The Potluck Club

by Linda Evans Shepherd

  “That’s just what I want to know.” I walked up to him, standing toe-to-toe. “You’ve been talking to Clay Whitefield?”

  He looked sheepish. “Well, he called me as soon as I talked to you yesterday. Said he’d heard I’d found my mother.”

  “That dog. He was eavesdropping on our conversation. But the big question is, what did you say to him? Did you give him Vonnie’s name?”

  “No! Since you said there’d been trouble, I decided not to tell him anything. But he does know I’m back in town. He saw me when I drove past the newspaper office.”

  Holy cow. I looked up and saw Clay drive past in his jeep. He tossed me a merry wave. That man was stalking me, and I had led him right to the site of the reunion.

  I pushed David into the shadows. “Okay, change of plans. I cannot allow Vonnie’s nightmare to become public.”

  “Nightmare?” David looked crestfallen. “Finding me is a nightmare?”

  I looked at him hard then. Here David was, expecting to find someone to love, and he was suddenly faced with the worst possible rejection. On some level, I felt for him. After all, I’d been abandoned by my mother too. I can’t imagine what I’d say to her if she suddenly showed up on my doorstep.

  “David, I don’t think it’s you that’s causing her pain. She didn’t even know you existed.”

  “Now that just doesn’t make sense. A woman knows if she’s had a baby or not.”

  “It would seem so, wouldn’t it? But I’ll let her tell you all about it herself. However, first things first. We’ve got to come up with another plan. That was Clay who just drove by, and something tells me he didn’t come without his camera.”

  He squinted against the afternoon sun as he looked down the street. “Clay is here?”

  “I’m guessing he’s parked not too far away, waiting to see who shows up. Quick, hop in my Bronco and let’s see if he follows.”

  As I grabbed David’s arm, I realized that Wade was standing at the front door of the hotel, his toolbox in his hand. I hadn’t even noticed his truck. Lilly must have sent for him to do some repairs. I acknowledged him. “Hello, Wade.”

  Wade looked incensed. “Hello, Deputy. You and your boyfriend checking in?”

  “Official business.”

  Wade gave me a sarcastic glare. “Oh, I see.”

  Ignoring him, David and I hopped into the truck and peeled out of the parking lot. I checked in my rearview mirror. Sure enough, Clay’s jeep pulled out of a parking spot just down the block.

  I reached for my cell phone and dialed Vonnie. “Sorry, Von, the meeting’s been called off for tonight. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  49

  That girl is always

  one step ahead . . .

  Clay knew when he’d been licked, even temporarily. He turned his jeep around and headed back toward his apartment. He parked, hurried up the stairs, then closed the door of his place firmly behind him. Woodward and Bernstein came to life, peering up at him with glassy eyes.

  “Bad night?” he asked them.

  Woodward waggled his whiskers at him.

  “Well, you should’ve been with me today,” he continued, throwing his notepad on the nearby desk. He reached for the boys’ pet food, opened the cage, and gave them their nightly treat. “Ever hear the old saying, ‘So close and yet so far away’? Well, that pretty much says it all for me. Donna was one step ahead this time.”

  He closed the lid. “But don’t you worry, guys,” he said, brushing the remaining crumbs from his fingertips. “Daddy’s got a Plan B.” He winked. “And it’s a beaut!”

  50

  Sweet Reunion

  I was stunned at Donna’s news that our meeting was off. Goodness, didn’t that girl know what it had taken to ready myself for this moment? To have it delayed sent a shock of emotions throughout my system, but still I managed to ask, “Why?”

  “It’s Clay Whitefield. He knows David’s in town, and he’s following us.”

  I sat down hard on the kitchen chair, imagining what it would feel like to have my darkest secret on the front page of the Gold Rush News. I felt a chill shudder through me.

  “Okay,” I said. “You know best.”

  Fred walked down the stairs and stuck his nose in the kitchen. “Everything all right?” he asked.

