The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  “Gus, don’t intellectualize. Talk to me.”

  She looked at Clare’s expression of love and concern. “I don’t know. I’d really thought I was okay, that I’d gotten over the rape and gotten back my life, until I met Adam. I was functioning, at least.” She would’ve held a hand up to keep Clare from interrupting but both were full of baby. Instead she glared. “Yes, you mentioned, often, that you saw signs, like the guys I’d date for a month and break up with, but I didn’t realize that.

  “I don’t think things will work out with Adam. I can’t be with him right now the way he wants, and it’s not fair for me to ask him to wait when I don’t know if…”

  Clare watched sympathetically.

  “But still, I know I need to do something. I just don’t know what yet. When I’ve worked things out—or even if I haven’t—I’ll get in touch with you. I promise.”

  Clare stood and moved toward Gussie to lean down and hug her. “I love you. And you know, no matter what happens with Adam, you need to do this for you.”

  “I know. I’m lucky to have you as a friend. Most of the time.”

  “And don’t you forget that.”

  * * *

  “Nothing has worked.” Birdie felt like crying. Never had she faced such a failure. She glanced around at the Widows gathered at the diner to discuss the crisis.

  “It was a setback, but we haven’t tried that much.” Winnie spoke up—as usual. “We had that dinner without Gussie, but what else could we have done?”

  “I don’t know what to do next,” Mercedes said. “We can’t give up. If we do, we’ll lose one of our core tenets.”

  “We could wait until another single woman moves into the area,” Blossom suggested.

  “Not likely.” Winnie shook her head disconsolately. “The economy and the attractions of Austin draw young people to the big city.”

  “But wasn’t the dinner party nice?” Blossom asked. “Even if only the preacher and the three of you showed up. I had a nice time.”

  No use explaining to the woman that the purpose hadn’t been to chat with the preacher.

  “Mac and Bree tell me that Gussie is set on taking care of her parents,” Birdie explained. “Seems she’s very devoted to them.”

  “Do you think maybe she won’t or can’t commit to the preacher because of them?” Winnie asked.

  “My, my,” Blossom said. “That does make sense.”

  “What do we do about it?” Mercedes asked. “Other than taking dinner down to Roundville and dragging the preacher along, I don’t see a solution.”

  “Tea,” Blossom said.

  The other three turned to stare at her.

  “We could take tea to them.” She batted her eyes. “To Gussie’s parents and talk to them about the situation. A polite chat over tea.”

  Who’d’ve believed it? Blossom had come up with another good idea.

  “You’re right,” Mercedes said. “Surely they’d be interested in what’s going on.”

  Winnie pulled her ever-present notebook and pen from her bag. “All right, let’s brainstorm.”

  Within ten minutes, the Widows had a plan and a purpose and renewed dedication. Gussie Milton and the preacher would get married if the Widows had to follow them down the aisle with pitchforks.

  * * *

  “Pops, you know the Widows aren’t going to give up on you,” Hector said as he cleared the table. “Bree told me that.”

  Great.

  “Not going to give up on you and Gussie,” he clarified, though Adam knew what he’d meant. “Bree says they thought about that blond lady but didn’t think she was right for you.”

  Good news.

  “As far as we can tell, whatever they have planned will take place sometime soon, maybe this week.”

  “They have plans?” Oh, please, no. Their ideas always meant inexorable determination on their part and deep humiliation on his. “What do they have in mind?”

  “Don’t know. Miss Birdie didn’t tell her. Bree could tell something was going on because the Widows have been so secretive and she heard your name mentioned when her grandmother took a phone call.” Hector rinsed a place off. “Your name and Gussie’s.”

  Adam felt as frustrated as if he were on the deck of the Titanic, watching the ship approach the icebergs while he shouted, “Danger ahead!” Nothing he could do would stop or delay the impending and inevitable catastrophe.

  The situation required constant vigilance. He could almost feel the ice floe forming around him, but he had no idea where the flood of destruction would come from.

  He waited for the tide to submerge him.

