The Potluck Club

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  “Well, I think that’s it for me,” I said. “A job, a place to live, and—of course—Olivia.”

  “Let’s be sure to pray for Jack too,” Vonnie added.

  “Do what?” Donna asked, narrowing her eyes at Vonnie.

  Vonnie turned to her. “Donna, dear. When Jesus died it was for Jack’s sins as well as Goldie’s tears. A heart transplant in Jack could completely rewrite the end of this story.”

  Donna shrugged. “Yeah, well. Whatever. Personally, I’d rather chase a drunk driver on a moonless night.” For the first time I seriously wondered about Donna’s walk with the Lord, then mentally stopped myself from going there. Donna’s faith was none of my business. Was it?

  “Naturally we want to pray for Jan Moore,” Lisa Leann piped in, oblivious to what I suspected everyone else in the room was sensing. Donna Vesey was hiding more than the fact she’d had to work a couple of altercations between my husband and his mistress.

  “Of course we do,” Evie said. “That certainly goes without saying.” Everyone in the room, I’m sure, noticed the arrows that flew between Evie and Lisa Leann. Evie continued. “Girls, can I add something here?” She shook her head, fought back tears, then bowed her head before speaking again. “I know most of you remember my friend Ruth Ann. I loved Ruth Ann as much as I love my own sister, Peggy.” Evie shrugged a shoulder. “I can’t say

  I understand it at all, but the Lord saw fit to take my precious, precious friend.”

  Leigh reached over and began to stroke her aunt’s arm. The dam broke, and just like they said it was about time I left Jack, it was about time for Evie to break down. I’ve known her now for as many years as I’ve been married to Jack Dippel, and she’s hurt over Ruth Ann McDonald’s death in the deepest sort of way. It was enough to break anybody’s heart, watching her sob over there in her chair, shoulders hunched and shaking up and down. “We prayed so ha . . . ha . . . haaaaaaard,” she wailed. “And so I can’t quite figure out how I’m supposed to pray now.”

  Lizzie shifted beside me. “Um, Evie?”

  Evie wiped tears from her face with the palms of her hands as she looked across the room at the two of us. “What?”

  “May I share something Jan shared with me the other day when I visited with her?”

  Evie nodded.

  Lizzie pressed her knees together and leaned over slightly, clasping one hand with the other. “Let me see if I can remember how she worded it. According to Jan—and she asked that I share this with you, by the way—she believes in four types of healing. There’s the healing of the attitude that Paul talks about in 2 Corinthians. There’s medical miracles, which are—indeed—miracles. There are supernatural miracles. And, the one healing we all have but rarely think about is our body’s natural immune system.” Lizzie cleared her throat and rolled her shoulders a bit, looking down at her tiny feet then back up. “But, you know, I was thinking about all this the other day . . . and I think there’s a fifth healing. Jan knows it too, and even though she didn’t say it out loud, there’s no doubt in my mind she wanted to. In fact, she almost said it, then stopped herself.”

  “What is it?” Lisa Leann asked.

  Lizzie looked directly at Evie. “Death, Evangeline. Death is the ultimate healing.”

  No one said a word, not a single word, but I started thinking about a song my mother used to sing when I was a child, and I began to hum it. All eyes turned to me.

  “I don’t know why, but I was just remembering the song,” I explained.

  Lizzie smiled at me. “It’s a lovely old song,” she said, then sang aloud, “In seasons of distress and grief, my soul has often found relief . . .”

  I joined her. “And oft escaped the tempter’s snare . . .” and then the others joined the two of us.

  “By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!”

  31

  The woman is gone . . .

  Clay Whitefield perched in his chair at Higher Grounds. He took a sip of coffee, placed the mug back on the table, then checked his watch for at least the sixth time in five minutes.

  Any minute now the first car should be ambling by, indicating that the Potluck Club had ended. He wondered how much talk—or prayer, for that matter—had gone on about Goldie leaving Coach. He wondered, with a grin, if anyone had notified any black bears in the area.

