The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  He remained silent but in a pastoral manner. His counseling professor had called it watchful empathy.

  “George drives me nuts. At dinner, he eats one bite of chicken first, then one of potatoes, finishing with a forkful of green beans, then repeats that.”

  “But didn’t you know that before you got married?” He stood and walked around the desk to sit next to his neighbor.

  “Oh, yes, but back then I didn’t know about the other things. His closet is perfect, colors together. He hates disorder. He hates…well, he hates everything that is family life and children.”

  “What? He has a wonderful family.”

  “Yes, he does.” She shook her head. “He changed right after he began his own business seven years ago, right before Carol was born. Probably not good timing with the stress of a new business and a baby.”

  “Tell me more about George when you first met him. Why did you fall in love with him?” There, that sounded ministerial but not overly so.

  “Oh, he’s always been a little staid and controlling, but I did see moments of spontaneity, of exploration and joy.” She caught his eye as if attempting to sell him on her words. “We complemented each other, I thought. My messy life and emotions balanced his purposeful actions and solemnity. And…and I felt safe with him.” She sighed and glanced at Gretchen, who seemed too occupied with the dog to be listening. Nevertheless, Ouida leaned toward Adam and lowered her voice. “He was raised by his grandmother. His parents died when he was seven. She was strict and unemotional, which probably has a great deal to do with his being quiet and introspective. I loved him because I knew who he was inside, how much he needed me and how hard it was for him to show it.” She shook her head again. “I never should’ve allowed this isolation, his closing down, to happen to him, to the girls. They don’t know he loves them.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Adam, I don’t know.” She sighed again. “He’s getting worse, much more distant. I don’t know how to reach him anymore, especially since he’s not around.”

  “Have you talked to him about that?”

  “I tried. Didn’t get anyplace.”

  “You know I’m always available to talk to. What can I do?”

  “Thanks.” She smiled. “Listening’s probably all you can do now. I’m sorry I dropped all this on you, but it’s been building.” She tapped her chest. “Inside.”

  When she stood, Adam got to his feet.

  “I’ll talk to him again. Sunday, when the girls nap, I will.” She reached her hand out to her daughter. “Come on. Let’s go. Adam has work to do.”

  Gretchen gave Chewy a final pat and ran over to Adam for a hug. Then the two exited, leaving Adam to wonder what in the world he could do. There were things in ministry he was inexperienced in and unprepared for. Counseling scared him. What did he have to say that would help anyone?

  He hated to use the Kowalskis’ marriage as a learning experience. He should probably study up, read a little. He moved toward the bookcase and perused his books until he finally found one on marital counseling in a stack behind the desk. His sermon could wait.

  * * *

  Adam encouraged his ancient car toward the thrift shop. Although it threatened to die on him at the only major intersection in town, he did get there. The vehicle putted and jumped as he pulled into a parking space. He’d need to call Rex.

  No better mechanic in the state than Rex. Only one who had been able to keep the old car going consistently, and he charged Adam only for parts. As a good Catholic, Rex felt God expected him to help the preacher and that old car was part of his witness, his true mission. Adam kept his number on speed dial.

  Turning the engine off—although it still chugged and sputtered for a few more seconds with the key out of the ignition—he got out of the car, flipped open the trunk to pick up the few boxes remaining from his move, and walked inside the shop.

  The thrift shop was always closed on the Friday before the quarterly Saturday sale. He expected Miss Birdie to be there. He never knew what days she took off from the diner and probably never would. Once when he’d asked her about her schedule, she’d let him know that although she was a poor workingwoman, she didn’t waitress 24/7. He never asked again, simply accepted that if there was work to be done, the pillar appeared.

  “When you find a shirt that is too worn for anyone to wear, chunk it in the trash.” Mercedes pointed toward a barrel as he got to work.

  “Chunk?” Adam asked. “Do you mean chuck?”