  I shook my head no. I whispered, “Tonight’s meeting is off.”

  He stood, waiting for more news as I finished my conversation with Donna. But even as I listened to Donna’s plans, I could not stop looking at this man with whom I had spent most of my life. He’d somehow changed since he had heard about Joseph and the baby. He seemed older, more serious, and a deep sadness had settled over him. At first, he’d asked a few questions, but for the most part he remained silent, simply saying, “This is going to take me a while to process.”

  That it was me who caused his pain practically broke my heart. Donna was saying, “Clay won’t be watching the church, he’ll be busy watching David’s hotel. So here’s the plan. David’s going to walk over to Higher Grounds Café for breakfast. We’re sure Clay will come out of hiding and join him. Then when David gets up to go to the restroom, he exits the back door, cuts though the trailer park and into my waiting truck. Then I’ll drive David to an undisclosed location. Clay will never know we made our escape until it’s too late.”

  “Okay,” I said, my heart pounding at the thought of the conspiracy.

  Donna continued, “Here’s what you’ll do. Go to church as usual, then about fifteen minutes before the end of the service, slip out into the back parking lot, where I’ll be waiting. I’ll take you to David.”

  I nodded.

  “Vonnie? Will that work for you?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  When I hung up, I looked back at Fred. “The meeting’s been postponed till tomorrow.”

  “How come?”

  “I guess Clay Whitefield is standing by with a camera, hoping to find the ‘missing Jewel.’”

  Fred looked anguished. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for the whole town to know about this.”

  I nodded, studying his drawn complexion. This was even harder on him than I had thought.

  That afternoon, I was a nervous wreck. However, I did have the presence of mind to make my grandmother’s molasses cookie recipe for my fifth-grade Sunday school class. It was our Sunday to celebrate the birthdays of the month, and it felt therapeutic to roll balls of cookie dough in sugar, then watch the cookies rise as they baked in my oven. I sighed as I used my metal spatula to scrape the cookies off the pan. How would I ever get through teaching that Sunday school lesson? The story of baby Moses being placed in a basket and set adrift on the Nile, to be found and raised by a princess, was more than ironic. Because when you think about it, that’s just what had happened to my David.

  My own baby had been set adrift in a strange state, to be raised by a princess of the entertainment industry. And now, just as in the story of Moses, David was returning to his roots. But how would Hollywood have impacted my sweet baby? I couldn’t help but wonder. Did his princess mother love him the way I would have? Had she taught him right from wrong? Had she told him of God or helped him develop his character?

  I shook my head. Harmony Harris’s life had been one of glitter and glamour. To imagine her with a baby, my baby—it was unthinkable.

  And now, a question loomed in front of me.

  I was no princess but a heartbroken woman who had mourned the loss of her first husband and baby son for thirty-seven years. I would appear before my child with wrinkles, baggage and all.

  I took a deep breath. What would David think of me? How could I ever compete against a princess?

  Later that night when Fred was already in bed, staring at the ceiling, I pulled out a pair of socks and slipped them on my feet so my toes wouldn’t freeze during the night. As I sat on the chair by the bed, I asked, “Are you ready to meet David?”

  He shook his head. “You meet him first. This should be a time
just for the two of you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s take separate cars to church. I’ll leave from church to go to the meeting.”

  The kids at Sunday school were great as usual, though I teared up a time or two when I talked about baby Moses and the princess.

  Afterward, I met up with Fred in the hallway and asked if we could sit near the back of the sanctuary during the worship service. “I’ll have to slip out early,” I explained. He nodded without really looking at me.

  The choir opened the service with that dear old hymn, number 595.

  The words seemed to lift off the page.

  This is my Father’s world,

  O let me ne’re forget

  That though the wrong seems oft so strong,

  God is the Ruler yet.

  This is my Father’s world;

  The battle is not done;

  Jesus who died shall be satisfied,

  And earth and heav’n be one.

