The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek Page 3

  “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.”

  “Blossom’s always had servants. She wouldn’t like to clean the thrift shop.”

  “We don’t know that. We could give her a chance,” Mercedes said in the pleasant voice that fooled so many people into thinking she was so very sweet and so completely unlike Birdie. “Make it sort of like a test. If she can’t do it, we could train her, you and I. You’re a great trainer.”

  “Pfutt.”

  “We could make her a provisional member, like we did with Winnie. It wouldn’t hurt. With the bazaar and dinner coming up, she could help. More hands would lighten the load.” Mercedes glanced at her old friend. “Not that we need the load lightened.”

  Birdie pondered Mercedes’s words for nearly a minute. “All right. We should probably do this. It’ll make the preacher happy.”

  “If he’s happy, he’ll be less suspicious of our efforts to get him married.” Mercedes broke off another piece of banana bread. “Why don’t we invite Blossom to go with us next time we visit the preacher or ask her to join us for coffee some afternoon. Get to know her a little better.”

  Good idea. As much as she’d like to punish Mercedes a little bit for suggesting she allow Farley Masterson to court her, not even at her most difficult—which could be pretty darned difficult—could Birdie turn down a sensible proposal. She nodded. “You ask her. She’s more likely to come if you call. I scare her. Winnie probably does, too.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Adam ran his finger around the collar of his shirt, attempting to loosen it. He wore one of his three dress shirts to the office every day but seldom buttoned it or wore a tie. He’d noticed last Sunday that the shirt collar seemed tight around the neck. He’d solved that by using the neck expander—a button and an elastic loop—he’d found in his desk, left, he guessed, by a previous minister with a similar problem.

  Because he’d planned to preach at the retreat Sunday morning in a shirt and tie, he tried on another. Also tight, and not only around his neck but in the shoulders. The next one felt snug as well.

  Could he have put on a little weight? Maybe some muscle? He couldn’t weigh himself because he didn’t have a scale. The total always depressed him because as much as he ate, he never gained a pound.

  Maybe he had. Could be all those meals Miss Birdie forced on him, the food the congregation dropped off, and Ouida’s treats had begun to work. He studied himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked less skinny. He’d either have to buy new shirts or invest in a few more neck expanders. Fortunately, the knit shirts still fit. He’d preach in one of those. He tossed a few in his duffel bag and left it open to finish packing in the morning.

  * * *

  The next day, on the drive to the retreat, Mac sat next to Adam in the front seat of the borrowed van. Bree lay on the bench seat at the far back because Hector and Bobby had taken the comfortable swiveling seats in the middle. “Long legs,” the guys had explained.

  As they pulled into the campground, the sun was heading toward the horizon. They got out of the van and stretched. Adam noticed the sound of crickets at the same time the smell of wood smoke from the lodge greeted them.

  The setting didn’t impress the guys.

  “This is really…” Hector paused to think of a word.

  “Rustic?” Adam suggested as he popped the back of the vehicle.

  “No, primitive.”

  “Yeah.” Bobby nodded. “Do they have running water?”

  “Haven’t you been to camp before?” Mac pulled two small bags from the vehicle.

  “Basketball camp, but that’s in dorms on a college campus. I have to check this out.” Bobby swaggered toward the recreation hall. Nice kid, Adam knew, but Bobby loved to show a little ’tude.

  “Not luxury,” Adam said. “But…”

  He didn’t finish because Gussie exploded out of the building in typical Gussie fashion, waved, and shouted, “Welcome.”

  “That’s Gussie,” Bree said to Hector. “She directs the retreats and camps every year. She’s great.”

  Wearing jeans and a bright green T-shirt with WALK IN FAITH printed on it and her dark hair curling around her smiling face, she looked very different from the professional woman he’d met before. The kids with him grinned because no one could not smile when she did. Adam both smiled and blinked. Fortunately, his mouth hadn’t flopped open. He glanced at the kids, hoping none had noticed his response.

