The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  “No, I need to get some things done before the lunch crowd comes in.” She paused. “Preacher, I’d like you to be my guest for breakfast in the morning.”

  Now Adam felt incredibly foolish. He’d misjudged Miss Birdie again and should look out for that tendency. He needed to be more accepting. “How nice of you. Thank you. Eight o’clock at the diner?”

  “No, no, no. A little earlier. Maybe seven fifteen? Before the crowd gets there.”

  Why so early? Had she said before the crowd? Although Adam hadn’t eaten there yet, he thought most people who had to get to work would arrive about seven. And if she wanted to discuss something important, why would the restaurant be a better place to converse than the church office?

  There he went again, trying to explain and understand her invitation instead of accepting it gratefully. “Seven fifteen. Thank you. I’ll be there.”

  She walked to the door before turning and looking a little uncertain. “Oh, and wear a tie, please. Don’t suppose you could get a haircut?”

  Odd.

  “I… aah… want to show my minister off to all my customers.”

  “I’ll try.” But before he could complete those two syllables, she’d disappeared, again without a good-bye.

  That night, as Adam walked home after a tough game of three-on-three with Hector and his friends, two questions repeated through his brain. First, considering the aches and pains he suffered from the blocks and shoves, should he play ball with kids ten years younger? Without resolving that concern, because he knew he’d never give the game up as long as he could still dribble, he pondered Miss Birdie’s odd invitation to breakfast. Attempting to understand the twists and turns of the pillar’s brain baffled Adam, and yet hadn’t he promised himself not to always believe she had ulterior motives? Hadn’t he decided to trust Miss Birdie? He gave up trying to figure her out as he approached the front steps of the parsonage.

  As Adam contemplated himself in the mirror at six forty-five Thursday morning, he knew he had to get a haircut. Most of the first check had paid for repairs on the car. He’d set the rest aside for food because he’d run out of the goodies people had brought those first weeks. Surely he could scrape together enough to get a haircut soon. At least he was wearing a tie, he thought as he straightened it.

  Adam left the house at 7:05, plenty of time to walk to the diner. When he entered the restaurant, he looked around. All the booths lining the walls plus the five or six tables in the center of the room and every stool at the counter were occupied, mostly by men drinking coffee and talking. He spotted a few members of the congregation and was headed in the direction of Howard’s booth when Miss Birdie intercepted him. Her plastic nametag said only BIRDIE. If he wanted to escape her wrath, he figured he should never call her that.

  “Good morning, Pastor Adam. We’re busy this morning so you’re going to have to share a booth.”

  Odd. He thought she wanted to share breakfast with him, to talk to him about something personal, a problem or concern, but how did she expect to do that here? The place was packed. People held up cups for refills all over the room. She obviously had to work.

  And this was before the crowd?

  Adam pointed toward the booth where the elders sat. “I’ll join them.”

  “No, no, I have a place set and ready for you.” She grabbed his arm with her free hand and gestured toward the corner with the coffeepot she held in the other.

  Adam had made it a rule never to oppose a woman armed with a hot carafe. However, when the two got within six feet of the booth, he realized a young woman sat there, her back to them as she read the paper. He stopped.

  “Someone’s already there,” he said although he knew full well why someone was already there. The matchmaker had roped him in, set him up. He’d been dumb enough to believe her sincerity, accept her invitation, and walk into her trap.

  When would he learn?

  With a quick glance at the woman in the booth—who, fortunately, hadn’t noticed that he and his captor stood only a few feet away—then another peek at the door, Adam calculated his chance of escape. Could he run fast enough to get out of the diner before the woman in the booth could lift her eyes from the opinion page of the Austin American-Statesman?

  Foolishly he hadn’t figured Miss Birdie in his calculations. The pillar motioned toward Adam with that pot of hot coffee. Once she ascertained he wouldn’t attempt to run, she said to the young woman, “We’re full today. Do you mind sharing the booth?”

