The Potluck Club

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  “Did you know?” I signed to her.

  She shook her head no, then started up the staircase toward her bedroom. I knew she wanted to avoid the conversation, but I worried about how this might affect her.

  I reached for her hand and turned her toward me.

  “Don’t walk away from me, Michelle,” I said, signing “don’t” and “Michelle” with my free hand as firmness registered on my face.

  Michelle spoke out loud in a voice that, although nasal and strained, is angelic and pure. “I don’t know anything, Mom. I was as shocked as you.”

  Michelle uses her voice when she’s emphatic about something, so I knew she was telling me the truth. I released her hand. “Okay,” I said.

  Michelle sat on one of the stairs then, wrapping her arms around her knees, buried her head in the circle of her arms, and began to weep.

  “Oh, Michy . . .” I cooed, though I knew she couldn’t hear me. I sat beside her, slipped my arm around her shoulders, and drew her close.

  “I feel bad for her,” Michelle signed when she’d gained her composure.

  “Me too.”

  I waited, not wanting to rush my daughter’s feelings or expression of emotion. “I think I should talk with her, but I don’t want her to think I’m prying,” she signed.

  I raised a finger before I signed back. “Why not go over later this afternoon . . . spend some friendship time with her . . . let her know you’re here for her if she needs you.” I shook my head. “But don’t question her. Just listen.”

  Michelle eyed me funny. “You won’t beg for the answers?”

  I laughed at her. “No, Funny Face. I won’t beg for the answers.” Michelle brushed her cheeks with her fingers, pushing the remaining tears away. “I love you, Mom,” she said out loud.

  “I love you too,” I said as she stood and, turning, bounded up the stairs just as her father walked through the front door and found me sitting there alone.

  “Let me guess,” he began. “You’ve fallen and you can’t get up?”

  I smiled at the handsome devil I’d married thirty-six years ago. Though his hair is silver (well, so is mine) and mostly flushed down the drain or swept up in my Hoover, he still has a way of setting my heart to flutter. After all these years—four children and five marvelous grandchildren—he and I still desire the presence of each other over any other person in the whole wide world. “No. I was just sitting here talking to Michelle.”

  Samuel’s glance went up the staircase and back to me. Joining me on the stair, he said, “I suppose you were talking about Leigh Banks.”

  I nodded.

  “Pastor Kevin and Jan called me into his office after the finance committee and I had finished with the morning offering to ask me how I thought Evie was handling it.”

  I ran my fingers through one side of my short but full hair as I propped my elbow on one knee. “What’d you say?”

  “Well, I said I thought once the shock wore off she’d be okay . . . but we certainly need to pray for her.”

  “Of course.”

  “I think Evie has her hands full right now. She’s always put Leigh on such a pedestal. She probably never expected to have to deal with anything like this from her.”

  “I might have expected it from one of Peg’s boys but not Leigh, no.”

  Samuel reached over and kissed my cheek. “We know how Evie feels, don’t we, Mother?” He stood and began to ascend the stairs.

  “I’m going to lie down for a while. Want to call me when lunch is ready?”

  “Want to or will I?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said with a chuckle.

  I listened to his footsteps as he mounted the thickly carpeted stairs and then finally disappeared down the hallway toward our bedroom.

  Yes, we did know about that; we weren’t the first and we obviously wouldn’t be the last. Although the Brightmans and the Fairfields were the first in our church community to struggle with it, our youngest son, Timothy—now thirty-one and most commonly called Tim—and his lovely wife “had to get married,” as they say. They’d been high school sweethearts and went off to college together, and while they swore they lived in their separate apartments, Samantha’s mother and father felt as we felt: the kids were managing to live together behind our backs.

  Who could have predicted that by their junior year of college they would have a little one to prove it? Of course, by the time the baby was born, they were married and more than a little repentant. Today they live in Baton Rouge and have two children—a boy and a girl—so their little family is complete.