  Mac had. She wore a sly smile that looked exactly like Miss Birdie’s at her most dangerous.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I won’t tell Grandma you like Gussie. I know what she’s like.”

  He had to believe she’d keep her word. No other acceptable choice.

  “Come on in. Time to get your packets. Don’t forget to pick up a T-shirt and sign up for chores.”

  “Sign up for chores?” Bobby grumbled. “Hector, what did I let you talk me into? I could’ve stayed home. My mother has a whole list of chores for me.”

  After Bree and Mac gave Gussie a quick hug, they led the grumbling Bobby and Hector into the enormous and echoing all-purpose room. Several adults and about thirty kids wandered around and greeted one another.

  “Pick up your stuff, then take your bags upstairs and find a bunk,” Gussie said. “Girls on the south; boys on the north. Meet us down here in a few minutes at the basketball court.”

  “You gonna play?” Hector asked Bree.

  “Sure. I play on the team at school. Varsity.” She glared, looking tough. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, but…don’t want you to get hurt,” Bobby said.

  “Let’s wait and see who gets hurt,” Bree challenged.

  Later in the day during a quick pickup game, Adam watched as both Bree and Hector went up for a rebound. Although Hector had five inches in height and fifty pounds on Bree, she had sharper elbows and more determination. She came down with the ball.

  “Hey,” he said as he rubbed his side after the game. “You don’t play like a girl.”

  “Told you.”

  “We were taking it easy on you,” Bobby said.

  “Next time, don’t.” With that, Bree dribbled toward the dining hall. She reached the edge of the court, turned, and shot. As the ball swished in, Adam cheered.

  Before Bobby could grab the ball, Gussie came out with a bag. “Looks like a terrific game, guys.” She smiled at everyone and motioned for them to gather around her. “Tonight the youth group from Roundville is setting the tables.” She grinned at the groans from her youth. “Hey, don’t complain. You get to do this because you’re special.” She clapped
to quiet them. “Dinner in twenty minutes. We have just enough time for Slinky races on the steps down to the pool.” She started flinging the toys around. “Winner doesn’t do chores tonight.” With that, everyone took off toward the pool.

  * * *

  After dinner, Gussie stood and waved at the group. “Welcome!” she said and the kids all clapped and stamped their feet and shouted, “Gussie! Gussie—”

  She quieted the group, made announcements, then asked, “Anyone want to sing?”

  Campers shouted song suggestions.

  “Okay, let’s start with this one. Everyone join in. ‘If you’re happy…’”

  Gussie had a wonderful voice, strong and clear. She walked around the tables as she led the group, encouraging and bringing the voices together. When they began “Silver Spade,” she coaxed harmony from the group with a movement of her hand.

  Was there anything Gussie couldn’t do?

  After several songs and a glance at her watch, she said, “Cleanup crew, get started. Adults, meet at the center tables. Vespers at seven.”

  As Hector stood to start his chores, he said, “Gussie’s got a great voice. We need her in our choir.”

  “She’d sure liven up the service,” Bobby added. “You know, it’s pretty boring.”

  Bree laughed. “She’d sing a solo every Sunday and probably keep Mr. Foxx awake.”

  Then Mac grinned at Adam. If he’d thought she hadn’t noticed how much Gussie had entranced him during the singing, he was wrong.

  * * *

  At the counselors’ meeting after dinner, the adults listened while Gussie handed out schedules and took questions. Then she introduced Adam as “the new kid on the block.” She smiled at him in exactly the same way she’d smiled at Jimmy Flock, the gray-haired minister. Pleasant, happy to see both of them. Darn. The attraction obviously didn’t go both ways.

  “We’re going to need a patrol outside from midnight to two o’clock,” Gussie said. “After that, those most determined to escape should be asleep and we can get some rest. I’ll take it tonight but need another volunteer and two for tomorrow night.”