  Miss Birdie continued to wave Adam forward and, unwilling and suspicious but not wanting to insult the young woman, he followed. Besides, he couldn’t run without causing a scene and infuriating Miss Birdie. Neither seemed wise, and he was hungry.

  “Hello.” Adam nodded as the woman glanced up.

  A lovely smile, he noted, dimples showing on a round, sweet face. Her dark hair was pulled back with one of those plastic styling things he’d seen advertised on television and wondered both how they worked and if anyone bought and used them. At least this woman had.

  “Hi.” She gestured at the red upholstered seat across from her. “Please join me.”

  Adam slid in before glancing at Miss Birdie, whose smile stretched bright and broad and triumphant across her face. What next? A victory dance?

  No, she simply turned a cup over and filled it. “Your breakfast will be right out. I ordered for you, Preacher,” she said. “Pastor, this is Reverend Patillo, the minister at the Presbyterian church. Why don’t you two get acquainted? As ministers, I imagine you have a lot in common.” She dashed off, leaving them alone and looking as proud as if she’d posted a MISSION COMPLETE banner.

  Not that Adam felt particularly alone with fifty to sixty people crowded into the café. The eyes of every one of them studied the two in the booth surreptitiously. Was the entire town in on Miss Birdie’s matchmaking scheme?

  “I’m Mattie. Have we been set up?” She chuckled, a warm, friendly sound but hardly the siren’s call of immediate chemistry. “You must be Adam Jordan from the Christian Church. I’d heard a single minister was coming to town and figured it was only a matter of time before someone tried to get us together. How long have you been here?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “I’m surprised this hasn’t happened earlier.” Mattie took another sip of her coffee. “I want to…”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but here’re your breakfasts.” On her right arm, Miss Birdie carried a platter holding two large plates and two small ones. “Toast and half a grapefruit for Reverend Patillo.” She placed them in front of Mattie. “The rest for Pastor Adam. Hope you enjoy this, Preacher.”

  With those words, she set down a platter in front of Adam with a stack of pancakes topped with whipped cream and strawberries and syrup and another with four pieces of bacon, a small steak, three sausage links, a couple of biscuits, an enormous mound of scrambled eggs, grits with oceans of melted butter on top, and hash browns. It took up nearly the entire table. That finished, she folded her hands in front of her and smiled, her glance shifting from minister to minister. “Isn’t she just about the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  He responded, “I can’t eat all this.”

  “Course you can. Wouldn’t hurt you to put a little meat on those bones. Take the leftovers home for breakfast tomorrow.”

  Adam studied the amazing amount of food. Except for the grits, the food would last for a week. Even though he’d lived in Kentucky for years, he’d never learned to like grits. They must be a taste acquired immediately after weaning. To him, grits tasted like ground Styrofoam. It wasn’t that he disliked them; he just saw no reason to expend the effort to swallow something so tasteless.

  “Now, you two enjoy. Take your time.” She patted his arm, friendlier than she’d ever behaved. “No reason for you to hurry. We have plenty of room.” With that, she rushed to another booth.

  Adam glanced at the packed room and the line out the door. Oh, sure, plenty of room. Within minutes h
e discovered that even if he were interested in Mattie, it wasn’t conducive to romance to have half the town watching while the other half wished they’d stop eating and leave, giving up a booth big enough for four or five of them.

  “You don’t think she’s too obvious, do you?” He attacked the pancakes.

  “She’s sweet.” Mattie picked up a packet of jelly, tore it open, and spread the contents on her toast.

  “No, she’s not. She’s controlling and has to be right.”

  “And she thinks every minister should be married, even women pastors. I’ve heard she’s not too certain women should be in ministry unless we work with children, but if we are she wants us married.” She grinned. “Right?”

  He smiled back. “But only because she cares.”

  “You two are getting along well.” Miss Birdie appeared with her ubiquitous coffeepot and topped off their nearly full cups.

