The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Read online

  So he looked at Mercedes instead and took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. “I’m not sure exactly how to phrase this.”

  “Should’ve thought about that before you invited us to your office,” Miss Birdie stated.

  Adam could feel his lips quiver. Her predictability amused him, but only for a second or two. When she noticed his expression, she glared. Had she thought he was laughing at her? He hoped not. He bet no one laughed at Birdie MacDowell.

  He continued solemnly. “You’re right as usual, but the matter is a little sticky.”

  “Has Harvey Wallace finally run off with his receptionist?” Mercedes asked.

  “Did the bank turn the church down for the loan for the new air-conditioning unit?” Miss Birdie said at the same time.

  “No, no.” He gave them a quick update on the lack of action on the air-conditioning before, smiling at both of them, he returned to the subject at hand. “You know how much I appreciate everything the Widows have done for our church.”

  Miss Birdie nodded. “We’re still doing it, Pastor. We aren’t done yet.” She spoke forcefully, as if warning him of the consequences should he dare to stick his nose in the business of the Widows.

  “Of course not. Everyone tells me you’re miracle workers. I know that from how you welcomed me—you’re practically the welcome committee of Butternut Creek. And you do so much for the congregation and the town. Truly, you are the heart of the church.”

  Both Widows smiled proudly.

  “Yes, we know, but it’s pleasant to have it confirmed.” Miss Birdie nodded with the grace of royalty.

  “Howard tells me there were six of you only two years ago.” He pretended to study the list on the desk. “Now there are only two Widows.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mercedes sat forward in her chair. “Effie Bannister died and Blanche Moore went to live in a nursing home in Cedar Park. Emilia Post moved to Atlanta to stay with her daughter.”

  “And Jenny Dunn married her no-good second cousin and went to live with him in Conway,” Miss Birdie finished.

  “With only two of you left, I’m concerned.” Adam shook his head in an effort to show sympathy and worry. “How can you do all the good works the Widows have always done? Strong and willing and committed as you are, the two of you cannot do everything.”

  “We don’t do everything,” Mercedes said. “As much as we try. Pansy Martin helps a lot.”

  “But she’s not a widow, you know,” Birdie said, watching Adam closely as if she’d picked up on his purpose.

  “No, her husband is amazingly healthy for a man his age,” Mercedes added. “Will probably live for years.”

  Before either woman could say more, Adam continued, keeping his voice clear and pastoral. “The Widows are a living treasure. We don’t want to wear the two of you out.”

  Mercedes preened at his words. Miss Birdie looked skeptical.

  “Are you setting us up for something?” the pillar asked. Her expression said that whatever it was, she would not like it.

  “Mercedes.” He leaned toward her and smiled. “You keep the town library working wonderfully and keep up with your big family.”

  He turned his gaze toward Miss Birdie. “And you’re so busy with your job and taking care of your granddaughters. With everything else you do, I don’t want to take advantage.”

  He attempted to color the words with both admiration and concern, but Miss Birdie wasn’t buying a word of it.

  “My job’s just not hard, Pastor, and my granddaughters don’t take a lot of care. I can handle it all.”

  “Never thought you couldn’t, but I don’t want to take advantage of your good nature.”

  When Mercedes laughed, Miss Birdie glared at her. He’d probably gone too far with that last remark. Possibly no one in Butternut Creek would describe the pillar as good-natured. Adam hurried to distract them.

  “Do you mind if we have a word of prayer?” Without waiting for an answer, he bowed his head. “Mighty and most merciful God, we come before You with praise for these women and their service.” He glanced up to see Miss Birdie frowning, as if attempting to discover where the prayer was leading. He quickly lowered his gaze. “We ask, most loving God, that You will find others to share their good works and that You strengthen all who serve You. Amen.”

  Finished and feeling fortified, Adam said, “I have a few pastoral concerns to share with you.”

  He picked up several index cards from his desk. “Sam Peterson,” Adam read, then glanced at the women. “I still haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

  “Such a sad thing.” Mercedes shook her head. “He used to visit Effie during the summer, played baseball with my son. Now he’s lost his leg. I hear he lives like a hermit.”

