The Potluck Club—Takes the Cake

by Linda Evans Shepherd

Charlene spit out a cackle as she wrapped the sash of her coat around her waist. “Oh, please! Like I could care less at this point. Do you really think I was in love with that lug?”

  I crossed my arms over my middle again, feeling a strange sense of protection for the lug. “So what you’re saying is that you’re the kind of woman who would just run off with anyone’s husband? The kind of woman who would... who would...” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

  “Would sleep with just anybody?”

  Apparently she could.

  “I’m not like you, Goldie.” She pulled her frizzy blonde hair out from under the collar of the coat. I watched as it lay in stark contrast to the dark wool, reminding me of a witch’s broom against a midnight sky.

  “What do you mean?” I choked out.

  “I’m not Miss Goody-goody. Never have been. Never will be.” She strolled toward the front door, then turned and peered at me over her shoulder. “Like I said, I just thought you should know.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Does Jack... ?”

  I heard the doorknob twisting open. “Does Jack know about the baby?” She pulled the door toward her, then turned back to me. “No. Not yet. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about all this.” She cocked a brow. “Still, and like I’ve already said, I thought you should know.”

  And with that she walked out of the door without so much as bothering to close it. After a moment or two of standing there staring out at the bleak and the cold, I inched toward the door, pushed it shut, then turned and headed back to my bedroom. I stumbled as I neared the chair where I’d been sitting, falling to the floor in a heap. I attempted to pull myself up, albeit half-heartedly, then collapsed in a torrent of hot tears.

  When I’d finally cried all I could cry, I rolled over then sat up on the floor, looking down toward my feet. There, wadded up and twisted, was the towel I’d had in my hands earlier. Apparently, I’d dropped it at some point between Charlene’s swooping in and her life-altering announcement. I reached for it, threw it into the chair, then stood and hobbled back to my bedroom, where I stripped out of my clothes, donned the ratty housecoat Lizzie had teased me about earlier, then crawled into the bed, curling up like a baby.

  Charlene’s and Jack’s baby.

  I realized I was subconsciously holding my breath. When my chest began to tighten, I exhaled slowly and closed my eyes. Why, Lord? Just when things were looking up.

  7

  I Thought I ’Thaw a Puddy-Tat

  Clay couldn’t help it. With every chance he got, he stole a look at himself in the rearview mirror of his Jeep. Twice he stopped along the short road from Silverthorne to Summit View just to run inside a convenience store and head for the men’s restroom so he could admire himself in the mirror.

  He even flirted a bit with one of the salesclerks behind the counter.

  “That’s two-fourteen,” she said as he paid for the bottled water flavored with only a hint of peach.

  “And well worth it.” He winked.

  “You sure are a happy guy,” she said, taking the two bills and change.

  “Just had my first pedicure. My first facial. And my first massage. What is holding men back, I ask you. Why do we think this is just for women?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you think of the highlights? Eh? Nice, right? For an Irish Native American? You think my ancestors are rolling over in their graves right now?”

  The girl—her name tag dubbed her as Kristin—laughed. “You’re right. Men should get prettied up too.”

  Clay frowned. “Well, let’s not use words like pretty. But I did buy some pretty good-looking clothes over at the outlets.”

  He thought about it all the way home. His bad day—what with David Harris showing up—had turned out to be not so bad. He had a lead story, he was sporting a new look, and even the adorable Kristin from Rob’s Pump-N-Go thought he was cute.

  As he pulled into the city limits of Summit View, though, his mood changed. Passing by 6th Avenue off Main Street, he spotted Charlene Hopefield leaving the front door of Goldie Dippel’s apartment.

  No-good woman, he thought. He thought of another word too, but let it go. It didn’t match his new look.

  He slowed his Jeep enough to watch the blonde troublemaker scurry to her car parked on the other side of the road. She slid in with a look of... what was that... triumph? Nothing good, he thought, could come from her being over at Mrs. Dippel’s. Nothing good at all.

