The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  Here was his chance: the promise of six days together, nearly a week to pursue…no, to court…no, to woo…Oh, forget what verb he should use. He wanted to get to know her better and to find out if she felt anything for him. He’d accept the tiniest spark in the hope he could fan it into a great passion; he’d even settle for a warm ember of interest.

  He and Gussie had kept up their emails for six weeks, most of them professional about the coming events and also sent to the other adults who’d attend.

  But every now and then, he thought of something that happened at church or a particularly Miss Birdie moment he wanted to share with her or news about the youth group. From time to time, she’d answer. They fell into a comfortable and, sadly, friendly rhythm.

  * * *

  Senior high camp started June 8. In addition to the five who’d gone to the retreat, three more kids from the high school were joining them. For that reason, the elders had rented them a larger but utilitarian van.

  So much went on the first day and evening, Adam had no chance to put his plan to woo Gussie into action. Crowds of people surrounded Gussie at every moment, asking questions, seeking direction, or just plain talking to her because she was so much fun to talk to.

  Adam waved and smiled at her, and she returned a harried grin. He couldn’t get close to her.

  He glanced down at the sheaf of papers she’d shoved at him in passing. She’d prepared the list of patrols, and they were not together. He’d ended up with Mrs. Hayes, who taught high school French in Liberty Hill. Gussie had paired herself with the minister from San Antonio. Maybe he could switch with Jimmy. No, that would call too much attention to his interest.

  Monday morning, he got a call that Jesse’s brother had died and he needed to get back for funeral arrangements.

  “I hate to leave,” he told Gussie.

  “I understand.” She didn’t look unhappy about his departure.

  Had he hoped she’d cry? Throw herself at his feet and beg him to stay because she couldn’t stand to spend the week without him? Or, maybe more realistically, look a tiny bit disappointed? Would’ve been nice.

  “You’ll be short a male counselor,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Nothing we can do about that. Your church member needs you.” She placed her hand on his arm, then pulled it away quickly.

  What was that about?

  “I’ll be back after the funeral.”

  But when he got back to Butternut Creek, every emergency possible hit. The mother of a member had gone into hospice and the family asked for his visits. The niece of a friend of Mercedes needed to get married. Maggie scheduled the wedding for Thursday evening as well as sessions with the bride and groom Tuesday and Wednesday.

  On Wednesday, he called Gussie to tell her he wouldn’t be back and that he’d pick up the youth on Friday at noon.

  So much for wooing or courting or even speaking to Gussie.

  * * *

  Adam said a quick word to Gussie when he picked up the kids but nothing more. The place was chaos, and after driving to the hospice in Lubbock twice to spend time with ailing members and their families, he’d worn himself out.

  The kids squeezed into the van, stowing the luggage under their seats and in the aisle. Most fell asleep almost as soon as Adam turned on the ignition.

  As he drove out, Adam saw Gussie in the middle of a group of kids, laughing and attempting to point them toward the waiting cars.

  “Sorry you had to miss camp, Pops,” Hector said from the passenger seat.

  Adam pulled out on the highway and sped up. He enjoyed a vehicle with acceleration.

  “Yeah, wish I could have been there.” Adam looked in the rearview mirror to see Bree sleeping in a seat next to her sister. “Why aren’t you sitting with Bree?”

  “Haven’t seen you for a while. Wanted to catch up. Too bad you weren’t able to see more of Gussie.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Hector grinned. “Don’t make me spell it out. You gotta know Mac can’t keep a secret for long.”

  Adam groaned.

  “We’re gonna keep it quiet. Don’t worry.” He slid his hat over his eyes. “But, you know, I’m beginning to think God doesn’t want you and Gussie together.” Then he pretended to fall asleep.

  At least, Adam believed the sleep to be feigned. He bet Hector had been warned by junior matchmaker Mac not to push.

  Hector did bring up a good point. Why did he have such bad luck around Gussie? Before the week of camp, he’d had such high hopes. Seemed like he was snakebit. Nothing worked out as planned.