  With an echoing shake of her head, Miss Birdie added, “We set up a schedule to make sure he has enough to eat. When I call him, he doesn’t answer the phone. I saw him at the hospital and invited him to church, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “Guess the best we can do is keep him in our prayers and keep trying.” He dropped the card on the desk and looked at the next. “Willow Thomas has come back to town.”

  “Yes,” Mercedes said. “I knew her back when she was Willow Brubaker, kin to the Brubakers down on Lampasas Road.” She pointed east. “The Brubakers lived in the big yellow house next to where the post office used to be. Willow went off to school, married a man from Chicago about ten or twelve years ago, here in the sanctuary.”

  “I saw her at the hospital, too,” Miss Birdie added. “She said she’d be coming to church.”

  “As usual, you ladies already know more than I do.”

  He picked up another card and gazed at it. “Winnie Jenkins gave me the information on the woman they hired as the new CEO of the asphalt company. She’s very new to town.”

  Mercedes reached for the card. “I’ll call her.”

  Adam handed her the card. “Winnie recommends you give her another week or two to get settled, both in her apartment and the company.”

  “Oh, Winnie did, did she?” Miss Birdie said, then made a low grumph sound. “Who is she to make suggestions? The nerve.”

  Adam had no idea what to say to diffuse the unexpected.

  Fortunately, Mercedes ignored her friend and slid the information into a zippered pocket of her purse. “I’ll handle this,” she said evenly.

  Before continuing, Adam took a deep breath. A mistake. The pillar’s expression showed she’d noted the hesitation and didn’t think she’d like the next suggestion.

  “As I said, I talked to Winnie Jenkins lately.”

  “Bossiest woman I’ve ever met,” Miss Birdie mumbled.

  “Hush, Bird,” Mercedes hissed.

  Adam kept going, hardly skipping a beat, afraid the pillar would interrupt if he did. Not that anything he said or did would waylay a determined Miss Birdie. “She’s at loose ends now. Since she retired from the plant, she doesn’t have anything to do.”

  “I understand. The business was her whole life, Pastor,” Mercedes said. “Except for coming to church, I don’t think she had another interest but work.”

  “Difficult to be a woman in a man’s business,” he added.

  Miss Birdie sniffed. “An asphalt company. How in the world did a woman get into the asphalt business?”

  “A lot of hard work,” Adam said, attempting to sound more like a minister than he felt at the moment. “I know both you ladies understand and respect hard work and dedication.” He ran his thumb across the corner of the cards.

  “Preacher, you seem nervous,” Mercedes said. Then her expression changed, as if she’d suddenly understood his nervousness, the real reason he’d asked them to his office. When she glanced at her friend, Adam’s eyes followed hers.

  “Winnie’s not a widow, you know,” Miss Birdie said, biting her words off clearly so any idiot—even her young, inexperienced minister—could understand exactly what she meant. “She’s never been married.”

&n
bsp; “Yes, I know. That’s why I hesitate to ask.”

  The pillar’s eyes narrowed. “Ask us what, Pastor?”

  Adam took another deep breath. “If you could find it in your hearts, I wonder if you could make her an honorary Widow. She’s looking for a place to serve.”

  Miss Birdie raised an eyebrow and said, “An honorary Widow?”

  “She’s an intelligent, active woman who suddenly doesn’t have a thing in the world to do. In my opinion, she’d be a big help with the important jobs you do.”

  For a moment, Miss Birdie studied her minister as if she couldn’t believe he’d asked this seriously.

  “I don’t believe you know who the Widows are, not completely,” Mercedes said with a slight edge to her usually soft voice. “You want us to invite an old… umm… an unmarried woman to become one of the Widows?”

  “Preacher, you’ve started meddling.” For a moment, Miss Birdie closed her eyes. “Although it may be I don’t know everything.”

  His mouth almost dropped open.

