“Birdie?” Farley said. “Coffee.”
Where was her brain? She’d never served him. She carefully poured a cup and walked away, without a smile because the man couldn’t recognize good, friendly service if she slapped him in the face with it.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the two preachers. Actually, the two of them showing up counted as neither a good thing nor a bad thing. The entire matchmaking venture had gotten out of hand. Twenty years ago, maybe even fifteen, she’d have had the preacher married months ago. Now, with her granddaughters and that shoulder and having to train her young minister and work, she’d given up on the endeavor almost entirely.
But if, after all they’d attempted with the preacher, she did stop matchmaking, Mercedes would get after her, would make Birdie feel like a quitter. If the preacher took up with Reverend Patillo, maybe they’d get married and have children to fill up the parsonage and the Sunday school classes.
But if they did get married, they might fill up the Presbyterian manse instead of the parsonage, which would destroy any gain except possibly in the preacher’s happiness. Not to downplay the importance of the preacher’s happiness, but those children were really important to the Christian Church. The Widows were counting on at least four or five kids. The preacher owed them children to fill the parsonage and the nursery, to expand the Sunday school classes, to take part in the Christmas pageant and, when they grew up, lead the youth group.
Of course, as a compromise, the two ministers might split their children between churches, the girls becoming Presbyterians whereas the boys attended the Christian Church. But what if all those children became Calvinists and went to their mother’s church to swell that church’s nursery, classrooms, and youth group?
Maybe she and the other matchmakers hadn’t completely thought out that first plan, the one with Reverend Patillo.
“Miss Birdie?” Adam said as they reached the front of the line.
Birdie smiled at him. She knew she had a nice smile. She knew it didn’t look like her dentures bothered her, for heaven’s sake, despite what Farley Masterson had said. The old coot was dumber than a red brick.
And yet he seemed interested in her. Mind boggling.
“Follow me,” she said, as if the preacher dared not to. When they settled in the corner booth, she said, “I’m not going to give you menus. Reverend Patillo, I know what you want.” She studied Adam for a second or two. “Looks like you’ve put on some weight but not nearly enough. I’ll bring you a nice breakfast.”
“Only scrambled eggs and biscuits,” he said. “No grits.”
As usual, she paid no attention to his words. She turned over the cups and poured them coffee before she headed toward the kitchen to place the orders.
As tables cleared, she cleaned them and watched the two ministers. Oh, Reverend Patillo was nice. Her congregation liked her, but Birdie preferred Gussie Milton. Birdie could imagine Gussie’s personality filling the parsonage and the church, her enthusiasm lifting the congregation, and her voice leading the choir. Maybe she should sabotage this rendezvous. But how could she without jeopardizing her job and tips?
The longer she watched, the less necessary sabotage seemed. Not all was well with the ministers. Reverend Patillo leaned forward. As she spoke, she glowered and poked the table with her index finger, over and over. Then Adam gave Reverend Patillo the look Birdie thought he reserved only for her, the one that said, I’m fed up with this but I’m too polite to insult you.
With Birdie, Adam would then change the subject or look grim and refuse to be forced in the direction he didn’t want to go. She respected him for that. Not that she’d ever tell him. Not that she’d allow herself to be drawn off the topic, either, but she admired his efforts.
As the preacher stood, Birdie thought the discussion was over. But no. Reverend Patillo started to cry. Before Birdie could figure out the problem, another customer called for coffee. Doggone customers. Always interrupting.
* * *
As much as he enjoyed the sausages and bacon and eggs and hash browns and the omelet and biscuit and all the food he’d eat now and the rest that he’d carry home with him, Adam still had no idea why Mattie had ordered him to show up.
She’d let him know when she felt the time was right, but, for now, she focused all her attention on digging out every section of her grapefruit.