  Maybe the kid was right. God didn’t want him and Gussie together. Maybe God was doing everything a deity could do to keep them apart because He had different plans for them.

  Of all the stupid ideas. Like God would kill Jesse’s brother or have a teenager get pregnant and ask for a quick wedding—all just so Adam didn’t have a chance to court Gussie.

  Adam always thought God was busy enough with the universe that He didn’t mess in people’s lives or favor certain football teams despite the fact that in Texas, a majority believed He was a rabid fan of the Cowboys. Adam preferred to think God was more concerned with opening hearts so the hungry could be fed and the naked clothed and wars stopped.

  The sort of thinking that made people believe God was the mighty micromanager who did petty things to mess people up or solve the small problems they could take care of themselves always astounded him. Reminded him of his aunt Hazel who believed God had nearly killed her in a car wreck and put her in a coma to get her to stop smoking. Surely, Adam had always thought, the creator of the heavens and the earth, omniscient and omnipotent, could have come up with a better plan than almost killing the woman now to save her from dying of lung cancer later.

  If a Gussie-and-Adam combination truly didn’t suit God’s plans, then God could make this far easier by putting a lovely single young woman in Butternut Creek to distract him from Gussie. However, he truly didn’t—couldn’t—believe God worked that way, like a great matchmaker in the sky.

  For a moment, Adam considered the idea that God had franchised that arm of the business to the Widows. If they had a divine covenant for their efforts, he might as well give in, accept the inevitable, and marry whoever they found.

  * * *

  Gussie watched the packed van drive off and bemoaned the fact she hadn’t seen much of Adam.

  “He’s a hottie, isn’t he?”

  Oh, my Lord. Had she said those words out loud?

  Gussie looked to her left to see Marcy Swenson, one of the college students who had come to camp as an assistant counselor.

  “Who?” Gussie glanced at the girl.

  “Reverend Jordan,” Marcy said.

  “Adam?”

  “Haven’t you noticed?” Marcy whistled. “How could you not see that?”

  “He’s a very nice young man. The young people from his church really like him.”

  Marcy’s mouth dropped open. “You haven’t noticed?” She jabbed Gussie in the side with her elbow. “Why don’t you ask him out? You’re about the same age. You’re both single. He’s hot and you’re hot, for your age.”

  With those depressing words, Marcy took off to help her campers load their cars.

  Hot for her age? Gussie had no idea how to respond to that statement. Probably better to dismiss it and concentrate on getting camp cleared.

  * * *

  Adam hated middle-of-the-night phone calls. He always hoped they were wrong numbers or drunks who couldn’t dial, but most often they came from a church member in trouble. Last month it had been a heart attack and a quick trip to Austin.

  By the third ring, he was sufficiently awake to grab the phone. “Adam Jordan,” he said.

  “Ouida fell. She wants you to come over.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Adam said before he realized George had already hung up.

  It took only minutes to dress, comb his hair, and push his feet into Nikes before he
ran out of the house to the Kowalskis’ front door.

  Before he could knock, George opened the door and pulled Adam inside. “She’s right there.”

  He pointed with a shaking finger as if Adam couldn’t see Ouida lying motionless at the bottom of the steps, a small pool of blood growing where her hand lay close to a few shards of glass.

  For a moment Adam could only stare. Was she dead? “Did you call nine-one-one? What happened?”

  George nodded. “Called them right before I called you.” For a moment, he struggled to speak. “She fell.”

  Ouida moaned. Adam strode toward her and knelt.

  “Hey, Preacher,” she whispered.

  At least she was coherent and awake. Good. But she didn’t move, her leg bent at an odd angle, and she was so pale she was the same color as her light blue nightgown now liberally spotted with red.

  Shock. He tried to remember the first-aid course he’d had years ago. Treatment for shock: Cover the patient, keep her warm, and raise her head. Or maybe raise her feet. He couldn’t remember which but that didn’t matter because he wasn’t going to touch her. EMS would do that.

