The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  He grinned.

  Darn, he was nearly irresistible when he grinned. Of course, listing the times that he wasn’t nearly irresistible would take up very little time or space.

  “I want you to know how much I appreciate all you’ve done with my sons. I know you wouldn’t do anything to harm or endanger them.”

  “Okay.” He nodded.

  “I should never have implied…”

  “You didn’t imply. You stated.”

  She nodded. “I should never have said that. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  She should stop. Certainly she’d expressed enough regret for tonight, but she couldn’t. “One more thing.”

  “You’re in a real orgy of apologies, aren’t you? Bet you’d prefer not to talk about orgies with me.”

  She glared at him before saying, “Just one more. I messed up by kissing you. I’m sorry about that, too.”

  “That’s what you’ve said, but I wouldn’t say you messed it up. It was a very nice kiss. You do that well. I enjoyed it and thought you did, too. I wouldn’t mind doing it again.” Before she could interrupt, he held his hand up. “But I’m going to leave that up to you. If you want to kiss me”—he pointed toward his mouth—“you know exactly where to find my lips.”

  She tossed the dishcloth in the water, hard enough that it splashed up into her face. “That’s not what I had in mind when I started this apology.”

  “Okay, but kissing’s mostly what I have in mind when I’m with you.”

  “Forget that.” She glared. “The kiss.”

  “You really mean what you’re saying? Forget that kiss?”

  She nodded.

  He shook his head. “I’d prefer to remember that kiss and try a few more, just as an experiment, to see if we really like them.”

  “We both liked that one. That isn’t the problem.”

  “Seems to be with you.”

  He grinned as she felt herself becoming angrier—but at herself, not him. She yearned to say something clever and sophisticated, a few biting words to shut him up, but she couldn’t think of words of any kind. Besides, she’d probably sputter if she tried.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “As hard as it is for me, I’ll behave. And just so we’ll both be more comfortable, I’ll wear shorts to the hospital. Then you won’t have to tell me to drop my jeans.”

  “Mom?” Leo asked, his voice high and puzzled.

  They turned to find the boys staring at them from the dining room.

  “Why do you want Sam to drop his pants?” Nick asked.

  She blinked several times as her cheeks reddened. Then she picked up the dishcloth and wiped the counter with quick, nervous strokes, ignoring the question.

  “Nothing,” Sam said. “She’s giving me instructions on measuring for my new leg.”

  “You’re getting a new leg?” Nick’s eyes dropped to Sam’s knee. “Cool. Can we see it?”

  “Sure. Your mom’s going to make sure it fits right.”

  “Awesome, Mom.” Leo smiled at her, but his gaze fell to Sam’s knee, too.

  “When?” Nick asked.

  “Soon,” Willow said as she emptied the sink and rinsed it. “Let’s go. You have to clean your bedrooms.” When both sons groaned, she tilted her head and gave them the look. “You have to take care of your own home, not just the captain’s.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison, obviously not daring to give her lip both because of her expression and because Sam watched them carefully.

  “A marine respects women,” Nick and Leo said together.

  “Bye, Sam,” Leo said. “Thanks for the pizza.”

  Willow left with a wave. “And the brownie.”

  As she drove away, she wondered where this thing, whatever it was, with Sam—with the captain—was going.

  With a shake of her head she pulled her thoughts back to reality. There was no “thing” with Sam. Her husband had left her barely a year earlier. In no way did she feel strong enough, trusting enough, to enter any relationship with a man, especially a man who had no idea what he wanted or where he was going, a man who’d even called himself a bad bargain.

  Sam watched the three head toward the car. He didn’t hold the boys’ sudden departure against them. The look their mother had given them had scared him, too.

  So, other than being terrified by her glower, what was going on between him and Willow? The feelings bouncing back and forth between them seemed both better and worse.

  Wait. Did he want things to get better or to get worse between them? Kissing was good, but better scared him; worse depressed him.

