The Potluck Club (11 page)

I had to giggle. “Evangeline, when are you going to get over your resentment of that poor child?”

“I do not resent her.”

“Oh. I see.” I reached for the cookie plate, brought a cookie to my lips. “I’ve just known you since the day I was born, but don’t let that get in the way of you telling
me
the truth.”

“I don’t resent her, Lizzie. I just . . . she could have just . . . You know, every time I see her, I see her mother. What that woman did to poor Vernon . . .”

“You mean besides kiss him full on the lips and then marry him?”

Evie frowned at my humor. “We need to talk about the club. Do you think the girls would be up to coming next month rather than this month?”

“I think you should go ahead and plan for this month, Evie. Don’t hide in a closet like you’ve done something wrong. For heaven’s sake, we’ve all been through bad times together. We all know about Jack Dippel. Prayed Goldie through a dozen affairs and loved her all the more. And don’t forget when Tim had to get married. No one was judgmental—”

“That you know of.”

“Evie!” I dropped the remainder of my cookie onto my napkin. “Don’t give me that look, Lizzie. You know how people talk.”

I retrieved the cookie. “So what if they do? It’s not like Leigh is the first unmarried woman to find herself pregnant. The important thing is for us to pray she’ll do the right thing. Yes, ma’am. That’s the important thing.”

“So what do you suggest?” Evie took another swallow of coffee, draining the mug.

“I say give yourself two weeks and then let’s have another meeting. Two weeks after that, we’ll have another one. Our regular one. Pretty soon, Leigh will have God’s answer for her life, and we’ll feel as though we’ve done something pretty important, wouldn’t you agree? Maybe we’ll even throw her a baby shower.”

Evie rolled her eyes.

“Did she say when she’s going back home?”

Evie stood and walked her mug over to the sink, where she began to rinse it out. “At first she said she wasn’t certain.”

Evie turned and looked at me dead-on. “And now she says never.”

Another Potluck Club was scheduled two weeks after the canceled meeting. On the Thursday before, I decided I would take my oven-fried eggplant, which I hadn’t made in a while. Samuel gave his usual endorsement for my choice by suggesting I prepare it for the family—Michelle, himself, and me—a couple of days before to make sure I hadn’t lost my touch.

Funny man. Though I did concur with his idea.

But I would be taking more than my eggplant. I also gathered up my read and reread Christian women’s magazines to carry with me. The other gals don’t subscribe to every magazine that comes along like I do, but they dearly love to read my discarded copies.

They’re equally hip to my other magazines, but I don’t share those. Magazines like
Quilter’s World
,
Threads
, and
Crazy for Cross-
Stitch
stay with me for years on end. My mother taught me the art of needle and thread, and I’ve passed that on to my daughters as well. What is taught within the pages of patterns and such won’t go out of style.

On the Thursday before our now-rescheduled meeting, I made a second decision when I thought to start a new work of cross-stitch, something for a baby. I hoped it would inspire the rest of the gals to think along the lines of a baby shower or perhaps just lighten up a little where Evie was concerned. In my heart I knew there would be some gossip—already had been. Most of it came from the Lambert woman, whom I have managed to keep my librarian’s eye on. If it’s one thing years in the school system has taught me, it’s how to keep a lookout for trouble when it’s brewing.

Lisa Leann is one nosy woman. I suppose she’s a sister in the Lord, but she’s truly upset Evie, and she’s even had the nerve to call me up and try to get me to talk about who tithes at Grace Church and who doesn’t.

“Lisa Leann,” I said matter-of-factly, “just because my husband is the head of the finance committee doesn’t mean I know anything about such as that. Besides, that’s between our parishioners and the Lord. Not between them, you, me, and the Lord.”

Lisa Leann just giggled in that way she has and said, “Oh, but darlin’, don’t you ever just wonder? I think it’s a matter of spiritual maturity, and that’s really what I want to know, who at the church is
truly
spiritually mature.”

“How are you doing in your new home there?” I asked her, changing the subject rather abruptly. “It’s certainly a pretty new subdivision you’ve found yourself transplanted to.”

“It is that. I just love getting up in the mornings, sitting out on my deck, and reading the Bible. I suppose with you growing up here, you might have missed the beauty around you.”

“I haven’t missed it.”