  “Cold,” she whispered.

  “Get some blankets,” Adam said. “Or coats. Something to cover her.”

  When George didn’t move, Adam stood and, in two steps, reached the front closet. He opened it and pulled the winter coats out. None felt very heavy—in Texas, no one had thick, warm coats—until he found a tan topcoat, which he lay across Ouida.

  “That’s my best coat,” George protested. When Adam glared at him, he added, “But, of course, that’s fine.”

  With Ouida covered, Adam carefully picked the largest shards of glass off the floor before anyone could get cut. He stood to toss them in a decorative thingy in the entrance hall, then turned to study George. How was he doing? As he’d have guessed, George wore silk pajamas and nice leather slippers. Other than the man’s pallor, George looked like his usual, well-turned-out self: great haircut with minimal bed head, immaculately clothed for the occasion, and in charge. Except, of course, George’s bewildered expression showed he wasn’t in charge and had no idea what to do next except to pace at a safe distance from the puddle of blood.

  With a glance around the hallway and upstairs—no sign of Carol or Gretchen yet—Adam pulled out his cell and hit speed dial. After a few rings, Bree answered. Or maybe it was Mac.

  “Hey, I need you at the Kowalskis’. Ouida fell. Can you two and your grandmother come over? ASAP?”

  “Who is this?” the young woman mumbled.

  “Adam Jordan.”

  “Oh, yeah, Preacher.” She yawned. “This is Bree.”

  “Bring your grandmother, too. Okay?” When Bree didn’t say anything—had she fallen back to sleep?—Adam said, “We need you now, for Carol and Gretchen.”

  “Of course,” she said, immediately awake. “Be right there.”

  As sirens sounded from a few blocks away, Adam knelt next to Ouida. Still pale. Still cold.

  He glanced up the stairs to see a floppy slipper on the sixth step up. Didn’t take a genius to see what happened: Ouida had slipped, fallen, and landed here, probably broken her leg. Cut her hand on something. Those were the obvious injuries.

  George had stopped pacing and hovered about five feet away. “Should we get her on the sofa?” George asked. “Make her comfortable?”

  “No, the paramedics need to decide that.”

  “I fell,” she whispered. “Hurts.” Then she started to gag.

  “George,” Adam motioned toward him. “Why don’t you come hold Ouida’s hand.”

  “He doesn’t like blood or vomit,” she whispered.

  Who did? Neither was among Adam’s favorite fluids.

  “Thirsty.”

  “I’ll get water.” George grabbed the reason to escape and ran toward the kitchen, leaving bloody footprints behind him.

  They wouldn’t give Ouida anything to drink, that was a decision for the paramedics, but the errand got George out of the way and doing something purposeful. Maybe that would either calm him down or rouse him. Adam had no idea which George needed.

  Ouida attempted to move, then stopped and groaned.

  Thrashing and anxiety, those meant something but darned if he could remember what. He’d take another first-aid course as soon as possible.

  When the sirens stopped outside the house, Adam jumped to his feet to open the door. The paramedics ran up the walk and into the house, then took in the scene.

  “I’m Shelley,” the lead paramedic said. “That’s Aaron.” Within seconds both she and the stocky EMT knelt next to Ouida, threw the overcoat on the floor, and examined her.

  “Mommy.”

  Adam glanced up the stairs to see Carol and Gretchen sobbing and holding hands.

  “Mommy,” Carol shouted over and over. And all this time, George stood to the side of the action holding the tumbler of water.

  “George.” Adam pointed toward the girls. “Take care of them.”

  George didn’t move. If his color hadn’t looked fairly normal, Adam might have guessed he suffered from shock.

  He did. Of course he did. Finding his wife at the bottom of the steps bleeding must have frightened him deeply, but his daughters needed him now.

  “How long ago did this happen?” Shelley asked.