  Any minute now he’d see the evidence of another month gone by, another gathering of hens, and another offering of “prayer.”

  Any minute now, Donna would come in and give him the minute-by-minute details.

  He looked at his watch again, then jerked his head upward as Lisa Leann’s Lincoln slid past the window.

  Any minute now . . .

  A couple of hours later, he paid his bill and walked back to his apartment. Donna hadn’t shown. He couldn’t imagine why, but she hadn’t.

  Oh well, he thought. He’d have to get the news later.

  32

  Heated Showdown

  How dare Evie attack my relationship with my husband in front of the entire Potluck Club? What did that old biddy know about marriage, anyway?

  After our meeting, I fled for home in my Lincoln Continental. I looked into my rearview mirror and saw to my horror that mascara was running in black rivers down my cheeks. Seeing how pitiful I looked made me weep all the more, my shoulders quaking as I tried to keep my hands steady on the wheel.

  “That old maid should rejoice,” I said aloud. “She’ll never know the heartbreak of having your ‘pretty pout’ totally ignored by your husband.”

  That made me cry harder, all the while wondering how Henry, the man of my dreams, had so completely cut me out of his life.

  I had first met Henry when I was hired to be his secretary at Exxon. There he was, handsome and single and making the big money.

  I was just out of college and ready to settle down. That first day I sat down in his office to take dictation, I was smitten. He was one tall Texan with curly black hair, big brown eyes, and the longest eyelashes you ever saw. The first time I heard him laugh at one of my jokes, I knew I could make him mine.

  Whenever I’d bring one of my daffodil cakes to work, I’d waltz right into his office with an extra big slice. “Henry, I made this for you.”

  That got me noticed in short order. First it was flowers and then it was dinner, and when that man finally proposed to me in the Reunion Tower Restaurant in Dallas (the restaurant that slowly rotates on top a needle high above the city), my head didn’t stop spinning until sometime after the kids were born.

  The kids! How I missed them. My eyes instantly flooded, and I could hardly see to drive. One-handed, I dug a tissue out of my purse and dabbed at my tears.

  How could Evie ever know what it’s like to lose the one you love?

  Sure, Henry still slept in my bed, but his body hardly ever reached for mine. A cry of anguish escaped my lips, and I tried to calm myself by taking a deep breath.

  It hadn’t always been like this. In our day, Henry and I had made the best couple ever, and I believe we were good for each other. He said he needed me because I spiced up his life. I needed him because he was my anchor. We spent a lot of time together, going to restaurants, enjoying movies, playing tennis. But he seemed to go into a permanent sulk when the babies came, probably because my attention was no longer fully his. He counterattacked by becoming even busier at the office.

  Even then, he still loved my cooking. But gradually, over time, he seemed to have no time to sit down for a meal, whether with the kids or me. With his after-hours meetings and workouts at the gym, he’d sometimes crawl into bed well after I was asleep.

  What could I do? I couldn’t make the man love me or his family. I couldn’t make him be a husband or a father, no matter how I begged or pleaded. I tried every tactic I could think of . . . until one day I gave up. So what if my loneliness made me become president of every organization to which I belonged. I was beginning to build a new life for myself. I grew so busy I didn’t care if Henry had a permanent
“Do Not Disturb” sign over his heart or not.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, ignoring the fact that this gesture greatly disturbed my curls.

  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself. For now, I found myself with a husband who not only did not love me but also had taken me far away from the people who did. I began to weep all over again, not caring who saw me looking like a red-faced zebra. I was devastated.

  To my relief, I pulled into view of my condo. It was only 3:00 in the afternoon and Henry wouldn’t be home for a couple more hours. I could finish my cry and take a nice, hot shower. Refreshed, I could pretend that I didn’t care that I was an outcast, spurned by my husband as well as by those I’d tried to befriend.

  I hit the button on my garage door opener and drove my Lincoln inside. Ohmygosh, what is Henry’s Ford Explorer doing here?

