The Potluck Club

by Linda Evans Shepherd

  I love Dora dearly—she is also a sister in the Lord—but sometimes I wish she’d let me shop alone. It’s almost as if she’s too anxious for a sale. And does she have to know every single thing I sew? “Something for a baby,” I told her.

  “For Evie’s niece?” she asked.

  I crossed my arms, allowing my eyes to scan the books of patterns. “That’s right.”

  “Such a shame about all that,” Dora said, reaching for a book with a somewhat gnarled hand; a hand that had obviously sewed many a stitch and cut a million and one patterns from countless bolts of material. “How about classic Pooh?”

  I took the book from her. “Pooh is good.”

  “Boy or girl. Won’t matter. All children love Pooh.”

  I began flipping through the book until I found the pattern I thought best to start with. “This would make a nice baby pillow,” I said.

  “You could do the whole thing,” Dora said, taking the book from me and flipping a few more pages. “See, you’ve got the frameable artwork here. A throw. Crib bumper pads. Everything you can imagine for a baby’s room. Did you hear Leigh is planning to stay here with Evie for an indefinite amount of time?”

  I took the book back from Dora, returning to the original page. “I’ll need to get floss,” I said. I turned on my heel and headed toward the nearby racks of floss in every color imaginable.

  Cross-stitch thread is called floss, and rather than being organized by color, it comes in DMC numbers. I began pulling the appropriate numbered skeins from the little display hooks. About that time the door chimes signaled that another customer had entered. Sight unseen I was grateful. I didn’t want to get into a gossip session with Dora Watkins. Being the only craft and sewing store in town makes the Sew and Stitch as bad as a beauty salon when it comes to idle chitchat. I was even more pleased to see that the newly arrived customer was Jan Moore.

  “Hello, ladies,” Jan called out, immediately making her way over to us, though I knew with Jan’s love of cross-stitch she could have just as easily been coming over to check out the latest in floss. Jan has a penchant for angels and has stitched some of the most inspiring works of heavenly hosts you’ve ever seen. In fact, the ladies room at Grace Church has a set of two quite large angel patterns, hand stitched by our loving pastor’s wife, then framed and matted at Christi’s Frame Shop.

  I have a special place in my heart for Jan; my sister is also a pastor’s wife, and I know the lifestyle can be demanding and often-times lonely, though I’ve never once heard Jan complain. She’s always bright and upbeat. A positive in a world full of negatives. Jan is also a pretty thing. I’ll have to give it to Texas, some of the best-looking women seem to come out of there, and that includes Lisa Leann. But I noticed right away that Jan looked a bit pale this afternoon. Drawn. I wondered if things weren’t so good over at Grace Church. Or within her family. I didn’t want to pry, because I’m not the prying kind, but like I said, these old librarian’s eyes catch everything. “You okay, Jan?” I asked.

  Jan reached Dora and me with a smile that belied the rest of her face. “Oh, you know. A little tired. I haven’t slept well the last few nights, and I’ve been a bit nauseous. I think it’s just the change in weather.” She gave us a wink. “Or maybe just the change of life. Hot flashes and all that.”

  “It’ll get you when you’re not used to it,” Dora said, not being specific about whether she was speaking of the change of weather or the change of life.

  I patted Jan’s slender arm, then showed her the Pooh pattern I was going to make for Leigh’s baby. “What do you think?”

  Jan smiled at me again. “I think it’s a wonderful thought,” she said. Jan Moore should know a wonderful thought. I doubt she’s ever had anything but wonderful thoughts. She is undoubtedly the sweetest woman in the whole world, and we’re blessed to have her as our pastor’s wife. In fact, we’re pleased to have both the Moores. The entire family is special, and there’s not a single person in Summit View—no matter where they worship the Lord Jesus—who doesn’t love Pastor Kevin and Jan.

