The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Page 31
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bird, don’t you think I know where she lives? She’s been in my Bunco group for years.”
Had Winnie called her “Bird”? She only allowed Mercedes to do that. She’d need to take that up with Winnie sometime, set boundaries, but for now they had a mission that didn’t include arguing in public.
“All right, let’s visit her first, then we’ll pick up the basket for…” Just as she started to wave toward the home of another shut-in, Birdie saw Sam slinking along behind several azalea bushes. Was he trying to hide from them?
“Isn’t that Sam Peterson?” Winnie asked. “What’s he doing?”
“Skulking,” Birdie said. Then she grinned. “Right across from Willow Thomas’s apartment. Don’t that beat all?” But did he have the courage to go in? “I’m going to talk to him, make sure he’s going inside to talk to her.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“She must be home because her car’s right there.” Stupid kind of car for a mother of two to have, but that wasn’t the topic now.
“You can’t do that,” Winnie stated. “You have to let him alone, allow him to do what he needs to do.”
“Haven’t you learned?” Birdie turned back toward Winnie. “You can never be sure other people are going to do what they should do, not without some strong suggestions.”
Winnie shook her head resolutely. “Leave Sam alone to make his decisions. That’s what Mitchell said.”
As if Birdie cared what Mitchell said. Well, she did, actually. He was Sam’s father and might have more history and broader insight on his side than she did, but she remembered that look on Sam’s face at the parade, the longing. “I want to do something. I can’t just stand here…” When her voice broke, she cleared her throat before continuing. “I can’t allow a person to ruin his own life, not without trying to point him in the right direction.”
“Bird, we can’t control everyone and everything. Sometimes you have to let go and trust people to take care of themselves.”
“Hrmpp.” She turned to glare at Winnie. What did the woman know? Where would the world be if everyone stepped back and didn’t try, at least try, to set people on the right track? “There are times when people need direction.” Darn, her voice broke again.
“Besides, what’s your plan? Capture a marine and force him inside to talk to Willow?”
Yes, that had been her plan. Not a good one for a woman with a bad shoulder and an unwilling co-conspirator.
She turned to look toward the bushes that had barely covered Sam, but he was gone. “All right,” she sighed. “I guess we’d better get on with delivering the baskets.” She reached into the backseat, pulled out a basket, and handed it to Winnie to carry. The woman could do something more useful than issuing orders and disagreeing.
He’d become a total idiot.
When Sam first saw the Widows in the parking lot, he dropped, totally by instinct, onto the ground behind a hedge as if hiding from enemy snipers instead of two elderly women.
But he knew how dangerous they could be.
Fortunately, the prosthetic joint held up well. It had folded easily and evenly at the same rate as the left leg. When he slid forward to peek through the branches, he realized Miss Birdie could see him and Miss Winnie had pointed at him.
Now he was stuck. He could hardly leap to his feet and pretend he hadn’t been hiding—but he couldn’t stay here, either, huddled like an idiot behind these shrubs. What was wrong with him? He’d fought in war, led his troops into combat, but now he hid from the Widows? They weren’t even in full force and they scared him.
How could he ever explain this to his father?
Escape was the only answer. When he saw Miss Birdie turn to talk to the other Widow, he stood and ran faster than he’d thought he could toward the apartment building.
This was not the way he’d envisioned the morning. It had started out as a walk. As he strolled through the tree-lined streets, he’d reached into the pocket of his jeans to feel the crinkling of the envelope beneath his fingers. It had been on the dresser for several days. This morning he’d put it in his pocket, thinking if he saw Willow, by accident, he’d have it handy if the opportunity arose to share it with her. He didn’t have the courage yet to share it on his own, directly. Only by accident.
How he’d do that he didn’t know. See her at the H-E-B, shove the envelope at her, say, Here. I thought you’d want to read about the horror that’s been my life for the past year, then smile and walk away? So far, that was the best plan he’d come up with.
But somehow as he walked he’d found himself across the street from Willow’s—and the boys’—apartment building. He hadn’t planned that, but his feet had brought him here. The place pulled at him like a huge electromagnet, and he possessed the resistance of a poached egg. Stupid analogy. Eggs aren’t attracted to magnets, but the rest fit pretty well. He had no willpower when it came to the Thomas family.
What were the Widows doing in that parking lot? Were they setting something up between him and Willow? Not that he’d mind, but they couldn’t have known he’d be coming this way.
Why were they in the parking lot of Willow’s building?
Could be they weren’t waiting for him, not matchmaking for him. Maybe they planned to fix Willow up with someone else.
Who?
He didn’t know if there were more single men in town. Perhaps they’d decided to match Adam and Willow. The preacher was a good guy. They’d get along well. The minister would make a great father for the boys.
But not if Sam had anything to say about it. He made a decision without a second of thought: He had to reach Willow before the Widows did, before they found another man for her. Using the reconnaissance skills he’d learned as a marine, he started south, surreptitiously glancing toward the parking lot on his right every few seconds.
Nothing had changed. The women still chatted. Their presence had to be about Willow. Why else would they be here? Of course, fifty other people inhabited these apartments. Many more lived in the houses surrounding the complex. They could be sticking their noses into someone else’s life. Maybe their appearance had nothing to do with him or Willow.
