Now in charge, she was in no hurry. In every conversation, Miss Birdie considered him either the bait or the victim. Didn’t much matter which. Neither came to a good end.
“What time are you leaving for the youth retreat tomorrow?” the pillar asked.
“I’m going to pick the kids up from school at three.”
“Who’s going?”
She knew this, but if it kept her from confronting him with whatever was on her mind, answering didn’t bother him. “Your granddaughters, Hector, and his friend Bobby.”
“What are you going to do there?” Winnie asked, sounding interested. “At the retreat?”
“I’m leading a small group and preaching at worship Sunday.”
“What are you driving?” The pillar continued her interrogation with a glare at Winnie to leave the questions to her. “Not your car, I hope.”
“Howard loaned me his van.”
“About that sermon.” She leaned toward him. “Don’t make it long and boring. Young people like short.”
“Right.” His agreement always made her happy.
For a moment, the pillar studied him while Winnie grinned at the engagement ring the general, father of Adam’s best friend, had placed on her finger only weeks ago.
“Will Gussie Milton be there? At the retreat?” Miss Birdie spoke casually, almost tossing off the comment.
Exactly what Adam had expected was the reason for her visit. He tensed, almost feeling the trap vibrate milliseconds before it snapped shut. Dear Lord, please grant me patience and wisdom, he prayed silently. Patience and wisdom. Amen.
“Yes,” he said aloud.
“She’s a nice young woman. Unmarried, as I remember.”
As if she didn’t know that. “Yes,” he said.
Then, in a quick attempt to change the subject, Adam turned toward the other Widow and said casually, “Winnie, now that you’re going to marry Sam’s father…”
“Don’t know if she will,” Birdie grumbled. “They may live in sin for tax purposes.”
“Birdie.” Winnie put her hands on cheeks that were turning pink. “How could you say that? Mitchell and I…”
“But don’t try to sidetrack me, Preacher. You’re not married yet, not engaged yet. That’s our biggest worry and failure,” she said with a sorrowful sigh that told of the unimaginable depths of her disappointment.
“All in good time,” he temporized. “All in good time.”
Miss Birdie wasn’t finished. “What I’m saying is that if Gussie Milton’s going to the retreat, you’d better put those days to good use.”
He heard the wagging of a finger in her voice and shuddered to contemplate what Miss Birdie had in mind. She probably expected him to marry Gussie on Friday evening and have her heavy with child by Sunday.
“About Winnie’s wedding,” he said, restating his topic.
“About Gussie Milton,” Miss Birdie countered.
“We hear she left a message this morning,” Winnie said.
“I haven’t read it yet.” He gestured toward the pink slip.
Both Widows leaned far forward in an effort to read that square of paper tantalizingly close to them in the center of the desk. He picked it up, folded the note, and stuck it into the pocket of his shirt.
Then, thankfully, because he didn’t put it past Miss Birdie to pluck the message from his pocket, Mercedes Rivera stuck her head in the door. “Sorry I’m late. Long meeting.” She hurried in and settled in a chair on the other side of Miss Birdie.
“Welcome, Mercedes,” he said.
In contrast with the other Widows, Mercedes, the town librarian, had dark hair, liberally streaked with white and pulled back into a French braid. With a fuller body than Miss Birdie, she also displayed a sweet smile, one that Adam almost always trusted. She was polite and, most important, seldom harassed him.
Adam took the few seconds her arrival gave him to return to his topic. “When Winnie marries Sam’s father—”
“If she does,” Miss Birdie said.
“We are going to—” Winnie started to say.
“—the number of Widows is going to decrease again,” Adam finished.
“We’re not going to kick Winnie out,” Mercedes said. “We’ll still have three Widows.”
“Miss Birdie,” he said with deep concern in his voice. “With work and raising your granddaughters and all you do for the church, I fear you might become…” He paused to think of a word that wouldn’t insult her. There were none. Miss Birdie was easily affronted.