  “Those last few words, Preach, those are Bird trying to sound less grumpy,” Mercedes explained.

  Miss Birdie turned toward her friend and glared. “You don’t have to blurt out everything you think.”

  That reaction pretty much destroyed the idea of the pillar’s being less irritable.

  Then, looking like the voice of reason and acceptance, Miss Birdie turned back to Adam and smiled, one of the affable smiles he’d begun to distrust. “But she’s an old maid,” she clarified. “A spinster as my mother used to say.”

  “Perhaps a bachelor or a single lady,” he suggested.

  Miss Birdie nodded. “Possibly, but we are called the Widows for a reason. She is not a widow. However,” she said magnanimously, “we’ll consider it.”

  Mercedes nodded as well. “We’ll get back to you.”

  Probably the best outcome he could hope for.

  “I heard—” Hector’s voice was tinged with disbelief and betrayal as he approached Adam. “We’ve all heard you’re a minister.” He looked back at the other guys, who shook their heads. They had just finished a game, and Hector and Adam and a team of three of Hector’s friends had lost. “Say it isn’t true. Are you a preacher, Pops?”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hector said. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Why should I? When I tell people I’m a minister, they change. They don’t feel comfortable. I just want to play ball.”

  “But how can we… cuss and push and all with a minister around?”

  “That’s what I mean.” Adam took the ball, dribbled down the court, and put up a shot like the one that had been blocked. It went in. “I’m just like you but older and with a cleaner vocabulary. Don’t worry.” He tossed the ball back to Hector.

  “But Pops…”

  “Maybe I’ll see you in church some Sunday morning. Christian Church on the highway. Service starts at ten thirty.” He smiled. The guys didn’t.

  As Adam walked away, he could feel eighteen eyes watching his progress. He turned back. “You’d better get used to who I am because I’m coming back.”

  “Bye, Roy,” Birdie called to the manager as she left the diner between her shifts. She’d stop at Busch’s Bakery. Always good food there. As she pulled her tips out and counted them, she entered the store.

  “I’d like that dobos torte.” She gulped as she saw the price. It would take most of her tip money, but she had to buy it. She was on a mission.

  Butch Busch—how could a parent give a child such a terrible nickname?—studied her for a second. “I could cut the torte in half. That would be exactly the right size for a small family.”

  “But no one would want the other half of a torte.”

  “Sure they will. I do this all the time.” He took a knife, sliced the pastry in half, and placed the larger section in a box.

  She knew he didn’t. Everyone in town knew about everyone else’s struggles. With the worry about jobs, she bet not all that many people bought pastry items. Butch’s were expensive because he used real butter and pure imported vanilla. Worth every penny, but Butch knew she couldn’t afford the entire thing.

  After she counted out the coins, he handed her a little box he’d tied with a lovely blue ribbon bow.

  “Thanks, Butch.”

  “You’re welcome. It feels good to know someone’s going to enjoy that.”

  She hoped the recipient would. Heading down the street, her steps grew slower the closer she got to Effie Bannister’s house. Remembering the conversation at the hospital, she knew she wouldn’t be welcome, but maybe this gift from the bakery would help. If he opened the door, she might could slip around him and get inside the house for a short chat. Surely he couldn’t push an old lady out.

  Surprised, she paused on the sidewalk in front of the house. The old newspapers that had dotted the yard had disappeared. She strolled up the walk, now swept clean, and noticed a lovely red geranium on the porch. The window of the front door sparkled. It looked almost as nice as it had before Effie passed, before it stood empty for months. The porch swing still looked a little rickety but, on the whole, certainly better than it had since Effie’s nephew moved in.

  What had happened? Maybe he hired a service, but she didn’t think so. No use speculating. She climbed the steps to the porch and knocked. No one came.

  She knocked again. Over and over, for nearly three minutes until she heard cursing coming from inside. The young man certainly sounded like a marine, but even that experience couldn’t have prepared him for how stubborn she could be.