  He watched as the car drove off, the two boys waving back at him. With an answering wave, he turned the porch light off. At that moment, the idiocy of the situation hit him. He was deeply attracted to a woman who thought he was personable. Personable. The facts: She smiled at him, seemed to enjoy his company although she didn’t fall all over herself to be with him—all of that very low level of attraction showed how desperate he was for her attention. These were not the signals given off by a woman who wanted him. Right now, he didn’t mind the barely noticeable signs because the entire situation was ambiguous.

  For him, ambiguous was a good first step. It was certainly a lot more positive than hating everyone and drinking himself into an anger-fueled stupor.

  He should accept all this, the ambiguity and uncertainty, sit back and see where it led them, not bug her too much.

  Oh, sure. Relaxing and allowing life to flow by sounded a lot like Sam Peterson.

  As she greeted members of the congregation and handed out bulletins, Birdie felt a glow of pride in the interior of the sanctuary. She’d worked hard to remodel the area a few years earlier. Colonial architecture with white columns on each side of the platform—what was the correct word for the platform? Wine-colored carpet covered the three steps. A lectern jutted out on one side of the chancel—that was the word! chancel—with a pulpit on the other. The covers of a few of the pew cushions showed wear, but the rest looked good. She had no idea why some were worn; not that many people sat there.

  Not that she could enjoy the view as much as usual. On the back pew, Missy ran back and forth, occasionally stopping to clap her hands and dance. Her behavior completely baffled Bree, who sat on the bench next to the child.

  “New dress,” Missy said to Susan Pfannenstiel, who’d just started down the center aisle. “And new socks. With flowers.”

  “Very pretty,” Susan said.

  As the child showed off her new clothing, the organist played softly. Supposed to be a time for meditation but never was. People chatted and greeted one another instead of praying. That was a fight she’d given up on. Guessed fellowship was important. Besides, contemplating the Almighty didn’t mesh well with entertaining a four-year-old.

  “How’s she doing?” Susan whispered.

  “She’s had a tough time,” Birdie said. “She cries a lot, doesn’t understand why her mother isn’t here. I have no answer.”

  Behind the communion table was an old-fashioned baptistery. It consisted of an opening the size of a large window with burgundy velvet curtains on each side and a painting of the Jordan River on the wall. Beautiful, one of the best parts of the church in Birdie’s opinion.

  When she saw it, Missy straightened, obviously intrigued. After studying the scene for nearly a minute, the child stood up on the pew and pointed. “Look,” she crowed, “a puppet show.” Missy clapped her hands, obviously expecting an imminent theatrical performance.

  The congregation burst into laughter.

  “That’s not for a puppet show,” Bree explained in a low voice. “That’s the baptistery.”

  Missy frowned. “What’s a baptry?” she whispered back.

  Birdie took a few steps toward her and whispered to the child, “That’s where people become members of the church.”

  “Aah.” Missy nodded. “Do they get to play with the puppets?”

  Fortunately at that momen
t, Jesse Hardin headed down the aisle.

  “Horse man!” Missy shouted.

  Jesse grinned at her and reached in his pocket. He pulled out a peppermint candy and handed it to the child, which distracted her nicely.

  Then the organist began to play more loudly while the minister and the tiny choir processed down the aisle singing the opening hymn. The congregation rose and joined in, mumbling the words in rhythm with the organ.

  Pastor Adam looked nice in his robe, mature and almost spiritual. His hair had grown so his scalp didn’t shine through as much. His sermons were pretty good. She’d keep working with him, send him a few emails every now and then about how he could improve. Obviously he’d taken her advice because he showed great progress under her guidance.

  Ten minutes into the service, she sat next to Bree and Missy. She’d forgotten how distracting a child could be. Oh, she’d prepared. On the pew between them were a doll with several outfits and accessories, four or five coloring books and a box of crayons, and a few little books. Missy wanted each of them at the same time. A few minutes later, none of them interested her.

