The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  “His mother had five children, but she kept the house spotless.” She blew her nose. “My mother was neat but she wasn’t irrational. We didn’t mind a little dust or an unmade bed or a footprint on the kitchen floor. Do you?”

  “No, I—”

  “George’s mother took those embroidered linen runners off the top of the dresser every week, every single week. She’d wash, starch, and iron them before she put them back on.” She sat back in the chair. “Starched and ironed those dresser scarves every single week.”

  “What’s a dresser scarf?”

  “It’s a piece of linen about this size.” She measured length and width with her hands. “It goes on the dresser for…I don’t know why. Maybe decoration. Could be to protect the dresser but they don’t. They aren’t waterproof. A spill would go right through.” She shrugged. “But his mother gave me a pair that she’d embroidered at a wedding shower. I should have known they meant trouble. I should have realized I was not the kind of woman who’d take good care of those dresser scarves, not like Magda did. But it’s the boxer shorts I hate most, ironing them.” She sighed.

  “You starch and iron George’s—” Adam stopped, pretty certain he didn’t want to discuss this and wondering why he’d asked for clarification.

  “No starch. Just iron.” She nodded. “That’s how he likes them. That’s what his mother did for her husband and all the wives in the family back through the centuries of Polish women who married Kowalskis. And his shirts. Those I do starch.”

  “Why not take the shirts to the laundry?”

  “George has a chart. It shows how much better and cheaper it is for me to do his shirts, less wear and tear on the fabric so the shirts last longer. Besides, he says I use the right amount of starch and the ones done at the laundry irritate his neck.”

  “Have you ever heard of permanent press, wash and wear, no-iron?”

  “They don’t look as crisp as George likes. He wants the front—” She placed a hand on her chest. “He wants it crisp and without wrinkles. But, you know, I think it’s the boxers I mind most. Who sees them?” She stood, looking resolute. “That’s where I’m going to start, with those boxers,” she said with a vigorous nod. “I’m going to tell him I’m not going to iron them anymore.” She held a hand in front of her, palm forward. “Don’t try to talk me out of this. If he doesn’t like that, he can take care of them himself.” With that, she placed the remaining muffins on a napkin on Adam’s desk, picked up the plate, and stomped off.

  * * *

  Why hadn’t she thought about this long ago?

  Ouida nearly skipped across the parking lot and the lawn of the parsonage.

  She’d been a limp rag for too long. When she’d started to date George, she’d been overwhelmed that he was interested in her, amazed this tall, handsome, intelligent man had fallen in love with plain old her. In exchange for his love, she’d done whatever he’d asked: given up her dream of being an artist, quit school to work so he could finish his MBA, and moved to Butternut Creek because he thought that would be a great place to raise a family.

  She’d give him the last point. She loved the little town and she loved her children and, truly, she loved George. But she was overwhelmed suddenly by her complete loss of who she was, her individuality—which she’d been pretty certain she’d had when she’d entered UT.

  Now she wanted more—or, perhaps, less. She wanted to find out more about herself, like why had she given up painting? And why had she allowed herself to change so much?

  She entered the house and looked around. Much like their lives, everything was neat as if it had been lined up with a yardstick. George had charted out the financial burden of children, and had showed on that chart—expenses of college, et cetera—that they should have another child in two years, then stop. On his chart, the last child would be a boy.

  She didn’t want that. Oh, not that she didn’t want another child, but the scheduling of their entire lives on an actuarial table no longer sat well with her. He’d probably also plotted out the date of conception. She used to think George’s compulsiveness added structure to her life, but no longer. Now it drove her nuts.

  She would take charge of their lives now, in little ways like those boxers, and move ahead bit by bit. Perhaps she’d find time to paint again.

  Slowly she turned to study the room. It was spotless, and George wouldn’t be home for hours. Why did she struggle to keep it perfect when George was sixty miles away? She and the girls could live here like normal people, then quickly pick up toys and sweep and make it immaculate right before George got home. No more mopping the kitchen five times a day. George might have to get used to a footprint here and a dirty fork there.