  He tossed the door open and leaned against the jamb. “What’s wrong with you people?” He glared at her. “Haven’t you learned to go away when someone doesn’t answer your knock?”

  “I’m Birdie MacDowell. We met at the hospital.”

  He nodded.

  “I was a friend of your aunt.”

  He nodded again.

  “May I come in?”

  She could tell from his scowl he didn’t want her inside so she squeezed between his broad shoulders, the crutch, and the doorjamb. Once inside, she walked to Effie’s pink floral sofa before she turned to watch him. He looked flummoxed. People often responded to her like that.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Are you going to stay in Butternut Creek for a while?” She placed the box on the coffee table and sat on a chair upholstered in floral brocade. Although the decorating had obviously been done by a woman and years earlier, the place looked better than she’d expected for a bachelor’s place. Tidy.

  He balanced on the crutches and moved toward her, then dropped onto the sofa. “Don’t know.”

  “If you do, you might want to paint.” She looked at the wallpaper with roses climbing trellises. “Effie sure did like pink.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  “And fix that porch swing. Someone could get hurt.”

  He didn’t look as if he cared.

  With a gentle shove, she pushed the bakery box toward him. “I remember how much you used to like dobos tortes when you spent your summers here.”

  He stared at the box before he lifted his gaze to her. He smiled and almost ten years fell from his face. He looked like the happy, carefree teenager she’d known. Oh, it wasn’t a big smile, but it was worth every penny she’d paid for the pastry.

  “You remembered?” he said in a soft, disbelieving voice. “You brought me a dobos torte?” He untied the bow and looked inside the box. “Aunt Effie made these every time I visited.”

  “She said you could eat more than any boy she ever saw.”

  For a moment he looked at the torte hungrily, as if he wanted to drag a finger through the caramel topping, down through the chocolate buttercream, and lick it clean.

  Instead, he looked up at her. “Would you like a piece?” he asked politely.

  “Thank you, but there’s just enough for you. Now”—she shook her finger at him, then pointed toward the kitchen—“y
ou’ll want to refrigerate that.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I don’t think it’s going to last that long.” He smiled—a big smile this time—and put the box back on the table. “Thank you.”

  “We’d like you to come to church someday.”

  He shrugged but didn’t say no.

  “I’m glad you’re back. We all are.” She stood. “I’m sorry about the injury.”

  His face contracted into the furrows and lines of pain.

  “How old are you?” she asked. “I remember you played baseball with Mercedes’s nephew Felipe. He’s twenty-seven or -eight.”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything, so she kept prodding. “He’s married, two kids. Are you married?”

  When he didn’t answer and she couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound even ruder than she usually allowed herself to be, she said, “Hope you enjoy that torte. I’ll let myself out.”

  She walked toward the door, but before she could open it he said from the sofa, “Thank you, Miss Birdie.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll never know how much I appreciate this.”

  Once she’d closed the door and stood on the porch, she congratulated herself. She’d made an inroad. Now she’d have to tell Mercedes. They’d work on getting inside again and bringing him food, make him feel like part of the town, maybe get him to church. Exactly what the boy needed. Later, they could attempt a little matchmaking. She feared working something romantic out between two people with problems like Willow Thomas and Sam would take a lot of effort, but she knew where his interest lay. Only meant they had to set up opportunities between the two and push Willow a little.

  On top of that, they still had to find a woman for the preacher to fall in love with. The Reverend Patillo seemed real nice, but Birdie hadn’t seen a single spark between them.

  No, Birdie was fresh out of ideas. She’d considered everyone she knew, people at church and at the diner. Granddaughters’ friends were all too young. Mercedes might have some suggestions. And yet with everything on Birdie’s plate and all Mercedes did with her family and with only two Widows left to carry the load—well, it wore her out.

  Maybe they could use some help, like the preacher had suggested. She had her job and the girls plus all the time she spent to keep the church headed in the right direction. This matchmaking might could take a lot of planning and work. She had no idea how to start. Life and love had changed a lot since she’d married her Elmer—bless his soul—over forty years earlier.