The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek (2 page)

“Yes,” he said aloud.

“She’s a nice young woman. Unmarried, as I remember.”

As if she didn’t know that. “Yes,” he said.

Then, in a quick attempt to change the subject, Adam turned toward the other Widow and said casually, “Winnie, now that you’re going to marry Sam’s father…”

“Don’t know if she will,” Birdie grumbled. “They may live in sin for tax purposes.”

“Birdie.” Winnie put her hands on cheeks that were turning pink. “How could you say that? Mitchell and I…”

“But don’t try to sidetrack me, Preacher.
You’re
not married yet, not engaged yet. That’s our biggest worry and failure,” she said with a sorrowful sigh that told of the unimaginable depths of her disappointment.

“All in good time,” he temporized. “All in good time.”

Miss Birdie wasn’t finished. “What I’m saying is that if Gussie Milton’s going to the retreat, you’d better put those days to good use.”

He heard the wagging of a finger in her voice and shuddered to contemplate what Miss Birdie had in mind. She probably expected him to marry Gussie on Friday evening and have her heavy with child by Sunday.

“About Winnie’s wedding,” he said, restating his topic.

“About Gussie Milton,” Miss Birdie countered.

“We hear she left a message this morning,” Winnie said.

“I haven’t read it yet.” He gestured toward the pink slip.

Both Widows leaned far forward in an effort to read that square of paper tantalizingly close to them in the center of the desk. He picked it up, folded the note, and stuck it into the pocket of his shirt.

Then, thankfully, because he didn’t put it past Miss Birdie to pluck the message from his pocket, Mercedes Rivera stuck her head in the door. “Sorry I’m late. Long meeting.” She hurried in and settled in a chair on the other side of Miss Birdie.

“Welcome, Mercedes,” he said.

In contrast with the other Widows, Mercedes, the town librarian, had dark hair, liberally streaked with white and pulled back into a French braid. With a fuller body than Miss Birdie, she also displayed a sweet smile, one that Adam almost always trusted. She was polite and, most important, seldom harassed him.

Adam took the few seconds her arrival gave him to return to his topic. “When Winnie marries Sam’s father—”

“If she does,” Miss Birdie said.

“We are going to—” Winnie started to say.

“—the number of Widows is going to decrease again,” Adam finished.

“We’re not going to kick Winnie out,” Mercedes said. “We’ll still have three Widows.”

“Miss Birdie,” he said with deep concern in his voice. “With work and raising your granddaughters and all you do for the church, I fear you might become…” He paused to think of a word that wouldn’t insult her. There were none. Miss Birdie was easily affronted.

“Weary in my efforts?” She glared at him for suggesting she might possess limits of any kind.

He couldn’t mention her health problems, especially that bad shoulder. If he did, she’d—as they said on the basketball court—open a can of whoop-ass on him.

“You’re a very busy woman. All your good works are far more important than getting me married off.” He turned to Winnie. “And with your engagement…”

Birdie glanced toward the other Widows, then back at the preacher as he trailed off. In that instant, Birdie noted a fleeting expression of satisfaction flit across his face and realized she and Winnie and Mercedes had walked right into
his
trap.

“Well, Mercedes, you missed our entire discussion,” she said in an effort to circumvent whatever the preacher was fixin’ to bring up. “We’re finished. Time to get a move on.” Birdie struggled to stand, but when she lifted herself an inch off the chair, that blasted shoulder collapsed and dropped her back down. Doggone it! Betrayed by her own body, but she’d be darned if she’d let anyone know about it. She pretended she’d only changed position.

“Not quite,” the preacher said. “We were about to discuss the Widows with Winnie’s change in status.”

Mercedes whispered to Birdie, “I didn’t think that’s what you wanted to talk about.”

Always truthful, that Mercedes. How in the world had Birdie ended up with a friend like her?

“Let’s talk about the Widows,” Adam repeated insistently. He stood, walked around the desk, and settled in a chair closer to them. “You’ll be shorthanded with Winnie getting married.”

“If she does,” the pillar grumbled.

Winnie frowned at her but remained silent. Winnie was well aware that arguing with her never accomplished a thing.

“Oh, no, Preacher. With Pansy and Winnie to help us…,” Mercedes began.

“Pansy is a wonderful help to the congregation, and a great cook. But she isn’t a Widow and she’s married.”