  Samuel and I have two other children—Samuel Jr. (whom we call Sam) is thirty-three and Cindy (whom we call Sis) is thirty-one. Tim is also thirty-one—and no, they aren’t twins. For the life of me, I don’t know how I managed to give birth to two children within the span of a twelve-month period, but I did. More than that, I’m not sure how I managed to raise three children with just under three years’ difference in their ages.

  Then, five years later, when I thought I’d finally be able to catch my breath, Michelle was born, bringing a whole new set of worries and concerns. But God has been faithful and good. As the psalmist said, “His mercy endureth forever.” Though I had a pack of children and a husband with the all-important job of Gold Mine Bank and Loan president, I was equally blessed to be the high school librarian, which meant I got summers and holidays off to be with my babies. I taught them the joy of reading, every year encouraging them to win a star-studded certificate from the Summit View Public Library as the top readers in Summit County, which they did, Michelle more than the others. I suppose with her hearing loss, the world of books opened up exciting possibilities to her.

  Like me, Michelle is fond of both the Little House books and the Green Gables series. Last year, for Christmas, she gave me a collection of short stories by Rose Wilder Lane, daughter of Laura Ingalls Wilder and great author in her own right, which thrilled my heart.

  We also enjoy the works of Daphne du Maurier and the Bronte sisters.

  Michelle and I are simply old souls living in contemporary bodies.

  Michelle did go see Leigh. As I promised, I didn’t pry my daughter for information. I did, however, drive over to Evie’s Monday afternoon as soon as I got off from work. In her hospitable way, she offered me a cup of coffee and some homemade tea cookies.

  “Leigh made them,” she said.

  “I figured,” I said as I took a seat at the kitchen table. Evie gave me one of her looks. “What?” I asked. “Like I don’t know you?”

  She nodded her weary head then, casting her eyes to the countertop, where she had set large Dollar Bonanza mugs, asked, “Lizzie, what in the world am I going to do?”

  I stood, walking over to her, and placed my hand on her back. “About Leigh?”

  She cut her eyes over to me. “No, Lizzie. About the price of tea in China. Of course about Leigh.”

  I gave a quick look over my shoulder. “Where is she now?”

  “Out taking a drive. Said she just needed some air.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, it’s a nice day for it.” The coffeemaker coughed and sputtered as it dripped its last drop of aromatic brew. I jerked the pot out and began pouring while Evie walked over to the fridge for some milk. “Has she said anything about the father?” I replaced the coffeepot and then walked the mugs over to the table, where Evie was already sitting, folding two napkins from the napkin holder that set in the center.

  “Only that—and I quote—‘it’s over.’”

  “How can that be? She’s pregnant with his child, isn’t she?”

  Evie began preparing her coffee to her liking, and I did the same. “That’s what I said. Apparently he’s a businessman. Successful, she says. And wants to take part in the baby’s life. Support the child financially. Have visitation rights.” Evie’s shoulders sagged. “What kind of world are we living in, Lizzie Prattle?”

  “You tell me,” I answered, taking a quick sip of the ho
t coffee. “I work at that school every day, and I am here to testify that the children of today are only getting worse. I am fifty-eight years old, and if I can hold out four or five more years, I can retire and be done with the whole lot of them.”

  Evie patted my hand. “How’s Samuel?”

  “Good, but don’t change the subject. Let’s talk about what we can do for Leigh.” I took another sip. “Other than pray.”

  Evie swallowed a gulp of coffee. “Did I tell you that busybody Lisa Leann Lambert showed up here on Saturday?”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” Evie shook her head, then began a high-pitched, drawling imitation of our newest member. “‘I heard you had company, and me with all this hot barbecued brisket and homemade apple cinnamon bread, I had to drop by. That’s okay, isn’t it?’”

  “She’s up to something, that one is.”

  “Like I don’t know it. And then, to make matters worse, here comes Vernon’s daughter. Didn’t listen to her answering machine, my great-aunt Martha.”

  I had to giggle. “Evangeline, when are you going to get over your resentment of that poor child?”

  “I do not resent her.”

