The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  That was, of course, pretty much the center of the problem. Could Sam bring anyone happiness in the shape he was in now? Could she accept it, as confused and broken as she felt? He wasn’t the only one dragging baggage with him.

  Another huge part of the equation was Willow herself and what she’d refused to face in months. She tossed the sheet aside, turned the reading lamp on, and opened the drawer on the night table. Inside, under a couple of books, a pair of scissors, and a package of emery boards, lay a professionally taken photo of her family, all four of them, taken over a year ago. In the photo, Willow sat on a bench with one boy on each side. Grant stood behind her, his hand on the shoulders of the boys. He looked distinguished—which he was; wealthy—his tailored suit and perfect haircut witness to that; and like a good father and loving father, protecting his sons and sheltering his wife. At some time, he’d meant to be all that, probably, but even at the time the portrait had been made, he’d been in the midst of his affair with Tiffany. Not a smudge of remorse or shame for the deception showed on his face.

  How could she still allow the man who had so easily shoved her aside to reach into her brain and control her life after all this time?

  Carefully, she pulled the picture out of the frame, then picked up the scissors and snipped Grant out of the photo. The disembodied hands on the boys’ shoulders looked odd, but she felt better. Since she found out about Tiffany, she’d felt angry, both at herself for being so naive and at her ex for being who he was. With that action of removing Grant from the family circle, she realized anger no longer burned inside her and she no longer felt like a failure.

  She had to admit she hadn’t accomplished that reconciliation by herself. Thanks to Sam, she felt like a woman again. What in the world could she do about the sensations he’d awakened? The awareness that zinged back and forth between them?

  After placing the butchered picture back into the frame and tossing Grant’s head in the wastebasket, she stood and went to the dresser to pull her cell phone from the charger. She flicked through the pictures until she found the one she’d taken of Sam and the boys working in his yard. All three smiled. Nick and Leo looked up at Sam with admiration. Like Grant, he had a hand on each boy’s shoulder. His smile showed how deeply he cared about her sons. She knew he’d never hurt them.

  And, good Lord, he was so handsome, so good with her sons it made her ache.

  Did she love him? She was incredibly attracted to him, but did she feel more? Did she even know the man, the real Sam Peterson?

  Why all the questions? When had she become such a dithering idiot?

  She’d become a dithering idiot when she realized how close she was to making a decision based on little more than chemistry, exactly as she had with Grant.

  An hour after everyone left, Sam put down his book and finished his beer, the only one he’d drunk that evening. The general still hadn’t come home. Should he wait up for him? It was after ten. Pretty sure the general could take care of himself and that Winnie Jenkins wouldn’t lead him astray, Sam headed back to his bedroom.

  After washing up and getting in bed, he stared at the ceiling. For one of the few times in months, his thoughts didn’t focus on war and bombs and Morty. No, instead he thought about his future. Did he want to teach? Did he really want to go back to school to pick up the necessary hours?

  And why in the world did this bug him at this moment? Why should he consider change, any change, now? Wasn’t getting used to the loss of his leg and the addition of the prosthesis and putting up with the general and being shot down by Willow enough stress for now? He picked up his book and immersed himself in a fantasy world of science fiction until he turned off the light at nearly midnight.

  And the general still wasn’t home.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rockets exploded around Sam Peterson. The screams of the wounded reverberated through the narrow ravine. Gunfire rained down on them from the surrounding hills. He lifted his M4 to answer the barrage but a second mortar impacted, driving his face into the dirt. A blast of pain punched his leg, burning through flesh and bones and nerve. He reached for his foot. It wasn’t there.

  Sam knew this wasn’t real, but he couldn’t wake up. He lay in bed, covered with sweat, his missing leg hurting more than it had when the mortar fire tore it away. If he didn’t wake up soon, he’d have to relive touching Morty’s body. He hated that part, hated this endlessly repeating horror.

