by Robyn Carr
Elmer laid his fork down next to his plate and stared hard at his daughter for a long-drawn-out moment. “There seems to be at least one thing about Chris Forrest you’ve forgotten,” he finally said. “Most of the time he’s full of shit.”
Eight
The last patient of the morning had left the clinic and June fancied something sweet; maybe a little trip to the bakery would satisfy. As she was leaving the clinic she almost tripped over Julianna and Susan in deep conversation right outside the door. They hushed and bolted apart guiltily.
“Uh-oh,” June said. “What are you two up to?”
“Come with us and find out. Unless you’re chicken,” Susan invited.
Every instinct told June to be chicken this once, but these two intrigued her. And if she was honest, she was a little bit jealous of their fast-and-firm camaraderie. She had good friends, sure, but there was something very special about the bond between the two women. It made you want to play.
“Chicken?” June asked. “Who you calling chicken?”
“We’re going to see the new preacher,” Julianna said. “To tell him what we did to the old preacher.”
June gulped. “Why? Why not leave well enough alone?”
“I can think of about fifteen hundred reasons,” Susan said, citing the approximate population of Grace Valley.
“I brought a cake,” Julianna said. “That should make it go down easier.”
They found the pastor in his office, sitting on the floor, sorting through a mound of papers. The place was in terrible disarray, the new pastor’s things tossed into a room left a mess by the previous pastor. He looked up to see three women standing there, looking down at him, and at first it made him frown. Then he smiled cautiously. “Has the women’s circle come to help?”
“Um, well…if a cake helps, then we have,” Julianna said.
“Actually, Pastor, we were hoping you’d have a minute to talk,” Susan said. Harry Shipton got clumsily to his feet, accidentally knocked a few folders from a nearby chair and watched helplessly as even more papers fanned out over the floor. He bent his long legs to stretch, clearly stiff from having been cross-legged on the floor for a while. He was lanky, but had a handsome face, younger than his forty-something age.
“We met a week or so ago,” she said, sticking out her hand to renew the introduction. “Susan Stone. And my boss and friend, June Hudson.” He nodded to June. “And the baker is Julianna Dickson.”
“How do you do,” he said. He peeked at the cake and his warm smile became a grin. “I don’t keep a very nutritious diet. Cake is perfect.”
“We should get this over with, Pastor,” Susan said. “We have something to tell you.”
The minister half sat, half leaned upon his cluttered desk, crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Shoot.”
“I don’t know how much you know about our last minister…”
“That would be Jonathan Wickham?” he offered.
“The same,” Susan said. “Well, we want you to hear it from us. We ran him off. Julianna and I. June wasn’t really in on it till the end.”
“But I didn’t disapprove,” June said. “And when it came down to it, I participated. Besides, he wasn’t really run off. He was boycotted.”
Harry tilted his head, listening, but said nothing.
“Jonathan was a notorious flirt. An awful womanizer. He was always making passes. And at married women, too,” Julianna said.
“Driving his wife crazy,” Susan added. “Offending the entire congregation, except for the old men in town. They just laughed at him, which made it worse.”
“We had a lot going on in town at the time that wasn’t real woman-friendly,” June said. “One young pregnant woman was battered into an early and critical childbirth by her husband. Another woman, the mother of five, barely escaped a life of terrible abuse when she…Well…” she said in frustration, “when she whacked her abusive husband over the head with a shovel and killed him.”
Harry winced. “What happened to her?”
“Oh, she was acquitted,” Susan said quickly.
“She works part-time as a waitress at the café. You’ll run into her soon if you haven’t already. Her name is Leah.”
“Acquitted?” he asked.
“Acquitted,” the three women said in unison.
“The climate wasn’t real patient toward men who didn’t respect women. So…”
“So…we tried talking to him,” Susan said. “Julianna and I and another young mother he’d made passes at, but he blew us off. Clearly he wasn’t interested in better manners.”
“He had an affair with a very vulnerable young woman,” Julianna said. Then, remembering that Harry Shipton was single, hurriedly added, “No one here stands in judgment of romance, Pastor,” which caused Harry to smile, though weakly. “But Pastor Wickham was clearly on the prowl.”
“He took such advantage, whenever he could!” Susan added.
“We weren’t real sure what to do,” Julianna said. “We could have written letters to the Signet, in hopes of having him removed…”
“But we were in search of a bigger solution than having his hands slapped. We wanted Pastor Wickham to understand that he was in our church, not that we were in his.” Susan clamped her mouth shut suddenly, put a hand over her lips and began to flush. “I mean…”
“That’s what she meant,” June said, before Susan could try to wiggle out of that statement. “And it turned out that most of the congregation agreed, because at the first suggestion of a boycott, no one went to church, and Jonathan and his family left us.”
“He had become such a problem for the women of this church,” Susan said. “He was always asking young married women if they’d like a little private counseling, that sort of thing.”
Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s bold for a single minister, much less—”
“We wanted to tell you ourselves, before you heard it from someone else,” Julianna said. “We’re not really a bunch of hardheaded, bossy women.”
“Even if we are, we’re not mean-spirited,” Susan said, shaking her head.