“Weary in my efforts?” She glared at him for suggesting she might possess limits of any kind.
He couldn’t mention her health problems, especially that bad shoulder. If he did, she’d—as they said on the basketball court—open a can of whoop-ass on him.
“You’re a very busy woman. All your good works are far more important than getting me married off.” He turned to Winnie. “And with your engagement…”
* * *
Birdie glanced toward the other Widows, then back at the preacher as he trailed off. In that instant, Birdie noted a fleeting expression of satisfaction flit across his face and realized she and Winnie and Mercedes had walked right into his trap.
“Well, Mercedes, you missed our entire discussion,” she said in an effort to circumvent whatever the preacher was fixin’ to bring up. “We’re finished. Time to get a move on.” Birdie struggled to stand, but when she lifted herself an inch off the chair, that blasted shoulder collapsed and dropped her back down. Doggone it! Betrayed by her own body, but she’d be darned if she’d let anyone know about it. She pretended she’d only changed position.
“Not quite,” the preacher said. “We were about to discuss the Widows with Winnie’s change in status.”
Mercedes whispered to Birdie, “I didn’t think that’s what you wanted to talk about.”
Always truthful, that Mercedes. How in the world had Birdie ended up with a friend like her?
“Let’s talk about the Widows,” Adam repeated insistently. He stood, walked around the desk, and settled in a chair closer to them. “You’ll be shorthanded with Winnie getting married.”
“If she does,” the pillar grumbled.
Winnie frowned at her but remained silent. Winnie was well aware that arguing with her never accomplished a thing.
“Oh, no, Preacher. With Pansy and Winnie to help us…,” Mercedes began.
“Pansy is a wonderful help to the congregation, and a great cook. But she isn’t a Widow and she’s married.”
Birdie leaned to the right, still attempting to find a comfortable position. “Pastor, you’re the one who convinced me to break with tradition and make Winnie Jenkins a Widow when she’d never married. Not that I’m saying we should make Pansy a Widow, mind you.” Fact was, Pansy had turned them down before. With her mother’s poor health, she said she just didn’t have time. Besides, if they started letting just anyone join, they wouldn’t be the Widows would they?
“I have another suggestion,” the preacher said.
Birdie didn’t like suggestions, not from anyone, but he just kept right on suggesting.
“Blossom Brown,” he said.
“Blossom Brown?” Birdie snorted. “Silly name for an elderly…” She paused for a second, realizing she and Blossom were about the same age. “Silly name for an adult.”
“Besides, Preacher,” Winnie said, “she’s not a real widow. She’s a grass widow.”
“Her husband left her for some young trophy wife,” Mercedes said. “Not that the whole situation isn’t sad, but her husband didn’t die. She’s…she’s…” Mercedes paused before she whispered, “divorced.”
“Yes.” He gave her a ministerial nod. “She went through a difficult divorce.”
“Sad, so very sad.” Birdie infused her words with sympathy before she snapped, “But she’s not a real widow.”
“Ladies, whether he died or ran out on her, Blossom is alone in that big house by the lake, and she wants to serv
e someplace.”
Mercedes nodded. “I know this has been hard for her, but Blossom”—she raised her hand in front of her—“well, I don’t want to sound judgmental or unkind, but she’s not like us, not a bit.” She dropped her hand and said, “She’s rich and has a cook and a housekeeper.”
“Why would she have the slightest interest in doing the work the Widows do?” Winnie asked.
“Guess you’ll know that only if you give her a try.” He paused. “She’s alone. No children.”
“Pastor.” Birdie took charge of the discussion. “She’s what we call ‘high maintenance.’ That champagne-colored hair doesn’t come cheap. And those nails? I’ll bet she gets them done weekly in Austin. How could she scrub a floor?” Birdie shook her head. “Why would she want to?”
“And, well, she’s not from here,” Winnie said. “She doesn’t know how to do things.”