He studied the grits Miss Birdie had delivered and wondered how in the world anyone liked them. Though he’d grown up in Kentucky, where grits formed the core of breakfast, to him they tasted like ground-up Styrofoam. Even covered in butter or margarine, the way Southerners preferred, they were inedible. In Texas, people used hot sauce on everything, but it didn’t change the texture. Mixing them with cheese felt like a sad waste of a good dairy product. Nothing could disguise the gritty dish, so he shoved it aside and hoped they wouldn’t show up in the carry-home boxes Miss Birdie would put together for him.
When Mattie finished her grapefruit, she took a couple of gulps of coffee.
“So…” She paused and lifted her eyes to his face. “How are things going?”
“Fine.” Inside he smiled. He knew she wanted him to ask her why they were here, wanted him to force her to explain. Why make it easy for her? She’d awakened him early this morning. He refused to give her an easy out. Besides, as nervous as she was, he guessed he wouldn’t want to do whatever she had in mind.
For that reason, he picked up a slice of bacon and began to eat it, nibbling off a piece and savoring the crisp texture and the deliciousness. “This is really good,” he said before taking another bite.
“I need your help.” Mattie slapped his hand as he reached for a second piece.
“Oh? And you think hitting me will influence me in your favor?”
“I need a date.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“For a wedding. You’re it.”
She sounded desperate, but he didn’t want to go to a wedding and he wasn’t going to agree, not before she’d explained everything and begged. Maybe not even then.
“A friend of mine’s getting married, to a friend of Ron’s, my ex.” She tapped her fingers against the coffee cup. “I have to go. Ron’s best man. He’ll probably bring a date. I don’t want to go alone and look pitiful.”
He nodded. He understood what she was saying but refused to give in so soon. Besides, the potatoes really tasted great, too. He picked up another forkful.
“Adam, I need you to go with me.”
He chewed and swallowed and considered. “I don’t want to go. I don’t like weddings and would never go to one if I didn’t have to perform them.”
“Please.”
“I repeat: I don’t want to go. Besides, I have enough problems with the Widows. If you and I actually go out…”
“It’s not a date, not really.”
“You said it was. They’ll think it is.” With a slight nod, he attempted to gesture surreptitiously toward Miss Birdie. “They’ll never leave us alone.”
“I don’t care. I’m frantic. I’ve asked every other man I know but none can go. You’re it.”
“I’m not your first choice? That hurts, even if I don’t want to go.”
“You weren’t even my sixth choice because I knew how hard you’d make this.”
He put his fork down. “You thought I’d make this hard?” The statement stung. “I thought I was a cooperative person, easy to get along with.”
“But you are making this difficult.”
Yes, he was. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to make the effort of putting on his only suit—coincidentally called his marrying-and-burying suit—and picking out one of his few good church ties. He bet Mattie’d expect him to get a haircut and he’d have to shine his good shoes. On top of that, he knew, and she did, too, they’d face repercussions here in town because there was no way they could sneak out unless they met in an isolated field and got in Mattie’s car like spies.
“My car won’t drive that
far. I don’t trust it.”
“We’ll take mine.” She glared, ready to shoot down every excuse.
“See, that’s the problem. Everyone will know. They’ll recognize me in your car.”
“You are such a wimp.” She picked up her toast and nibbled an edge.
“Probably not the best plan, to insult the man you’re asking a favor of. Besides, I have no idea how to act like a devoted boyfriend. I’m not a good actor.”
“I don’t care,” she nearly shouted.
“Shh. Whisper.”
“Why?” she whispered back. “Have you looked around? I bet everyone in town has squeezed into the place.”
He studied the crowd. “Cell phones must be ringing all over Butternut Creek.” What the heck, the other diners had heard most of the argument so keeping their voices down now, when the argument had pretty much finished in his opinion, didn’t make a great deal of sense.
Obviously, Mattie thought it did matter. She glared and poked the table with her index finger in time with her whispered words. “I need a date for a wedding and you are it.”
“Do I have a sign on my forehead that says, TAKE ADVANTAGE OF MY GOOD NATURE?” he asked. “Because you sound exactly like Miss Birdie now. I don’t respond well to demands.” He slid across the seat and stood.