  She looked out the window toward the church. Poor Adam. She’d gone to him and asked for counseling and she’d hit him with all her woes. She must have overwhelmed him, but after all, wasn’t counseling mostly listening?

  Thanks to him, she’d come to a big conclusion: She had no desire to leave, only to change. She wanted to set up a studio on the third floor, taking up a little of the space where the girls played, and paint the beauty of the Hill Country. All she needed was time and maybe a skylight.

  Yes, George did run a business, but he could darned well wear freshly washed boxers with a few wrinkles and no one really needed dresser scarves.

  Maybe after that, she’d stop ironing the pillowcases.

  * * *

  After Ouida left, Adam had looked out the office window and watched her cross the parsonage lawn toward her house, walking with a determination he seldom saw her use.

  How had the session gone? Not at all like the case studies they’d discussed at the seminary or he’d read in those marriage counseling books. Ouida had taken off and left him far behind. He hadn’t helped her discover her feelings. She’d pretty much done that herself.

  He remembered a line John Milton wrote: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Maybe he’d served by sitting and listening. He didn’t seem to have screwed anything up. Probably should let go of his worry that he’d been inadequate in the situation because, yes, he had been, but he couldn’t go back and change what had happened.

  How could he have acted differently? Short of putting his hand over Ouida’s mouth, he couldn’t have asked questions or offered much advice. She hadn’t needed to be led. Could be she only needed to allow the words to flow out and know he’d listened.

  Instead of worrying, he wrote a few comments in the file folder he’d labeled COUNSELING, put it back in a drawer, and turned to his computer.

  Adam checked his email, always hoping to see a note from Gussie. He hadn’t heard from her since the retreat except for the evaluation she’d sent out to all adults. When he’d sent it back to her, he’d added a note, which she hadn’t answered.

  What did he expect? She thought of him as a kid, a minister, a camp counselor. She kept busy with her job, her parents, her church. Why had he thought they’d become email buddies, which might lead to more?

  But after he’d answered a few messages and written a quick note to his sister, he checked the inbox one more time. Only spam.

  * * *

  It was her last appointment Friday afternoon, almost five o’clock. Gussie was tired; Timmy and Tammy Scheltzbaum, the six-year-old twins who sat stiffly on the stools she’d placed in front of the blue backdrop, were also tired; and their mother sitting in the corner drooped.

  “Can you smile?” She always asked that of children who didn’t display an iota of personality in the hope they would sparkle and laugh without her having to resort to funny faces and dancing around.

  Either they couldn’t or they didn’t.

  She glanced toward the corner where their mother sat.

  “Smile, sweeties,” Mrs. Scheltzbaum said.

  When the children’s lips curled a little but no joy filled their eyes, Gussie sighed. She’d snapped a few good portraits of serious siblings but knew their mother expected sparkling as well. Goo
d thing Gussie had curly, floppy hair, which usually amused children. She bobbed her head back and forth, up and down, to allow her curls to bounce. Tammy grinned a little and almost laughed, but Timmy frowned, already too grown-up and macho to smile. She bet he was also too old to find the hand puppet amusing.

  So she went with funny voices. Not imitations, but voices that ranged from thin and high to growling with odd accents.

  “Hey, Timmy,” she said with her voice sliding up and down the scale. “Gimme a smile?” As she kept up the schtick, the children relaxed and Tammy gave her an almost-smile.

  Through the years, she’d discovered what worked. Impersonating a witch scared children, of course. Pretending to be a dog embarrassed even her and she was nearly impervious to humiliation. Not everyone liked clowns. She’d tried roller skates but discovered the difficulty of taking a picture as she flew by.

  The final option? “The Lord said to Noah,” she sang. By the time she finished the chorus, the twins were clapping and laughing and she got a great bunch of pictures.