“Not the way we do them,” Mercedes agreed.
“I believe,” Adam said, “she was born in Louisiana, and she seems to be a true Southern lady.”
“Well, I can’t understand a word she says with that accent. Besides.” Birdie leaned forward. “I can’t see her as a Widow.” She nodded, a motion that they all knew signaled the end of discussion. Not that the preacher ever acknowledged it.
“You couldn’t see Winnie as a Widow but she worked out.”
“Not completely. I’ve had to train her.”
“What?” Winnie sat up straight and blinked. “Train me?”
“All right. Winnie worked out fine. Then she decided to get married.” Birdie sniffed pointedly. Winnie’s choice still rankled. “As for Blossom Brown, she’s not really a member of the church. Doesn’t she still belong to that la-di-da church in Austin? She and her husband seldom attended services here. Maybe once a month, if that often.”
“And she wears hats, Preacher,” Mercedes said. “No one wears hats anymore, except Blossom. Bird, do you remember that yellow one she wore last Easter? Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen and must have cost more than you make in tips in a couple of weeks.”
“Which again makes me wonder why she’d want to be a Widow,” Birdie said. “We’re plain folks, Mercedes, Winnie, and I. We don’t wear beautiful tailored clothing and fancy hats.”
“Because she’s lonely. She needs the church now. Whether she’s come every Sunday, she’s attended more often than some of our members. Ladies, she needs to be part of the church. She needs to be a Widow.” He paused and seemed to search for words before he continued. “When I visited her last week, she told me she’d gotten the house in the divorce settlement and would be living out here permanently. She has nothing to do with her life now that she no longer entertains for her husband or travels with him.”
“Beautiful house,” Mercedes said. “Out on the lake.”
“I hear she has a wonderful view,” Winnie added. “I’d love to see the inside.”
For almost a minute, Birdie exchanged looks with the other Widows, silently weighing the pros and cons. In the end, that beautiful lake house tipped the scales. But nothing had been decided, and Birdie didn’t want the preacher to think otherwise.
“We will discuss this.” She stood, pushing herself to her feet with her good arm. “I’m not promising anything.”
“Pastor, don’t forget the spring bazaar and chicken spaghetti dinner coming up next month,” Winnie said as they gathered their possessions to leave.
“Make sure you get some signs out and get a few articles in the newspaper. And remember your responsibility at that retreat, finding a wife.” Birdie turned toward the door and strode out, the other two following.
Once they stood in the parking lot, Birdie said, “I think we made ourselves very clear.”
“Yes, you did,” Mercedes agreed.
“But, you know, he doesn’t always do what we tell him to,” Winnie said.
A grievous disappointment to them all.
* * *
Adam knew exactly how the Widows felt. Unfortunately, courting a woman was one area he had no idea how to approach. Tell him to preach a better sermon and he’d work on that. Give him a list of shut-ins and he’d visit. Mention that a kid needed a place to spend the night and he’d make up a bed in a spare room of the parsonage.
But find a wife in a town with no single women except for Sister Mary Timothy down at the Catholic Church and his friend Reverend Mattie Patillo? He had no idea how to manage that.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out the note Maggie had left him about Gussie’s call. “She’ll see you Friday at the retreat,” he read. “Call her cell if you have questions.”
He smiled. Not a particularly personal note. He’d prefer a protestation of undying love.
Then a terrible idea hit him. Certainly the Widows wouldn’t track him down at the youth retreat in the thickly wooded campground south of Gonzalez. Surely they’d stop short of stalking him there, of appearing and coercing Gussie to accept his clumsy courting.
Of course they wouldn’t do that.
But he wasn’t about to place a bet on their ability to resist temptation.
CHAPTER TWO
Gussie Milton wasn’t a pink person. She preferred vibrant colors, hence her yellow car, the red accent wall in her bedroom, and the pile of orange and bright green and purple T-shirts that lay next to the duffel bag on her bed.
