The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  “Would you take on a project as difficult as me?” she asked. “I really want this, I want to accept how I feel, explore that, build on it, but I’m not sure I should ask that of you.” Instead of the fear he’d glimpsed earlier, an earnest plea filled her eyes. “I can’t promise anything.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “I’d take that on.”

  “Really?” She shook her head. “Why?”

  “Gussie, you are one of the most loving people I know. You take care of your parents, you work with the youth in your church and in the district. You are a person of deep faith. You’re beautiful in every way I can imagine.”

  “Really?” She scrutinized him closely, as if she couldn’t believe his words.

  “Really.”

  She scooted her chair closer to him and leaned forward to place her hand against his lips. He didn’t move closer to her, only allowed her to touch him. Amazingly, after a few seconds, she put her hand on his neck and pulled him nearer, only a few inches, and placed her cheek against his.

  When at last she sat back, she smiled at him. He would have leaned toward her, touched her. More than anything, he wanted to kiss her but he had to respect the physical barrier of the hand she still held in front of her.

  “Thank you for not pushing,” she said.

  Although she insisted she was broken, he felt blessed that she’d come to him, that she’d reached out to him, that she cared about him enough to ask for his patience.

  They’d figure out everything else later.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Preacher, good news and bad news,” Maggie said. “Which do you want first?”

  Adam glanced from the Bible commentary displayed on his computer screen to his secretary standing in the door. “Neither.”

  “Actually—” Maggie thought for a moment. “Actually, they’re both bad news.”

  Great. “Go ahead.”

  “Miss Birdie’s here.”

  He nodded. She’d want an update on what happened after the Widows had left the church.

  “And she’s in the kitchen.”

  Sounded like good news to him. The pillar wasn’t here, grilling him. “How’s that bad news?”

  “That’s right. You don’t know about Miss Birdie and the kitchen.” Maggie came into the office and sat in a chair in front of his desk. “When Miss Birdie is upset, she cleans.”

  Hearing that Miss Birdie was upset did count as bad news. “How’s cleaning bad news?”

  “Once she finishes cleaning her house and the diner, she comes here.”

  “By that time, she must have blown off some steam.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Oh, no. If she gets here, that means she hasn’t calmed down at the other places and is really wound up, has built a lot of momentum. By the time she comes here, she’s like a train off the tracks. You need to head her off, Preacher.”

  “Why? Isn’t it good that she’s straightening things up?” He turned off the computer to lean forward and pay complete attention to Maggie.

  “When she’s in this mood, she’s ruthless. A few years ago, she took all the books out of the classrooms and cataloged them and put them in the library.”

  “What’s so bad about that?”

  “A lot of those books belonged to the teachers, references and coloring books and pictures they’d bought, stuff they brought in to use with the children. Back when Effie Peterson taught the third-through-fifth-grade class, she was infuriated to find her Bible stamped as property of the Christian Church with a little pocket pasted in the back.” Her eyes grew large. “You’ve never seen such a set-to.” She shook her head as she remembered.

  Adam glanced over his shoulder at the bookcase where the library had been when he arrived. He’d tossed the old, torn books out and donated the rest to the public library. He wondered if any of those had belonged to people who hadn’t claimed them yet. Fortunately, no one had made a big fuss.

  “And last time she cleaned out the shed, she threw away a bunch of stuff, good stuff.”

  Knowing the kind of things churches kept—old Sunday school material that would never be used again, broken furniture no one ever got around to fixing, ancient hymnals with brown, brittle pages filled with songs no one remembered—Adam didn’t think tossing all that counted as a bad thing.

  “When she starts in the kitchen, she changes everything all around. You’ll go in expecting the coffee can to be right above the coffeemaker, but it won’t be. Miss Birdie will put it where she wants it, although some of us believe she puts it where no one can find it so we’ll have to ask her. For weeks after she straightens things up, we can’t find sugar bowls or the paper cups.” She sighed. “It’s not a good thing. It’s chaos and havoc until everyone gets used to the new locations.” Then, she shook her finger at Adam. “You have to stop her. She’s on a toot.”