  That evening, Gussie sat at her computer while her parents watched television downstairs. She read and reread the note Adam had sent with his evaluation. “Hey,” he’d written. “Had a great time at the retreat. Meet for coffee?”

  Pleasant but no matter how many times she read it, she could not find a great deal of passionate interest in those eleven words. Actually, she could detect only friendly interest, perhaps rote politeness for the old lady from Roundville.

  All for the best, of course. She had no interest in romance, certainly not. But companionship would be nice. Talking to a man who sparked excitement within her could be very pleasant.

  But maybe not.

  Had she felt lust for Lennie? Probably so. He’d been tall and handsome and flashy, but she couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to remember.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Adam headed home from the Butternut Creek skilled nursing facility. He’d walked over to see the father of a church member while his car kept Rex company. He breathed in a lungful of fragrant Central Texas air. It was a great day, the kind of spring day everyone waited for. Warm and sunny and the exercise felt great.

  Out on the highway west of town, reports of the arrival of bluebonnets had been coming in for nearly a week. When he got the car back, he’d take the kids for a ride to see them. Watching the bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush and what Lady Bird had called “those damn little yellow flowers” was a Hill Country tradition he aimed to join soon.

  He missed the spring flowers of Kentucky: a purple crocus poking through still-cold ground followed by lawns covered with sunny daffodils. Add to that forsythia that bloomed bright yellow and redbuds and dogwood trees. Oh, he’d seen those trees in Texas, but in Kentucky their appearance signaled a transition from winter to spring. The seasons had little separation here.

  Mercedes had told him to look forward to the sweet-smelling mountain laurels and the glorious magnolia trees, which couldn’t survive winters farther north. And tulips, Ouida had told him. She had a plot in her garden, but he always thought of them at Churchill Downs for the Derby. Add the fragile azaleas and hearty crepe myrtle and spring displayed itself in colorful splendor here, too.

  As he walked, he thought about Hector’s visit with his father in prison last Saturday, a trip he made by bus every month or two. Each time, he returned solemn and remained quiet for a few days, withdrawn and worried.

  He never took his sister, and Janey never asked to go. She’d had a rough life with her mother dying when she was a toddler and her father’s addiction. Hector said his father had never laid a hand on Janey because he knew Hector would hurt him if he did. Nevertheless, Janey was afraid of the man, afraid of the kind of people who’d come to the house, of the shouting and the fights and the occasional gunfire.

  Adam couldn’t blame her. He’d be traumatized, too. He’d attempted to get her into counseling but she’d curled up in the corner of the office and refused to talk to the psychologist he’d found who worked with kids. She found her safe place with Hector. She seemed fine in the parsonage and did okay at school. Neither Adam nor Hector could figure out why, as much time as she spent studying, she didn’t make better grades. Due to trauma as well? Until he could find someone she’d talk to, they wouldn’t know.

  Adam strolled down the highway, then turned on Church Street. As he headed toward the church, he could see six or seven cars in the parking lot. The women getting ready for the bazaar, he guessed. On the front porch of the parsonage, he saw two people on the swing with their heads together. After a few more steps, he realized the two were Hector and Bree. Janey sat in the rattan chair and read.

  Well, well.

  “Hey, guys,” Adam said. “What’s going on?”

  “Just hangin’ out.” Hector’s glare warned Adam not to tease him about Bree’s presence. “Knew you wouldn’t like us inside without you around.”

  When Janey glanced up at Adam, a smile flickered across her face. Her smile gave him hope that, little by little, she was healing.

  “Pops, we need, we really need, a goal on the parking lot.” Hector pointed toward the exact place he envisioned it. “We could have been playing ball while we waited for you.”

  “And, Pops, we”—Bree indicated herself and Hector—“emailed Gussie Milton and invited her to speak to the youth group the Sunday after Easter.”

  Adam blinked. Gussie? Here?

  “She didn’t want to come at first,” Hector said.