  Adam noticed she looked very pleased, probably sure her plan to marry off two ministers was going well.

  The pillar wandered off but kept her eyes turned toward them. He should tell her that if she wanted to play matchmaker, she shouldn’t hover or gawk. Instead, he took a bite of sausage. After a few bites, he studied the plates again. “Mattie, can I interest you in a piece of bacon? Sausage? Steak?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” After taking a sip of coffee, she asked, “What are you preaching on Sunday?”

  “I’m planning to use the lectionary text from the gospel. What about you?”

  “Me, too. How are you going to approach it?”

  For a few minutes the ministers discussed the meaning of the verses and their structure and historical background as well as examples they could use in a sermon. As they exchanged opinions, Adam noted and ignored Miss Birdie’s fluttering around the table. He hadn’t thought the pillar could do fluttering. She filled their cups, removed plates, even dropped ice in the overflowing glasses and brought more orange juice. Inside Adam laughed because he knew hearing them talk about the interpretation of biblical texts must make Miss Birdie crazy.

  Besides, he was having fun. He liked discussing sermons with another minister, and he felt more comfortable with a woman than he had for years because he didn’t think of Mattie as a woman—not that he’d tell her or Miss Birdie that. She seemed like another minister, a colleague but not a possible wife or a woman to impress or date. He felt at ease with her, and the constant surveillance of Miss Birdie amused him.

  “I need to tell you something,” Mattie said after Miss Birdie had run out of things to bring or empty or pick up or wipe down and had left several huge take-home boxes, which Adam filled with enough food for breakfasts for the next week. Before Mattie said more, she searched until she spotted Miss Birdie waiting on a table on the other side of the diner. “You are the nicest single man I’ve met in Butternut Creek.”

  “Oh? Are there many of us?”

  “Actually, you’re the only one I’ve met under fifty.” She grinned. “Right now, I have no desire for a relationship. I broke my engagement before I came here and am not interested in anything, not for years.”

  “Pretty bad, huh?”

  She nodded.

  “Fine with me. I’m not interested in dating now, either. New job, new life.” Adam leaned forward and spoke softly. Miss Birdie would probably believe that those heads close together meant something romantic. “How would you like to go to a movie every now and then or go out for lunch? Maybe discuss the lectionary once a week. That should throw the town matchmakers off.”

  “I’d like to. I could use a friend.” She picked up her check. “Give me a call.”

  At nine, after the preachers and most of the morning crowd had left, Birdie pulled out her cell phone and punched speed dial. She’d always thought they were a stupid expense until the girls became teenagers. Then they’d become necessities.

  “A total waste of time. Not a spark between them,” she said as soon as Mercedes answered. “They spent most of the time discussing the lectionary. What’s the lectionary?”

  “Someone divided up the Bible into verses to use in sermons.”

  “Why would anyone do that? What’s wrong with the way the Bible was written, all those books. All together.”

  “The lectionary covers most of the Bible in a couple of years so you have an idea of the complete Bible instead of just sections.”

  “Sounds too complicated.” Let down and disappointed, she shook her head, as if Mercedes could hear that. “Well, that’s what they discussed. For nearly an hour. Hmph. Didn’t work at all.”

  “It could,” Mercedes answered. “After all, sometimes it takes a while for the seed to take root. They have something in common. Don’t be so impatient.”

  “Bah, I’m not impatient.”

  “I’m not going to debate that with you because I have to get back to work. Bye.”

  After Mercedes disconnected, Birdie stared at the phone and wondered about her minister. Why hadn’t he found a wife on his own? He was an attractive young man even though his hair was a lot longer than she felt a Christian young man should wear. Of course, Jesus wore his hair long, but Pastor Adam wasn’t Jesus.

  “Miss.” One of her customers waved his hand and held up his cup. “Coffee.”

  She shoved the phone in her pocket and hurried toward him.