  Even as he lay there, putting off the moment he dreaded, he sensed he wasn’t alone. He fought his way through the fog of terror and sleep to open his eyes a slit.

  “Son, wake up.” The general sat on a chair next to the bed. His hand hovered over Sam’s left shoulder.

  Sam slowly regained consciousness. Probably had the nightmare because of the general’s arrival. Change always brought it. He’d hoped he’d never have to experience it again.

  In the glow of a night-light, he could see the general’s face, drawn and white.

  “You’ve had this dream before,” the general stated.

  Were there tears in the general’s eyes? Of course not. If he’d taught Sam one thing, it was that men didn’t cry. Of course, he’d also learned from the general that men didn’t show emotion, men followed orders, men were always strong. Men were men, and marines were real men.

  For a few more minutes, the general sat of the edge of the bed. Once he reached out to touch Sam on the shoulder but pulled his hand back. With that, Sam remembered another rule: Men didn’t show sympathy.

  Most of his life, Sam had believed that.

  He struggled to think of something to say to the man who didn’t look like the general, but they’d never talked. Why start now?

  “Go to sleep. I’ll stay,” the general said. He pulled the chair from the corner and settled into it. “I’ll be right here.”

  Sam quit struggling for words. Within seconds, peace enveloped him, almost as if the general’s presence protected him. At least for now, Sam didn’t have to worry about reliving that nightmare. The general was there. He’d wake Sam up again if it came back.

  Then he remembered no more.

  When he woke up, Sam felt better than he had in months. Rested. Sunlight filtered through the blinds and shone in his eyes. The aroma of bacon coming from the kitchen had wakened him.

  He hadn’t had bacon for months, not since he left the hospital where it had been slimy and limp. He didn’t even bother with the prosthesis, just grabbed his robe and crutches and hobbled toward the scent.

  The general stood in front of the stove in a camo T-shirt and matching shorts. Around his waist, he’d tied a towel, an incongruously pink one Aunt Effie had left behind. “Hungry? Sit down, son.” He waved toward the table. “Breakfast’s almost ready. Do you still like your eggs sunny-side up and runny?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When silence fell, broken only by the sounds of cooking, Sam said, “Where’d you get the bacon?” He hated the heavy stillness that pressed down and nearly suffocated him around the general and had to punch holes in it with words, even if just a stupid question. “I don’t think I have any.”

  “Son, all you had was a couple of six-packs of some Texas beer, half a loaf of moldy bread, peanut butter, and the leftovers from last night.” He dumped the eggs on a plate and added the bacon. “Winnie—Miss Jenkins—and I went to Marble Falls last night after I was chased out.”

  Sam noticed a grin, barely perceptible to anyone but him. He’d trained himself to read the general’s few facial clues.

  “Don’t think we chased you out. Looked like you didn’t mind all that much. Where’d you go?”

  “Went to a movie, then decided to give you and Willow a little more time together and went to the H-E-B to stock up on food.” He placed the plate on the table, poured two cups of coffee, put one in front of Sam, and sat down. “Eat.”

  Sam leaned against the table and swung into the chair. “Did you have fun on your date?”

  The general dran
k from his cup, then smiled—really smiled, not just a barely detectable curve of the lips. “Yes. And you?”

  “It wasn’t really a date.”

  “Winnie tells me she and the Widows want to get you and Willow together. How do you feel about that?” the general asked.

  Sam took a bite of toast, not about ready to have a heart-to-heart about his feelings with the man.

  “She seems like a lovely woman, but she’s got those two boys.” The general shook his head as if in regret.

  Even knowing the man was playing him to get a reaction, Sam had to respond. “Great kids, sir.”

  “So you like them?”

  “Great kids.” He dug into his breakfast, aware that the general kept an eye on him. “Sir.”

  After nearly a minute of playing who’ll-break-the-silence-first, the general said, “Wonder if you’d try calling me something other than ‘sir’ or ‘General.’”