  “No-good woman,” he said under his breath, then headed on toward his home. He needed to get writing on the article, get himself to bed, get plenty of sleep, so he would be well rested to do what he needed to do in the morning.

  Donna

  8

  Poached Paparazzi

  On Sunday morning, I woke before my alarm sounded, even before the sun began to glide above the curtain of mountains that rose from my very yard. I sat up in bed and stretched, feeling somehow different, lighter. As a matter of fact, in the past few days it was as if I’d begun to awaken from a deep dream.

  I rubbed my eyes at the thought. That was it. I hadn’t had the dream about my failed rescue attempt since my baby’s memorial service.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed then leaned forward and stared down at the floor.

  What had Wade and I been, all of seventeen, eighteen? Too young to start a family, though I know Wade would have married me if I’d only said yes to his proposal. But after my pregnancy had... had ended, we’d drifted apart.

  I turned to a career in law enforcement, and Wade turned to the bottle.

  How many nights had I sat in my Bronco, waiting for Wade to stumble out of the Gold Rush Tavern so I could drop him off at his trailer?

  Our routine never varied. “Sorry, Deputy Donna, I didn’t mean to get drunk again,” he’d slur as he’d stumble out of my truck and up the steps to his front door.

  I’d roll down my window. “Want me to leave you a note to remind you where you left your truck?”

  “Nah. I’ll remember.” He’d laugh. “It’ll be where I always park it when you’re on duty.”

  And so it went.

  Lately, though, his truck hasn’t been parked outside the tavern.

  I figured he’d gotten behind on his bar bill again and taken to drinking alone, that is, till I discovered he’d been having dinner with Kevin Moore.

  What an unlikely pairing, Wade and Pastor Kevin from Grace Church.

  From what I’d gathered, they’d started sharing an evening meal down at the Higher Grounds Café after Moore’s wife, Jan, had succumbed to cancer.

  In fact, according to Wade, it had been the pastor’s idea to hold the funeral for our long-lost baby. But as Vonnie later confessed, the funeral had been more of an “intervention” for me.

  “Donna dear, you were so distraught, and with all your talk about dying, Fred and I were concerned. We had to take this course of action. We were trying to save your life.”

  Their action had been to invite me to dinner then surprise me with a drive to the graveyard.

  I’d call it a kidnapping, really, though I wouldn’t say so officially.

  All I know is that when Wade, my dad, the Westbrooks, and the pastor had gathered around baby Jamie Lee’s grave marker, I’d fallen to my knees, pounding my fists against the frozen ground as I wept.

  Perhaps that was the reason I felt lighter: I’d finally acknowledged my secret grief and I’d wept until I’d felt God’s presence.

  I stood up and peeked out the blinds covering my bedroom window. It was still dark.

  I laughed at myself. Me, feeling God’s presence? I didn’t even believe in the existence of God. (A little secret I kept from my Potluck Club friends.)

  The thought of them made me stifle a laugh. What would they say if they knew?

  I could hear Evie now. “I always knew that girl was a heathen.” And Vonnie would counter, “Now, Evie, this just means we need to pray for her.”

  I snorted. Prayer. W
hat good did it do to pray to a God who was such a cruel master? As far as I was concerned, if he existed at all, he existed as the author of all heartache. Who needed to serve a God like that?

  My own heartache had started early, when I was only four. That’s when the most important person in my life walked out on me. I’d watched, one Sunday morning, as my mother sang a duet with the church choir director. Their voices blended so perfectly that my toddler self sat beside my dad spellbound. But after the service, instead of heading for home, Mom hopped into the choir director’s Volkswagen bug and headed for I-70 and a new life.

  And me? That’s what hurt the most. I wasn’t a good enough reason for my mother to stay married much less stay around.

  Dad did his best to raise me, but I’d wanted my mother. That is, until my fifth-grade Sunday school teacher stepped in. Vonnie Westbrook had reached out to me to become the mother figure I’d so desperately needed. We were now so close that strangers often mistook her for my mother. And as far as I was concerned, their misguided observation was truth.