  This matchmaking stuff was a lot harder than she’d remembered. Was there another single woman in town she could fix the man up with? Willow Thomas was her only thought, but she was saving her for Effie’s nephew.

  Which pretty much left her baffled, not her normal state and very uncomfortable.

  Chapter Seven

  Noise from outside once again jerked Sam awake far earlier than he wanted to be conscious.

  This time the commotion didn’t come from the exploding mortars or flashes of rockets that tormented his nightmares. No, someone was knocking on the front door. They did it again, with at least two sets of knuckles. And then again. Someone he didn’t want to talk to—which included about everyone in the world—waited outside. The sound made waves of pain bounce against his skull from the inside.

  He groaned. Although he didn’t hear voices, he had an idea of exactly who stood outside and had changed to even more insistent hammering. He had learned that people in this town didn’t leave when he ignored them, but he was still willing to try.

  He squashed the pillow over his head so the streak of sunshine didn’t hit him right in the eyes and tried to fall back asleep. If changing position didn’t hurt so much, he’d turn over and bury his face in the mattress.

  “Captain Peterson, it’s Willow Thomas, the physical therapist from the hospital.”

  Exactly what he feared.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, turned one ear against the mattress, and put the pillow over the other. Didn’t work. He still heard the knocking and the shouting. It wasn’t going to stop. The look in the PT’s eyes yesterday had revealed a determined woman who didn’t act like she’d turn aside from her duty because of a locked door or being ignored by the person inside.

  He hated tenacity in a woman.

  “I have my sons with me. They want to talk to you.”

  Oh, sure. He’d wager chatting with a worn-out, crippled shell of a man who’d yelled at them was exactly what those two kids wanted to do.

  His head throbbed. With the pounding and shouting, the pain reached a higher level. Why wouldn’t she go away? Didn’t she have work?

  “Captain, the boys have all day free and I’m staying here, with them, until noon. We’re not leaving until you come out even if we have to knock on your door for the next three or four hours.”

  He couldn’t escape. After all, the woman worked with amputees all the time. Probably understood them very well, knew their reactions. She probably believed that before they were wounded and became so angry and frustrated and rude, wounded veterans had been nice guys. She probably thought he was a nice guy, deep inside. He could easily prove her wrong, only not right n
ow and not from his bedroom. He’d have to get up to show her what a jerk he could be.

  He tossed the pillow aside, turned in bed, pushed himself to his foot, and shoved the crutches under his arms. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked like he’d come off a five-day binge. Maybe he should quit drinking so much. He considered that for a second before he decided it would be easier to take down the mirror instead.

  “Hold on,” he shouted. Last night he’d fallen asleep in his camo cutoffs and T-shirt. Wrinkled and scruffy but fairly clean, they covered most of him. Attempting to go around the worst of the trash, he caught a crutch on the carpet and with a loud expletive nearly collapsed in a heap. He regained his balance and shoved away from the wall, then hobbled across the living room to the front door. Once there, he glared at the three members of the Thomas family through the glass panel.

  “Yeah?” he mumbled.

  “Captain, the boys have something they want to say. Can we come in and talk to you?”

  He looked behind him at the squalor of his house.

  He hadn’t minded the mess when the window man was here the other day—the repairman was a guy—but allowing these three in? Two kids and his PT? Besides, he wasn’t sure what else lay under the mess. Probably mice and cockroaches. As far as he knew or cared, there could be wild boars or feral cats under it all.

  The stench had begun to bother him yesterday but not enough to do anything about it. Now company waited. Maybe they’d leave as soon as they came in and the miasma nearly asphyxiated them. Of course, he didn’t plan to let them in. He could stick his head outside, hear the apologies, and shut the door, coming back in alone.

  When she saw the conditions, if she didn’t run, Willow Thomas’s eyes would be filled with sympathy, which he didn’t need, or with disgust, which might be a good thing. Right now, he could see they sparkled with determination, which signaled she was not going away. Why fight the eventual outcome?