“Take it for granted, I should say.”

“I haven’t done that either.”

“Oh. Well, then.”

We ended the conversation somewhere around her asking me about Michelle’s deafness. It seems she has a third cousin who is hearing impaired—although not totally deaf—and she’d attempted to learn sign language but hadn’t completely gotten the knack of it. I told her it wasn’t so easy to learn when one didn’t use it all the time. Lightheartedly I reminded her that what you don’t use, you lose.

“So what is it Michelle does? I mean, for a living and all?”

Michelle works in management at one of the resorts in Breckenridge, and I told her so.

“That sounds like a wonderful job,” Lisa Leann said. “Now, does she live up there or does she come home every night?”

“She comes home. Lisa Leann, I hate to end this conversation, but I’ve been working all day and I still have dinner to prepare.”

Lisa Leann laughed. “I’m so sorry. You know, when one doesn’t work outside of the home, one forgets.”

I let out a tiny pent-up sigh. “Let’s plan to have coffee together soon or something like that. Maybe one Saturday. I’d love to hear more about your children and husband as well.” What can I say? Maybe the woman is lonely and just needs a friend. Maybe it’s to be my calling for the time being. For such a time as this . . . and all that . . .

No, that’s not it. I just wanted this stranger out of my family business. Maybe playing twenty questions is the way they get to know one another in Texas, but up here in Colorado, we tend to stick to our own business. Unless, of course, we just happen to have grown up here and we already know everything there is to know, anyway.

You can’t keep a lot of secrets here in Summit View.

Immediately after work I headed for a little craft shop downtown where I buy my cross-stitch materials. Driving there, I couldn’t help but ponder why I love Summit View so much. The air is crisp and the skies are an absolute turquoise, a brilliance broken only by the hedge of emerald pines and gold aspens, the rise of the majestic mountains. This time of year I’m often reminded of the days when we were all growing up here in Summit View. The world was ours. We knew it wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the word, but it was perfect enough for us. Ruth Ann, Evangeline, Vonnie, and I romped and frolicked as much as we ever read about Laura and Mary Ingalls doing. Sometimes, at my insistence, we put on “Little House” plays for our mothers, who in those days were all stay-at-home moms. Not like today. We’re nearly all working . . . and working hard.

As soon as I walked into the craft shop, a restored multileveled Victorian painted golden yellow and trimmed in white, I was met by the scents of cinnamon and candle wax. Dora Watkins, the owner, had come to understand a long time ago that if she were going to survive financially, she would need to sell more than thread. She wisely brought in antique chifforobes and etageres purchased at Goldie’s son-in-law’s shop, which she stuffed with already-made crafts, crystal and porcelain figurines, silk floral arrangements, hand-stitched quilts, handcrafting how-to books, and scented candles. Dark, antique tables spilled over with linens, crocheted items, and stone coasters. The walls of the store, painted in muted, warm colors, were literally covered in framed and matted prints, cross-stitch patterns, wrought-iron coatracks, and cinnamon-scented brooms.

Dora greeted me from the centrally located customer service area, which was really two oversized tables converted to cutting tables, one with a cash register sitting at the end. She sat on a bar-style swivel chair, surrounded by Christmas merchandise that needed to be set out (and we hadn’t even hit Halloween yet), and appeared to be absorbed in the latest in the stack of best-selling Christian literature she kept near the register and that she sold upstairs in the Secondhand Book Nook.

“How ya doing there, Dora?” I asked. Dora’s mother had, at one time, owned the Sew and Stitch, and when she died, Dora—who is now in her midforties—took over.

“Doing well, Lizzie. You?”

“Doing fine.” I walked past her, taking the two or three steps to the second level of the first floor, past a cutesy display of bunnies and over to the racks of cross-stitch patterns flush against a side wall, next to a door marked “Employees Only.”

Dora joined me. “Looking for something special?” Her wide eyes twinkled behind large glasses.

I love Dora dearly—she is also a sister in the Lord—but sometimes I wish she’d let me shop alone. It’s almost as if she’s too anxious for a sale. And does she have to know every single thing I sew? “Something for a baby,” I told her.

“For Evie’s niece?” she asked.

I crossed my arms, allowing my eyes to scan the books of patterns. “That’s right.”