  Vonnie’s motherly influence hadn’t been enough to stop me from sleeping with my high school sweetheart. As latchkey teenagers, Wade and I had spent too many unsupervised hours alone in my bedroom.

  That’s how baby Jamie Lee came to be conceived.

  I padded to the bathroom and switched on the light. When my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room, I looked at myself in the mirror. It was a reflection I still hated. I hated it because of what I had done, for what I had become. I splashed cold water on my face, then patted it dry with a towel.

  My constant guilt had somehow been relieved, if only temporarily, at the service as Pastor Kevin yammered on about God’s love for me regardless.

  Could what he said really be true?

  Yeah, I wish.

  I looked at the reflection of my eyes and saw the truth ignite in a flash of anger. I was too despicable for God to love. I knew it, and he knew it.

  I hung my towel on the rack next to the sink. Even if there were a loving God, he had to know I was worse than my own mother. She’d only abandoned me, not terminated my existence.

  I sighed deeply, trying to shake off the despair that had jolted me back to the past. I padded barefoot toward the kitchen to make a cup of joe.

  If there was truth, I reasoned, I’d find it in a strong cup of coffee. I always said that if you drank enough of it no one would be able to tell you were dead.

  Which was a good thing because since that failed rescue attempt up above Boulder, I had been dead. Vonnie had been right to be concerned for my life. When the Long baby was swept from my arms in those floodwaters, I’d finally come to understand the loss of my own baby. That loss had magnified, when, just a few days ago, I was served papers in infant Bailey Ann Long’s wrongful death lawsuit. I wasn’t sure what I’d have done if Clay hadn’t been there to comfort me when I opened that envelope. Reading that letter made me feel as if my pretense at life was over. Suicide had seemed like a solid, logical solution to my pain.

  But though my life was a lie, I’d decided to live. Maybe it was the presence of God that touched me or maybe it was something else. I don’t know. All I know is I have to wait to see if there really is something called hope and if it can be applied to me.

  Once in the kitchen, I poured ground coffee into the top of my coffeemaker and filled the reservoir with water and hit the start button. While the coffee brewed, I stared out my kitchen window and watched the first rays of sunlight turn the darkness into a pale blue that backlit the snow-covered peaks. Sunrise was another reason to live, I decided as the sun rose higher. It brightened as a long band of clouds striped the sky above the mountaintops with a bold pink. It looked as if Mother Nature was playing with her crayons.

  I poured a cup of coffee into my mug, which was emblazoned with my favorite one-word description of me: “Dangerous.” Some of the hot coffee splashed onto my new red flannel pajamas. Normally I sleep in my sweats, but Vonnie and Fred had given me the pj’s as an early Christmas gift. I was surprised to find I liked the pj’s, despite the fact they were covered in grinning snowmen. I grabbed a dishcloth from the sink and wiped the coffee off several of the snowmen’s faces. “What do you have to smile about now?” I asked them out loud.

  That’s when I realized it. I was smiling too.

  I took a swig of coffee, black and thick, just the way I liked it, and watched the ever-expanding rays of the sun pinken the snowcaps.

  Come on, now, I chided myself. What’s the big deal? Could it be that I was excited about my breakfast date with David?

  That couldn’t be it. I wasn’t really all that interested in men. Okay, it’s not that I preferred girls or anything like that. It’s just that the truth, simply put, was I didn’t think I deserved a guy.

  I took another sip of my coffee. David, just like Wade and Clay, would have to settle for friendship. That was all I had to give.

  With the sun spreading its glow over the morning, I decided to walk to the café, despite the bitter cold. Besides, in the warmth of my black down parka, only my nose and cheeks felt the sting of winter.

  When I opened the door of the Higher Grounds Café, a community diner nestled inside a hundred-year-old schoolhouse, I realized it was still a bit early for David. But it wasn’t too early for me to start on my second cup of joe.