Her mother loved to tell about the time a three-year-old Gussie refused to go to church in a frilly pink dress, how she’d removed that ultra-feminine garment and put on jeans and a UT shirt. Gussie always wondered why a mother who named her daughter for a favorite uncle could expect that daughter to wear a pink dress.
“Gus,” her father called from downstairs, interrupting her inspection of the jumble of colors on her bed. “Want to watch television with us? One of those singing shows is on.”
“No thanks, Dad. I have a lot left to do.”
She picked up the date book on her desk and turned to toss it into a tote. Three bags were lined up by the door: the red one for work, the orange one for the district youth, the one covered in sunflowers for church. Her entire life, organized in totes. She sighed. Someday she’d like to add a purple tote labeled MY LIFE, because she didn’t have one now.
Always active in youth group and retreats and summer camp, she’d fallen into that again when she graduated from college and came back home. Her friend Clare Montoya had suggested the reason she worked with teenagers was because she didn’t have children of her own. A possible explanation. However, even if she didn’t work with the church kids, she still wouldn’t have children of her own.
Little by little, she’d taken more responsibility, from working with the high school youth here and growing the group from three to fifteen regulars, to taking “her kids” to camp, to being in charge of the district youth. She loved it because working with young people gave her life meaning. Their joyful faith inspired her and pulled her out of herself.
After she put the book in the orange bag, her cell rang. She glanced at the caller ID. Jimmy Flock, a minister from San Antonio. Did she want to talk to him? Yes, despite having more preparation to do than she had time for, she’d answer. He always supported the district youth programs. “Hey,” she said. “You’re not calling to cancel for the retreat, are you?”
“Would I do that? No, just checking to see if you need me to do anything.”
“Bless you. I can’t think of anything.”
Then he said exactly what he always did. “How’s your love life?”
Didn’t he realize what a pushy and intrusive question that was? No one asked a woman of thirty-one about her love life because chances were good she didn’t have one. Maybe it had been witty banter fifty years ago, but now it was just plain embarrassing. As usual, she answered with a joke: “Oh, Jimmy, we don’t have time for me to tell you the details.”
“Still not married, huh?”
“I’ll let you know when that happens.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
After discussing a few details of the youth retreat, he said, “I looked over the information you sent in the mail. I see that new minister in Butternut Creek—what’s his name? Adam something?—is preaching Sunday morning. What’s he like? Have you met him yet?”
“Yes, for coffee a few times to discuss the retreat. Seems like a nice kid. He’ll be fine.” She looked at the piles of clothing and her full totes. “Hey, I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do, but I’ll have time to talk more when I see you tomorrow.”
Why, she pondered after she hung up, why did people believe her marital status was any of their business? Particularly people who didn’t know her well.
Because she was a compulsive list maker, she settled in front of her laptop to check the one about what she needed to take with her. She had it all ready. As long as she was there, she sent a quick email to Clare, her friend since the church nursery and one of the few people who knew what had happened to Gussie thirteen years earlier. Gussie’s other friends had moved away after graduation. They kept up by email and with occasional visits, but Clare—dear Clare—was always around. Though now that Clare had three children and lived an hour outside of Austin, they didn’t get together nearly as often as they would have liked.
That finished, Gussie turned back toward the heap of clothing, picked up a TCU T-shirt, folded it, and lobbed it toward her duffel bag. As she reached for a pair of jeans, she grinned in anticipation of the upcoming retreat. She loved teenagers and always enjoyed working with the other adults. Maybe she’d get to know that young minister from Butternut Creek better, too. Seemed like a nice guy.
After filling the bag, she zipped it and slung it over her shoulder as she headed down the stairs toward the living room.
“About ready, dear?” Her mother picked up the remote and muted the television as Gussie dropped the bag by the front door.
“I have a few more things to pack. Tomorrow morning, I’ll grab everything and take off.” She sat next to her mother on the sofa. “You’ll be okay?”
The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek Page 2