  Sam’s gaze jumped to the general’s face. “Like what?”

  “Like ‘Dad’?”

  Why would he ask that after all these years?

  “I don’t know if I could do that, sir.”

  “I really messed up, didn’t I, son?” The general shook his head, but his expression wasn’t the stony, disappointed one he usually turned on Sam. He looked sad and watched his son with such desperate longing and sorrow that Sam had no idea what to say or do.

  Because he didn’t want to respond, Sam took a bite of the crispy bacon and chewed. He wasn’t ready to call the man “Dad,” but it sure seemed like he’d hurt the old man’s feelings. He’d never believed he could do that.

  Was the old man getting soft?

  Sometimes together, sometimes separately, Adam or Miss Birdie carried Missy to see her mother every day. Several of those days, Mrs. Smith had awakened when she heard Missy’s voice but then fell back asleep without saying a word. The doctor said she was out of the coma but slept deeply as her body struggled to regain and build strength. The nurse said her vital signs always improved after the visits from her daughter.

  As they drove to Austin, Adam glanced back to see Missy asleep in her car seat, then he looked at Miss Birdie.

  “You look tired,” he said before he considered the consequences of pointing that out. She must have been really exhausted because she didn’t turn the killer glare on him.

  “I am, Pastor.” She sighed. “I love that little girl, but I didn’t think Missy’d be here this long. Three weeks.” She sighed again, which made him realize the toll this had taken on her.

  “I didn’t, either. I’m sorry so much has fallen on you.” He turned off the highway and headed south on the Mopac.

  “No, no, it was my idea. And everyone has helped. Jesse and Barb had Missy spend the weekend with them. She rode a pony and fed the ducks, had a great time. She likes to play with Ouida’s girls. Even Willow and her sons have entertained Missy several Sunday afternoons.”

  “Good. I’m glad they’ve pitched in.”

  “She still cries at night.”

  “Which means you don’t get much sleep.”

  Miss Birdie rushed on, ignoring his effort to sympathize. “She asks about her mother over and over. Pastor, it’s heartbreaking. I try to answer her questions and comfort her, but I’m not the most comforting person in the world.”

  “Miss Birdie, you took her in when she had no place to go. You have been wonderful. You gave her a home, you hold her and care for her.” He pulled onto the ramp leading to the hospital. “You allowed her to stay in one place, safe.”

  “You’ve helped, too. Thank you for picking her up from day care.”

  Feeling good after those unexpected words of appreciation, Adam pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. Missy awoke, and he carried her into the hospital.

  When they arrived in Mrs. Smith’s hospital room, she was sitting up in bed. Most of the tubes and wires were gone and a tray with bowls of Jell-O and broth sat in front of her.

  “Mama,” Missy shouted as she ran toward her mother.

  “Be careful,” Miss Birdie said. “She’s still not well. Just hold her hand.”

  “Hello, darling,” Mrs. Smith croaked. She cleared her throat and looked up at Miss Birdie and Adam.

  He introduced himself and the pillar and told her they’d been taking care of Missy.

  “I remember your voices,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Your husband, Missy’s father. Can you tell me where he is?” Adam asked.

  “We’ve been divorced for years. I have no idea where he is.” She patted Missy’s hand. “We’re pretty much alone here. I have family in Virginia. My mother has gone to Richmond to take care of my sister and her new baby.”

  Explained why no one could locate her.

  “Do you want us to notify them?”

  “No, thank you. I called my sister an hour ago. My mother’s coming as soon as she can book a flight. But I worry about her. Mom has heart and health problems of her own. I can’t dump mine on her.”

  “Can you remember what happened?” Adam asked. “How you and Missy got separated?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. Missy and I took the bus to Butternut Creek for the craft show. That’s all I remember. They tell me I was struck by a car—hit-and-run. I guess no one realized I had a child with me.”

  “They couldn’t tell us your injuries,” Adam said. “Privacy issues.”