  “She said what she meant, Preacher.” Miss Birdie glanced up from her sorting. “Chunk, you know, throw it.”

  Another word for his Texas vocabulary. “Okay, what do I do after I chunk the worn shirts?”

  “Put the nice ones back on the shelf and the in-betweens in a box for the sale,” Winnie said.

  After fifteen minutes of packing and chunking and chatting, they heard the sound of a car pulling up outside.

  “Is that Blossom? I told her to be here at nine.” The pillar glared at Adam as if the late arrival were his fault.

  “Looks like her big car,” Mercedes said.

  “Expensive and probably eats up the gasoline,” Birdie complained.

  “Probably pretty fuel-efficient,” Mercedes said. “The new cars are.”

  “Hrmph.” Miss Birdie glared at her friend. “You don’t always have to correct everyone.”

  “I told Blossom to bring cleaning supplies.” Winnie leaped in to stop the disagreement. “Hope she brought a mop because the floor in that back room really needs a good scrubbing.”

  The front door opened and a pudgy, middle-aged woman entered toting a bucket and mop. “Where should I put these?” she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she dropped the stuff, moved back a few steps, and held the door open.

  “We’re always happy to have a new volunteer.” Adam hurried to welcome her. “I’m Adam Jordan, minister at the Christian Church and these are…”

  “I know who you are and I’m not a volunteer. I’m Miss Blossom’s housekeeper. She made me come. What should I do?”

  The four blinked.

  “She made you come? Blossom made you come?” Adam struggled to understand the comment.

  “Where is she now?” Miss Birdie sounded oddly mystified, an emotion he rarely saw from her.

  “She’s in the car, getting the food out.” The woman held the door open.

  “The food?” Winnie echoed.

  “Hello, hello!” Blossom sang as she entered the door holding a huge basket. “Coffee and pastry for all.” Not even noticing the expressions on the faces of the Widows, which ranged from amazement to horror, she put the basket on the table where Winnie had been working, right on top of the nicest T-shirts.

  Winnie blinked, Mercedes shook her head, and Miss Birdie—well, Miss Birdie continued to look stunned. Adam had never seen her taken aback. He’d never believed the pillar could be at a loss for words.

  Both Winnie and Mercedes looked at Miss Birdie, expecting her to take over. When she didn’t, Mercedes said sweetly, “Hello, Blossom. You brought your housekeeper?”

  “Oh, yes.” Blossom motioned in the direction of the woman. “That’s Evelyn, my housekeeper.”

  “Why isn’t she at home?” Winnie said. “Keeping your house?”

  “You said we were cleaning. I don’t clean well.” She fluttered her beautifully manicured hands toward the confusion of the room.

  Finally, Miss Birdie found several dozen words. “The Widows are cleaning the thrift shop and sorting clothing,” she said in a voice so cold it could freeze the coffee Blossom had started to pour. “Not our housekeeper or our maids, but the Widows. This is a community service that we, the Widows, do.”

  This time Blossom blinked. “But I’m not at all good with this sort of thing. I’m not dressed for it.” They all examined her lovely pale blue silk shirt and slacks with matching high-heeled sandals.

  Because Adam feared Miss Birdie would have a stroke, he stepped forward.
“Blossom, the Widows themselves do community service. It is their way of being servants, of helping others unselfishly.”

  “But I brought coffee, and my cook baked us another of those coffee cakes you all enjoyed so much.” She smiled at them all.

  “Not again,” the pillar grumbled.

  “Dear,” Mercedes said. “Thank you, but as much as we enjoyed that pastry, we aren’t an eating group. We’re a doing-things-for-others group. We thought you understood that when we invited you to join.”

  “At the suggestion of the preacher,” the pillar stated. Her tone said, Don’t blame me for this mess.

  “You don’t want the coffee?” She glanced down at the three cups she’d poured.

  “Evelyn, thank you for coming,” Adam said. “Do you live close by? Can you walk home from here or do you need a ride?”