  He stood.

  “I’ll pray for you,” Maggie said.

  He didn’t think she was joking.

  As Adam headed toward the kitchen, he felt pretty sorry for himself, too, but a man’s gotta do…

  Before he could finish the cliché, he’d arrived in the fellowship hall. From there, he could see a mound of plates and packages of napkins and saltshakers and nearly everything that had been in the kitchen cupboards piled on the counter. He guessed the pillar was behind the stack someplace.

  “Hello, Miss Birdie,” he called.

  “Preacher, is that you?”

  “You sound surprised.” He headed toward the kitchen. As he got closer, he could see where Miss Birdie knelt on the floor. “Surely you knew Maggie would send me back.”

  “Give me a hand up.” She reached out her right hand. Once on her feet, she said, “I’m organizing the cabinets.”

  “Oh, is that what this is called?” He gestured toward the mounds. “Looks like my office when I first arrived.”

  “Yes, Preacher.” She glared at him. “But I’m going to put it all back where it should have been in the first place and I’m going to finish that today. A lot of your stuff is still sitting on the office floor.”

  A mistake to bring that up. “Do you have to take everything out at once? Can’t you go bit by bit?”

  “Winnie Jenkins rearranged things a few months back, and no one can find anything. I’m only putting it all back where it should be.”

  “Can I help?”

  She studied him. “I always knew your tall skinniness would be good for something. Put those big packages of napkins up on the top shelf.”

  After nearly two hours of following the pillar’s orders, they’d brought order to the kitchen, but Miss Birdie still hadn’t said anything about why she was there. She only grumbled and grunted and emitted a few new sounds Adam couldn’t translate. The only words she used were contained in commands for his tall skinniness.

  “I’ve heard you come here and clean the kitchen when there’s something bothering you,” Adam said as he placed the last forks in what had been the knife drawer. Miss Birdie had relabeled it.

  She spun around to look at him. “What?” She huffed. “Who told you that?”

  He didn’t say.

  “Well, I guess that’s right,” she concurred.

  “Do you want to tell me what you’re upset about?”

  “Don’t you know what I’m upset about?”

  Oh, he could think of several topics, but her concern about his single state hadn’t driven her into the kitchen before. He also guessed he wouldn’t get out of this without a stern lecture on his bachelorhood and his lack of appreciation for her efforts to find him a mate before she confessed to her real motivation. He waited.

  “You know, we’ve tried very hard to find you a wife.” She glowered at him. He listened to a diatribe about the lack of appreciation he showed her and her efforts. She finished by attempting to make him feel guilty for ignoring all her hard work.

  He didn’t accept the blame, but he allowed her to vent. When she finished, he said, “Miss Birdie, what’s really bothering you
? I know you’d like to get me married off, but your matchmaking is more like a hobby. There’s something else.” He leaned against the countertop.

  She didn’t answer, not immediately. After nearly a minute of wiping off the already clean counter, she carefully draped the dishcloth over the sink divider and turned toward him.

  “It’s Bree.” She folded her hands in front of her.

  * * *

  When Birdie glanced back at the preacher, she knew her vacillation showed weakness, but she couldn’t help that. He responded with a look of caring, of concern. She hated that.

  Birdie really disliked sharing her problems with other people, but she might as well continue because there was no way she’d convince Adam she was fine, just fine. How much should she say? After all, Hector lived in the parsonage. Would the preacher think she was putting him down?

  Birdie cleared her throat. The darned man didn’t say a word, didn’t help her get this out. Only watched her closely. Probably because he knew what a private person she was and didn’t want to intrude. Wouldn’t you know the one time she wanted him to ask, he didn’t encourage her to open up?