  “Broken ribs, which punctured my lungs, broken leg plus a concussion. They’re keeping an eye on my heart, but I don’t know why or how long I’ll be here.” She waved toward Adam and Miss Birdie. “Thank you for taking care of Missy.”

  She smiled as she listened to her daughter chatter about day care and Miss Birdie and the cat and life in Butternut Creek, but after a few minutes she looked so tired Adam knew it was time to go.

  “Here’s my card.” The minister placed it on the bedside table. “Call me for any reason. Would you like a prayer?”

  Mrs. Smith nodded but was asleep before he said “Amen.”

  “Mommy’s better now,” Missy said on the drive back.

  “Yes, she is, but she’s not well enough to come home yet,” Miss Birdie said. “Maybe in a few days.”

  Home to where? The house in San Saba without anyone to help? The care of Missy and an injured woman could wear Mrs. Smith’s mother out. Maybe home health care could send a nurse out, but how long would it take to set up additional help? Could she get physical therapy there?

  Maybe a nursing facility in the interim. There were several good ones in the area, but, again, what about Missy? If necessary, Miss Birdie would volunteer to continue caring for the child, but she looked worn out. Where else could Missy stay, and where could her mother recuperate without draining her own mother?

  He’d think about that. A sketchy plan had formed, which he’d have to explore.

  Friday afternoon in the PT department of the hospital, Sam was acutely aware of the interest with which the general watched him go through his exercises with Mike, lifting weights to build up muscles lost during the long recovery.

  For several repetitions, he pretended to jerk, to have trouble with the weights. Stupid, he knew, because this was easy stuff, but he had a lot he still needed to punish the general for, years of resentment.

  That anger seemed weaker and more juvenile now than it had when it had kept him alive after the amputation. Back then, he wanted to wave the handicap in front of the general, flaunt it, make him suffer for all the man had done to Sam, the screwed-up thinking that had ended in his nearly bleeding out next to his best friend. His dead best friend who wanted to do whatever Sam did—and Sam had wanted to be exactly like the general.

  They’d entered the marines together, he and Morty, to serve and honor. Morty hadn’t come back and he’d come back without a leg. He needed revenge for those losses, but it didn’t feel as good as he’d believed, as he’d hoped.

  Not that he’d allow second thoughts to stop him. Could be the longer he made the
general feel bad, the sooner Sam would feel better.

  But he couldn’t forget the tears on the general’s face the other night and his words the next morning. They might not have been tears. Could have been a reflection. And the words? The general had to know how he’d warped his only son’s beliefs and sent him off to war. How could he possibly expect Sam to call him “Dad”?

  Now that he had something to fight the general with, he wasn’t about to let go of it until the man suffered. One night of the general’s regret did not make up for an entire childhood of neglect. Besides, people didn’t change, not at his father’s age. He’d go back to normal after the novelty of seeing his son with just one leg wore off, and Sam wasn’t about to be made a fool of when he did. With that, he added more weight and struggled to lift it.

  “Hey, that’s enough, big guy,” Willow said.

  He turned to see her leaning against the wall only a few feet from him.

  “What are you trying to prove?” she asked.

  Couldn’t tell her. His plan was neither sane nor admirable, but it kept him going.

  The sight of her—so patient, so gorgeous, so tenacious—calmed him.

  “Showing off?” she asked. “Save that for someone who’ll appreciate it, Captain.”

  Those words were an ego buster.

  “Not, of course, that all the women in the department don’t enjoy the sight of your terrific shoulders and abs, but we’re attempting to hold ourselves back.”

  The general laughed. Sam felt like an idiot.

  “We want you to work on building up the muscles in your thighs, too, but first”—she nodded Christine, the PT assistant, away—“I need to talk to you.”

  When she settled on the bench only two feet from him, he could smell that vaguely citrus fragrance he thought of as Willow’s. He took a deep breath. As Aunt Effie would’ve said, he was smitten.