“It’s been said that we’re dangerous to cross, but that’s such an overstatement,” Julianna put in. “I mean, we’re the most reasonable women in town! Don’t you think, June?”
June nodded. “Absolutely. Extraordinarily reasonable.”
“So if you hear rumors, gossip about us… Well, if you could just not believe the worst, or maybe even—” Susan said.
“Ask us! Yes, ask us to clarify before you start thinking we’re the scariest women in the whole world,” Julianna continued.
“Honestly, we want you to enjoy your stay here. I mean, you’re a single man, right? No reason for you to be afraid to ask a woman for a date, based on what you’ve heard about the women—” Susan stopped talking as she noticed Harry’s frown. “You know what I mean.”
Harry straightened, standing from his perch on the desk. A pile of books seemed to topple from the surface for no apparent reason. It was almost as though things fell or scattered just because he was near. “You must have had your hands full,” he said to them.
Julianna sighed deeply. Susan shook her head and said, “You don’t know the half.”
“Well, not to worry. I’m not very good with the ladies,” he said. “I have an ex-wife who will be happy to attest to that.”
“But Pastor Shipton, we don’t mean you shouldn’t flirt or date or—”
He held up a hand. “Please. Harry.”
“Fine, Harry. By all means, you’re a single man. But we’d appreciate it if you’d—”
“I’ll try not to force you into a repeat performance of the boycott,” he said in good humor.
“We could even tell you who some of the single women in your congregation are,” Julianna offered hopefully.
“I imagine I’ll run into the single women in church one way or another, but I hear there’s a fantastic poker game in town. Any possibility I c
ould get in on that?” He rubbed his chin. “Might be a safer bet.”
As the last days of summer gave way to fall, June saw Harry Shipton at the café from time to time, visiting with the locals and getting on just fine. He’d found the poker table for himself—Elmer, Myrna, Sam Cussler, Burt Crandall and Judge Forrest. They’d continued to meet at the café because of the commotion at Judge’s house, but then Harry stepped in and offered the parsonage for their weekly game.
“The parsonage, huh?” Elmer said. “You think that’d be all right? Gambling and all, right under God’s roof?”
“As long as you tithe, I don’t think anyone will make a fuss.”
“Pastor, I think you’re going to fit in right well around here,” Myrna informed him.
As the days passed, it became even more difficult for June to guess what was going on with the Stones. One day she’d swear they were all made up, the next day she’d feel the chill in the air. She’d learned, through the local grapevine, that the whole thing had started at a card game when John and Mike lost their heads, started joking around and ended up insulting their wives. Oh, they probably hadn’t meant to be insulting, but they hadn’t meant to be stupid either, and now the two of them were in serious hot water. Jessie had whispered to June, “Every time John opens his mouth to apologize, he manages to say something to make things worse.”
At the Dickson house, rumor had it that Mike had tried to explain to his mother why Julianna was so upset with him. June heard it from her dad, about fifth or sixth hand, but Mike had said something like, “You know what I was saying, Mom, that Julianna doesn’t want to work, she wants to take care of me and the kids and the house.” Grandma Dickson, who had worked hard all her life in the aforementioned—or would that be the not mentioned?—career field, went pale and wondered how she had failed to train up her son better than she had. She was now also miffed. And the one thing you want to be careful about is not to piss off the help. Now those two men were paying dearly. But the women seemed to be holding up just fine.
School had started, the temperature dropped and the valley settled into a favorite time of year. The Grace Valley High School football team, loaded with the sons of loggers, fishermen, farmers and vintners, hardworking and very physical men, always made a good showing. The town supported the team well, and not just the parents of high-school students. The bleachers were full for every game.
Another hallmark of fall would be the harvest festival, the celebration of the coloring of the leaves. Local merchants and organizations swung into gear for a town party that would last a weekend and draw vendors and visitors from near and far. Even June’s quilting circle, the Graceful Quilters, would auction a specialty quilt, one in which landmark buildings—houses, barns, churches, et cetera—were sewn into the squares. It was a quilt of Grace Valley.
On one particularly beautiful, crisp fall day, June received a call at the clinic from Ursula Toopeek. “Are you going to quilting Thursday night?” she asked.
“Oh gee,” June hedged. “I’m on call, so it’s iffy.”
“Listen, June, get out of being on call and go to quilting. Birdie thinks you’re avoiding her because Chris and the boys are staying there, and you can’t allow that. She’s not very young and she’s one of your very best friends.”
“I haven’t been avoiding her!”
“Are you sure?”
No, she wasn’t, but she said, “Of course not! There’s been a lot going on.”
“There’s always a lot going on. He’s been back, what…four weeks or more? You can’t avoid him forever.”
“Really, I’ve been busy. And besides, I’m not avoiding Chris. I’ve actually seen him and talked to him a couple of times.” This was quite a stretch. Chris had seen her slop ketchup and mustard on her shirt and visited her at the clinic once. Those were the only two times they’d spoken. She’d seen him, that was the truth. His eyes had twinkled and he’d winked as though they had a secret, and she hated that.
