The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek (5 page)

For a moment, she wondered if George loved those shoes. He took such good care of them. Cleaned and shined them every week, never wore them on a rainy day, never two days in a row. The consideration made her blurt out an unexpected question.

“George, do you love me?”

He stopped wiping the shoes for a second before he said, “Of course.” Then he put the rag down, opened the box, and took out the brush and polish he used only on these shoes.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Keeping his eyes on his work, he carefully and evenly spread the polish and rubbed it in. After inspecting the right one to make sure he’d covered every millimeter of surface with polish, he set it down and picked up the left to repeat the process.

As if realizing that Ouida’s minute of silence meant he hadn’t answered correctly, he said, “You’re my wife.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And you take good care of me?” His statement became a question, as if they were on some kind of marital
Jeopardy!

She didn’t answer. Darned if she’d help him out on this. She really needed to know how George felt, not how she hoped he felt, but he didn’t speak, either. Finally she said, “How?”

He shrugged, still focused on the shoes. “You always have dinner for me when I come home and you iron my clothes.”

“So you could hire a cook and a laundress and I’d be
de trop
?”

After he finished precisely covering the left shoe with polish, he put it down, looked up at her, and blinked as if he couldn’t understand why she’d brought this up. This conversation did not appear on his schedule.

Poor man, he had no idea what to say, but she had to know. Did he keep her around to take care of this huge house because she cost less than a maid? Had she accepted being banished to this small town with their two little girls—a town she loved and girls whom, heavens knew, she adored—anyway, had she done this for a man who’d pretty much abandoned his family for his office in Austin?

With another blink, George shook his head. “You take care of the children, too.”

“So add a nanny to the staff.”

“And…” George’s cheeks actually turned pink before he looked down at his shoes. He took a few seconds to test how dry the polish was before he mumbled, “And I like you in bed.”

“Aha! So you could hire a…”

“Ouida, don’t say that.” This time he spoke sharply and looked her in the eyes. “You know what we have is special.”

“How?” She took a step toward him. For once in her life, she felt powerful, intimidating. Hard for a round woman with lots of freckles to do, but she did. George watched her looking, well, intimidated.

“Because…it’s you and me. We’ve always been together.”

“But you’re never home, George. I’d like to see you sometimes. The girls would like to get to know you.”

He stood as if that change of position would place him in control of the situation. “I’ve just started a business.”

“Years ago. But if it were new, would that make up for nearly abandoning us?”

“I haven’t abandoned you. I make a good living for this family. As the owner of a business, I hire people who depend on the company to support their families. That’s important.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. She hadn’t reached him. She still couldn’t make him understand. She sighed. “And your family isn’t,” she whispered.

“Of course you are. You…” He fumbled for words. “Ouida, my shoes are dry. I have to finish up.” He sat back down and picked up a brush.

She stopped trying. She knew George’s priorities. Work first, family, distant second. Now she had to figure out what was best for Carol and Gretchen and for her. The girls needed a father, she knew that, but they didn’t have one now and she didn’t have a husband except for those treasured moments at night. That wasn’t enough any longer.

In their usual places at the diner at two o’clock Monday afternoon, the Widows awaited the appearance of Blossom Brown. Winnie Jenkins, still bursting with pride at being a real Widow for six months, stirred sweetener into her tea. Mercedes had arrived from the library mere seconds earlier and settled in a chair while Birdie placed cups of coffee in front of the other Widows, then put another on the table in front of Blossom’s empty chair.

“When are you getting married?” Birdie asked Winnie.

Winnie blushed. Silly for a woman their age to blush, but she did. Birdie couldn’t criticize. Well, she could, but that would sound spiteful.

“Oh, we don’t know. Mitchell wanted to wait until Sam got married. He says his son’s wedding should have first priority.”

“That was weeks ago,” Birdie said. “When are you getting married?”

Winnie smiled. “I don’t mind the wait. After all, I’ve been waiting my whole life for the right man.”

Sentimental dribble
, Birdie thought, but she wouldn’t call Winnie out for those emotions. After all, Birdie had had her dear Elmer for nearly thirty years. Winnie deserved a good man, too.

Okay, Birdie accepted that, but she didn’t need to hear about all that sweetness and light.

“Did you see Sam and Willow in church the other Sunday? With the boys?” As usual, Mercedes changed the subject when she saw conflict ahead.

