Blueberry bushes lined the side yard. A gold-and-blue block quilt hung on the clothesline; it looked like yard art. Bright yellow day lilies bordered the back walk, and a white picket fence separated it all from the gravel drive.
Missy knocked on the door; it was probably the back door and not the front, but everything seemed too inviting for it not to be used. There wasn’t a mark on it. It was sparkling white like someone had just painted it yesterday, maybe today. Missy pressed her forefinger to the paint. Nope, didn’t stick. She tried to remember if their front door at home was white. It may have been at one time before grease-stained hands pushed it open several thousand times.
Bertha opened the door. She wore her gray hair in a bun, a checkered apron over a floral-print polyester dress, and a puzzled expression.
“Hi, Missy . . . ?”
“Hello, Bertha. Sorry I’m late.” Behind Bertha, the room was full of ladies who were already seated in folding metal chairs.
“What do you mean, honey?” Bertha’s forehead gleamed with perspiration.
“For the cooking class. My dad signed me up on Sunday.” She was already nervous enough without Bertha acting so funny.
“We didn’t have sign-ups on Sunday.”
“Bertha...” She heard Mrs. Schoening’s voice behind her. “Ladies, please welcome Missy Stuart. She’s new to our church, and doesn’t know many of you.” Mrs. Schoening eased the door wide enough for Missy to slip past Bertha.
To the right of the door, ladies’ shoes were aligned in tidy rows. Missy slid off her tennies and tried not to think about her home where her family walked through the house in steel-toed boots all day.
“There’s been some misunderstanding. Class has been full for weeks,” Bertha said on her way to the kitchen.
Missy couldn’t help thinking if the class had been full for weeks, why had Marilee called her this morning, and why was there an empty folding chair? At the end of the second row, Missy sat down next to a young woman about her own age whose blonde hair was in a loose bun, her face round, her eyes pleasant. A delicious, savory smell filled the warm room.
A low chandelier hung overhead. The three rows of four chairs were set up in what was usually the dining area. The table had been moved to the left of the kitchen doorway. A teak wood, sunburst clock on the dining room wall read two minutes past seven o’clock.
Boy, these ladies were timely.
“Someone made the best little apple tarts. They’re on a plate behind you.” The young woman popped the last bite of one into her mouth.
Behind Missy, a wooden hutch sat against the wall. Mini-apple pies the size of muffins lined a crystal platter. What a fun idea. Missy reached behind her, and was about to take one when she heard Marilee’s voice.
“Would you care for some hot water for tea, Missy?” Marilee’s gray hair was nicely curled today. In her hand, she gripped a tea kettle that didn’t have the end piece to cover up the spout.
Missy turned her tea cup right-side-up and held the saucer steady while Marilee poured. “Thank you, Mrs. Schoening.” On the hutch behind them, a sampling of flavored teas filled a cute, white ceramic basket.
“Call me Marilee.”
“Don’t you just love it?” the young woman beside her said. “Being waited on. Once a week, I get a break from the babies. I wouldn’t miss Elderly Angels for the world. I’m Lisa and you’re Missy, Robert’s girl.”
Robert’s girl? Missy bit the insides of her cheeks. Thank heaven Mrs. Schoening was no longer nearby. Is that what everyone here thought—that she was Robert’s girl?
“Robert and I aren’t . . . you know,” she whispered, rolling her wrist.
“I’ve seen the two of you at church.” Lisa nudged her. “Some of the gals were asking Marilee about you right before you got here.” Lisa nodded toward Mrs. Schoening. “She said ‘you’re an answer to prayer.’”
The first day they’d met, Robert had referred to her as an answer to prayer. That must be what Mrs. Schoening meant. His father had also referred to her as an answer to prayer. Was there more to it? How could she, Missy Stuart, the foul-mouthed daughter of a mechanic, be an answer to prayer? She shook her head. It had to be on account of the fuel filter.
For some reason, Lisa glanced toward Missy’s hands. She hadn’t had the chance to soak them in lemon juice today, and she’d changed the oil on two different vehicles this afternoon. She hid them in her lap beneath the tea saucer.