  Lord, I silently prayed, the wrong that’s been done here, my mother’s rejection of Joseph, Joseph’s untimely death, the kidnapping of my baby, my lies of omission about the past to my husband and friends, it all overwhelms me. I’m only one small soul who cries out to you. You are my only hope.

  When Pastor Kevin stood to give announcements, he said, “Many of you have asked about Jan this morning.”

  I turned my eyes to the front pew where she always sat. For the first time, I realized her spot was empty. I looked back to the pastor.

  “Things aren’t going well,” he admitted. A collective gasp escaped from the congregation. “Jan and I, we’re asking for your prayers. We’re keenly aware of your friendship, your concern. We’re still holding on . . . trusting Jesus. No matter what, we are assured of his love and of his kingdom.”

  After that bit of news, there was no way I could concentrate on the message. Instead, I watched the minute hand of my watch slowly rotate to the appointed moment. Quietly, I stood, picked up my Bible and purse, and made my way to the door of the sanctuary, then outside into the bright sunshine. Donna was waiting for me in her Bronco.

  I opened the door and climbed in. “Mission accomplished?” I asked.

  She nodded, looking almost as nervous as I felt.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To my house. David is already waiting there.”

  I felt my stomach lurch. Soon I would face my past and look into the eyes of the baby I never knew.

  We pulled into Donna’s driveway, and my eyes filled with tears. I took a deep breath to steady myself. I would not break down. I couldn’t.

  Donna parked her Bronco behind her tiny rented bungalow. It was probably all of eight hundred square feet, including a kitchen/ living room, a tiny bedroom, and adjoining bath. Of course, the place was small, but with the rent prices around here through the roof, what else could she afford?

  She turned and looked at me. “How are you doing, Vonnie?”

  I attempted a smile that somehow wouldn’t appear. “I’m nervous.” Donna walked around the truck and helped me out. “David’s nervous too, if that makes you feel any better.”

  She led me to the back door and pushed it open, and we were immediately in her kitchen. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw David rise from the table.

  I froze. It was my son. My son, David Harris. The spitting image of his father. He was dressed in khakis and a black turtleneck, looking like the ghost of my beloved husband. He stepped toward me. “Mother?”

  I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and his image suddenly swam before me. I held open my arms and cried, “My son!”

  He fell into them and held me as I wept on his shoulder. How long we stood like that, I have no idea. All I knew was that my son had come home.

  Donna was quick to bring a box of tissues. When I finally pulled away, I discovered that David needed one as well. We sat at the table as Donna poured us both a cup of coffee, then disappeared into her bedroom.

  At her absence, I could only stare at this man who so mirrored the man I had lost. “You look exactly like your father,” I said.

  “I do? Tell me about him.”

  “Joseph was the love of my life. He planned to be a doctor, you know, but got drafted to Vietnam. You, my dear, were the result of our honeymoon the weekend before he left for war.”

  A smile played on David’s lips. I pulled the wedding picture from my purse and passed it to him. He stared at it as I continued.

  “When I received the news that Joe had been killed in action, I became hysterical and went into labor. Not only was I in shock, your birth had complications. After the C-section, I was pretty much out of it. The next thing I know, my mother, who had been against the marriage, was by my side. She convinced me you had died. When I signed your adoption papers, I thought I was signing a burial release. Honestly? I didn’t know you’d lived until I read the article in the paper. As soon as I saw your picture,” I looked down at the photograph, then back at him, “there was no doubt as to who you are.”

  David put his hand on top of mine. “I’ve always known I was adopted, and through the years I’ve tried to imagine my history, but I never dreamed it was so tragic.”

  “David, if I had known you were alive, heaven and hell wouldn’t have kept me from you. I loved your father with all my heart. If I had known his son survived, you would not have been adopted, you would’ve been a part of my life.”

  David squeezed my hand. “I believe you.”