  Obviously the child had attended church regularly. Missy knew about prayers, closing her eyes and folding her hands piously—for all of ten seconds until she was ready to do something else.

  When in the world would Mrs. Smith ever show up? Birdie needed her nearly as much as Missy did.

  “Why don’t we have a children’s sermon?” Adam asked Maggie.

  The part-time secretary had just pulled her chair up to the desk and picked up her cup of coffee. She blinked. “I don’t know, Pastor. We haven’t had kids for so long, I guess it looked foolish for one or two children to sit up in the front with the preacher. Or no one, most mornings.”

  “How are we going to appeal to families if we don’t have something for their kids? Do we have children’s church or a nursery?”

  “We haven’t needed them since the last minister left. He had five kids.”

  “But the two Thomas boys were in church, and so was Missy.”

  Perhaps he could borrow Carol and Gretchen for Sunday morning if only for children’s sermon, to swell the crowd. Oh, not only for his evangelistic purposes, but exposure to religion and the kids at church wouldn’t hurt them much.

  “How many of them are going to stay in town? As soon as they find a relative for Missy, she’ll be gone.”

  A fact he knew well. Adam had called the police a couple of times, but they hadn’t found out more. The emergency phone still didn’t answer. Although obviously well cared for, Missy had not been reported as missing. The child seemed to be alone in the world, but both he and Miss Birdie knew she had, or at least used to have, a mother who loved her and who’d taken her to church and hugged her and bought her new clothes.

  Where could she be?

  At least she probably hadn’t died. The police had sent the fingerprints all over the country; they didn’t match those of any Jane Does they had in the morgue.

  After nearly an hour of sermon preparation, the phone rang. Adam answered, again forgetting he had a secretary for two hours a morning. Would he ever get used to that? “This is Adam Jordan.”

  “Good morning, Reverend Jordan. This is Detective Somerville from the police department.”

  “Glad to hear from you. I’ve been thinking a lot about Missy. I hope you have good news.”

  “We found Missy’s mother.”

  “Terrific.”

  “St. Michael’s Hospital in Austin called. Fingerprints match a Deanne Smith who’s been in a coma since August nineteenth. Airlifted from Butternut Creek. Hit by a car a few blocks from where the little girl was found.”

  “Great.” Adam jumped to his feet, happy for the match although sorry for the injuries to the mother. “Sounds as if you found her. What took so long?”

  “Snafu on that end. They identified her through a purse found near her but didn’t send the prints until yesterday.”

  “How is she? What do we do next?”

  “As I said, she’s in a coma. You have all the information we know. Maybe you could visit her, see if you can find out anything.”

  “Glad to.” After he hung up and jotted down the information, he wondered what to do next. Should he take Missy to see her mother? Probably not, at least not today. He should investigate a little, find out if this Deanne really was her mother and see if her condition might frighten the child.

  “Maggie.” He hurried through the reception area. “I have to go to Austin. Be back in a couple of hours.”

  The old car made it to Austin with no trouble. Rex had performed mechanical miracles with the ancient vehicle. When he got to St. Michael’s Hospital, Adam checked in at the ICU and went to Mrs. Smith’s bed.

  Yes, this was Missy’s mother. She had the same fly-away hair and freckles but her skin was pale, nearly gray. Her chest lifted rhythmically. The tubes and machines hooked up to her might scare Missy, as would her mother’s stillness. He explained the situation to a nurse checking Mrs. Smith’s vitals and asked her advice.

  “Sometimes it’s difficult for a very young child to see her mother like this, so quiet and on all the equipment,” she said. “Maybe you could take a picture and talk to her about it before she came.”

  “But you do think I should bring her.”

  The nurse glanced at Mrs. Smith, then at him. “You’ll have to decide, but often it’s better for her to see that her mother is alive, even with all the machines. Otherwise, she might worry more.”

  “Will she be okay?”

  “I really can’t discuss the injuries without a family member. However there’s a reasonable chance she will recover. It may be a slow process.”