  People saw her as being gruff and tougher than flint. Although she enjoyed that reputation, the preacher and a few others—well, probably the entire town—knew there was one topic she wasn’t tough about. Her granddaughters. She cleared her throat again. The preacher still didn’t say anything, only waited for her to come to the point.

  “It’s Bree,” she repeated. “Bree and Hector. Mac tells me they got friendly at the retreat. I know they danced together at the prom, but everyone dances with everyone else. At the reception with Gussie I saw they held hands once. And they’re always emailing or texting each other, sometimes even talk on the phone. They probably spent a lot of time together at camp.”

  “How do you feel about that?” he asked. “About Bree and Hector?”

  How dare this inexperienced preacher—still wet behind the ears—how dare he attempt to minister to her? Did he think she needed counseling from someone young enough to be her grandson?

  When she didn’t say anything, just glared at him, Adam said, “Is Hector and Bree’s interest in each other a problem for you?”

  What was he suggesting? “Do you mean the race thing? I don’t care that Hector is Mexican or African American or black or even purple. What I care about is…” Then she couldn’t talk. Her throat had closed up and tears clouded her vision. Doggone!

  Immediately the preacher straightened, picked up a handful of napkins—the good ones, the ones they used for teas and formal events—and held them toward her. She took one napkin from him, only one because they were too expensive to blow her nose in but, right now, she needed to do exactly that.

  Thank goodness, the man knew her well enough not to pat her on the back or make comforting there, there noises. Instead he stayed a few feet from her and kept silent. She hated herself for showing this weakness and struggling for control.

  “Hector is a fine young man,” he said after nearly a minute. “With his mother’s death and his father’s drug use and jail time, he’s been through more than anyone his age should have to go through.”

  She nodded and wiped her eyes, then blew her nose again.

  “He’s taken care of Janey for years and still keeps his grades up and plays basketball. I admire him.”

  “I do, too.” She dabbed with the napkin. She closed her eyes for only a second before she glanced at him. “I’m not worried about Hector. I know how much he’s taken on and I do respect that. And Bree’s a good girl, but…” She gulped, a hideously loud noise that embarrassed her both for the rudeness and because, with that terrible sound, she’d exposed feelings she tried to hide. “You know about my daughter Martha Patricia. I worry,” she whispered. “I worry so much.”

  “Of course you do. You love the girls, but Bree is a good kid, a really good kid.”

  “Mercedes says I’m overprotective, Preacher, and I am, but I love those girls more than…” The words wouldn’t come. What was happening? She couldn’t even speak anymore. When had she become such an emotional softy? Well, since the first time Martha Patricia had handed her baby Bree.

  But she sure didn’t need to blubber in front of the preacher. She pulled herself straight, wadded the soggy napkin, and tossed it in the trash. “I need to get back to the diner,” she stated. “Thanks for the help.”

  “You know, I am your minister, Miss Birdie. There’s nothing wrong or weak about worrying about people you love.”

  “Hrmph.” She turned and headed toward the parking lot. When she’d almost reached the door, she turned around. “What can you tell me about Bree and Hector?” She tilted her head.

  “Not much. I saw them together at the retreat and the prom. She and Hector sit on the parsonage porch from time to time. I imagine they were together at the church summer camp, but I wasn’t there.”

  “You didn’t think to tell me?”

  “Miss Birdie, if I thought there was a problem, I’d have mentioned it to you. But, you know, I also have to respect Hector and Bree’s privacy.”

  “Of course you do.” She nodded. As she did, she realized he looked different. She studied him, searching for what had caught her eye. A new shirt? “You look nice today, Preacher. Any particular reason?”

  He tried to look casual but he couldn’t fool her. He didn’t speak for several seconds, a sure sign of duplicity. He blinked several times, which she’d learned was his tell when he considered lying. Then he smiled at her, sweetly, which tipped her off to his intent to fib.

  “Are you meeting Gussie later?” she asked. Better let him know she was on to him instead of tempting him to bear false witness. Then she held her hand in front of her. “No, no. Don’t tell me. You deserve privacy in your life. I’m not going to pry.”

