The Matchmakers (6 page)

“It must be so much fun,” the woman repeated.

Cynthia had the impression that Attorney Weston—P.C.—was stirring uneasily. She lifted her glance from her plate to give a brief peek in his direction. Yes, he did look a tad uncomfortable. He covered quickly by turning to Cal with a comment. Cynthia did not hear.

Judith had outdone herself with the meal. Everything was delicious and brought many comments from the diners. Even Todd exclaimed with young-boy frankness that “everything sure was good.”

The conversation flowed easily. Cynthia found herself straining to get in on more than one discussion at a time. Her father and Mrs. Weston chatted easily throughout the meal, often addressing a remark to the entire table. She heard manly chuckles and feminine titters and marveled at how quickly they seemed to become acquainted with each other. Now and then Cynthia cast anxious little looks toward Judith, but her friend usually seemed occupied with her conversation with P.C. Weston and Cal. Cynthia did overhear Judith’s favorite little joke about marrying Cal just so she could always be Wright. The attorney had grinned appreciatively.

Cynthia, seated between her two sons as she had requested, often missed bits of the conversation because of the chatter of her offspring and the Wright children. It was unnerving when she wanted to hear everything that was being said at the table.

After dessert the youngsters were excused and the grown-ups sat and enjoyed another cup of coffee. Conversation for the entire table was much easier then, and Cynthia enjoyed the chit-chat about current events and worldwide church news. She even voiced a few opinions, though mostly she was content to sit and listen.

She was the first to stir. Time was passing quickly. Her father always enjoyed a brief Sunday afternoon nap, a habit he had picked up since his retirement. At first he had done it, he said, to help the hours pass more quickly. Now he missed it if he didn’t get his fifteen- or twenty-minute “power-nap,” as he liked to call it. He would be getting restless if she didn’t make a move to bring the delightful occasion to a close.

“Let me help with dishes,” she heard herself saying to Judith.

“Nonsense. Cal will help me.”

Poor Cal,
thought Cynthia.
It looks like he’s already worked overtime.

“Really,” she insisted. “Let me give a hand.”

Mrs. Weston was rising to her feet as well.

“It won’t take long at all if we all pitch in,” she said, gathering up dessert plates as she spoke. “Now, that was a mother’s phrase if I ever heard one,” she joked, and they joined in her laughter.

It seemed very natural for the three women to busy themselves in the kitchen together. In no time the cleanup task was done. Cynthia discovered that she secretly wanted it to last a bit longer. She was enjoying the cozy atmosphere of common-interest chatter and a shared task with other women. It reminded her of the good times she used to have with her mother. No wonder her father was so lonesome.
He lost the love and companionship of a truly wonderful woman,
Cynthia mused. She also missed it. That special camaraderie. She hadn’t realized just how much until this moment. This moment of sharing, not just with Judith, but with this motherly woman who worked beside her.

Roger must have known,
she found herself thinking. He had rather taken over after Mother died—coming to the kitchen to help, to chat, just to lean up against the counter and watch Cynthia fix a meal and casually discuss the happenings of the day.
He must have known,
she repeated inwardly. Now she did those tasks alone while her father entertained the boys.

But there was soon no reason to linger any longer in Judith’s kitchen. Pensively she hung up the dish towel just as Mrs. Weston removed the ample apron from her Sunday dress.

“This has been fun,” the older woman said, her voice indicating that the words were totally sincere. “I always longed for a daughter. Carl and I had planned a big family. We were so disappointed when that became impossible for us,” the woman confided with a wistfulness in her voice. “But—” she added, picking up her cheerfulness again, “Preston has been a good son. He has given me so much joy.”

He doesn’t even want you around,
Cynthia began a mental dialogue.
How could anybody not want you?
She could feel anger begin to smolder deep within her.

There seemed to be nothing to do now but to gather up her family and go home. Home to the house that had not really seemed like a home since Roger had died. They just lived there. Put in long days—and even longer nights. She did not look forward to the return.

Cynthia managed to be the last person to exit the door. She gave Judith an appreciative hug. They were not given to being “maudlin,” as Judith called it, but Cynthia knew of no other way to let her longtime friend know how she felt.

“Thanks so much, Jude,” she whispered.

To Cynthia’s surprise, Judith held her for a moment. “So what do you think?” she asked in a return whisper.

Cynthia leaned back enough to see Judith’s face as unbidden tears dimmed her eyes. “I don’t know about Daddy,” she murmured, “but I’d take her home today.”

Judith grinned and gave Cynthia another squeeze. “Isn’t she just adorable?”

Cynthia could only nod. Her heart was too full for her to be able to speak.

“I was thinking,” her father said on the drive home. “We really should return the invitation. Your mother was very particular about being hospitable—you know, in doing the turnabout. She never felt settled until she had returned the invitation.”