“Such a shame about all that,” Dora said, reaching for a book with a somewhat gnarled hand; a hand that had obviously sewed many a stitch and cut a million and one patterns from countless bolts of material. “How about classic Pooh?”

I took the book from her. “Pooh is good.”

“Boy or girl. Won’t matter. All children love Pooh.”

I began flipping through the book until I found the pattern I thought best to start with. “This would make a nice baby pillow,” I said.

“You could do the whole thing,” Dora said, taking the book from me and flipping a few more pages. “See, you’ve got the frameable artwork here. A throw. Crib bumper pads. Everything you can imagine for a baby’s room. Did you hear Leigh is planning to stay here with Evie for an indefinite amount of time?”

I took the book back from Dora, returning to the original page. “I’ll need to get floss,” I said. I turned on my heel and headed toward the nearby racks of floss in every color imaginable.

Cross-stitch thread is called floss, and rather than being organized by color, it comes in DMC numbers. I began pulling the appropriate numbered skeins from the little display hooks. About that time the door chimes signaled that another customer had entered. Sight unseen I was grateful. I didn’t want to get into a gossip session with Dora Watkins. Being the only craft and sewing store in town makes the Sew and Stitch as bad as a beauty salon when it comes to idle chitchat. I was even more pleased to see that the newly arrived customer was Jan Moore.

“Hello, ladies,” Jan called out, immediately making her way over to us, though I knew with Jan’s love of cross-stitch she could have just as easily been coming over to check out the latest in floss. Jan has a penchant for angels and has stitched some of the most inspiring works of heavenly hosts you’ve ever seen. In fact, the ladies room at Grace Church has a set of two quite large angel patterns, hand stitched by our loving pastor’s wife, then framed and matted at Christi’s Frame Shop.

I have a special place in my heart for Jan; my sister is also a pastor’s wife, and I know the lifestyle can be demanding and often-times lonely, though I’ve never once heard Jan complain. She’s always bright and upbeat. A positive in a world full of negatives. Jan is also a pretty thing. I’ll have to give it to Texas, some of the best-looking women seem to come out of there, and that includes Lisa Leann. But I noticed right away that Jan looked a bit pale this afternoon. Drawn. I wondered if things weren’t so good over at Grace Church. Or within her family. I didn’t want to pry, because I’m not the prying kind, but like I said, these old librarian’s eyes catch everything. “You okay, Jan?” I asked.

Jan reached Dora and me with a smile that belied the rest of her face. “Oh, you know. A little tired. I haven’t slept well the last few nights, and I’ve been a bit nauseous. I think it’s just the change in weather.” She gave us a wink. “Or maybe just the change of life. Hot flashes and all that.”

“It’ll get you when you’re not used to it,” Dora said, not being specific about whether she was speaking of the change of weather or the change of life.

I patted Jan’s slender arm, then showed her the Pooh pattern I was going to make for Leigh’s baby. “What do you think?”

Jan smiled at me again. “I think it’s a wonderful thought,” she said. Jan Moore should know a wonderful thought. I doubt she’s ever had anything but wonderful thoughts. She is undoubtedly the sweetest woman in the whole world, and we’re blessed to have her as our pastor’s wife. In fact, we’re pleased to have both the Moores. The entire family is special, and there’s not a single person in Summit View—no matter where they worship the Lord Jesus—who doesn’t love Pastor Kevin and Jan.

“I’m just thinking that maybe if we give Leigh a lot of love and wrap that with prayer, it’ll help her to make the right choices where the baby is concerned.” I felt more than saw Dora moving closer to Jan and me. “Maybe she and the father can even work out their differences . . . make a home for the baby.”

“What do you know about the father?” Dora asked, crossing her arms.

I shook my head, then cut a glance over at Jan. “Nothing really. It’s not really our business, so even if I did know something, I wouldn’t say.”

Jan placed her hand on my shoulder. “Good for you, Lizzie.” She then turned to Dora. “Now, then, Miss Dora. What I’m looking for is a long-term project. Something I can give to my own daughter for Mother’s Day next year, what with it being her first year as the mother of little Jenny-Lin.”

Jenny-Lin is the daughter that the Moores’ one and only daughter and her husband adopted from China. This now made them a family of seven—with two of the children being adopted.