  George shook his head.

  “George called me about ten minutes ago,” Adam said. A stupid comment because they probably had the time of the 911 call, but George didn’t seem able to give more information.

  Ouida was getting great care from the paramedics, but they needed information and the girls needed to be comforted.

  In the movies, the hero slapped the hysterical heroine, which always seemed to work. Adam had always wondered why that wasn’t considered abusive. He couldn’t imagine that slapping George would have the desired effect—and the man might slap him back. Instead he shouted sharply, “George.”

  The word woke him up. George chugged the water, placed the glass on the table, and said, “I don’t know. I woke up about twenty minutes ago and she wasn’t in bed. When I came down, she was there.”

  While George spoke, Adam headed toward the back stairs to avoid the huddle of health care workers in the hall. Once upstairs, he sat on the top step to the side of the girls, pulled Carol and Gretchen into his arms, and carefully turned their eyes away from the sight of their mother. “Your mother fell,” he said as he rubbed their backs gently. “But she’s going to be okay.”

  The girls looked up at him.

  “These people will take care of your mommy, patch her up, then take her to the hospital.”

  “I want Mommy.” Carol attempted to turn back and watch her mother.

  Had his explanation made them think they’d be left alone? What could he do to comfort and distract them from the scene below as Shelley prepared an IV?

  “You’re going to be fine, I promise. You won’t be alone.”

  The girls lifted their eyes.

  “Are you going to take her to the hospital?” George asked from below.

  Shelley nodded. “We’ll take her to Burnet and life-flight her to Austin. We don’t have the facilities in Burnet to do more than basic care.”

  “Mommy?” Carol sobbed.

  “She’ll go to the hospital so very good doctors can take care of her.” Adam lifted the girls in his arms. “While your mommy is in the hospital, friends will be here with you.”

  Mercifully, as the crescendo of crying increased and Shelley repeated another question to George, Miss Birdie strode in followed by her granddaughters. The cavalry had arrived. Thank you, God.

  He’d known the pillar would come and not due only to curiosity. As much as she attempted to hide it, Miss Birdie had a heart of gold beneath that crusty exterior.

  She took charge immediately. “Upstairs,” the pillar told Bree and Mac.

  “You,” she told George. “You come here and hold your wife’s hand and give the information they n
eed to these EMS people. Preacher.” She looked up at Adam. “The girls and I’ll take care of Carol and Gretchen. You come down here and support George.” She infused those last words with scorn that a man, a husband, would act like George.

  Fortunately, George didn’t notice. George seemed nearly catatonic.

  Within seconds, Bree had led the little girls away from the top of the steps and their view of their mother. When he arrived in the foyer, Adam gave George a slight shove toward his wife.

  At the top of the stairs stood Miss Birdie, studying the scene below her, legs apart and arms folded in front of her. She looked like a bulldog—although a skinny one—but Adam knew the frown showed concern and the crossed arms were the way she’d learned to cope with shoulder pain, supporting one arm with the other.

  George didn’t know that. He glanced up at her and took a step toward his wife, then another. While George read judgment in the pillar’s scrutiny, Adam saw her assess what she needed to do. He bet cleaning up the front hall after the crowd dispersed would be her first priority.

  “Sir, we’re going to need some information. Full name, last name first,” said a young man who held a small computer.

  George recited the elementary material.

  “Date of birth?”

  After he entered that information, the young man asked, “Do you know her Texas driver’s license number?”

  George rattled it off.

  “Social Security number?”

  George knew that, too.

  “What health insurance do you have?”

  “It’s with Greater Good. Group number is 546C3. Identification number 1212HH1344.”

  The man did know numbers.

  After the EMTs had stopped the bleeding and hooked up an IV, they covered Ouida with several blankets, put a collar around her neck, and carefully strapped her on a board, then a gurney. Believing everything was well under control, Adam headed toward the back stairs to check on the girls and to talk to Miss Birdie.