“They looked happy. A great success for the Widows.” Birdie smiled for a second, only until Blossom hurried in, her short hair perfectly coiffed and a pink jacket covering a matching pink sweater. She held a quilted basket, which she set on the table.

“You’re late,” Birdie said. “One of the tenets of the Widows is that we don’t keep other people waiting.”

“Oh.” Blossom’s round face flushed. “I’m sorry.”

She had such a soft sweet voice. Birdie didn’t like soft, sweet voices, not a bit.

“I didn’t realize there were rules,” Blossom explained. “I thought the Widows only went around doing good.”

“Well, of course that’s our main principle,” Mercedes said gently. “But we have to plan our good deeds,” she continued. “And we don’t keep the others waiting.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.” Blossom settled into the fourth chair. “I’m a little late because my cook just finished making this.” She opened the basket, pulled out a plastic container, and opened it to show a coffee cake. “Doesn’t that look delicious? It’s still warm.”

Mercedes had a look on her face that said,
Don’t you know you don’t bring food to a restaurant?
But she’d never express that thought aloud.

“Don’t you know you don’t bring food to a restaurant?” Birdie said.

“They sell food here,” Winnie added.

“We all take turns paying for our treat,” Mercedes said.

Blossom’s little pink mouth formed an O. “I…I didn’t think. I wanted to bring you all something special, to show how much I appreciate your inviting me to be a Widow.”

“You haven’t been accepted as a Widow yet, not completely,” Birdie said. “There are steps.”

“I haven’t?” Blossom blinked. “There are?”

“I had to go through a provisional period before I became a real Widow,” Winnie added.

“I didn’t understand.” Blossom reached for the pastry. “I’ll put this away.”

“No, no,” Birdie protested. “As long as it’s here, we might as well enjoy it.” She reached out to break off a piece, took a small bite and chewed. “It is really good.” She cut herself a large piece and pushed the plate toward the others. “Try a little.”

Winnie frowned. “Shouldn’t we be getting down to business instead of eating?” She pulled out a notebook and pen.

Bossiest woman Birdie had ever met, but she also noticed that Winnie served herself nearly a quarter of the coffee cake.

“We need to discuss the preacher…,” Birdie said.

“I think we need to leave him alone for a while.” Mercedes daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin.

With the addition of Blossom, Birdie became more aware that nearly everything her friend did was dainty and lady-like. She could only hope the two would not join forces and attempt to change Birdie, to make her softer and nicer. That dog wouldn’t hunt.

“Why do you think we need to leave the preacher alone?” Birdie demanded. “One of our missions is to get the man married.”

“I know, but maybe we’ve pushed too hard, Bird.”

“Pushed too hard? We’ve left him alone for days.”

“Yes, and we need to leave him alone for a while longer.”

“Can’t believe you’d say that, Mercedes. Can’t believe you believe it. The man is not making the slightest effort to find himself a wife. If we don’t try to find him a woman to marry…”

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mercedes said. “There aren’t many women around. Who’s left to fix him up with? Pretty soon, any unmarried woman is going to run if she sees us.” She sighed. “And the preacher is beginning to ignore our efforts. Was he the least bit thankful when we mentioned Gussie Milton? No.”

“Oh, tell me.” Blossom clapped. “Are we trying to find a wife for Reverend Jordan?”

That woman didn’t understand a thing about being a Widow. How could she become one if she didn’t comprehend who they were and what they did?

“Didn’t you figure that out when we were in his office Monday?” Birdie asked.

“Oh.” Blossom blinked. “That’s what we were doing. I thought we were discussing the youth retreat.”

“Dear,” Mercedes explained patiently. “As well as doing good, we attempt to match people up, to get them married.”

“Back when we had more young, unmarried people in town, we were extremely successful.” Mercedes sighed. “With websites and singles bars in Austin and all the young people leaving town after they graduate, matchmaking has become quite a challenge.”

“We matched Sam and Willow, and, if you look at the faculty in the schools, you’ll see a number of our successes,” Birdie said. “The track coach and that third-grade teacher have been married for ten years. And the assistant principal and the school nurse are expecting their second child. But it is much harder now.”

“The process has become more difficult since all my children married,” Mercedes added. “We found mates for two of them.”

“I don’t know many young people, but I’ll help in any way I can.” Blossom paused and thought for a few seconds. “Maybe we could invite all the singles in Butternut Creek to my house for a party.”

The woman did have a lovely house.

“Problem is, that would be Pastor Adam and the minister from the Presbyterian Church,” Winnie said. “We’ve already tried to get them together.”