  I sat down at my usual spot and signaled Sal for a cup, which she immediately poured. As soon as she scurried to another table, I looked up to see Larry the cook standing in front of me. He was another one of the local clods who had asked me out following Lisa Leann’s “dare to be brave in dating” column.

  “Hi, Larry,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “Just stopped by your table to let you know I’ve enjoyed seeing you around here lately.”

  I felt my eyes narrow. “Thanks, Larry. I think. I guess it’s good to see you too.”

  He looked goofy, with his netted hair slicked back, showing that gap-toothed grin of his. He continued in his politest of tones. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve noted and appreciate your improved attitude.”

  My sip of coffee almost spewed from my mouth. “Excuse me?”

  Larry looked over his shoulder as Sal gave him the signal to get back to work. “Can’t talk right now; the kitchen’s calling. I just wanted you to know that red is definitely your color.”

  “I’m not wearing red,” I said.

  “You were last night.”

  I felt the color rise in my cheeks. “You were spying on me?”

  He laughed and said, “You’re really something, you know that?” as he scurried to the back. Just before he disappeared behind the counter he added, “Glad to see your sense of humor has improved too.”

  I blinked as he disappeared into the kitchen. Larry was a bit of a jerk, but I couldn’t imagine him as a Peeping Tom. Well, whatever he was, I’d get to the bottom of it. No one was allowed to spy on me in my own home. I’m the law, after all.

  The whole episode left me feeling off center until I thought of all the things I’d do to him if I caught him outside my house.

  But first things first. Later today I’d run to the hardware store and order blinds for the kitchen and living room, a little chore I’d been putting off for ages. I already had blinds in the bedroom so I could sleep through the day when I was on the graveyard shift.

  The door swung open, and Clay, looking as fashionable as a metrosexual, entered the room. Now I’d seen everything.

  What had he done to himself? A haircut? An eyebrow wax? A new outfit consisting of a sleek gold-colored knit turtleneck with formfitting brown knit pants? I’d known he’d lost a lot of weight lately, but just who was he trying to impress? When he waved in my direction, my eyes widened. Tell me it isn’t so—the man even sported a manicure.

  I whistled. “That’s some new look you got there, bud.”

  “Do you like it? I ran down to the Silverthorne outlets after the party yesterday and did a little shopping.”
>
  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you filling in for Ryan Seacrest on American Idol?”

  He pulled up a chair. “Just trying to change my image.”

  “What’s wrong with your old image?”

  Just then I caught that new waitress—Eleana, I think her name is—as she smiled in Clay’s direction. I looked from her to him then said, “Whoa, hold on. Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?”

  Clay looked confused, then caught my meaning. The man actually blushed. “No, no. It’s not like that. I’m not interested in Eleana.”

  Then suddenly, pad and pen in hand, her long blonde hair swept up into a ponytail, she was standing next to our table. Was she batting her eyelashes?

  “Hi, Clay!” she said in a voice that was three notches too perky. “What will it be?”

  I rolled my eyes. The man was trying to impress a girl who looked like a teenager? Sick.

  Clay pretended he hadn’t noticed her enthusiasm. “Just coffee for now,” he said without so much as a smile.

  As soon as she turned to grab her coffeepot, I started scolding him. “Clay, Clay, Clay, I’d hate to have to arrest you for underage dating.”

  “I told you, I’m not interested in Eleana.”

  “Then what gives?” I asked. “There’s definitely something going on here. Care to tell me?”

  The man looked flustered as Eleana returned to pour him a cup of coffee. As soon as she left, he said, “Ah, well, Donna, to tell you the truth, I’ve been meaning to talk to you...”

  The bell above the door sounded once again, and I looked up. “David,” I called out. “Right on time.”

  David was looking good and, in fact, dressed much the same as Clay, except the turtleneck that peeked out of his black leather coat was also black, like mine.

  Clay looked confused. “You’re meeting David for breakfast?”

  “Yeah, want to join us?”

  Clay stood up so suddenly his chair teetered. “No, no. I’ll catch you later.”