Birdie leaned to the right, still attempting to find a comfortable position. “Pastor, you’re the one who convinced me to break with tradition and make Winnie Jenkins a Widow when she’d never married. Not that I’m saying we should make Pansy a Widow, mind you.” Fact was, Pansy had turned them down before. With her mother’s poor health, she said she just didn’t have time. Besides, if they started letting just anyone join, they wouldn’t be the Widows would they?

“I have another suggestion,” the preacher said.

Birdie didn’t like suggestions, not from anyone, but he just kept right on suggesting.

“Blossom Brown,” he said.

“Blossom Brown?” Birdie snorted. “Silly name for an elderly…” She paused for a second, realizing she and Blossom were about the same age. “Silly name for an adult.”

“Besides, Preacher,” Winnie said, “she’s not a real widow. She’s a grass widow.”

“Her husband left her for some young trophy wife,” Mercedes said. “Not that the whole situation isn’t sad, but her husband didn’t die. She’s…she’s…” Mercedes paused before she whispered, “divorced.”

“Yes.” He gave her a ministerial nod. “She went through a difficult divorce.”

“Sad, so very sad.” Birdie infused her words with sympathy before she snapped, “But she’s not a real widow.”

“Ladies, whether he died or ran out on her, Blossom is alone in that big house by the lake, and she wants to serve someplace.”

Mercedes nodded. “I know this has been hard for her, but Blossom”—she raised her hand in front of her—“well, I don’t want to sound judgmental or unkind, but she’s not like us, not a bit.” She dropped her hand and said, “She’s rich and has a cook and a housekeeper.”

“Why would she have the slightest interest in doing the work the Widows do?” Winnie asked.

“Guess you’ll know that only if you give her a try.” He paused. “She’s alone. No children.”

“Pastor.” Birdie took charge of the discussion. “She’s what we call ‘high maintenance.’ That champagne-colored hair doesn’t come cheap. And those nails? I’ll bet she gets them done weekly in Austin. How could she scrub a floor?” Birdie shook her head. “Why would she want to?”

“And, well, she’s not from here,” Winnie said. “She doesn’t know how to do things.”

“Not the way we do them,” Mercedes agreed.

“I believe,” Adam said, “she was born in Louisiana, and she seems to be a true Southern lady.”

“Well, I can’t understand a word she says with that accent. Besides.” Birdie leaned forward. “I can’t see her as a Widow.” She nodded, a motion that they all knew signaled the end of discussion. Not that the preacher ever acknowledged it.

“You couldn’t see Winnie as a Widow but she worked out.”

“Not completely. I’ve had to train her.”

“What?” Winnie sat up straight and blinked. “Train me?”

“All right. Winnie worked out fine. Then she decided to get married.” Birdie sniffed pointedly. Winnie’s choice still rankled. “As for Blossom Brown, she’s not really a member of the church. Doesn’t she still belong to that la-di-da church in Austin? She and her husband seldom attended services here. Maybe once a month, if that often.”

“And she wears
hats
, Preacher,” Mercedes said. “No one wears hats anymore, except Blossom. Bird, do you remember that yellow one she wore last Easter? Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen and must have cost more than you make in tips in a couple of weeks.”

“Which again makes me wonder
why
she’d want to be a Widow,” Birdie said. “We’re plain folks, Mercedes, Winnie, and I. We don’t wear beautiful tailored clothing and fancy hats.”

“Because she’s lonely. She needs the church now. Whether she’s come every Sunday, she’s attended more often than some of our members. Ladies, she needs to be part of the church. She needs to be a Widow.” He paused and seemed to search for words before he continued. “When I visited her last week, she told me she’d gotten the house in the divorce settlement and would be living out here permanently. She has nothing to do with her life now that she no longer entertains for her husband or travels with him.”

“Beautiful house,” Mercedes said. “Out on the lake.”

“I hear she has a wonderful view,” Winnie added. “I’d love to see the inside.”

For almost a minute, Birdie exchanged looks with the other Widows, silently weighing the pros and cons. In the end, that beautiful lake house tipped the scales. But nothing had been decided, and Birdie didn’t want the preacher to think otherwise.

“We will discuss this.” She stood, pushing herself to her feet with her good arm. “I’m not promising anything.”

“Pastor, don’t forget the spring bazaar and chicken spaghetti dinner coming up next month,” Winnie said as they gathered their possessions to leave.

“Make sure you get some signs out and get a few articles in the newspaper. And remember your responsibility at that retreat, finding a wife.” Birdie turned toward the door and strode out, the other two following.

Once they stood in the parking lot, Birdie said, “I think we made ourselves very clear.”