“I talked to a couple of divorced teachers at the middle school but they weren’t at all receptive to our efforts,” Birdie said. “Very rude, in fact.”

“But that’s a good idea, Blossom.” Winnie wrote that down. “Maybe we’ll try that later, after a few more divorces.”

The four women considered the suggestion for nearly a minute while they each took another piece of the coffee cake.

“Well, enough of that,” Winnie said. “What else do we need to discuss?”

Bossiest woman Birdie had ever met, but she did have a point. Unless more had happened between Gussie and Adam at the retreat than her granddaughters had told her, the matchmaking had hit a dead end.

“Cleanup at the thrift shop Friday, nine o’clock,” Birdie said. “Bring brooms and cleaning material and hangers. With the big sale on Saturday, we have to sort everything, get it ready to set up in the parking lot.”

H
ello, Mrs. Boucher. I’m Adam Jordan, the minister of the Christian Church,” Adam said as a smiling brunette opened her front door.

When she heard those words, her smile disappeared and she stepped back to close the door. “Thank you. Not interested.”

“No, I’m not here for that. I have Aaron’s backpack.” He held it up.

“Oh.” She shoved the screen door open and took it. “Thank you. He leaves everything he owns all over the neighborhood.”

“Maybe it’s not Aaron’s fault.” He gestured toward Chewy. “My dog has a bad habit of running off with stuff.” Then he showed her a hoodie. “Is this Aaron’s?”

She shook her head. “Try across the street. That may belong to April Higgins.”

Mrs. Higgins was delighted to get the hoodie back. As he left, Adam said, “If you don’t have a church home, we’d love for you to visit.”

Had Chewy become their best tool for membership growth?

When he got to the office, Adam wondered where the Widows were. Not that he missed them, but it was over a week since their last visit and they hadn’t descended on him again. The lack of a second visit made him realize Mac hadn’t squealed. He felt safe.

He’d worked for nearly fifteen minutes when Chewy leaped to his feet, woofed, and danced.

Ouida stood in his door, a plate in one hand and Gretchen dangling from the other, as usual.

“Exactly what I need,” Adam said. “I don’t know how I’d get along without you.”

“You’d probably starve to death.” She shook her head. “It’s my mission to fatten you up.”

She scrutinized his chest and shoulders, which made Adam more than a little uncomfortable. “You’ve gained weight.” She nodded decisively. “Makes you seem older, better looking.” She nodded again. “Not that you weren’t a good-lookin’ guy before, for a minister.” She snapped her mouth closed. “I’d better stop before I insult you any more. I came to talk to you.”

In the same way she’d studied him, Adam scrutinized Ouida—but only her face—for a hint of a hidden motive. Surely she wasn’t in cahoots with the Widows, was she? Was
fatten you up
code for “get you married”?

As Gretchen broke loose and ran to pet Chewy, Ouida glanced toward her daughter before she looked at Adam. “It’s about George. My husband.”

“Yes, I know who George is.” He shouldn’t have said that. If his professors in counseling had told him anything, it was
not
to stop communication with a smart answer. “I’m sorry. What about George?”

His reply had put Ouida off. She hesitated and studied him without saying a word.

“I really am sorry, Ouida. Sometimes I say the wrong thing.”

“We all do.” She took a deep breath. “We’ve been married for ten years.” She seemed to consider her words. “He wasn’t always like he is now, so very sober and driven and focused on work. I wouldn’t have married him if he had been.”

He remained silent but in a pastoral manner. His counseling professor had called it watchful empathy.

“George drives me nuts. At dinner, he eats one bite of chicken first, then one of potatoes, finishing with a forkful of green beans, then repeats that.”

“But didn’t you know that before you got married?” He stood and walked around the desk to sit next to his neighbor.

“Oh, yes, but back then I didn’t know about the other things. His closet is perfect, colors together. He hates disorder. He hates…well, he hates everything that is family life and children.”

“What? He has a wonderful family.”

“Yes, he does.” She shook her head. “He changed right after he began his own business seven years ago, right before Carol was born. Probably not good timing with the stress of a new business and a baby.”

“Tell me more about George when you first met him. Why did you fall in love with him?” There, that sounded ministerial but not overly so.