  Lots of water images and none of them worked together. He didn’t care. He was a scared man, not a poet.

  Despite his certainty the Widows would act soon, he heard nothing. Two days, then a week. Nothing happened. The Widows didn’t converge on him. He heard nothing from Gussie. Good news that she didn’t have anything to report on the Widows. Bad news that he didn’t hear anything from Gussie about herself.

  Still, he waited fearfully.

  And hopefully.

  * * *

  On Friday, the Widows met at the church to go to Roundville. They’d use Blossom’s big, luxurious car that made them feel like they were riding in a softly upholstered cocoon.

  “But you’re not driving,” Birdie told Blossom when they all arrived in the parking lot. “When you carried me home from the diner the other day, I thought you were going to kill me.” She reached for the keys as she explained to Mercedes and Winnie. “I swan, she drives so fast and talks the entire way and fiddles with the radio and the air-conditioning, weaving all over the road. Thought we were going to run over every dog and cat on the way. Old Jacob Russell was pushing his walker across the street and nearly had a stroke. Poor man was shuffling as fast as he could.”

  Without a murmur of protest, Blossom handed the keys over and they all piled in, Mercedes in the passenger seat with Winnie.

  Winnie got her notebook out and flipped it open. “Let’s make sure we’ve checked everything off.” For the next hour, the Widows chatted about the plan.

  When the car arrived in Roundville, Mercedes said, “Slow down, Bird. I know how to get there.”

  “Don’t show off. I do, too. We used to come here all the time when Gussie’s mother was in charge of women’s programs for the district.”

  The two argued about which road to take and which direction to turn until, somehow, they arrived at the Miltons’ home. All four got out. Blossom took the keys to her car, popped the trunk, took out several huge tote bags, and they all marched up the walk.

  Before they could ring the bell, the door flew open.

  “My, my, my.” Yvonne smiled at the women in front of her. “Birdie MacDowell and Mercedes Rivera, how wonderful to see you. It’s been years.”

  “Hello, Yvonne,” Mercedes said. “These are our friends from Butternut Creek, Winnie Jenkins and Blossom Brown, also members of the Christian Church.”

  “I’m Yvonne Milton. Please, come in.” She stepped aside and motioned the four inside. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Oh, we were just in the neighborhood and thought we’d drop by,” Birdie explained.

  Yvonne studied their expressions closely. Roundville, ten miles from the main highway on a winding two-lane road, wasn’t a place one visited on a whim. Too polite to point that out, Yvonne led them into the living room, where Henry read the newspaper in his recliner.

  “Don’t get up,” Birdie commanded.

  Because Henry knew her well and understood equally as well the futility of disobeying her, he relaxed back in the chair.

  “Sit down, please.” Yvonne motioned toward the love seats and took a chair. The six sat quietly and nodded toward one another for nearly a minute because—how could the Widows not have considered this?—after all their meticulous planning, they’d forgotten one thing. They hadn’t decided who would open the conversation and what the chosen Widow would say.
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  Birdie glanced around. Not one of the Widows looked as if she would say anything. It was up to Birdie. Mercedes and Blossom were too gracious to push ahead and Winnie—well, that woman might say the wrong thing. In a tough situation, the leader had to take over.

  “Your daughter won’t marry our preacher because she has to stay here and take care of you.” There. The problem was out in the open.

  “What?” Yvonne sat up straight and glared at Birdie.

  Henry lowered the footrest on his chair, stood, and strode toward Birdie. Standing only inches away, he demanded, “What gives you the right to say that? Yvonne and I would never come between our daughter and happiness.”

  “Birdie MacDowell,” Yvonne said. The words coming from her mouth sounded as if they had brilliant vocal flames surrounding them. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

  Birdie blinked. She’d never seen either Milton angry.

  “What Birdie means to say,” Winnie began.

  The Miltons turned toward Winnie as one and glared.

  “Who are you?” Yvonne asked in a tone that successfully shut the bossy woman up.

  “I’m sorry,” Winnie whispered.

  Henry simply glowered at the assembled Widows.