Lisa nudged her.
Missy wasn’t used to being nudged.
Bertha carried a tray of items out of the kitchen and stopped in front of the long table. She cleared her throat for their attention. On the table in front of her sat at least a pound of raw ground beef, and a small, glass bowl filled with diced onion.
“Before I demonstrate how to make Sweet N’ Sour Meat Balls, let’s pray.” Bertha bowed her head. “Our dear Heavenly Father, thank you for our daily provision. It was a warm day in my little kitchen, Lord. I pray everything turned out, and that this evening is a blessing to these ladies. Give them a heart for loving their husbands. In your son’s name, we pray, Amen.”
Bertha knew Missy wasn’t married, why did she word it that way? She must have forgotten during prayer.
Bertha wore bright yellow rubber gloves and used her hands to combine the ground beef, onion and seasonings in a large bowl. Next, she shaped the mixture into little balls. Missy strained her neck to see.
“I try to keep them uniform in shape. No larger than one-inch across.” Bertha patted the mixture. “I coat the balls in the batter and then fry them in hot oil. This recipe’s not in our cookbook, but we’ve printed out sheets for you. It’s the bright pink paper over on that side table.”
Carrying her half-empty teacup, Missy strode toward the little table beneath the window to pick one up. She folded it and tucked it into the back pocket of her Levi jeans. The meatballs would be a great recipe to try with some of the hundred pounds of venison burger they had stockpiled in the chest freezer.
“While Marilee and I get the room ready, Peg will lead you in this week’s study.”
Missy followed the other ladies into the adjoining room. They were a talkative, nudgy group. Bertha’s living room was long and narrow. If she took out the gold velour couch with brown windmills on it, the rectangular-shaped coffee table, and the mismatched chairs, the room would have been perfect for a game of miniature bowling.
Peg stood in front of the picture window. She wore her shoulder-length gray hair bobbed, and wide-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of her nose. As she addressed the group, she clasped her hands together beneath her bountiful bosom.
Seated on the couch beside Lisa, Missy’s stomach growled. She wondered if they’d eat dinner sometime in the course of the evening. Maybe Bertha just gave cooking demonstrations. She should probably have eaten before she came.
“In the second chapter of the book of Titus, Paul addresses that the older women are to teach the younger women.” Peg’s voice held a note of baby talk. Maybe she’d watched her grandchildren earlier in the day.
While the ladies flipped through their Bibles, Missy realized she should have brought Mama’s. Maybe Mrs. Schoening had an extra one she could borrow. She leaned forward on the couch, and glanced back toward the dining area. Bertha and Marilee were setting up card tables in the other room. Missy was surprised. She didn’t think church ladies played cards. Maybe they were going to play bingo.
Lisa nudged her. “We’re not supposed to look. They want it to be a surprise.”
It was going to be a surprise all right.
“Ladies,” Peg said, “I cannot stress to you enough how important it is for you to love your husbands.”
Husbands? There was that noun again. Missy glanced around the room at the women’s hands. Was she the only one not wearing a ring? She held her saucer and cup over the top of her left hand and wondered if anyone had noticed she wasn’t even engaged.
“Ladies, love is patient, love is kin
d. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.” Looking about the group, Peg smiled softly.
Missy sighed. She’d always loved poetry.
“It is not rude; it is not self-seeking; it is not easily angered; it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.”
Peg knew the poem by heart. Missy wondered if she’d written it.
“It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
Missy set her tea cup in her lap, and clapped. She couldn’t restrain herself. Peg’s poem was so beautiful and heartfelt. After her third clap, she realized she was the only one clapping. How sad.
“Missy . . . your enthusiasm reminds me of Jesus’ teaching that even the rocks will cry out. Ladies, let us be like Missy and not lose our joy in hearing the Lord’s word,” Peg said, looking about the group.
Missy stared out the picture window that had a view of the distant Cascade Mountains and in the forefront, the Carltons’ barn. Peg had quoted the Lord’s Word. Her poem was the Lord’s. It definitely wasn’t in the book of John. Daddy would have read it to her by now with tears in his eyes.