“I’m sorry.” Tears gathered in her eyes.
Oh, crap. He sat down.
“I’m really desperate. I need you to be a friend.” She swallowed hard and picked up a napkin to wipe her eyes. “We can do hospital visits while we’re in town. I’ll buy you dinner, whatever you want, but I absolutely cannot go to the wedding alone.”
“Don’t go.”
“Not an option. If I don’t show, Ron will know I don’t have a date. Besides, the bride asked me to serve at the reception.”
He glanced down at the last of the hash browns, but he’d lost his appetite. All this stress. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go. When is it?”
She held out her arms, for a hug, he feared. Adam held up both hands, palms forward. “Stop. All the gossips in town are here. Imagine the talk if you and I were to touch in public.”
She sat back. “But thank you. It’s a week from Saturday. I appreciate this and I owe you.”
He nodded. “I’ll collect someday, but you have to promise not to tell anyone,” he warned. “The Widows will figure out we’re going into Austin together soon enough, but I refuse to give up the information too soon. Make them work for it.”
Then the horrible thought hit him. Gussie photographed weddings. Certainly a loving God wouldn’t allow her to be taking pictures at a wedding he attended with Mattie on what was really not a date.
* * *
“You had a date with Reverend Patillo?” Miss Birdie asked him.
Adam had known this would happen. Hadn’t he warned Mattie? No one could hide anything in a small town. What had surprised him was that the Widows hadn’t descended on him en masse hours earlier.
The wedding the previous afternoon had been uneventful. Mattie’d navigated the crowd well, avoiding her former boyfriend while, at the same time, somehow flaunting the fact she had an escort and had not withered away from loneliness, thank you, a talent Adam could only recognize and admire. After the ceremony she greeted the happy couple, served a few cups of punch and several slices of cake. Before Adam had a chance to pick up a plate for himself, she dragged him out of the church.
They made a couple of hospital calls, grabbed dinner at a family restaurant, then headed back to Butternut Creek.
The picking-up and letting-off part hadn’t gone as well. Mercedes had been watering flowers in front of the church when Mattie picked him up and had stood to watch the entire event, from Mattie’s beep on the horn to his running down the steps in what he knew Mercedes would recognize as his only suit. When he got into the car and Mattie took off, Adam had turned to watch Mercedes, who studied them.
Miss Birdie heard immediately. No question. Everyone else in town knew within the hour, but everyone else in town didn’t worry him. The pillar did.
“It wasn’t a date,” Adam explained.
He’d retreated to his office, after church, intending to check messages and call the shut-ins about taking them communion. Frowning Widows had intercepted him. Even Blossom, a woman he hadn’t realized knew how to frown, scowled at him.
“Not a date? Then what would you call it?” Winnie demanded.
“A tryst? A rendezvous?” Mercedes asked. “An assignation?”
“Oh, don’t show off your vocabulary,” Miss Birdie said.
“We’re not talking about me, Bird.” She turned her glower toward her friend. “This is about the preacher stepping out on Gussie Milton.”
“We worked so hard to get the two of you together.” The pillar focused on Adam again, mournfully.
No, actually, they hadn’t done much more than embarrass the two of them deeply, but this was not the moment to bring that up, not when all four seemed so upset by his defection, by his treachery.
“We-e-ell?” Blossom asked, injecting a note of wounded dismay.
“Reverend Patillo asked me to escort her to a wedding of friends, a favor for a fellow member of the clergy. That’s all.”
He made a move toward the door to the parking lot but couldn’t get closer than a few feet because Miss Birdie stood between him and freedom. For a moment he envied the donkey Maisie for her joyful escape, but he knew it was not a good idea to run over the pillar.
“A friend? Is that all?” Winnie demanded again.
“Ladies,” he said. “I am not married…”
“Not our fault,” the pillar stated.
“We’ve tried,” Mercedes said. “Goodness knows, we’ve tried to find you a wife.”