  When his mouth dropped open at her words, Birdie gloated inside. Always a good thing to keep him guessing, wondering, a little off balance.

  With that, she left the building. After a few steps, she paused. What had she heard? What was the sound coming from the kitchen? Sounded like laughter, but why? What had she said that anyone could find amusing? Probably her imagination.

  * * *

  Adam had to tell Gussie the entire thing. Not about Miss Birdie’s fears for her granddaughter but about both her cleaning the kitchen and her newfound, and probably of short duration, respect for his privacy.

  He laughed again as he drove down Highway 1431 to Marble Falls. A few miles south of Fuzzy’s Corner, he heard a loud clunk. Wondering if he’d run into something, he pulled onto the shoulder, put the car in park, and got out.

  Behind him and in the middle of the road lay a bumper. Had he hit it or did it belong to him? He didn’t want to check, because if his bumper was missing, that would be one more sign that his car was literally falling apart. Gathering his courage, he walked to the back of the car and studied the place where a bumper used to be. Then he turned to look down the road at the bumper twenty yards behind him.

  Did a car really need a bumper?

  Most likely the state thought it did, so he’d better think of some way to replace it. He opened the trunk, walked back, picked the thing up, and attempted to shove it in the trunk. Didn’t fit. He dragged it around, opened the door to the backseat, and shoved it in there. It fit. He and Hector would try to get it back on because he feared Rex would have to charge him more for the part than he could afford.

  Finished, he glanced down at his hands. Covered with dirt. Smudges dotted the pale blue knit shirt he’d bought to wear today. He kept those little moist towelettes in his glove compartment. Actually Laurel, his former fiancée, had put some there years ago. Would they still work?

  First, he went back to the trunk and pulled out a blanket he’d kept there for years, in case of emergencies. Probably didn’t need a blanket in Texas. He wiped his hands on it to get as much of the gunk off as possible, then tossed it in the backseat so he’d remember to take it in and wash it. The bun
dle looked as if he were transporting either a body or a cache of something illegal.

  After he closed the trunk, he opened the door on the passenger side, reached in the glove box, and found four small square packages from KFC. He tore one open. Dry, as were the second, third, and fourth. Perhaps if he spit on them, he’d find they still had some soap, but he didn’t think he had nearly enough saliva. He grabbed his bottle of water and squeezed a little on one parched square. When a few bubbles appeared, he scrubbed his hands with that and checked his face in the rearview mirror. His body looked okay, but the shirt…well, he’d have to stop by Cheap-Mart on the way into town and buy another.

  Thirty minutes later, Adam had settled in a booth across from Gussie. His new shirt wasn’t as nice as his other but it didn’t have the dark, greasy smudges, either. She, of course, looked wonderful. Happy, full of life, and beautiful, enjoying the rhubarb cream pie in front of her.

  “I like buttermilk pie best, but this is a close second.” She took a bite and chewed. “You should try my mother’s buttermilk pie. It’ll spoil you for anything else.”

  “Okay.” He put his hand near hers, so his thumb rested against hers. “I’d love to try your mother’s buttermilk pie. She seems like a really nice person. A good cook?”

  “She used to be, still is, but with her diabetes, she seldom bakes.” She reached for a napkin, which moved her hand away subtly but effectively. “You’ve met my parents, but I know nothing about yours. Tell me about them.”

  “They live in London.”

  “London, Texas?”

  “No, and not London, Kentucky, either. London, England.” By the time he explained that, Gussie had finished her pie. Then he told her about Miss Birdie in the kitchen. After laughing through that tale, Gussie glanced at the clock. “I need to go.” She wiped her mouth and took a drink of water. “I’ve got a drive ahead of me, but—” She placed her hand on his for a quick touch before she grabbed the check and slipped from the booth. “—but it’s been wonderful to see you.”