“Oh, he’s always been a little staid and controlling, but I did see
moments
of spontaneity, of exploration and joy.” She caught his eye as if attempting to sell him on her words. “We complemented each other, I thought. My messy life and emotions balanced his purposeful actions and solemnity. And…and I felt safe with him.” She sighed and glanced at Gretchen, who seemed too occupied with the dog to be listening. Nevertheless, Ouida leaned toward Adam and lowered her voice. “He was raised by his grandmother. His parents died when he was seven. She was strict and unemotional, which probably has a great deal to do with his being quiet and introspective. I loved him because I knew who he was inside, how much he needed me and how hard it was for him to show it.” She shook her head again. “I never should’ve allowed this isolation, his closing down, to happen to him, to the girls. They don’t know he loves them.”

“How can I help?”

“Adam, I don’t know.” She sighed again. “He’s getting worse, much more distant. I don’t know how to reach him anymore, especially since he’s not around.”

“Have you talked to him about that?”

“I tried. Didn’t get anyplace.”

“You know I’m always available to talk to. What can I do?”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “Listening’s probably all you can do now. I’m sorry I dropped all this on you, but it’s been building.” She tapped her chest. “Inside.”

When she stood, Adam got to his feet.

“I’ll talk to him again. Sunday, when the girls nap, I will.” She reached her hand out to her daughter. “Come on. Let’s go. Adam has work to do.”

Gretchen gave Chewy a final pat and ran over to Adam for a hug. Then the two exited, leaving Adam to wonder what in the world he could do. There were things in ministry he was inexperienced in and unprepared for. Counseling scared him. What did he have to say that would help anyone?

He hated to use the Kowalskis’ marriage as a learning experience. He should probably study up, read a little. He moved toward the bookcase and perused his books until he finally found one on marital counseling in a stack behind the desk. His sermon could wait.

Adam encouraged his ancient car toward the thrift shop. Although it threatened to die on him at the only major intersection in town, he did get there. The vehicle putted and jumped as he pulled into a parking space. He’d need to call Rex.

No better mechanic in the state than Rex. Only one who had been able to keep the old car going consistently, and he charged Adam only for parts. As a good Catholic, Rex felt God expected him to help the preacher and that old car was part of his witness, his true mission. Adam kept his number on speed dial.

Turning the engine off—although it still chugged and sputtered for a few more seconds with the key out of the ignition—he got out of the car, flipped open the trunk to pick up the few boxes remaining from his move, and walked inside the shop.

The thrift shop was always closed on the Friday before the quarterly Saturday sale. He expected Miss Birdie to be there. He never knew what days she took off from the diner and probably never would. Once when he’d asked her about her schedule, she’d let him know that although she was a poor workingwoman, she didn’t waitress 24/7. He never asked again, simply accepted that if there was work to be done, the pillar appeared.

“When you find a shirt that is too worn for anyone to wear, chunk it in the trash.” Mercedes pointed toward a barrel as he got to work.

“
Chunk
?” Adam asked. “Do you mean
chuck
?”

“She said what she meant, Preacher.” Miss Birdie glanced up from her sorting. “Chunk, you know, throw it.”

Another word for his Texas vocabulary. “Okay, what do I do after I
chunk
the worn shirts?”

“Put the nice ones back on the shelf and the in-betweens in a box for the sale,” Winnie said.

After fifteen minutes of packing and chunking and chatting, they heard the sound of a car pulling up outside.

“Is that Blossom? I told her to be here at nine.” The pillar glared at Adam as if the late arrival were his fault.

“Looks like her big car,” Mercedes said.

“Expensive and probably eats up the gasoline,” Birdie complained.

“Probably pretty fuel-efficient,” Mercedes said. “The new cars are.”

“Hrmph.” Miss Birdie glared at her friend. “You don’t always have to correct everyone.”

“I told Blossom to bring cleaning supplies.” Winnie leaped in to stop the disagreement. “Hope she brought a mop because the floor in that back room really needs a good scrubbing.”

The front door opened and a pudgy, middle-aged woman entered toting a bucket and mop. “Where should I put these?” she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she dropped the stuff, moved back a few steps, and held the door open.

“We’re always happy to have a new volunteer.” Adam hurried to welcome her. “I’m Adam Jordan, minister at the Christian Church and these are…”

“I know who you are and I’m not a volunteer. I’m Miss Blossom’s housekeeper. She made me come. What should I do?”

The four blinked.

“She made you come? Blossom
made
you come?” Adam struggled to understand the comment.

“Where is she now?” Miss Birdie sounded oddly mystified, an emotion he rarely saw from her.