“It’s been a challenge,” Winnie chimed in. “But we have done everything we could, and you ruin it by running off to spend the afternoon with Reverend Patillo?”
“Ran off and ruined it all,” Blossom said.
The tone of every voice suggested activities of vice and perversion that he could never have taken part in—and certainly not in the short time he and Mattie had been together.
“Ladies,” he began again. “I am not married. I have not been keeping company with Gussie Milton although I would like to spend more time with her. You—” He glanced at each woman. “None of you are in charge of whom I see and when and how.” He stopped to attempt to think of more words and added, “Or why.” Then he waited for a reaction.
“He’s right,” Mercedes said as the other Widows contemplated his words. “I’m sorry, Preacher. You’re right. It’s none of our business.” She took Miss Birdie’s arm. “We need to leave him alone.”
“She’s right,” Blossom added. “I’m sorry, Preacher.”
Miss Birdie hrrmphed but allowed herself to be guided away.
And Adam breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had met the Widows and he had won.
Not that he considered this a final victory.
* * *
They’d been emailing back and forth for three weeks, Gussie and Adam. Oh, there had been distractions, like when her father had been hospitalized for pneumonia a week earlier. She’d known that coughing had meant something, but had she been able to force him to see a doctor? No, and he’d only decided to when he could no longer breathe.
He’d spent four days in the hospital, then come home so weak he could barely stand. Her mother was beside herself with worry and not really strong enough to care for him. Her blood sugar had gone up due to the stress.
Gussie’d hired a nurse to come in during the day, but when she was home, the entire weight of care fell on Gussie. Not that it bothered her, not that she’d complain, but she did worry about her parents as well as about her ability to care for them as they aged.
She’d told Adam this in emails. He’d supported her and let her unload her worry on him, had probably saved her from more worry than she could have handled alone.
They’d missed church th
is morning because her father was still so weak. She couldn’t leave him at home alone, and her mother still dithered about him. As she finished cleaning the lunch dishes, Gussie heard the doorbell.
“Don’t move, Mom. I’ll get it.”
Worn out and disheveled, Gussie opened the door to see—oh, please, no!—Adam standing there.
“Well.” She forced a smile on lips that hadn’t seen lipstick for nearly forty-eight hours. Nevertheless, although she felt exhausted and knew she looked terrible, she was happy to see him. “How nice to see you.”
It was. He looked great in jeans and a knit shirt. Nice plus good looking and throw in the sudden rush of pure joy and a spark of desire she wished she could ignore—all that equaled perfect man. If she were looking for one.
Oh, shut up, she told herself. Whether she’d been looking or not, an attractive man of exactly the kind she’d have chosen for herself stood in front of her.
“Who is it, Gussie?” her father shouted.
“Come on in.” She stepped back to allow him to enter. “My parents are in the living room. Everything’s a mess. Sorry. The maid didn’t drop by today. Not that we have a maid. I’m it. Or her. Maybe she.” Why couldn’t she stop babbling?
She led him into a room with the Sunday newspaper spread over the furniture and covering bits of the floor. Her mother sat on the sofa reading with a glass of lemonade on the table beside her while her father, still wearing pajamas, reclined.
“Mom, Dad, this is Adam Jordan, the minister at the church in Butternut Creek. You’ve heard me talk about him.”
Her mother’s gaze leaped toward Adam, then moved back and forth between Gussie and Adam. Her father kept his eyes on Adam, searching for clues. Was this man good enough for his daughter? To Gussie’s chagrin, his scrutiny shouted that question.
Embarrassed by her father’s inspection and aware of how terrible she looked, Gussie still grinned because Adam was here.
“These are my parents, Yvonne and Henry Milton,” she said, waving toward them.
Adam, much more comfortable and at ease than she, approached her parents and shook their hands. “I wanted to bring you something, but flowers aren’t good for someone recovering from pneumonia and candy isn’t good for a diabetic. Instead, I bring best wishes for a speedy recovery from the congregation in Butternut Creek. You still have a lot of friends there.”
The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek Page 18