  “Thank you.”

  With the nurse still hovering and taking care of Mrs. Smith, Adam pulled out his cell to snap a picture and attempted to find the best position that showed the fewest machines. Before he left, Adam stood next to the bed and picked up Mrs. Smith’s hand. “Your daughter Missy is fine,” he said. “She’s being taken care of in Butternut Creek.” He repeated the sentence several times, then gave a short prayer for healing before he lay her hand back on the bed.

  The seminary’s professor of pastoral care believed that people in a coma were able to hear. Adam hoped his words brought peace to Missy’s mother.

  When he got back to Butternut Creek, Adam headed for the diner where he knew Miss Birdie would be cleaning after departure of the lunch crowd.

  “They found Missy’s mother,” he said as he approached the pillar.

  “Praise the Lord!” She lifted her arms toward the sky. “Preacher, I love that little girl and I’m really happy for her and her mother. But”—she sighed and dropped into a chair—“I’m even happier for me. I’m pretty sure raising another child would be the death of me. Now.” She pointed at the chair across from her. “You sit there. I’ll get you a cup of cup of coffee, then you can tell me all about it.”

  “No, Miss Birdie, you sit down and I’ll get coffee for both of us.”

  She didn’t argue.

  On Thursday afternoon, Birdie settled in a chair with a clear view of the PT room. She felt a tiny bit of shame because she’d had to shove Susan Pfannenstiel and her walker out of the way with her hip. Not hard, but she had to get to that chair first. She needed to see what was happening inside.

  In the center of the room, Sam swung his way across the parallel bars. A man—some kind of expert from Austin, she guessed—stood at the other end of the bars and watched.

  Where was Willow? She couldn’t see her anyplace. Just Sam and the man and that nitwitted, man-hungry Trixie.

  When Sam reached the end of the bars, the man nodded. He reached down and patted Sam’s thigh and knee. The captain had a new fake leg, Birdie guessed. Okay, the correct term was prosthesis. She hadn’t seen the other one because Sam always wore trousers, but he had shorts on today. The artificial limb—that sounded like a good term—was shiny metal with all sorts of belts and hinges.

>   Then Willow wandered over. That’s exactly what she did: wandered. She didn’t rush to see Sam, like she was really interested in him. Of course, Willow had never displayed the slightest bit of interest in Sam—a terrible failure for the Widows not to have worked on that, a loose end they should have tied up.

  Birdie MacDowell, you are a foolish old lady, a dreamer, she lectured herself. Although she tried to hide it, she was a romantic, had been until Martha had run off with that no-good man. With that experience, Birdie felt ashamed to admit she still believed in true love and the dreams a mother has for her daughter’s future.

  Because she’d failed with Martha, perhaps she’d build up some treasure in heaven by bringing other people together, people who would be loving and faithful and responsible—and happy. Yes, she was a silly old woman, but how could matchmaking between two lonely people hurt anyone?

  At least, that’s what she thought until Sam looked up at Willow.

  His expression was grim and his eyes bleak. Could it be pain from the new prosthesis? Birdie didn’t think so, because almost immediately he smiled at Willow. Pleasantly. Yes, he wore a pleasant smile, not that amazed, love-shocked expression she’d seen that first day they met. He and Willow looked like patient and therapist. Where had the passion she’d seen in Sam’s eyes gone? What had happened to the love-at-first-sight look that had burst across his face?

  Bah. She’d let her matchmaking slide and look what had happened. Nothing. Actually, they’d moved backward. Not a bit of attraction showed between these two beautiful young people who were absolutely meant for each other. Not just because they seemed to fit but also because they were about the only single young people in town except for the preachers.

  Pastor Adam and the Reverend Mattie had spent hours at the diner, drinking coffee. Often they were joined by ministers from the other churches and spent the time discussing sermons or planning upcoming church events. Hrmp. Hardly a romance blooming there despite the fact she’d heard the two single ministers went to Marble Falls to see a movie every now and then.