In the weeks that Chris had been back, June had found excuses not only to miss the quilting circle, but also church, which the Forrests attended, and football games. It wasn’t done consciously; it was just a kind of withdrawal. If Chris had been back four weeks, then Jim had been gone longer. Chris was lurking, ever present, suggesting with his sparkling eyes that they could “start over,” while Jim, far away and working undercover, had not even found the opportunity to phone.
“Come Thursday night,” Ursula insisted now. “Trade on-call with John. He doesn’t have anyone at home who’ll talk to him anyway.”
This made June laugh. “I guess that little spat is all over town.”
“Well,” Ursula said, “John’s been buying lots of flowers lately.”
June knew she had to do it—resume her quilting with the circle. It had always been one of the most relaxing and pleasurable parts of her week. And June, a master of sutures, was an excellent stitcher. But quilting was less about stitching and more about coming together. There, with their hands joined by the fabric, these six women gave each other spiritual grounding. They were dear friends, each one. There was Ursula Toopeek and Tom’s mother, Philana, Birdie Forrest, Corsica Rios, Deputy Ricky Rios’s mother, and Jessie from the clinic. When she added together the number of years she’d been friends with each one, it was over a hundred years of friendship.
She could not stay away on account of some man.
Ursula had brought to mind the Flower Shoppe, and a call June had been meaning to make. Justine Cussler, the shop’s owner was both a patient and a friend. Despite the age difference, Sam and Justine made a good-looking couple. Sam was a handsome and fit gentleman with white hair, a tanned face, blue eyes so young and bright they looked as though they might crack, and a keen sense of humor. Six months ago Justine had been a morose young spinster with a sour attitude, but Sam had brought her to life and she glowed with happiness.
There was but one pall on their union—John had been forced to remove a malignant ovarian tumor. Fortunately he caught the cancer early and Justine’s chance for survival from this volatile disease was good. John had even managed to salvage the other ovary, at Justine’s insistence. Justine was determined to have a baby. John and June had tabled the discussion as to whether that was such a good idea or not because Justine faced a year of chemotherapy before she could even consider a future pregnancy.
The bell on the flower shop’s door jingled when June walked in, and Justine came from the back. “Well, stranger. I haven’t seen you in a while,” the younger woman said.
June’s immediate reaction was Uh-oh. Justine’s skin was pale and she had dark circles under her eyes. She looked to have lost a few pounds. It was hard to tell if her hair was thinning because she had it pulled severely back. “I’ve been meaning to drop in on you for weeks. Are you getting ready for the fall festival?”
“I’m behind, but I plan to sell dry-flower wreaths at a booth. Like last year.”
“Is your dad going to sell fresh flowers?” June asked. Justine’s father, Standard Roberts, was the biggest flower grower in the valley. He shipped fresh flowers to flower shops all over the West.
“Same as always.” Sam stepped into the door frame, wiping his hands on a towel. His usually chipper demeanor seemed to be sagging. He simply nodded hello, and June, who had known Sam all her life, knew there was a problem.
“How’s the chemo going, Justine? Have you been feeling okay?”
“Oh, I have my ups and downs, but everything’s okay.”
“What’s the doctor saying?”
“Same old stuff. You know. I’ll just be glad when it’s all behind me.”
“I know you will. Well, how about a nice bouquet for my office. Something with fall colors to get me in the mood.”
“I’ve got something made up in the back. I’ll get it.”
When Justine edged past Sam in the doorway, he barely moved, keeping his eyes connected to June’s, his mouth turned down. It was painful to even look at him,
for Sam unsmiling was such a rarity. It meant something devastating. June feared the worst, that treatment wasn’t going well and the cancer was advancing.
Justine brought out a bouquet of yellow and red and brown accented with large maple leaves in fall hues. “Perfect,” June said, her voice well trained in not giving away her concerns. “How much?”
“Twelve?” Justine asked.
“How about fifteen?” June countered.
Justine laughed. “You’re supposed to negotiate me down, June. You’re not doing it right.”
“I’m surprised you’re not out of business, the way you give your beautiful flowers away.”
“I don’t give just anyone the bargains. If it makes you feel any better, Steph Reynolds was in earlier for a centerpiece for that ten-foot dining table of hers and I gouged her good.”
“Well, thank heavens,” June replied, taking the flowers and handing over a five and a ten. “Take care of yourself. If you need anything, Justine…”
“Thanks, June. I’ll be fine.”
June left the flower shop, flirting with ideas about how she’d get Sam alone and ask a few questions. Maybe Elmer could wiggle some information out of him at weekly poker, out of earshot of the others. If the chemo was making Justine extremely ill, there were counteracting drugs, to help her with fatigue and nausea. There was even pharmaceutical marijuana, but she’d have to communicate with Justine’s oncologist. Stoicism, saying everything’s going to be all right and I’ll just be glad when it’s over, is no way to go through cancer treatment.
“June?”
She was almost to the clinic when Sam came up behind her. “Sam! I was just wondering how I was going to get you alone and ask you a few questions about Justine. She’s looking a little peaked. She should tell her oncologist if she’s—”
“She hasn’t been to the oncologist. She’s stopped the chemo.”