But if it did… He couldn’t lose Willow and the boys.
He lost sight of the women as he dashed across the street. A few seconds later, he approached the building. Through a breezeway, he could see the Widows. As he watched, they broke formation and quick stepped across the asphalt, a movement that filled him with panic. Had he left things like telling Willow he loved her and sharing and communication until too late? Were the Widows marching in to correct that? Winnie held a basket, no doubt the pretense they’d use to get in the door. Willow would invite them to stay, and before she knew it she’d be matched up with some eligible Butternut Creek bachelor.
Not on his watch.
Boldly he entered the building and headed toward the Thomases’ apartment at the end of the wing. He knocked. Then, afraid the Widows would stride into the building while he still stood out here, he knocked again, harder.
Willow looked out the window to see if the boys were coming home from practice. The apartment had a lovely view of the flat black asphalt parking lot and a few weary bushes. She waved when she recognized Miss Birdie and Winnie out there, but they couldn’t see her. She watched as they walked off toward a house facing the parking lot, probably doing good deeds.
Then she saw Sam crossing the street.
What in the world was he doing out there?
She stepped back from the window, out of sight. Was he coming here? What would she do if he did? How would she handle it? She’d missed him, really, really missed him. When her sons talked about what they’d done with Sam, she’d actually been a little jealous of them.
Of course, he could be visiting someone else. But she didn’t think so.
Before she could gather her thoughts, a knock sounded on the door and reverberated through the apartment. Or was that the rapid beat of her
heart and the fear clenching at her throat?
Of course, maybe it wasn’t Sam. Maybe he’d gone somewhere else. Could be a neighbor or a delivery person or the Widows. Who knew?
But she knew. Sam stood outside her door. He knocked again, actually hammering as if he didn’t plan to go away. Slowly she turned and opened the last physical barrier between them. “Hello, Sam. This is a surprise.” She flinched. What a cliché. Couldn’t she come up with something clever?
“A pleasant one, I hope.” He grimaced at his words and looked as uncomfortable as she felt.
She’d add another cliché to this soup of old chestnuts they both seemed to be swimming in, but her brain couldn’t come up with a thought of any kind, trite or not. Still standing in the open doorway, she said, “The boys aren’t home. They have flag-football practice this morning. They’d love for you to come to a game sometime.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “I didn’t come to see them.”
She tilted her head warily. “Oh?”
“Are you expecting anyone?”
Who? Like the Widows or all those eligible bachelors in Butternut Creek? “No.”
“Can… may I come in?”
She studied him for a few seconds. “Okay.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she offered. That would slow things down, give her time to gain control of herself and find a few brain cells that Sam’s sudden appearance hadn’t fried.
“No, thanks.” He walked around her and inside.
As she stepped back and closed the door, she glanced in the mirror. She wore tattered jeans and a burnt orange University of Texas T-shirt with matching socks but no shoes. She hadn’t combed her hair so it stood out like a giant Brillo pad. No makeup. She looked terrible.
“You look great,” Sam said. He watched her, thinking she didn’t look any more comfortable than he felt. Maybe he should accept the coffee. When they settled in the kitchen, he could tell her about how he’d started tutoring English as a second language at the library three mornings a week. He really enjoyed it, felt good to…
Good try, Peterson. Postpone whatever’s hard to face; delay the difficult. He knew darned good and well why he wanted to chat about trivia. He didn’t want to hand the letter to Willow, but putting this off was cowardly.
“I have something I want you to read.” He handed her the envelope.
She glanced at it before she lifted her eyes toward him and frowned. “What’s this? You want me to read it?”
“Yes.”
“Now?” She took it from him.
“That would be good. If you don’t mind.” He leaned on the arm of the sofa to lower himself in the seat.
“Okay.” She sat across from him on a rocking chair and opened the envelope. She lifted her gaze toward him, then began to read.
After a paragraph, she stopped and looked at him again. “Are you sure?”
He nodded, afraid to speak but also too choked up to say a word.
As she read, she began to cry. Reaching for tissues from the box on the end table next to her, she cried into them. As she read through the pages, she sobbed. “Oh, Sam,” she said once. On the section about Morty, he thought.
By the time she finished the letter, he’d reached in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a handful of tissues and wiped his own face.
For a moment, she stared at the end of the letter, then up at him before she stood, walked to the sofa, and sat on his lap. She put her head on his chest, pulling him close to sob against him. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He put his arms around her and enjoyed the moment, keeping her close and soft against him, feeling her concern and tenderness seep in and begin to warm those cold places inside, to heal the bleeding holes. After a minute or so, she turned and pulled his lips toward hers for a kiss that lasted for a more than satisfactory time, filled with much more than satisfactory emotion.
Then she scooted off his lap to sit next to him and took his hand. He’d prefer to have her in his arms, but this was okay.
“What does this mean, Sam? Is this a commitment?”
“I still want to sleep with you,” he said. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say.