  The housekeeper pointed east. “I’ll walk.” She scurried out.

  “Thank you for coming,” Mercedes shouted after her.

  “Blossom, why don’t you and I go to the table in the back of the store and chat?” Adam picked up one of the filled cups. “Over our coffee?”

  “I’m coming, too, Preacher, and I’m not feeling a bit chatty,” Miss Birdie said.

  “Oh, my.” Blossom’s ivory skin became paler, and her eyes grew enormous. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No, no, only a misunderstanding,” Adam assured her as he pushed her toward the back. Once there, he held out a chair for her. Skittishly, she perched on the edge of the seat.

  “I don’t believe you understand the mission of the Widows,” he began.

  “We take care of other people, ourselves,” the pillar interrupted from where she stood next to the table. “We do the work. We don’t have our servants do the work.”

  Because Blossom looked as if she was on the verge of tears, Adam took Miss Birdie’s elbow and escorted her, forcefully, toward the front of the store. “I’ll handle this,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. Taking a stand against the pillar had never been one of his favorite actions.

  “We are the servants,” Miss Birdie said loudly as he headed toward the table again and she stomped back to the work area.

  He took a chair across from Blossom and took a gulp of coffee. “Great coffee.”

  Blossom brightened a little.

  “I have a favorite Bible verse, from the book of Micah. I’d like to share it with you,” Adam said. “‘…what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?’”

  “Very pretty,” she said. “But,” she leaned forward and whispered, “that Birdie MacDowell isn’t a bit humble. Not a bit.”

  Because he couldn’t refute her observation, he hurried on. “Those words from Micah are how the Widows feel. They serve others. When I arrived a few months ago, they got donations to furnish the parsonage. Because of that, we could open it up to an injured woman and her family. Now two homeless kids live there. The Widows furnished the bedroom, provided all the linens. The Widows take food to shut-ins and volunteer within the community.”

  “Maybe this was a mistake.” Again she fluttered her fingers toward the Widows. “I really don’t feel that way, you know, humble and kind, and how could I do anything about justice? I probably wouldn’t fit in. In fact”—she folded her hands—“I don’t, not a bit.”

  Adam allowed her words to hover between them before he asked, “What will you be doing with your time?”

  “I could play bridge.” She sighed. “But I’m tired of that. A lot of gossip, and I know too many rumors were going around about Jason and me to enjoy it anymore.” She paused. “I could become a docent at the art gallery, but that’s in Austin.”

  “A long drive, and you wouldn’t be making new friends here in Butternut Creek.”

  She bit her lips, then shook her head. “I don’t know.” Tears appeared in her eyes. “I’m really not good at anything except taking care of Jason and being his hostess.”

  Adam handed her a couple of tissues.

  She swallowed and dabbed at her eyes. “Pastor, I have no skills. I’ve had hired help all my life, even as a child. They’ve always done everything.”

  “Aren’t you in charge of the help? Didn’t you plan the receptions and dinners and parties for your husband? I imagine you’re a good organizer.”

  “Well, yes, I am that, but there’s no need in this group for an organizer with Birdie and Winnie around.”

  “Maybe you’ll find another way to fit in. Please, give it another try. I truly believe you’ll be a great addition.”

  She nodded, wiped her eyes once more, then placed the tissues in her purse.

  Had the message gotten through? Adam could only hope it had. Blossom needed the Widows. He only hoped the Widows saw accepting her as an act of kindness.

  * * *

  “Good morning, Adam.”

  A glorious morning was always made brighter when he saw Ouida with a plate covered by a napkin.

  “I’ll carry this to the church,” she said as if he couldn’t quite manage that.

  Following her, Adam couldn’t help but notice that the short overalls Ouida wore made her backside look as wide as a football lineman’s—not that he made a habit of watching women’s derrieres. She wore a yellow striped T-shirt, sunny and happy like Ouida, but today she seemed determined about something and her usual stroll had become almost a march. Because Chewy slept in, only Adam followed.