  I cracked open the door to the house and quickly stepped inside. Let’s see, where was he?

  I heard noises in the kitchen and began to tiptoe past. However, when I saw Henry helping himself to a big bowl of my chicken and dumplings, so help me, I came at him like Chucky at that bear. “Henry Lambert, what in the name of Sam Hill do you think you are doing, eating the dish I prepared to take over to Jan Moore’s house tonight?”

  Henry, still wearing his fishing clothes, took a step back. He couldn’t help but notice me now, breathing fire right in front of him. “What happened to you, Lisa Leann? You look like you’ve been in a train wreck.”

  I stormed past him and looked inside my Crock-Pot to survey the damage, which was irreparable. “How could you, Henry? What are the Moores going to eat for dinner tonight?”

  Henry grinned in that exasperating way of his. “What about fish?”

  Now, that was the wrong thing to say. I screamed, “Fish! Is that all you think about, fish?” By now I was totally out of control. I knew that as soon as I caught my reflection in the door of our stainless steel refrigerator. My scarlet face was covered with zebra war paint, and my hair stuck out in every direction.

  Henry ventured innocently, “What’s wrong with fish?”

  Like I said, it’s easier to let a cat out of the bag than to put it back in. But so help me, I couldn’t contain myself. The cat was coming out, and it was coming out now.

  “What do you mean, what’s wrong with fish?” I shrieked. “If you love fish so much, you should have married one! Besides, if I was lucky enough to be a fish, then maybe I’d get a little of your attention!”

  Henry’s features faded from fear to amusement. “I don’t know, Lisa Leann; you’ve always seemed like a rather cold fish to me.”

  Looking back, I think that remark was Henry’s attempt to defuse the situation. However, his words snapped my last nerve. With anger, I backed my husband into the corner between the refrigerator and the stove. He leaned back, holding his spoon aloft while cradling his bowl of cooling chicken and dumplings to his chest.

  “How dare you call me a cold fish when it’s you who has left me in the cold! Not only that, you’ve uprooted me from my mother, children, and friends, and for what? So you can stand in an ice-cold river and fish all day?” I grabbed the bowl out of his hand and continued my shrieks. “Maybe you’re happy ignoring me, maybe you’ve found your purpose in a fishing hook, but me, I’ve got nothing, not even you!”

  With that, I tugged on the elastic waistband of Henry’s fishing pants and dumped the rest of the chicken and dumplings down his trousers. Before he could react, I fled from the room and sprawled across the bed, sobbing hard. I knew at least Henry wouldn’t touch me here.

  As I boo-hooed, I could hear Henry in the kitchen cleaning up the mess. Soon, I heard the shower switch on.

  By the time he was finished, I was sitting in my wicker rocking chair next to the bed, holding a box of tissues. Henry came out of the bath wrapped in his blue terry housecoat.

  I don’t think he saw me in the dim light until I whispered, “When did I lose you, Henry Lambert?”

  He turned to me and shrugged. “We were all so busy. Though I have to blame myself for a lot of it.”

  A tear slid down my cheek. “Henry, I’ve missed you so much.” “Have you? I guess I’ve missed you too.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

  Henry nodded then sat down on the edge of the bed, just across from me. “I thought you’d given up.”

  “You and I, we’ve managed to achieve everything we could ask for in life. A beautiful home and great kids. We’ve even managed to save for our retirement. But somehow, we’ve forgotten our most important savings plan of all.”

  “What’s that, Leann?”

  “We forgot to save our marriage.”

  “I’m sorry for that.”

  “Me too.”

  I stood up and rummaged around on the bookshelf for a photo album labeled “Our Honeymoon.”

  I flipped the album open to a picture of a young, smiling couple, obviously very much in love. I handed the book to my husband. “Henry, we loved each other once. Remember?”

  Henry looked down at the picture, then back up to me. I reached for his hand and shyly asked, “Do you want to try again?”

  “Do you?”

