The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Read online

  For a moment she paused, considered her thoughts, and shook her head. She had become a crabby old lady, exactly like Mercedes had told her, politely and as only a friend of long standing could. The realization had surprised her a little, but this was not the time or place for self-examination. She had plenty to do and no time to find a new attitude.

  On Bree’s side of the bedroom hung posters of men and women with tattoos. She called them tats and wanted a rose on her back. What did she call it? A “tramp stamp”? If that didn’t beat all. Birdie’d never allow that. At times, the girl acted a lot like her mother, except that Bree made fair grades and didn’t get in trouble, and had the possibility of a college scholarship in either volleyball or basketball.

  Birdie smiled. A MacDowell in college. Every member of Mercedes’s family had gone to college, most to graduate school, but Bree would be the first MacDowell.

  In contrast with her sister’s, Mac’s side of the room looked spare. Desk with a lamp on it, desk chair, dresser, and bed. One of the posters on her wall showed some scientist from England with numbers floating over his head. Stephen Hawking, Mac had told her. Why would anyone have a poster of a physicist—that’s what Mac said he was—on the wall?

  The other poster showed Wynton Marsalis playing a trumpet, the instrument Mac played. The portraits of the two men faced each other across the bedroom, precisely hung and as straight as if they’d been lined up with a ruler. Birdie felt as if she should straighten the stack of clean towels to conform to the rigid angles of the room.

  Forget it. Little Miss Perfect—Bree’s name for her younger sister—could refold them if they didn’t please her.

  In her own bedroom, Birdie padded barefoot across the scuffed hardwood to put her shoes in the closet and slide into a worn pair of slippers. On the way, Carlos the Cat attacked her ankles before he ran under the bed.

  Lord, she was tired. She leaned against the wall. For a moment, she felt dizzy from exhaustion, but she shoved the feeling aside. She couldn’t get sick. What would happen to her granddaughters if she did? How would the church survive this new minister without her guidance? She attempted to pray for strength but it took too much effort and never seemed to help much anyway.

  Or maybe it did. Maybe she’d be in an even worse state if she didn’t pray.

  She needed to sit down for a minute, rest. After pausing in the kitchen to pour herself a glass of tea, she went out to the front porch of the small house and settled into one of the Adirondack chairs. Elmer had built them so he and Birdie could sit on the porch and wave to neighbors. He’d died only a year after that and she no longer had the time or the desire to sit there. She hadn’t when Elmer had placed them there, but he’d enjoyed that hour together even if it made Birdie want to leap up and start sweeping the steps or pull a few weeds.

  Early evening was surprisingly cool for June, although the weather was never really cool in Texas during the summer. Less hot, at maybe eighty-five degrees. The big maple she and Elmer had planted years ago shaded the area. A nice breeze cooled the porch as peace and quiet overcame her. She took a deep breath and leaned back, closing her eyes to breathe in the warm Texas air laden with the scent of gardenias.

  The calm lasted five minutes before she got antsy. She hated peace and quiet. Too much to do. She wouldn’t relax until they put her in the casket, if then. She pulled the phone out of her pocket to call Pansy about the food pantry. The woman would destroy the entire effort if Birdie didn’t step in and set her straight.

  When Adam explored the entire house the next morning, the sheer size again overwhelmed him. Downstairs, the tiny basement had a dirt floor. Spiderwebs hung from supports and a twenty-watt lightbulb illuminated a small circle, but a washer and dryer sat in the corner so he didn’t mind the primitive surroundings.

  The second floor had five bedrooms, each larger than both the bedrooms together in the Kentucky parsonage, and two bathrooms. The space on the third floor stretched across the entire house with storage closets built into the eaves. It seemed like a huge playroom for all those children he didn’t have.

  He strode up and down staircases and across halls and into bedrooms, his footsteps resonating loudly on the hardwood floors. Last night, his sleeping bag had felt warm and familiar. Tonight he’d haul his things upstairs, and approach the nuptial bed.