“Yes, you did,” Mercedes agreed.

“But, you know, he doesn’t always do what we tell him to,” Winnie said.

A grievous disappointment to them all.

Adam knew exactly how the Widows felt. Unfortunately, courting a woman was one area he had no idea how to approach. Tell him to preach a better sermon and he’d work on that. Give him a list of shut-ins and he’d visit. Mention that a kid needed a place to spend the night and he’d make up a bed in a spare room of the parsonage.

But find a wife in a town with no single women except for Sister Mary Timothy down at the Catholic Church and his friend Reverend Mattie Patillo? He had no idea how to manage that.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the note Maggie had left him about Gussie’s call. “She’ll see you Friday at the retreat,” he read. “Call her cell if you have questions.”

He smiled. Not a particularly personal note. He’d prefer a protestation of undying love.

Then a terrible idea hit him. Certainly the Widows wouldn’t track him down at the youth retreat in the thickly wooded campground south of Gonzalez. Surely they’d stop short of stalking him there, of appearing and coercing Gussie to accept his clumsy courting.

Of course they wouldn’t do that.

But he wasn’t about to place a bet on their ability to resist temptation.

G
ussie Milton wasn’t a pink person. She preferred vibrant colors, hence her yellow car, the red accent wall in her bedroom, and the pile of orange and bright green and purple T-shirts that lay next to the duffel bag on her bed.

Her mother loved to tell about the time a three-year-old Gussie refused to go to church in a frilly pink dress, how she’d removed that ultra-feminine garment and put on jeans and a UT shirt. Gussie always wondered why a mother who named her daughter for a favorite uncle could expect that daughter to wear a pink dress.

“Gus,” her father called from downstairs, interrupting her inspection of the jumble of colors on her bed. “Want to watch television with us? One of those singing shows is on.”

“No thanks, Dad. I have a lot left to do.”

She picked up the date book on her desk and turned to toss it into a tote. Three bags were lined up by the door: the red one for work, the orange one for the district youth, the one covered in sunflowers for church. Her entire life, organized in totes. She sighed. Someday she’d like to add a purple tote labeled
MY LIFE,
because she didn’t have one now.

Always active in youth group and retreats and summer camp, she’d fallen into that again when she graduated from college and came back home. Her friend Clare Montoya had suggested the reason she worked with teenagers was because she didn’t have children of her own. A possible explanation. However, even if she didn’t work with the church kids, she still wouldn’t have children of her own.

Little by little, she’d taken more responsibility, from working with the high school youth here and growing the group from three to fifteen regulars, to taking “her kids” to camp, to being in charge of the district youth. She loved it because working with young people gave her life meaning. Their joyful faith inspired her and pulled her out of herself.

After she put the book in the orange bag, her cell rang. She glanced at the caller ID. Jimmy Flock, a minister from San Antonio. Did she want to talk to him? Yes, despite having more preparation to do than she had time for, she’d answer. He always supported the district youth programs. “Hey,” she said. “You’re not calling to cancel for the retreat, are you?”

“Would I do that? No, just checking to see if you need me to do anything.”

“Bless you. I can’t think of anything.”

Then he said exactly what he always did. “How’s your love life?”

Didn’t he realize what a pushy and intrusive question that was? No one asked a woman of thirty-one about her love life because chances were good she didn’t have one. Maybe it had been witty banter fifty years ago, but now it was just plain embarrassing. As usual, she answered with a joke: “Oh, Jimmy, we don’t have time for me to tell you the details.”

“Still not married, huh?”

“I’ll let you know when that happens.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

After discussing a few details of the youth retreat, he said, “I looked over the information you sent in the mail. I see that new minister in Butternut Creek—what’s his name? Adam something?—is preaching Sunday morning. What’s he like? Have you met him yet?”

“Yes, for coffee a few times to discuss the retreat. Seems like a nice kid. He’ll be fine.” She looked at the piles of clothing and her full totes. “Hey, I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do, but I’ll have time to talk more when I see you tomorrow.”

Why, she pondered after she hung up, why did people believe her marital status was any of their business? Particularly people who didn’t know her well.

Because she was a compulsive list maker, she settled in front of her laptop to check the one about what she needed to take with her. She had it all ready. As long as she was there, she sent a quick email to Clare, her friend since the church nursery and one of the few people who knew what had happened to Gussie thirteen years earlier. Gussie’s other friends had moved away after graduation. They kept up by email and with occasional visits, but Clare—dear Clare—was always around. Though now that Clare had three children and lived an hour outside of Austin, they didn’t get together nearly as often as they would have liked.

