be a normal person. I want to fall in love. I want to love a man even if it’s too late for me and Adam.” She nodded. “Yes, I’m ready, and I’ll do it your way.”

Even though December had arrived, Adam didn’t consider it winter. Here winter consisted of a few weeks at the end of January when the weather got cold enough for people to stop wearing flip-flops.

Life went on. The church had sponsored a Halloween party in the fellowship hall. Janey had sung a solo in the community celebration of Veterans Day.

He and Janey continued to go to every one of Hector’s games. With each, Hector improved. The team hadn’t yet lost a game. Letters from colleges arrived daily and had piled up as schools showed interest in Hector.

During all these weeks, Adam had heard nothing from Gussie. He’d decided not to make contact himself, not to push her. He’d recover. A year ago, he hadn’t even realized a Gussie Milton existed. Surely he could move on.

The Widows remained oddly quiet—not that he complained, but it confused him. Could be they’d run out of options. He’d heard the blond woman had started to keep company with a man in San Saba.

A minister in Austin had invited him to join a group of friends for a picnic in Zilker Park and introduced Adam to a ministerial student. They’d had fun at the outing and Adam knew she wanted him to call her, but the idea of having a long drive to see her—well, he’d done that and didn’t want to again.

“Okay, it’s time for you to come out of that funk,” Mattie said at breakfast. They sat at what Miss Birdie referred to as “their table,” where she always placed them so she could keep an eye—and an ear—on them.

“What funk?”

“Everyone knows Gussie Milton dumped you for her parents.”

“She didn’t…” He cleared his throat. No way he’d talk to anyone about what happened with Gussie, even to protect his masculine image and ego. “I’m not in a funk. It was mutual.”

“Oh, yeah? Mac showed me a picture of Gussie Milton. She’s way hotter than you are, out of your class.”

One of the problems with a small town—that everyone-knows-everyone’s-business thing.

“Thanks,” he said. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your friendship and support?”

“No, but you can.”

Uh-oh. This tone of voice sounded exactly like the one she’d used when she made him go to the wedding with her. He dug into his pancakes.

“Some friends in Austin are having a Christmas party. I need a date.”

That’s exactly what he’d guessed. He took another bite.

“I need a date,” she repeated. “And you’re it.”

He chewed and took another bite because he didn’t want to respond. After he finished chewing, Mattie still hadn’t spoken. He wiped his mouth, took a drink of juice, and said, “I don’t want to go. Didn’t I make it clear the wedding was a onetime deal?”

“If I go alone, I’ll feel like such a loser.”

“You aren’t. You’ve just hit a dry spell. It isn’t as if single men are running all over Butternut Creek.”

“I know.”

“You have to come to grips with the situation. You and your fiancé aren’t going to get together again.”

“Don’t want to.”

“I’m not going with you. You have to accept the fact that you’re not dating and don’t let it bother you. Let go.”

“Yeah, and how’s that letting-go working for you?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I know. I tell myself that, but it’s hard to move on.”

Didn’t he know that.

“Do you know how many men would even ask a woman minister out? With the handful of men in a fifty-mile radius, you are about it.”

When he didn’t answer, she went on. “Men are afraid of women ministers, afraid we’ll have no interest in kissing, like we’re nuns.”

“Mattie, I don’t need to hear this.”

“And none of them would even consider marrying a minister. That’s not the life a man wants. They’re afraid they’d have to act pious and give up beer and bring a casserole to a church dinner. Adam, I want to get married. I want children.”

He blinked because he wanted to ask
With me?
but felt fairly certain he’d never get those words out.

“But don’t worry.” She buttered her toast before she said, “You’d probably be more trouble than it’s worth.”

When Hector pulled into a parking space in front of the dentist’s office and turned off the ignition, the vehicle gave its usual five or six gasps and several huffs before the engine stopped.

This time, Hector didn’t sigh. He merely shook his head and got out of the heaving vehicle. Throwing the keys to Adam, Hector said, “You can drive it back. I’m embarrassed to be seen in it.”

“You’re going to walk back?”

“No, I’ll go with you, but I might hide in the backseat with a blanket over me.”

“I’m trying a new recipe.” Ouida placed a covered plate on Adam’s desk. “Chocolate chip muffins.”

Chocolate chip muffins, a combination of two of his favorite things. Why hadn’t he heard of these before? He lifted the napkin and studied the beautifully rounded morsels.

“These look wonderful.” He picked one up and asked, “What’s the occasion?” before he pulled the paper off and took a bite.

“George said chocolate is not for breakfast.” She dropped into a chair. “He says it’s a special treat, like a dessert or a snack, but not breakfast.” She smiled. “George has some pretty strict beliefs, but he’s trying to relax, trying to be more accepting.” She waved toward the plate. “These should help. I’m serving them for breakfast tomorrow.” She frowned. “Or maybe they are too rich. George may be right. What do you think?”

Busy with savoring the deliciousness of the muffin, he couldn’t respond immediately. At last he swallowed the thick richness, ignored the question because he didn’t want to be involved in a discussion about the nutritional value of chocolate chip muffins, and said, “Things between you and George going well?”

“Oh, yes, Preacher. Thank you. Without your advice, I’d never had the courage to change. Without you, I’d still be ironing George’s shorts and starching those dresser scarves and feeling dissatisfied.”

Because he’d taken another bite—stupid knowing he’d need to respond to Ouida, but he couldn’t resist the lure of chocolate chip muffins—he attempted to mumble,
I didn’t do anything
, but couldn’t with his mouth so full. Instead he shrugged and attempted to look both wise and caring, difficult while chewing.

“You didn’t tell me
what
to do, I know that, but you encouraged me, listened to me while I worked things out for myself. Thank you.”

He nodded as wisely as a man with a mouthful of muffin can. “We’ve started work on my studio in the attic, decided to install a skylight up there. George figures it will increase the value of the house, and I’m happy to have more light.”

He nodded again. What he really needed was a cup of coffee or a glass of water because, as tasty as the muffin was, the density nearly defeated him.

“I have to warn you.” She smiled at him.

He thought about smiling back at her but felt chocolate probably covered his teeth. Instead, he raised his eyebrow as if asking a question.

“We’re coming to the Christmas Eve service, the whole family.” She laughed. “I didn’t want you to keel over in shock. Carol is excited about the candles and Gretchen loves being in church.” She shook her head, the action a nice counterpoint to his nods. “They want to come so George and I have to. They like church and I have to admit attending hasn’t hurt them.” She stood, waved, and turned toward the door.

By the time Adam finally swallowed, she’d disappeared.

He was glad the girls liked church, glad it hadn’t hurt them, and delighted George and Ouida would attend Christmas Eve. Everyone he loved would be gathered in the sanctuary that night.

Well, almost everyone.

“Hello, Preacher.”

Adam looked up to see a professorial-looking man who squinted at him through thick glasses.

“I’m Martin Hanford, the organist for Sunday.”

“Hello, Mr. Hanford. Good to meet you.” Adam stood. “What can I do for you?”