  “I’m just thinking that maybe if we give Leigh a lot of love and wrap that with prayer, it’ll help her to make the right choices where the baby is concerned.” I felt more than saw Dora moving closer to Jan and me. “Maybe she and the father can even work out their differences . . . make a home for the baby.”

  “What do you know about the father?” Dora asked, crossing her arms.

  I shook my head, then cut a glance over at Jan. “Nothing really. It’s not really our business, so even if I did know something, I wouldn’t say.”

  Jan placed her hand on my shoulder. “Good for you, Lizzie.” She then turned to Dora. “Now, then, Miss Dora. What I’m looking for is a long-term project. Something I can give to my own daughter for Mother’s Day next year, what with it being her first year as the mother of little Jenny-Lin.”

  Jenny-Lin is the daughter that the Moores’ one and only daughter and her husband adopted from China. This now made them a family of seven—with two of the children being adopted.

  But isn’t that just like the Moores? This is one wonderful family. All the way around. Whatever goodness they’ve received from the Lord they deserve and more.

  That’s what I’m saying.

  13

  Everyone knows

  she’s rock solid . . .

  If you take all the ladies of the Potluck and put them in a bowl, the one that will settle to the bottom first is Lizzie Prattle. She’s rock solid . . .

  Clay typed on his laptop. Behind it, the squeak-squeak of Woodward’s wheel kept tempo with the peck-peck-peck of Clay’s fingers on the keyboard. Together they made some kind of orchestra, though not one anyone would pay to hear.

  I used to like to go to the library during school hours just to talk with her. She was a great reference for studious kids like me. She always treated me with respect . . . well, heck, like one of her own.

  Clay knew her kids, of course. Over the years, he’d hung out at their house after school, football games, and during youth programs the senior Prattles were always hosting. In his whole life, he’d never seen two parents more devoted to their children, especially Michelle.

  Dora Watkins had come into the café the afternoon after Lizzie and Jan had gone by. Told everyone within earshot all about the visit.

  Sometimes I think Dora likes to talk about who comes and goes at the Sew and Stitch so others will drop by for a visit. You might say it’s like a beauty shop. Women go there to catch up on the latest news, and getting their hair done is a bonus feature.

  No matter. Clay knew Dora well enough to know she was worried about Jan Moore. “She just doesn’t look well, if you know what I mean,” Dora said to Sal. “I’m not saying she’s sick. I’m just saying she looks completely worn out. After all, one thing I know is ‘sick.’ When the doctors told me I had cancer I looked like death warmed over, but look at me now. I fought that disease like a cat and came out on top.”

  Thinking about her words, Clay took a deep breath and sighed. Personally, he was more concerned about Evangeline and her niece than Jan Moore . . . not that he didn’t care about whatever it was that ailed Mrs. Moore.

  “There’s an awful lot going on within the PLC, men,” he said to the gerbils. “Not to mention the news around the café about Coach Dippel’s latest escapades.”

  Woodward stopped his running, stepped out of the wheel, and wobbled over to the front of the cage. Rising up slightly on his hind legs, he gave Clay an ominous look as if to say, Now, there’s a story . . .

  14

  Crushed Hopes

  I was glad the PLC had canceled two weeks ago, though if we had met, the focus would have been on Evangeline and not me. I felt pretty sure everyone knew about the scene at the Gold Rush Tavern between Jack and Donna Vesey and that woman Jack tried to pass off as Allen’s date.

  Charlene Hopefield. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about it . . . and I heard about it! Jack has, in the pas
t, kept his affairs to women out of town, but Charlene Hopefield? The high school Spanish teacher? Well, Dios mio!

  What will Jack do next? Bring her home for Sunday dinner with Olivia, Tony, and Brook sitting around Grandmother Brook’s dining room table like some modern-day family? I don’t think so.

  If you’re wondering how I found out, it didn’t take Lucy Welch, our down-the-street neighbor, long to call me the day after the incident. Lucy’s daughter Jane is some roustabout, hanging out at places like the Gold Rush Tavern, but she sure brings home a load full of talk. Which Lucy just can’t wait to share, of course, especially if it involves someone from Grace Church.