  Before he could decide which to do—to laugh at or worry about that thought—he checked his watch. It was after nine o’clock, the time he’d decided a real minister started the day. He’d dressed like a real minister in a pair of black slacks and a white shirt with one of his two ties: a red one and a ministerial one with black and gold stripes. He also had a Christmas tie his best friend had given him. Red with elves on it that played “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” He doubted he’d have many chances to wear that one, now he was a real minister.

  Because he was already running late, Adam hurried, descending the steps from the second floor two-by-two. Reaching the first floor, he grabbed a file folder and his Bible and headed out the door toward the church.

  “Hello, Preacher,” a woman called from behind him as he headed north across the lawn.

  When he turned, Adam saw a smiling blonde coming down the steps of the even larger Victorian next door, a plate in one hand and a little girl grasping the other.

  “I’m Ouida Kowalski.” She nodded at the child. “This is Gretchen.”

  “Weed-a?” he said.

  “Yes, that’s how it’s pronounced. It’s spelled O-u-i-d-a. A Southern name and a family name. Most people who aren’t from here don’t know it.” She smiled and held the plate out. “I heard you’re young and single so I brought you some sweet rolls for breakfast.”

  He took the offering and couldn’t help but smile back. “Thank you. Are you a member of the church?” he asked, completely ignorant of who was and who wasn’t.

  “No, not of any church.” Her smile didn’t diminish. “George, my husband, says we’re missing the spiritual gene. I don’t know.” She shrugged before leaning toward him. “But even if we’re heathens, we’re good neighbors and are delighted you’re here. That parsonage has been empty for too long. I hope you don’t mind, but the kids have been playing on the swing set in your yard.”

  Other than noting the existence of grass, he hadn’t studied the back lawn in detail. “No problem. Glad someone can use it.”

  “Mama.” Gretchen tugged on her mother’s hand.

  “Better go,” Ouida said. “Again, welcome.”

  The sun shone and the birds sang and his neighbors had brought him breakfast. There could be no better place to be in the entire world.

  When he entered his office, an immediate problem confronted him: sixteen boxes of books and only two small bookcases, already filled with dusty tomes that he felt sure no one had perused in years. Maybe centuries.

  “Excuse me.”

  He turned to see a plump dark-haired woman.

  “I’m the part-time secretary, Maggie Bachelor.” She held out a hand and gave him a hearty handshake. “Good to meet you. I just got here, running a little late. I work from nine to eleven four days a week. I answer the phone, type the newsletter, and print the bulletin.” She ticked off each duty on her fingers. “I’ll need everything written out and on time so I can get the bulletin and the newsletter done.” She put a sheet of paper on his desk. “Here are the deadlines.”

  She reminded him of a hummingbird. She talked fast—not that hummingbirds talk—but she also flitted from place to place.

  “Do you have your sermon title, scripture, and hymns?”

  Fortunately, he’d realized that his first week would be busy and had worked on the sermon last week. “It’s from the tenth chapter of…”

  She pointed at a pad and pen on the desk. “Write it down.”

  “Do you have a hymnal handy?” Adam had imprudently neglected to memorize the page numbers of the hymns. Actually, he’d neglected to choose any but wasn’t willing to confess that failing.
r />   “On your desk, too.” She fluttered her fingers toward him and left.

  Following her instructions, Adam jotted down his sermon title and scripture, then hunted through the hymnal. Finished, he stood and walked the information out to Maggie.

  She glanced at the hymns he’d chosen then glanced up at him. “Oh, dear, Pastor, the congregation doesn’t know the last two.”

  “Won’t it be fun to learn them?” he asked.

  Her expression assured him it wouldn’t. She picked up a pen. “I’ll choose a couple we know.”

  “I’d like for the congregation to sing the ones I picked. They go with the theme of the morning.”

  “Well, if that’s your choice, but…” Her words, expression, and shrug warned of dire consequences. “Well, then, here’s your visitation and hospital call list for today.” She handed him several note cards.

  At eleven thirty, half an hour after Maggie left, Adam heard a knock at the office door. Just outside, he saw a large man wearing enormous paint-stained overalls with an orange-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt underneath.