  “Where’s Gretchen?”

  “She’s spending this week with my sister up in Plano.”

  By the time they’d entered the church, waved at Maggie, and entered the minister’s study, she’d slowed down a little. She placed the plate in the middle of Adam’s desk and turned to look at him.

  “Umm, do you do marriage counseling?”

  “I can and I do,” Adam said although he didn’t feel nearly as confident as his answer sounded. “What do you need?”

  “Oh, not for me and George.” She shook her head. “But I have some friends… All right, it’s about George and me.” She dropped into a chair in front of his desk. “You know that from what I said before.”

  When she sat, he did, too.

  He waited. She didn’t speak. He templed his fingers and watched her. He’d learned long ago—actually, last year in seminary—that listening brought more information than asking questions, usually. If it didn’t, he could ask questions.

  “You won’t try to convert me, will you? You know we aren’t religious people.”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve told me that.”

  “That’s right.” Apparently convinced he wouldn’t force faith on her, she said, “You probably think we’re an odd couple, George and I. I told you that before, but it’s the way I need to lead into what I’m going to say.” She stopped. “And to get my courage up to share. I told you I loved his logic and his thoughtfulness, his ability to deliberate while I leaped into things.”

  Adam nodded this time.

  She sighed and sat back in her chair. “But he doesn’t help me with logic and I can’t make him less serious because I never see him.”

  “Never?” Adam repeated.

  “You know he’s always working. He works weekends. The girls barely know who he is.”

  “He’s runs a business, Ouida.”

  “Don’t take his side,” she warned.

  Adam sat back to listen, only listen.

  “Besides, he was like that before he started his company. He’s away so much I sometimes wonder how the girls were conceived.”

  Adam didn’t comment on that, only hoped she’d move to another topic.

  And she did.

  “Kowalski. Preacher, do you know the origin of that name?”

  “It’s Polish, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Ouida picked up a muffin and broke off a piece. Once she finished that, she placed the partially eaten muffin back on the plate and said, “It’s the housekeeping I have problems with. George—his middle name is Milo
slaw. If you spell it in Polish, it has lines through both l’s.”

  “Interesting. I didn’t realize the Polish alphabet—”

  But it seemed Ouida was really wound up. Her words poured from her over his. “George is third generation of the family born here. His great-grandparents immigrated nearly a hundred years ago. Everyone in the next generation was Polish. His mother came from that background, and you should see her kitchen. Do you know how often she mops her kitchen every day?”

  “Once?” he asked, although that seemed excessive to him. Before the arrival of the Firestones, he only mopped when the floor got so sticky his shoes made sucking noises when he walked across it. Since then, Hector and Janey shared that chore on a weekly basis.

  “Five. Five times a day, after every meal and again if anyone has a snack.”

  “Really?”

  “Polish people are very neat, clean people. That’s fine but I’m not Polish and I’m not Susie Homemaker.” She nodded decisively. “Oh, not that there’s anything wrong with being Susie Homemaker if a woman wants to be that. Or a man, although he’d probably be Stanley Homemaker.” She forced her lips together as if trying to keep the words from tumbling out. “What I mean,” she said slowly and clearly, “is that we’re all different. George’s mother and grandmother may have been really tidy people, but does that mean I have to do what they did?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course not,” she agreed and leaned back in her chair.

  This certainly wasn’t a marriage counseling session. For one thing, the husband wasn’t here. For another, it had taken off without him. This seemed more like the crumbling of a dam during the spring thaw with all the flotsam and jetsam of Ouida’s life gushing through the gap.

  “Ouida, I’m not sure…,” he began in an attempt to harness the flood and sift through the detritus.

  “George expects me to be the same kind of housekeeper, but I’m not.”

  She sniffed. Adam handed her a Kleenex.

  “You have two little girls.”