  “I know another woman has raised you as her own. But I also know she’s gone. It may be too soon to ask such a thing, but, David, with your permission, I’d like to be your mother.”

  David’s eyes swam as he replied, “And with your permission, I’d like to be your son.”

  51

  She’s a woman of mystery . . .

  Clay Whitefield awoke to a shaft of sunlight cutting through the blinds of his apartment and the sound of Woodward (or maybe it was Bernstein) taking his morning jog in the cage wheel.

  He shot straight up, looked over at the old alarm clock he’d had since college days, and blinked hard. He blinked several more times, hoping that if he continued to focus on the clock’s hands, they’d somehow turn backward.

  They didn’t. He fell back, rolled over on his side, and beat his pillow for good measure. He’d overslept. His alarm hadn’t gone off and he’d overslept.

  Clay reached for the clock, stared at its backside, and groaned loudly. He had set the timer, all right, but he’d forgotten to pull the alarm switch to the on position. A rarity, he’d slept till nearly noon.

  His stomach growled. He’d missed breakfast—and if he didn’t get up and dressed, he’d miss getting his seat at the café.

  He swung out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom. Ten minutes. Ten minutes was all he needed, and he’d be heading toward Sal’s place. And maybe, if he had just a drop of luck left in him, there’d be some sort of buzz circulating about David Harris.

  If not—to borrow from a famous book’s ending—there would always be tomorrow. For today, the mystery of David Harris’s mother remained just that. A mystery.

  But tomorrow . . . ah, after all, tomorrow is another day.

  52

  Trouble Boiling Over

  Friday evening before our November Potluck, I sat in the living room of my home and stretched out on the Southwestern-patterned sofa with ends that reclined. I’d prepared a yellow crookneck squash soup that was simmering on the stove for the club meeting. Samuel was at the monthly financial meeting at Grace, Michelle was out on a date with a young man from work who seemed quite taken with her—and her with him—and I was alone.

  Though a late-autumn storm was pouring down on Summit View, the night was blissful. No teenagers running down the halls, calling loud nonsense to one another, pushing their way in and out of the library, ignoring the old rule of silence. No computers humming, no phones ringing, just God and me, my favorite book of devotions, my Bible, and the journal Tim’
s wife had given me as part of my birthday gift.

  The Scripture reading was from 2 Chronicles 7, the quote for the day from Hannah Whitall Smith:

  “If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face . . . then will I hear from heaven . . .”

  The greatest lesson a soul has to learn is that God, and God alone, is enough for all its needs.

  I’m an underliner. When I read words and phrases that move me, I underline them. With my pen, I drew a straight line under the words God is enough. I pondered the sentence for a while, then set the devotional aside and pulled my journal in my lap.

  Just then the phone rang. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly 9:00. Samuel might be calling to tell me he was on his way home, so I answered.

  But it was Jan Moore.

  “Lizzie?” she said, breathless.

  “Jan?” Thunder rolled in the distance.

  “Can you come here? To my house?”

  “I can be there in about ten minutes. I’ll just need to slip on some shoes.” I was on the cordless, so while talking I headed for my bedroom closet.

  “I’ll unlock the front door,” she said.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. Moving through the house I passed windows that displayed the electrical show of the Lord on the other side. I flinched, knowing I’d have to drive in the storm.

  “I am enough . . .”

  “Kevin is at the meeting, and I can’t get him to answer his cell phone. Maybe the signal is out, I don’t know. No one is answering the phone in the church’s office . . . and . . .” She drew in a deep breath. “I don’t feel so well, Lizzie. I think I need to go to the hospital.”

  I opened my bedroom closet, reached up, and pulled a pair of slip-ons off a shelf where I kept my shoes. I dropped them to the floor, slipping my feet into them. “Have you called Doc Billings? An ambulance?”

  “Doc Billings is meeting me at the hospital. I told him I didn’t want an ambulance. If Kevin hears a siren, he might worry . . .”