“Now, ladies . . .” Peg cleared her throat, “for today’s tools in the kitchen, we’re going to discuss knives.”
“I see the logic,” a thin, middle-aged woman said. “You discussed loving our husbands first, before the knives.”
There were polite giggles about the room while Missy had to bite the inside of both cheeks to keep from laughing. That lady had a sense of humor.
“Now . . .” Peg said, pulling the biggest knife out of the wood block that sat on the coffee table. “This knife is referred to as the chef knife. I often use it for slicing watermelon or dicing up a large Walla Walla onion.”
At the far end of the room, Bertha cleared their throat. “We’re ready for you, ladies.”
“I haven’t even got to the serrated knife yet.”
“Cover that one, and then come in. Everything’s ready.”
“This one’s my favorite for slicing tomatoes.” Peg withdrew a steak-sized knife from the wood block. “You poke them with the tip a little to pierce the skin and then slicing is a breeze.” She smiled. “Okay, you’re dismissed.”
Missy found herself in the middle of the herd as the ladies exited the living room. She expected bingo cards or playing cards, instead, each table was adorned with a white tablecloth and a carnival glass vase filled with flowers. The bouquets were a menagerie of flowers from Bertha’s garden: yellow day lilies, lavender, and white roses. Missy sat down at the same table as Lisa. White china plates hosted meatballs in a translucent red sauce with diced green peppers, chunks of pineapple, a mound of white rice, and steamed broccoli. Dinner looked and smelled divine.
“Ladies, I’ll say the blessing.” Marilee waited for a moment for the oohs and ahs to subside. “Thank you, Jesus, for these ladies, and for this evening. Bless the meal and Bertha’s loving efforts. In Your name we pray, Amen.”
Marilee and Bertha made sure that everyone had a glass of pink or yellow lemonade. No wonder Daddy and Douglas had been so content to just sit at the table all these years. Missy absolutely loved being waited on too, and the meal was so delicious she wished she had a spoon instead of a fork.
“For dessert, Marilee made little apple tarts that are over there on the hutch. Peg, would you mind serving them for us?” Bertha asked. “No one gets seconds, as Marilee made exactly the right amount. She’s whisking whipped cream as I speak. Marilee, come out here and show the girls.”
“Oops,” Lisa whispered and grimaced across the table at Missy.
Missy was glad she hadn’t taken an apple tart earlier when Lisa had offered her one. She would have missed out on the whipped cream.
Marilee held a stainless steel bowl against her hip, as she walked through the kitchen doorway. She wore a pink and white floral apron that brought out the color in her lean face, and she was practically glowing, probably from baking in the kitchen on a warm summer day.
“I added about two tablespoons of vanilla and powdered sugar to the pint of whipping cream before I started whisking it, girls.” She held the whisk up, showing stiff peaks. “I’ve found that if the bowl is well chilled, the cream whips up so much better. Before you get started, just pop the bowl into the freezer for twenty minutes or so.”
Missy wondered if it tasted better than the squirt stuff. Making the rounds, Marilee plopped a dollop on top of Missy’s mini apple pie. After one forkful, she was reminded of long ago when her mother served angel food cake, fresh strawberries and hand-whipped cream.
Despite her earlier apprehension, her first Elderly Angels evening sped by. Missy slid on her shoes near the door. Should she thank Bertha and Marilee? She probably should. Bertha’s kitchen was tiny. There was just ample space for the three older women to move around in synchronization.
“Ladies,” Missy said from the kitchen doorway, “thank you for a wonderful meal.”
“You’re welcome.” Using a folded tea towel, Bertha dabbed at the sweat above her eyes. “I haven’t forgotten, Missy; this Sunday I’ll leave one of our cookbooks for you on the foyer table.”
“Oh, that will be great.”
“Bertha’s hosting the class here again next week, and then it’s my turn,” Marilee said. “I’m so glad you came tonight, Missy.”
“I am too,” Bertha said. “But I still don’t understand how it all happened.”