  “You need to allow your daughter to make her choice, to get married if she wants to. Our minister…” Birdie stopped speaking and actually cowered. Never before had she cowered, but the look on Henry’s face frightened her. For a moment she considered that, perhaps, she hadn’t used the most judicious words. No, she’d spoken the truth. The Miltons had overreacted.

  “You don’t think we love our daughter?” Henry thundered.

  “Now, now, now.” Blossom spoke in a gentle, calm voice and held up her hand. She stood and approached Henry with more courage than Birdie could have mustered. “I think we have a slight misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding?” Henry exploded. “That woman—” He pointed at Birdie, his hand shaking. “That woman told us we have kept our daughter from happiness.”

  “I don’t believe she meant it exactly like that.”

  Yes, Birdie had, but she hadn’t expected Henry’s reaction. Not that she shouldn’t have. If anyone had said that to her about Bree or Mac, she’d deck ’em. Birdie sat back, vanquished and annoyed because she had to allow Blossom Brown to rescue her, their mission, and the happiness of the preacher.

  “Why don’t we go into the kitchen, just the three of us?” Blossom pointed to herself then the Miltons and spoke in a sugary sweet voice that made Birdie want to stomp her feet.

  Instead she mumbled “Hrmph” to herself.

  Blossom continued, “My cook makes the most delicious coffee cake. I brought one to share with you.” She turned toward Yvonne. “Cook uses real butter and fresh eggs and has little, tiny chips of walnuts and apples with a streusel topping.” She took Yvonne’s arm. “I know you’ll like it.”

  Slowly and amiably, Blossom urged the two out of the living room and into the kitchen.

  “And tea,” Birdie heard the newest Widow say. “Cook makes the most wonderful tea. I brought a carafe of that. Or, if you prefer, she packed mocha cappuccino in a thermos. Now, I’m sure you have lovely china, but I brought my mother’s favorite along.”

  Birdie let out the breath she’d been holding and whispered a prayer of gratitude for help coming from unexpected sources. Neither Winnie nor Mercedes said a word. Both looked a little shell-shocked.

  The three Widows sat quietly in the living room. They could make out rustling sounds in the kitchen, the clink of china, and bits of conversations, a word here and another there, but nothing more. At least they didn’t hear Henry shouting. Absence of loud voices probably signaled a suspension of hostilities.

  “You should have known better than to let me talk first,” Birdie whispered after about ten minutes.

  “We didn’t know you’d make such a terrible mess of it,” Mercedes said.

  “We should’ve,” Winnie added.

  “Yes.” Birdie sighed. “You should have. I’m sorry.”

  The three Widows didn’t move for nearly half an hour, sitting in silence with their backs straight and hands folded in their laps. During the entire time, all Birdie could think about was that she had destroyed their mission. Their most important effort at matchmaking had failed because of her. A bitter defeat due to her incompetence.

  The sound of movement and laughter came from the kitchen. Blossom returned to the living room with a happy Yvonne and a smiling Henry.

  “So good to meet you.” Blossom grinned at both Miltons.

  “Please drop by anytime.” Henry took her hand and shook it. “I’ll carry your bags out.”

  “And make sure you send me that recipe,” Yvonne said. She hugged Blossom.

  Within minutes, the Widows were back in the car. Actually, Birdie realized, three Widows and one Matchmaker.

  “What happened in the kitchen?” Birdie asked, humbled and greatly chagrined for her part in what could have been a failed maneuver.

  “We had tea and coffee cake and chatted.”

  “And?” Winnie prompted.

  “And we worked things out. Yvonne is going to talk to Gussie, try to see how much of what we guessed is true. She’ll handle it. We can relax. She did swear us all to an oath of secrecy. We are not to mention this to anyone. They want to deal with this themselves.”

  “Besides, we don’t want the preacher to know we meddled,” Mercedes said.

  All four nodded.

  “Thank you, Blossom,” Birdie said, so filled with relief she could have hugged the woman if they weren’t in the car. Not that she actually would, even when they got back to town. Although she had to push the words out, Birdie again said, “Thank you.”