  “Oh. I see.” I reached for the cookie plate, brought a cookie to my lips. “I’ve just known you since the day I was born, but don’t let that get in the way of you telling me the truth.”

  “I don’t resent her, Lizzie. I just . . . she could have just . . . You know, every time I see her, I see her mother. What that woman did to poor Vernon . . .”

  “You mean besides kiss him full on the lips and then marry him?”

  Evie frowned at my humor. “We need to talk about the club. Do you think the girls would be up to coming next month rather than this month?”

  “I think you should go ahead and plan for this month, Evie. Don’t hide in a closet like you’ve done something wrong. For heaven’s sake, we’ve all been through bad times together. We all know about Jack Dippel. Prayed Goldie through a dozen affairs and loved her all the more. And don’t forget when Tim had to get married. No one was judgmental—”

  “That you know of.”

  “Evie!” I dropped the remainder of my cookie onto my napkin. “Don’t give me that look, Lizzie. You know how people talk.”

  I retrieved the cookie. “So what if they do? It’s not like Leigh is the first unmarried woman to find herself pregnant. The important thing is for us to pray she’ll do the right thing. Yes, ma’am. That’s the important thing.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Evie took another swallow of coffee, draining the mug.

  “I say give yourself two weeks and then let’s have another meeting. Two weeks after that, we’ll have another one. Our regular one. Pretty soon, Leigh will have God’s answer for her life, and we’ll feel as though we’ve done something pretty important, wouldn’t you agree? Maybe we’ll even throw her a baby shower.”

  Evie rolled her eyes.

  “Did she say when she’s going back home?”

  Evie stood and walked her mug over to the sink, where she began to rinse it out. “At first she said she wasn’t certain.”

  Evie turned and looked at me dead-on. “And now she says never.”

  Another Potluck Club was scheduled two weeks after the canceled meeting. On the Thursday before, I decided I would take my oven-fried eggplant, which I hadn’t made in a while. Samuel gave his usual endorsement for my choice by suggesting I prepare it for the family—Michelle, himself, and me—a couple of days before to make sure I hadn’t lost my touch.

  Funny man. Though I did concur with his idea.

  But I would be taking more than my eggplant. I also gathered up my read and reread Christian women’s magazines to carry with me. The other gals don’t subscribe to every magazine that comes along like I do, but they dearly love to read my discarded copies.

  They’re equally hip to my other magazines, but I don’t share those. Magazines like Quilter’s World, Threads, and Crazy for Cross-Stitch stay with me for years on end. My mother taught me the art of needle and thread, and I’ve passed that on to my daughters as well. What is taught within the pages of patterns and such won’t go out of style.

  On the Thursday before our now-rescheduled meeting, I made a second decision when I thought to start a new work of cross-stitch, something for a baby. I hoped it would inspire the rest of the gals to think along the lines of a baby shower or perhaps just lighten up a little where Evie was concerned. In my heart I knew there would be some gossip—already had been. Most of it came from the Lambert woman, whom I have managed to keep my librarian’s eye on. If it’s one thing years in the school system has taught me, it’s how to keep a lookout for trouble when it’s brewing.

  Lisa Leann is one nosy woman. I suppose she’s a sister in the Lord, but she’s truly upset Evie, and she’s even had the nerve to call me up and try to get me to talk about who tithes at Grace Church and who doesn’t.

  “Lisa Leann,” I said matter-of-factly, “just because my husband is the head of the finance committee doesn’t mean I know anything about such as that. Besides, that’s between our parishioners and the Lord. Not between them, you, me, and the Lord.”

  Lisa Leann just giggled in that way she has and said, “Oh, but darlin’, don’t you ever just wonder? I think it’s a matter of spiritual maturity, and that’s really what I want to know, who at the church is truly spiritually mature.”

  “How are you doing in your new home there?” I asked her, changing the subject rather abruptly. “It’s certainly a pretty new subdivision you’ve found yourself transplanted to.”

  “It is that. I just love getting up in the mornings, sitting out on my deck, and reading the Bible. I suppose with you growing up here, you might have missed the beauty around you.”