  When I nodded, Henry surprised me by pulling me into his lap. I responded by wrapping my arms around his neck. Our eyes met, our lips touched, and Henry gently leaned me into the bed, where we relived the passion of long ago.

  Later, Henry and I hurried around the kitchen as he taught me how to make trout amandine for the Moores. I pulled out a fork and took a bite of a pan-fried fish already cooling on a paper towel.

  “I’d forgotten how good fresh trout is,” I said, smiling up at Henry.

  He smiled back. “Does that mean you’re going to allow fish fries in the house?”

  “When I don’t have to eat alone,” I challenged. “We really should take our meals together, you know.”

  I smiled. I knew that our marriage needed a lot of work, but we’d definitely had a breakthrough. Plus we’d agreed to mealtimes together.

  That night, Henry helped me deliver our fish fry to the Moores. Jan looked at both of us standing in her doorway and said, “You dears, we love fish. Thank you so much for your kindness.”

  We smiled at each other, then back at her. “We thank you, Jan, for the opportunity,” I said.

  Later, as we were driving home, Henry said, “Leann, I want to show you something.” He stopped in front of a dilapidated Victorian house down on Main Street. Even the dim streetlights illuminated its poor condition. Its windows were boarded up, its paint peeling, and the roof looked as if it could use a little work. Henry said, “I’ve been thinking of making a real estate investment. Earlier tonight, when you said you’d lost your purpose, I couldn’t help but think of this place.”

  Henry’s eyes sparked. “What in the past five years has given you the most satisfaction?”

  “Well, you already know the answer to that, Henry. It was helping Mandy plan her wedding.”

  “Exactly,” Henry said. “I have to admit, you did a marvelous job.”

  I did a double take. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

  “I did, and remember what I said to you at the time?”

  “No.”

  “I said if you ever got tired of your choirs and clubs, you should consider going into business for yourself.”

  I was stunned. “As a wedding planner?”

  “Why not? Not only do the locals have to plan their weddings, so do the tourists. Just the other day, an out-of-state couple got married not far from where I was fishing.”

  “Really?”

  I gave that old two-story Victorian clapboard a second look. I just loved the steep roof, not to mention the ornate woodwork and trim. “You know, Henry, I see what you mean. I think this old place would make a great wedding boutique, complete with consulting services, of course.”

  Henry pulled the car back into the street and grinned. “I thought you’d say that.”

  I turned to h
im. “You know, that place will take a lot of work to make it shine. Are you up for helping me?”

  “Well, as it was my idea, I’m willing to back it up with my hammer and paintbrush,” Henry said.

  It was going to take a lot of work to restore what we’d lost, and this old house that stood before us probably looked a lot like our current relationship.

  But we had agreed to try. And just as this old home could be renewed with a paintbrush and hammer, our marriage could be renewed with care, courtesy, and a project we could tackle together. For the first time in ages, I hoped, I believed, it could.

  I stared at my husband as we drove home in silence. I could just kiss him. Which I did, as soon as we got back to the bedroom.

  33

  What’s she got going on . . .

  Clay Whitefield looked out the window of his apartment. His brow rose as he tilted his chin just enough to stare through the slats of the blinds, taking in the scene of the Lamberts parked down the street. They seemed to be doing nothing more than staring at the old house he’d watched crumble to ruin over the years. “Hmmm,” he mumbled. “What’s up with that?”

  The Lamberts were a nice enough couple, to his way of thinking, although it was obvious to him that they were living separate lives. Reporters had a nose for things like that.

  He turned back to his desk and laptop. Bernstein and Woodward were sleeping, peacefully wrapped around each other and breathing in a rhythm only they could sense. Clay sighed as he sat, then frowned.

  He hadn’t seen Donna in days. He’d been hoping to get her opinion on the latest gossip in town: Goldie Dippel had finally left Coach. He’d cherish her thoughts, work hard to remember every word she said in reference to the situation, then write them in his notebook just as soon as she was out of view.