  “Something about her parents,” Bree said. “And work and the church and other stuff.”

  “She has a busy life.” Adam sat on the wicker chair.

  “But when Bree told her we needed her to talk about summer camp so we can bring more kids, she agreed,” Hector said.

  Bree must have learned that from her grandmother, using guilt as the ultimate motivator.

  “Where’d you get this idea?” Adam asked.

  “Mac suggested it,” Bree said.

  Aah, Mac. Matchmaker-in-training, taking after her grandmother. At least she hadn’t told the pillar about his attraction to Gussie, and she’d behaved far more subtly than any of the Widows.

  “We’re all going to ask friends who don’t go to church to come, try to get them interested in church camp this summer,” Hector said. “We should have that basketball goal up by then, Pops. That’ll bring the guys out.”

  “Not enough time. First, I have to take that up with the property committee and the board.”

  Hector shook his head. “Churches. The hoops you have to go through just to get a hoop.”

  He and Bree laughed at that, but Adam was still trying to get his mind around the idea of Gussie’s visit here in a couple of weeks.

  “The Widows are going to serve refreshments,” Bree said. “Food always attracts people, especially high school people.”

  “What time?” Adam attempted to mentally picture his calendar, but Gussie’s smiling face popped up in the little squares.

  “She’s going to leave Roundville after church and get here about one thirty. We’ll start at two,” Bree said. “Grandma said after the meeting the Widows will put together a light supper for you at the parsonage so Gussie doesn’t have to drive home hungry.”

  Oh, yeah, that driving while starving, always hazardous, but not nearly as terrifying as a matchmaking Widow.

  But why worry? Spending a few hours with Gussie was great, even if she hadn’t wanted to come. The idea of spending a few hours with Gussie under the eye of the Widows didn’t count as a positive, but he didn’t care. She’d be here.

  Of course, they wouldn’t be alone, so he couldn’t put a move on Gussie. Actually, he’d never put a move on Gussie at any time, surrounded by people or not. The realization would have depressed him greatly if he allowed himself to dwell on the fact. Instead, he grinned in anticipation of Gussie’s imminent appearance.

  “Why’re you smiling, Pops?” Hector asked.

  “Sounds like fun,”
Adam answered.

  “Yeah, a lot of kids will be here and Gussie’s great,” Bree said.

  “You two should get together,” Hector said. “You and Gussie. She’d make you laugh more.”

  “That’s right. You two would be great together,” Bree agreed. “Why don’t you ask her out?”

  Exactly what he needed. Dating advice from teenagers.

  * * *

  Gussie stared at the screen of her computer, perusing the email she’d sent to Bree. What had she done? She’d agreed to visit the church in Butternut Creek, to talk to kids about camp and the youth program. The event didn’t present a problem; she did that all the time.

  The problem was, she hadn’t done it before with Adam Jordan around.

  Too late to back out. Not that she could. This was her ministry, what she did, how she served. She’d remember who she was—an old maid who’d substituted the young people for her children—and who he was—the minister of Butternut Creek. With those identities firmly in mind, she’d be able to be professional and not see Basketball Adam when she looked at Reverend Adam, at least not when she was close to him.

  Oh, sure. Someday she’d have to stop lying to herself.

  * * *

  Adam had finally found a donkey for Palm Sunday. With a sigh of relief, he sat back in the desk chair in his office, folded his arms behind his head, and grinned. Victory! He felt like singing loud hosannas but he knew he couldn’t carry it off; he would only upset Maggie and it would serve no real purpose.

  Jesse Hardin had actually found it. Thank goodness for Jesse. Last year, he’d given Sam Peterson horseback rides to build up the muscles in Sam’s thigh as part of his physical therapy. And now he’d tracked down a donkey for Hector to ride on Palm Sunday. Jesse would go to the ranch early Sunday morning, load Maisie into his horse trailer, and bring her to church. The Methodists planned to use the donkey fifteen minutes later and the Catholics after that.