  Lucy is a heathen.

  So, Lucy called me the next day while I was in the middle of making my bed. Jack had just left for work—which she probably knew because she watches for every little thing out her front window—and I was busy getting the house in order, what little bit there was to do. “Goldie?” Lucy began, sounding as if someone in my family had just died. Well, I knew that tone. Knew it well.

  “Hello, Lucy.”

  “Goldie, mind if I come down for a minute?”

  “What’s going on?” I asked her. Might as well hear it over the phone than in person.

  She sighed the death sigh again. “My Jane went to the Gold Rush Tavern recently for a drink or two with her workmates, like they often do. . .”

  Mmmhmm.

  “And said she saw quite the skirmish between Jack and Charlene Hopefield.”

  I felt my spine go ramrod straight. “The Spanish teacher?”

  “Sí.” She attempted humor, but I didn’t think this was any time to cut jokes. If she knew what it felt like to stand in my shoes . . . God willing, she never would.

  “What kind of skirmish?” Shame on me for asking, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to know. At least when people looked at me I’d know what they were thinking.

  “Apparently, the two of them—and this is just what Jane told me, but she’s a pretty good source seeing as she’d only had one beer to drink—got into quite the fight. Both drunk, of course. Charlene threatening to never see him again if he didn’t divorce you . . .”

  I gasped at the word. In all these years, Jack had never said one word about divorce, and neither had I. After all, there’s Olivia to think about. And sweet Brook all of three years old. What kind of life would it be for him in a small town like this? Everyone would know. Everyone would talk.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Goldie,” Lucy now apologized.

  No, she wasn’t sorry. She didn’t care.

  “Then what happened?” I asked her, setting my jaw.

  “Apparently—and again, this is what Jane said—they went outside, where Donna Vesey had to deal with them.”

  Donna Vesey? From my own Potluck Club? God, why are you letting this happen to me? “What do you mean by ‘deal’?”

  “Well, Jane said that Donna said—”

  “Wait a minute. If Donna and Jack and Charlene were outside and Jane was inside, how—”

  “Jane said it was about time for her to go home anyway, so she picked that moment to leave . . . you know, when Jack and Charlene were walking out with Charlene shouting something about it being her birthday and he didn’t buy her anything special but he buys you diamonds all the time, and you know, Goldie, you sure do have a lot of nice pieces, I’ll say that much.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, though it was a bitter one. So, Charlene didn’t get anything from Jack for her birthday. Other than drunk and a run to the motel, I’m sure. That was probably the night he didn’t bother to come home until the wee hours of the morning. Not that it matters to me when he comes home. I stopped sharing a room with the man years ago. So as long as he doesn’t wake me, I’m fine with it.

  Yeah, sure I am.

  “Lucy, I can’t thank you enough for calling me,” I said, wanting to end the call. I needed a good cry.

  “I just felt you should know what was being said. I mean, about the ‘D’ word and all.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “In case you need a good attorney.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.” I cast a glance out my window. The sky was turning a bit gray. It would snow again later this afternoon. Well, didn’t that pretty much set the stage for my day?

  “Because if you need a good one, my nephew over in Denver—”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Good-bye, Lucy.” I hung up the phone before she could get another slithering word out. As soon as I knew the connection was broken, I picked up the hand piece again, then beat it against the bedside table until it literally shattered, all the while screaming like some wild animal caught in a hunter’s trap. When I saw what I’d done, I jerked the whole phone, wire and all, from the wall and threw it across the bedroom.

  My bed, half made, was a perfect target of my continued rage. I raked my fingernails across the comforter, dragging it toward me, balling it up as best I could and throwing it to the floor. The pillows were next, beginning with the European shams that were now awry, followed by the equally askew back pillows and matching throw pillows. I was ready to rip into the sheets, the guttural sounds still emitting from deep within my throat, when I heard the phone ringing from the other side of the house.