She stilled for a moment, looking at him apprehensively. “I thought we’d…”
“But that’s not all.” He cleared his throat. “I also want to wake up with you every morning. I want to eat breakfast with you and Nick and Leo, to take the boys to school and to play football with them when they get home. I want to watch them grow up and visit them in college and hold their children, our grandchildren. But most of all—” Sam took his hand from her grasp and tilted her chin up so she had to look into his eyes. “Most of all, I want to sleep with you every night for the rest of our lives.”
“Oh, Sam.” She wiped her eyes again, then gave him a kiss that erased any doubt about how much the prospect of that future pleased her.
They’d just gotten to a really good part when she heard a key in the lock.
“Oh, dear.” She attempted to arrange her hair while he smoothed her shirt.
The boys shoved into the apartment, laughing and pushing each other. When they saw Sam with his arm around their mother, they both stopped, stood completely still, and gawked at them. Then they shouted, “Sam!” and ran to him.
Juggling the boys, one on each arm, Sam grinned. How had life become so good?
But before he completed the thought, Leo stepped back, grabbing his brother’s arm to pull him away as well.
“What are you doing with my mother?” Leo asked. Concern laced his voice as if he needed to protect her.
Sam grinned. “We were kissing.” He glanced from Nick and Leo’s scrutiny toward Willow, who looked as if she wanted to throw herself over the back of the sofa and hide from the questions she read in Leo’s eyes.
Her older son glowered at Sam and put his thumbs in his belt. “What does this”—he pointed at his mother and Sam—“mean?”
Nick mimicked his brother’s stance and facial expression although his glare came nowhere near the antagonism in Leo’s.
“Nothing, boys,” Willow said. “Sam and I were just talking about… oh, things.”
He could read their expressions. Nick accepted her words. Leo didn’t.
“My intentions are…”
Sam stumbled on the last word. He couldn’t say pure because his intentions were hardly that. Still, he couldn’t laugh, he had to complete the sentence, because Leo looked so serious.
“You hurt my mother,” Leo said. “I hear her crying at night.”
Sam closed his eyes and thought Crap, then turned toward Willow. “I’m sorry. I… I guess I knew, but I had to work this through, put my life in order.”
She put her hand on his. “I know.”
Both boys watched the two grown-ups. “Leo,” she said to her very solemn son. “Don’t worry. We’re okay, Sam and I.”
Sam nodded and stood to take a step toward what he hoped, if all went well, were his sons-to-be, the greatest kids in the world.
“Are you going to be our father?” Nick asked, cutting through the adult obfuscation.
Sam grinned and said, “Yes,” before Willow could answer. “If we can convince your mother.”
“Mom?” Nick’s voice rose. “Mom, can we keep him? Please?”
“You make him sound like a puppy.” Willow stood and grinned at all of them. “Give us a little time, guys. Okay? This is pretty new.”
With that, Leo and Nick launched themselves toward Sam again. Careful not to knock him down, they stood one on each side and threw their arms around him. He reached out to Willow, put his arm on her shoulders to pull her into the group hug as the boys peppered them with questions.
“When are you getting married?” Leo tossed out.
“We haven’t… ,” Willow began as Sam said, “As soon as we can talk her into it.”
But the boys didn’t hear either because Nick spoke over the words. “Are you going to hav
e more kids?”
“Hope so,” Sam said at the same time Willow said, “We have to discuss that.”
“We probably should get married first,” Sam added.
“Where are we going to live?” Nick jumped up and down as he threw the questions. “Are you going to paint the house in marine colors? Can we have a dog?”
For a moment, Sam felt as if he stood a few feet away from the group. From that distance, he could see himself with one arm around Willow and the other hand resting on Nick’s shoulder and smiling like a fool.
But he wasn’t a few feet away. He was inside the circle, part of the family. He could smell the apple scent of Willow’s hair and the sweaty odor of the boys and feel the damp perspiration on Nick’s neck.
And joy exploded around Sam Peterson.
At twelve thirty, the fellowship hall of the Presbyterian Church looked full, wall-to-wall tables filled with the good citizens, and probably a liberal sprinkling of the sinners, of Butternut Creek. The churches had joined together for the community Thanksgiving dinner, free to everyone.
Behind Adam, the women of several churches prepared vegetables and mashed and sweet potatoes while men pulled turkeys from the ovens, set them on the woodblock counters, and carved them into huge slabs.
With the help of Ouida, his sweet next-door neighbor, Adam had contributed one. She’d prepared the dressing, stuffed the cavity, basted the bird, then put it in the oven of the parsonage. All he’d had to do was watch it and baste it and warm up gravy from a jar. In her solemn way, Janey had been a great help keeping him on schedule. The bird had turned out great. Amazing how his cooking skills had improved with Ouida living next door.
Adam stood third in the serving line, dropping globs of potatoes on a plate before handing it to Hector to pour gravy on everything. In the South, hard-boiled eggs were put in the gravy, an addition Adam neither understood nor enjoyed. Last Sunday at the church Thanksgiving dinner, he’d attempted to pick the pieces from the otherwise delicious dish. The pillar saw it and gave him her death glare, which always shriveled the recipient. Today he’d have to hide someplace in the back of the kitchen, maybe in a pantry, to pluck the rubbery egg whites out.