  “Ralph Foxx.” The visitor stretched out a meaty hand. “Two x’s on the end, like that old baseball player, Jimmie double-x Foxx. Played for the Philadelphia A’s.”

  Adam didn’t know about the baseball player and hadn’t realized the A’s had ever been in Philly, but he still shook his visitor’s hand and gestured toward chairs covered with books. “Please sit if you can find a place.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Pulling a chair in from the office, Ralph settled down and made himself comfortable. Adam later discovered settling down comfortably was one of his greatest talents. Talking was another. Within minutes Adam had learned about Ralph’s sciatica, his wife’s hysterectomy, and much more. He didn’t know how to shut off this font of information, but what else did Adam have to do this morning except pick up his car, which Rex had called to tell him was ready?

  Adam discovered within a week that the retired men of the church felt it was their duty to keep the minister company, especially a single young man like him who obviously had nothing else to do and needed to be amused.

  “Are you working today?” Adam successfully interrupted after five minutes.

  Obviously disappointed the minister had gotten a word in, Ralph shook his head. “I’m a painter. Seasonal work. Not much business today. That’s why I’m retired this week.”

  “Then maybe you can help me.”

  The two men spent the next hour moving the church’s books to the library and putting the new minister’s on the shelves as Ralph talked on and on. Finally, Ralph said he couldn’t work anymore, because of that sciatica. When he left, Adam knew more about the Foxx family and its far-flung branches all over the country than he’d wanted, but he’d also learned a few things about church members. Not a wasted morning.

  “Getting old isn’t for sissies,” Birdie mumbled to herself. Stiff and straight in the chair of the physical therapy waiting room at the hospital, she flipped through a magazine. Old Elgin Crump who lived down on Highway 28 slumped in his wheelchair. Must be at least eighty-five. Next to him sat Susan Pfannenstiel, her walker pulled up next to the chair.

  Two younger patients waited alone, reading magazines. One was a cheerleader, a friend of Bree’s, who’d fallen from the top of a pyramid during halftime at a basketball game. Those stunts should be outlawed. What had happened to the cheerleaders of her time, back when they wore uniforms that covered their navels and reached to their knees? Back then, they just jumped up and down and shouted. Now they jiggled their bodies and built towers the girls toppled off.

  Birdie didn’t recognize the young man. Maybe six feet tall but she couldn’t tell. He slumped. His dark hair fell almost to his shoulders, rumpled but clean, like a man who cared about hygiene but had no interest in his appearance. She’d noticed when he came in that his jeans and khaki-colored T-shirt hung straight from his broad shoulders like he’d lost weight and hadn’t bothered to buy clothes that fit.

  Mostly she’d noticed his stumbling gait on the crutches when he entered, the lines of pain etched on his face, and the missing right leg. And yet, with the stubble on his world-weary face, he was handsome in a lost-soul way, in the dangerous and slightly disreputable manner many young women would find intriguing.

  Was he Effie Peterson’s nephew? Couldn’t be too many amputees in the area, but he didn’t look a bit like the happy kid who used to visit his aunt—no, his great-aunt—years ago. She’d heard Sam’d come back and was living in Effie’s house. No one had been inside since Mercedes and Birdie and her granddaughters had cleaned it after the funeral. Probably covered with dust now and smelled musty.

  She should go say hello to the young man, even if he wasn’t Sam Peterson. Wouldn’t hurt. Might be the only time anyone from the church could get in touch with him, but she hated to step up. No one would ever guess Birdie MacDowell hesitated to do anything. She usually didn’t, but speaking to anyone about her church never felt comfortable, not in the least, especially if she had to approach a man who looked so unwelcoming, and do that out here in the middle of a waiting room with people watching.

  But doggone it, she had to. God would expect it.

  To protect her left shoulder, she pushed herself up with her right hand and briskly walked to his chair.

  “Hello.” She stretched out her hand. “I’m Birdie MacDowell.”

  He ignored her hand but made brief contact with eyes that held no emotion.