  I turned, almost unsure what to do. Walking toward the bedroom door, I paused when I heard the answering machine inside Jack’s office come on. My husband’s recorded voice announced, loud and strong, “You’ve reached the Dippel family. We’re not here right now, but you can leave a message at the sound of the tone. Go, Gold Diggers!”

  The machine beeped, followed by Olivia’s voice. “Mom? Hey, it’s me. Where are you so early in the morning?” I began moving through the house, toward the office. “Well, I’m wanting to make your homemade vegetable soup tonight . . . you know, the one with the bay leaf . . . and I wasn’t sure—”

  “Hello?” I answered the phone on Jack’s desk.

  “Hey, Mom!”

  “Hey, sweetheart.”

  My daughter paused. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said, though my voice quivered.

  Another long pause. “I’m coming over,” she said.

  “No, Olivia, that’s not—”

  “I’m coming over.” She hung up on me.

  I huffed, wrapping my arms around my abdomen, then twisted myself around to lean against Jack’s desk. Remembering I had the phone in my hand, I replaced the hand piece, then allowed my eyes to scan over the contents lying willy-nilly on the surface of the desk. Papers. Score pads. Doodles of plays on legal pads. A small trophy next to a larger one. A picture of Brook that needed dusting (this is not a room I typically enter, except to vacuum the carpet). A book, 101 Plays to Think about on the Toilet, the cover displaying a football coach sitting on the john.

  Disgusting.

  A brass mail organizer held several opened bills and invoices. I turned and pulled them from their nest, shuffling through them.

  The bank statement—we were doing all right—the bill from Ford Motor Credit, the power bill . . .

  A photo of my husband and Charlene Hopefield.

  Jack, Charlene, and several other teachers surrounded by a number of high school students. But Jack and Charlene, nonetheless.

  I drew the photo closer to my nose, focusing my eyes on the blue-eyed Jezebel. Her head was too big. Her bleached blond hair fell to her shoulders like straw. Her smile was fake. Her breasts were fake.

  My eyes skimmed down her torso. What was that on her hip? Oh yes . . . my husband’s hand. Right there for the world and the photo lab technician to see, resting a little too low, a little too flat. It was as comfortable there as it was attached to its owner’s arm.

  Before I could stop myself I began shredding the picture, the bills and invoices dropping to my feet. I turned again, grabbed for the phone, and dialed a number I had to search my memory for.

  “Vesey,” Donna answered. She sounded sleepy but not as though she
’d already fallen asleep.

  “Donna, this is Goldie Dippel.”

  Pause. “Hey, Goldie. The club is on for Saturday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m calling . . . I need to ask you . . . I’m sorry to wake you or bother you if you were about to go to bed . . .”

  “Goldie. You’re calling about Jack and Charlene?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Lucy Welch.”

  Donna swore lightly under her breath. “I should have known when I saw Jane Welch coming out of that tavern. Aw, Goldie, I’m so sorry. Really. If anyone doesn’t deserve this, it’s you.”

  “All I want to know is if it’s true.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Did the two of them leave together or—”

  “Yeah. Yeah, they did. If I could have done anything about it . . .”

  “I know.” I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder and—for the life of me I don’t know why—began to shuffle the papers on Jack’s desk into neat little piles. “I just wanted to know if it was true.” I stopped my shuffling, pulling an ad for a beautiful turquoise and diamond necklace. I’d never seen anything so exquisite—or so expensive. Well, I suppose this will soon be mine, I thought. Small price for Summit View’s Man of the Year to pay, though it would hang like a noose around my neck.

  “Again, I’m sorry, Goldie. You’re a nice lady . . .”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a long pause before Donna continued. “Hey, let me ask you something. The night all that happened, there was a man—a stranger from California—who came into town looking for a woman. Name of Jewel.”

  “Jewel? No, I don’t know any Jewel. Who was he?”