That finished, Gussie turned back toward the heap of clothing, picked up a TCU T-shirt, folded it, and lobbed it toward her duffel bag. As she reached for a pair of jeans, she grinned in anticipation of the upcoming retreat. She loved teenagers and always enjoyed working with the other adults. Maybe she’d get to know that young minister from Butternut Creek better, too. Seemed like a nice guy.

After filling the bag, she zipped it and slung it over her shoulder as she headed down the stairs toward the living room.

“About ready, dear?” Her mother picked up the remote and muted the television as Gussie dropped the bag by the front door.

“I have a few more things to pack. Tomorrow morning, I’ll grab everything and take off.” She sat next to her mother on the sofa. “You’ll be okay?”

“We old folks will make it through the weekend, especially with all the help you’ve rounded up and the freezer full of meals.” She patted Gussie’s hand. “You worry too much.”

She knew she did, but this was her mother who’d loved and cared for and supported her during the most terrible months of Gussie’s life. Without her parents, she’d never have made it through. She owed them everything.

“How’s your blood sugar?” Gussie asked. “Can I get you a cookie or a glass of milk?”

“Stop hovering, dear. I’m fine.”

“Hey, Gus, looks like you’re ready to abandon us.” Her father came from the kitchen with a glass of tea.

“Henry, don’t say that. You know how much she hates to leave us.”

Maybe she shouldn’t go to the retreat. If anything happened to them while she was gone…

“Gus, don’t worry. We’ve been taking care of ourselves for decades.”

“Find yourself a nice young man while you’re there,” her mother said. “You know, we’d like grandchildren while we’re still young enough to play with them.”

Must be a symptom of growing older, the desire to match everyone up, like Noah taking the animals onto the Ark two-by-two. Or it could be biblical, that Be-fruitful-and-multiply section of Genesis. Maybe it was a biological instinct, preservation of the species. But for her parents, maybe it was as her mother said: They’d like to see a grandchild before they died.

“Yes, Mother, of course. That’s exactly why I go to these retreats with lots of high school kids and married ministers. To find a husband.”

“Leave her alone, Yvonne. She’ll get married when she finds the right man.”

Her mother sighed. “But how will she do that, Henry? She never meets any single men.”

“Leave the girl alone.”

“Yes, leave the girl alone.” Gussie laughed and headed toward the door. “I have to run in to work for a few hours, finish up some stuff.” The daily drive to Austin to her photography studio was an accepted trade-off for her choice to care for her parents in Roundville.

Everything would be fine. She knew that, but her mind kept running, making sure. A compulsive fixer, she knew all the checking, planning, thinking, and analyzing she did was in an effort to control a life that had spun out of control. Think everything over and over, make lists, foresee every possible risk, and make absolutely sure nothing, not the tiniest thing, could ever go wrong. At times she felt as if she were juggling armadillos.

“Okay, God,” she whispered. “Be my strength. You and I can handle everything together.”

“We have to do something about the choir.” Birdie leaned closer to Mercedes. The Widows—this afternoon only the two of them because for some odd reason Mercedes had insisted they not include Winnie—had met at their usual place, the diner where Birdie waited tables. Both had a cup of coffee. Between them sat a few slices of banana bread from Butch’s bakery left over from breakfast.

“What?” Mercedes groaned. “You and I can’t sing. Not that we’d be any worse than Ralph and the three women who mumble the hymns.”

“They’re pitiful. It would be nice to have them sing something, like a prayer response, instead of having them sit up there in the choir loft and watch the congregation.”

“I swear, last Sunday Ethel Peavey was doing a crossword puzzle inside her music folder.” Mercedes broke off the corner of the last slice of bread and nibbled on it. “And Ralph Foxx fell asleep. Terrible to have an elder sitting behind the minister and snoring through the sermon.”

“You know I occasionally disagree with the preacher.” Birdie fixed Mercedes with a glare that dared her to comment on the statement. “But he does deliver a good sermon. We don’t have a choir up there, only four people who don’t even stand for the hymns.”

“And what will we do about a fill-in organist? With Jenny on maternity leave, who’s going to play?”

“I don’t know who’s available in town, but we have to have someone. The choir can’t lead congregational singing, and you know how terrible the preacher’s voice is.”