Missy smiled as she walked to her truck. What was so hard to understand about it? Daddy had signed her up on Sunday.
CHAPTER 20
“Missy, what’s fer dessert?” Big John asked. It was Friday evening, and Big John had once again insisted at the very last minute that Robert stay for supper.
Robert recalled the peach sauce she’d made his first visit; it had been tasty even though it had been served very warm and made the ice cream melt.
“About the only thing is the half gallon of Neapolitan. It completely melted and I refroze it. I bought it the day I stopped to fix Jerry Boy’s fuel filter.”
Khaki pink came to mind. Maybe it was on account of the ice cream that she’d always held some sort of grudge against him. Hmm . . .
“The day you didn’t give him one of our cards.”
“I know how you don’t like solicitors, Daddy.”
A vertical line appeared in Big John’s forehead, just before his eyes narrowed.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t make dessert ‘cause Robert was thinking of taking you to Spudder’s tonight for one of their strawberry milkshakes.”
Robert’s last bite of venison steak went down the wrong tube. He gulped some milk and hoped he wouldn’t need the Heimlich. After a brief spell of coughing, he was able to breathe again. Tears stung the corners of his eyes from the pain of it all.
“I don’t think it’s in his salary yet, Daddy. Jerry Boy’s just starting out in sales, you know.”
Robert stared at the center of the gray-swirled Formica table. The dinners he’d experienced at the Stuarts’ home, John attending church, showing interest in his catalog, taking him under his wing... it wasn’t relationship-building in the way Robert had intended. All along Big John had been matchmaking him with his daughter.
“I’ll make peach sauce again, Daddy.”
“Peach sauce over... what’d you say happened to the Neo . . . politan?”
“The Neapolitan melted completely, and then I refroze it.”
Big John’s dark brows gathered. Robert couldn’t quite picture it either.
Robert didn’t dare glance toward Missy’s side of the table. He had a one-dollar bill in his wallet. If for some reason, Big John did talk her into going to Spudder’s, she’d have to pay. He’d never hear the end of it.
“You’ve been to Spudder’s, haven’t you?” Douglas asked Missy. “That’s where Trudy’s working.”
Hmm . . . Trudy was the girl Gary used to like.
“I was there once,
freshman year after a basketball game.” She shrugged.
“They wouldn’t have been serving fresh strawberry milkshakes in January,” John said. “You ever been to Spudder’s, Bobby—”
“Robert.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, I’ve been there. Nice little Ma and Pa place with great fries.”
“Sounds like you’ve never had their fresh, in-season strawberry shakes, either. Have you?”
“No, I haven’t.” Robert rolled a kink out of his neck.
“Why don’t you go, too, Daddy, since you’re so fond of their shakes?”
Missy didn’t want to be alone in his presence either.
“Bobby didn’t invite me. He invited you.”
His stomach churned. It took everything Robert had to keep a straight face.
“You’re not going in your coveralls, so go change.”
Missy stared at Big John and ever so slightly shook her head. Heat crept in her face like a summer tomato.
Robert studied the Formica. Of course, Missy would go now. She was a dutiful daughter; he could say that for her. Her wadded-up paper napkin hit the ketchup bottle. With a huff, she rose to her feet. At the end of the hallway, her bedroom door closed with a slam.
Over milkshakes, he’d have to inform Missy that she had to pay. He better make sure she brought her purse.
“Now that you’re taking my daughter out, we need to have a man-to-man talk,” Big John said.
It was all black-and-white now. From the start, Big John had been matchmaking.
Douglas’s wadded napkin hit the ketchup bottle.
“We’ll go outside.” John pushed the table toward Robert, and rose from his chair.
“Spudder’s closes at ten,” Douglas said.
“I’ll keep that in mind when I set their curfew.” John held the screen door open for Robert, and then strode ahead of him toward the shop office. “I’m tired, Bobby,” he said over his shoulder, “of watching my daughter treat you like crab; pardon my French.” The office lights flickered on as John strolled around his desk and dropped into his swivel chair.
Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance Page 11