  “Are you Effie Peterson’s nephew Sam?”

  He dropped his gaze to the magazine.

  “I’m a member of the Christian Church on the highway, the one your aunt attended. We’d surely like to see you there sometime.”

  He didn’t say a word, didn’t nod or lift his eyes or change expression.

  She’d tried, which was all anyone could expect her to do. “We’re a friendly church,” she said to the top of his head. “Give Pastor Adam a call if you need anything.” She took a few steps backward, almost tripped over the footrests on Elgin Crump’s wheelchair, then turned and headed for her chair.

  As she settled back in her seat, she noticed everyone staring at her before their gazes fell back on what they were reading. She didn’t care. She was supposed to welcome people to town, invite them to church. She’d done her duty.

  When she considered the problems and pain that plagued the others in the waiting room, she guessed she was pretty lucky to have only this shoulder acting up. Not good at all for a waitress to have a bad shoulder but better than a bad back or a bad knee.

  “Mrs. MacDowell,” the physical therapy clerk, a flighty teenager named Trixie, called from the doorway.

  Inwardly cursing the weakness she hated to display, Birdie again pushed herself up with her right hand and straightened to walk into the therapy area. Curtains covered the treatment area in the back while other clients walked or pushed and tugged on the machines and weights on the main floor. Birdie stepped on a stool to pull herself onto a high table. Across the room, a pretty redheaded woman watched another patient for a few seconds before turning and approaching Birdie.

  “I’m Willow Thomas, the new physical therapist.” She held out her hand.

  Birdie took it, noticing the woman’s gentle grip. She figured the dead-fish handshake wasn’t a sign of weak character but an effort not to crush anyone’s arthritic joints.

  “Welcome home, Willow. We’re all glad to see you back. I remember you from way back when you sang in the Cherub Choir at church.” She smiled in as friendly a way as she could muster with the darned pain. “Won’t ever forget when you and your friends used to come into the diner after football games when you were in high school.”

  How old was Willow? A little younger than Martha’s age, she guessed. Thirty-two or thirty-three. Probably she’d been too old to have met Sam when he visited Effie during the summer, too wide an age difference.

  The young woman smiled, a lovely expression that made her features glow. “I didn�
��t know if you’d remember me. It’s good to be home.”

  “You’re still one of our kids. Hope to see you in church again Sunday.”

  “My sons and I plan to be there.”

  Birdie swelled with a sense of accomplishment. Someone had accepted her invitation, even appeared pleased to get it.

  “I’m not going to work with you today because I have a few folks to evaluate,” Willow said. “But I wanted to introduce myself. Christine will oversee your exercises.”

  “As usual,” Birdie grumbled to herself. Christine, a PT aide, was sweet but so young she didn’t know anything. Birdie had attempted to talk to her about the Beatles and the first Gulf War, but she had to explain history and culture before 1990 to Christine. It was a whole heck of a lot easier to count the exercises out loud than attempt conversation with the child. Christine placed the cane in Birdie’s upraised hands and watched Birdie move it slowly forward and back over her head.

  In a few minutes, Birdie heard the clerk call Sam Peterson.

  “How’s the pain been?” the aide asked Birdie.

  Obviously Christine hadn’t seen Sam yet or the young woman wouldn’t be paying attention to her.

  “Fine, just fine,” Birdie lied. She couldn’t let on she was getting too old to carry heavy trays. If she did and lost her job, how would she support her granddaughters? If she didn’t tell anyone, if she gritted her teeth, she could push through exactly like she always had.

  “Well, that’s good. Willow wants me to teach you another exercise to loosen up your shoulder and increase your range of motion.”

  Then Christine glanced away from Birdie and her eyes grew enormous. Birdie lifted her head to see Sam limp into the therapy room and watched the reaction of the females. It was as entertaining as she’d expected. Trixie could barely take her gaze off him and tripped over Angus’s wheelchair while Christine just stood mouth open and outright gawked at the man. The cheerleader, who had been absorbed by her magazine back in the waiting room, followed his unsteady progress with wide eyes.