Her friend glanced down at her coffee, studying it as if she could read fortunes in the grounds, not that she’d find any in a pot Birdie brewed. She recognized her friend’s slight hesitation and knew it to mean nothing good. Before she could jump in to forestall Mercedes’s words, the other Widow lifted her eyes toward Birdie and asked, “What do you think about Farley Masterson?”

“What should I think about him?” Birdie shook her head. “He’s a grumpy old Methodist…”

“He’s our age, Bird. Maybe a few years older.”

“Okay, he’s a man our age who’s a Methodist and grumpy.”

“He’s nice looking for a man of his age, and you two have a lot in common.” Mercedes blinked twice.

Oh, she knew that expression, too. She’d first seen it when Mercedes had grabbed Birdie’s Betsy-Wetsy doll back in the church nursery. It meant nothing good.

If there was one thing Birdie didn’t want to talk about, it was what she and Farley had in common. They’d both lost daughters to drugs. Oh, the two girls—women now—were still alive as far as Birdie knew, but their addictions had ruined them, made them leave their homes and families and go to some big city where getting drugs and finding a way to pay for them was easier.

But Birdie’s daughter, Martha Patricia, had left behind her two daughters for their grandmother to raise. Sometimes the stress of rearing teenage girls made her feel more than her nearly seventy years of age.

A friend for most of those years, Mercedes could read Birdie’s face easily. “You know you love those girls. You’d’ve shriveled up and died after Elmer passed if you hadn’t had those girls around.”

“Mercedes Olivia Suárez de Rivera, I have never, ever, in my whole life contemplated curling up and dying.”

“But you do dote on those girls.”

“I swan!” The woman was so persistent Birdie wondered why she’d put up with her for all these years. “Where is this conversation going?”

“I’m only saying that you and Farley Masterson have that in common.”

“He’s not raising his grandchildren.”

“No, but…”

“Mercedes.” Birdie raised her right eyebrow. “Why are you talking about Farley Masterson? I haven’t seen the old coot”—she stopped and changed that description—“I haven’t spoken to the man in years.”

“You know he used to keep company with that widow over in San Saba.”

Birdie scrutinized her friend’s face. “Are you interested in Farley? Do you want my permission to keep company with him?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, no.” Mercedes shook her head. “You know I’ve been seeing Bill Jones down at the bank for years. We’re comfortable together.”

“So why did you mention Farley?”

Mercedes blinked again. Birdie knew her friend wasn’t trying to sneak away with her favorite doll, but the expression did mean she had something devious in mind.

“You aren’t suggesting that I—that
I
should keep company with Farley Masterson, are you?”

“Would that be too horrible? When you are alone—and you will be, Bird, when the girls both go off to school—wouldn’t you like to have a man in your life?”

“I’m gobsmacked,” she said.

“I’m not sure that’s the word you want,” Mercedes said. “That’s fairly new British slang.”

“What does it mean?” Mercedes always thought she knew everything. Drove Birdie crazy.

“Astounded, bewildered…” Mercedes began counting the words off on her fingers.

“Then it is
exactly
the word I’m looking for.” She paused for maximum effect. “I’m absolutely gobsmacked. In the first place, I know Farley from back when he was sheriff. He picked up my daughter about every week, brought her home. We spent quite a bit of time together. Our relationship was not particularly friendly back then and hasn’t improved.”

“And in the second place?” Mercedes encouraged.

“In the second place, have you forgotten that the challenge for the Widows is to find mates for other people, for our minister, not for ourselves? I’m happy with my life as it is, extremely happy.” She snorted, which
should
have suggested the topic was closed.

“I…,” Mercedes began.

“Don’t have time for anything more in my life, much less a man. Now let’s talk about what the Widows can do for others.”

Her friend closed her mouth, but Birdie could tell the subject wasn’t finished. Mercedes was as stubborn as she was. Probably the only reason they’d remained friends all these years.

“Is this the reason you didn’t want Winnie here? Because you wanted to talk about the old…” Birdie paused. “You wanted to talk about me and Farley”—she rolled her eyes—“in private?”

“Well, not only that. I miss you and me, the two of us being alone to chat.”

Birdie didn’t believe that excuse for a moment, but before she could respond, Mercedes asked, “What do you think about inviting Blossom Brown to be a Widow?”

“
If
we were to invite her, what would she do? What skills does she have?” Birdie asked, then answered herself. “She couldn’t plan a sympathy dinner. She’s always had a cook.”

“Don’t need her to plan meals. Pansy has that well in hand. She’s always done that. Pansy’s a good worker even though she’s not a Widow.”