“She’s in the car, getting the food out.” The woman held the door open.

“The food?” Winnie echoed.

“Hello, hello!” Blossom sang as she entered the door holding a huge basket. “Coffee and pastry for all.” Not even noticing the expressions on the faces of the Widows, which ranged from amazement to horror, she put the basket on the table where Winnie had been working, right on top of the nicest T-shirts.

Winnie blinked, Mercedes shook her head, and Miss Birdie—well, Miss Birdie continued to look stunned. Adam had never seen her taken aback. He’d never believed the pillar could be at a loss for words.

Both Winnie and Mercedes looked at Miss Birdie, expecting her to take over. When she didn’t, Mercedes said sweetly, “Hello, Blossom. You brought your housekeeper?”

“Oh, yes.” Blossom motioned in the direction of the woman. “That’s Evelyn, my housekeeper.”

“Why isn’t she at home?” Winnie said. “Keeping
your
house?”

“You said we were cleaning. I don’t clean well.” She fluttered her beautifully manicured hands toward the confusion of the room.

Finally, Miss Birdie found several dozen words. “The
Widows
are cleaning the thrift shop and sorting clothing,” she said in a voice so cold it could freeze the coffee Blossom had started to pour. “Not our housekeeper or our maids, but the Widows. This is a community service that
we
, the Widows, do.”

This time Blossom blinked. “But I’m not at all good with this sort of thing. I’m not dressed for it.” They all examined her lovely pale blue silk shirt and slacks with matching high-heeled sandals.

Because Adam feared Miss Birdie would have a stroke, he stepped forward. “Blossom, the Widows
themselves
do community service. It is their way of being servants, of helping others unselfishly.”

“But I brought coffee, and my cook baked us another of those coffee cakes you all enjoyed so much.” She smiled at them all.

“Not again,” the pillar grumbled.

“Dear,” Mercedes said. “Thank you, but as much as we enjoyed that pastry, we aren’t an
eating
group. We’re a doing-things-for-others group. We thought you understood that when we invited you to join.”

“At the suggestion of the preacher,” the pillar stated. Her tone said,
Don’t blame me for this mess.

“You don’t want the coffee?” She glanced down at the three cups she’d poured.

“Evelyn, thank you for coming,” Adam said. “Do you live close by? Can you walk home from here or do you need a ride?”

The housekeeper pointed east. “I’ll walk.” She scurried out.

“Thank you for coming,” Mercedes shouted after her.

“Blossom, why don’t you and I go to the table in the back of the store and chat?” Adam picked up one of the filled cups. “Over our coffee?”

“I’m coming, too, Preacher, and I’m not feeling a bit chatty,” Miss Birdie said.

“Oh, my.” Blossom’s ivory skin became paler, and her eyes grew enormous. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, no, only a misunderstanding,” Adam assured her as he pushed her toward the back. Once there, he held out a chair for her. Skittishly, she perched on the edge of the seat.

“I don’t believe you understand the mission of the Widows,” he began.

“We take care of other people, ourselves,” the pillar interrupted from where she stood next to the table. “We do the work. We don’t have our servants do the work.”

Because Blossom looked as if she was on the verge of tears, Adam took Miss Birdie’s elbow and escorted her, forcefully, toward the front of the store. “I’ll handle this,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. Taking a stand against the pillar had never been one of his favorite actions.

“
We
are the servants,” Miss Birdie said loudly as he headed toward the table again and she stomped back to the work area.

He took a chair across from Blossom and took a gulp of coffee. “Great coffee.”

Blossom brightened a little.

“I have a favorite Bible verse, from the book of Micah. I’d like to share it with you,” Adam said. “‘…what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?’”

“Very pretty,” she said. “But,” she leaned forward and whispered, “that Birdie MacDowell isn’t a bit humble. Not a bit.”

Because he couldn’t refute her observation, he hurried on. “Those words from Micah are how the Widows feel. They serve others. When I arrived a few months ago, they got donations to furnish the parsonage. Because of that, we could open it up to an injured woman and her family. Now two homeless kids live there. The Widows furnished the bedroom, provided all the linens. The Widows take food to shut-ins and volunteer within the community.”

“Maybe this was a mistake.” Again she fluttered her fingers toward the Widows. “I really don’t feel that way, you know, humble and kind, and how could I do anything about justice? I probably wouldn’t fit in. In fact”—she folded her hands—“I don’t, not a bit.”