Cynthia didn’t respond and waited to see where he was going with this.

“Been a long time since we entertained,” he continued.

Daddy,
thought Cynthia,
we’ve never entertained.

“Some folks are stepping out to a restaurant now instead of having people in their home. I still think that doing something at home is nice, but if you don’t feel up to going to all that fuss, we can just offer to take them all out.”

“The Wrights?”

He nodded.

They drove on in silence while Cynthia thought about his words. She knew he was right. They should “do the turnabout.”

“Guess we could.”

“Maybe when we get home we can sort of pick a Sunday,” her father went on.

It was her turn to nod.

“Let’s do it next Sunday,” called Todd from the backseat.

“Yeah,” seconded Justin. Both of them were full of enthusiasm about their friends and the toys in the Wright household.

“Next Sunday might be too soon,” Cynthia cautioned. “It could sort of look like … like we wanted to hurry up and get it over with or something.”

“A couple of Sundays then,” said her father. He half turned to her. “Two Sundays between should be okay, shouldn’t it?”

She nodded again. “I’ll talk to Judith.”

“I was thinking,” said her father after a short pause. “Maybe we could invite the Westons too. They seem like real nice folks.”

Cynthia turned her head to look at him.
You old rascal,
she thought to herself, a smile catching the corners of her mouth.
I’ll just bet you do. I saw the way you two chatted throughout the entire meal.

She looked out the side window of the car, no longer feeling threatened. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if—? But no—she would not allow her mind to jump ahead to such fancies. She would be too disappointed if it didn’t happen.

“I’ll call the Westons,” she said, hoping that the excitement she was feeling would not be given away by her voice.

She saw her own soft smile transfer to her father’s face.

It turned out to be three weeks before Cynthia hosted the Sunday dinner. When she had arrived home and studied her house, she had decided that she simply could not be ready any sooner. She had been neglectful. Though she was busy, in truth she had lost interest in housekeeping since Roger had died.

Now she looked about her with new eyes. Things needed a good cleaning. The carpets were soiled. The draperies needed to be sent out. There were marks on the hall walls that needed paint touch-ups. The kitchen wallpaper looked shabby. The fireplace needed thorough attention.

Everywhere she looked she saw tasks that she had been neglecting.

She was grateful when her father informed her that he was willing to roll up his sleeves and go to work. For the first time since he’d retired, he looked excited about a project at hand.

On Monday she left a little list, and by the time she arrived home from work that evening, he had already completed many of the assignments. She fixed a hurried meal, changed into old jeans, and together they tackled the rest. The next day the routine was repeated. Cynthia soon found that with the brightening of her home, her spirits brightened as well. It felt great to see the rooms transformed. She was enjoying even straightening out drawers and closets—places that would not be on display for her guests, but knowing everything was orderly made her feel good.
I should have done this long ago,
she scolded herself and wondered just why she hadn’t. How could she have let things get so far behind? But she’d not had enthusiasm for the tasks before. No compelling reason to take them on. It had been enough to just try to make it through each day.

“It looks great!” her father exclaimed with a broad smile when the very last item was scratched from the final list. Cynthia agreed. It did look good. She loved the new kitchen wallpaper. The borders that had been added to the boys’ rooms. The freshness of the window treatments. The clean, unmarked paint on the walls. Even the carpet that she had longed to replace looked fresh and quite acceptable after the thorough shampooing.

“Sunday?”

“Sunday.”

They stood there and grinned at each other.

The dinner went very well. Cynthia served a pot roast to rave reviews. The cherry pie was equally appreciated. The kids went off to play and the adults settled in the living room to chat, coffee cups in hand. After they moved from the subject of the weather to the main points of the morning’s sermon, Cynthia noticed that the conversation on this occasion became more personal. More intimate.

“I don’t feel too comfortable where I am now,” Mrs. Weston admitted. “I’m thinking of selling that big house and moving. But it’s hard, you know. That was our dream home, Carl’s and mine. But he scarcely had time to enjoy it. It seems… strange  … that things happen like that. It would have been so much better if I were still in the old house.”

She hesitated a moment. “Then again—I likely never would have met any of you, and Carl would have never realized his dream. He always had in mind that I needed a more—well, a larger, more impressive home. I was quite happy where I was. But he—” She stopped and smiled softly. “Guess men and women see things differently.”

Cynthia’s father nodded. “We do,” he admitted. “I would’ve loved to have given Mary a nice, big house. One like she deserved. But it never happened. We lived in the same little home for all the twenty-nine years of our marriage.”

“Twenty-nine years?”

Her father nodded.

“Carl and I were married for thirty-four.”

Roger and I were only married for seven,
Cynthia thought.
We were cheated.