  Anyone who thought having to acknowledge the success of another person in carrying out her mission didn’t mortify her didn’t know Birdie MacDowell very well. Her failure and the need to thank Blossom Brown humiliated her.

  * * *

  “Dear,” her mother greeted Gussie as she arrived home from work. “Your father and I need to have a little chat with you.”

  Uh-oh. The words need to have a little chat constituted the highest level of the early warning signal. Want to talk to you meant a serious problem but at a lower level—say, roaches in the kitchen or weevils in the flour. Need to have a little chat meant a severe hazard, a red-level threat, a national emergency, perhaps enemy attack or a constitutional crisis.

  Or an egregious transgression on Gussie’s part.

  “Let’s sit here in the living room,” Mom said. “To be comfortable.”

  Oh, sure, Gussie would be comfortable for this “little chat.”

  Her mother wore a lacy white shirt with her cameo, another sure sign of an impending emergency and the possible arrival of Armageddon. For a merely important talk, she wore her pink T-shirt with the rabbit on the front.

  Gussie glanced at her father who attempted to look uninvolved, sinking back in his recliner with his newspaper in front of him. This was the equivalent of a high-pitched warning signal screaming, Leave me alone. I’m not part of this.

  “Let me go upstairs…,” Gussie said before her mother shoved her toward a chair.

  Her mother recognized the words Gussie used when she attempted to escape a crisis.

  When she didn’t sit, her mother took Gussie’s elbow and escorted her to the chair.

  Thoroughly warned that she would not like the coming “chat” but acknowledging she couldn’t get out of it, Gussie sat.

  Loving God, save me, Gussie prayed silently.

  For the first time Gussie could remember, her mother had a difficult time beginning what she called “the chat” and Gussie called “the grilling.” Mom sat, crossed her legs, and swung her right foot left and right. She played with the cameo, rubbing a thumb over the silhouette of a rose and fiddling with the clasp.

  “Gussie,” she said at last, her voice serious. “We had visitors today. From Butternut Creek.”


  “Not Adam.” Oh, please, let it be Adam. Please, do not let it be Adam. When she realized how hopeless and hopeful her voice must have sounded—hard to accomplish that with only two words—Gussie cleared her throat and asked in a neutral voice, “Adam?”

  “No, Birdie MacDowell, Mercedes Rivera, and two other women. I believe you know them?”

  “The Widows?” Darn. This was serious. Again, hope and despair filled her.

  “I’d forgotten that’s what they call themselves.” Mom nodded. “Yes, the Widows.”

  Gussie attempted to wait out her mother, force her to bring up the subject. She should know better. After all these years, she could never beat her mother at the waiting game.

  After a long silence, Gussie asked, “Why shouldn’t they stop by? Aren’t you and Miss Birdie and Mercedes old friends?”

  “Why do you think they stopped by?”

  Gussie shrugged. As useless a reaction as attempting to stop Shaquille O’Neal when he drove for the basket.

  “To talk about Adam?” Gussie asked, then paused, hating to add the rest. “And me? Not, of course, that there is an ‘Adam and me.’”

  Her mother leaned toward Gussie and shot her the glare of death. “They tell me,” she said, “the reason you and their nice minister broke up is because of us, your father and me, because you feel as if you must take care of us for the rest of our lives and have put your happiness on hold.” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Is that true?”

  “Oh, no.” Gussie shook her head. “No.” Again, her mother said nothing. “Well, only a little bit. You know how much I love you. If you hadn’t supported me after…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “After what?” her father said, breaking into the conversation.

  He’d been so quiet, she’d nearly forgotten he sat only five feet from her. She swiveled to look at him, “You know,” she said.

  “But you can’t say it.” He tilted his head and studied her face. “Maybe if you could, you’d do better, maybe start healing.”

  “I’ve healed,” she squeaked, which pretty much gave her feelings away. She’d thought she’d healed until she met Adam. If healed meant she wanted to live normally and fall in love, well, she’d missed the mark by miles.