  “I haven’t missed it.”

  “Take it for granted, I should say.”

  “I haven’t done that either.”

  “Oh. Well, then.”

  We ended the conversation somewhere around her asking me about Michelle’s deafness. It seems she has a third cousin who is hearing impaired—although not totally deaf—and she’d attempted to learn sign language but hadn’t completely gotten the knack of it. I told her it wasn’t so easy to learn when one didn’t use it all the time. Lightheartedly I reminded her that what you don’t use, you lose.

  “So what is it Michelle does? I mean, for a living and all?”

  Michelle works in management at one of the resorts in Breckenridge, and I told her so.

  “That sounds like a wonderful job,” Lisa Leann said. “Now, does she live up there or does she come home every night?”

  “She comes home. Lisa Leann, I hate to end this conversation, but I’ve been working all day and I still have dinner to prepare.”

  Lisa Leann laughed. “I’m so sorry. You know, when one doesn’t work outside of the home, one forgets.”

  I let out a tiny pent-up sigh. “Let’s plan to have coffee together soon or something like that. Maybe one Saturday. I’d love to hear more about your children and husband as well.” What can I say? Maybe the woman is lonely and just needs a friend. Maybe it’s to be my calling for the time being. For such a time as this . . . and all that . . .

  No, that’s not it. I just wanted this stranger out of my family business. Maybe playing twenty questions is the way they get to know one another in Texas, but up here in Colorado, we tend to stick to our own business. Unless, of course, we just happen to have grown up here and we already know everything there is to know, anyway.

  You can’t keep a lot of secrets here in Summit View.

  Immediately after work I headed for a little craft shop downtown where I buy my cross-stitch materials. Driving there, I couldn’t help but ponder why I love Summit View so much. The air is crisp and the skies are an absolute turquoise, a brilliance broken only by the hedge of emerald pines and gold aspens, the rise of the majestic mountains. This time of year I’m often reminded of the days when we were all growing up here in Summit V
iew. The world was ours. We knew it wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the word, but it was perfect enough for us. Ruth Ann, Evangeline, Vonnie, and I romped and frolicked as much as we ever read about Laura and Mary Ingalls doing. Sometimes, at my insistence, we put on “Little House” plays for our mothers, who in those days were all stay-at-home moms. Not like today. We’re nearly all working . . . and working hard.

  As soon as I walked into the craft shop, a restored multileveled Victorian painted golden yellow and trimmed in white, I was met by the scents of cinnamon and candle wax. Dora Watkins, the owner, had come to understand a long time ago that if she were going to survive financially, she would need to sell more than thread. She wisely brought in antique chifforobes and etageres purchased at Goldie’s son-in-law’s shop, which she stuffed with already-made crafts, crystal and porcelain figurines, silk floral arrangements, hand-stitched quilts, handcrafting how-to books, and scented candles. Dark, antique tables spilled over with linens, crocheted items, and stone coasters. The walls of the store, painted in muted, warm colors, were literally covered in framed and matted prints, cross-stitch patterns, wrought-iron coatracks, and cinnamon-scented brooms.

  Dora greeted me from the centrally located customer service area, which was really two oversized tables converted to cutting tables, one with a cash register sitting at the end. She sat on a bar-style swivel chair, surrounded by Christmas merchandise that needed to be set out (and we hadn’t even hit Halloween yet), and appeared to be absorbed in the latest in the stack of best-selling Christian literature she kept near the register and that she sold upstairs in the Secondhand Book Nook.

  “How ya doing there, Dora?” I asked. Dora’s mother had, at one time, owned the Sew and Stitch, and when she died, Dora—who is now in her midforties—took over.

  “Doing well, Lizzie. You?”

  “Doing fine.” I walked past her, taking the two or three steps to the second level of the first floor, past a cutesy display of bunnies and over to the racks of cross-stitch patterns flush against a side wall, next to a door marked “Employees Only.”

  Dora joined me. “Looking for something special?” Her wide eyes twinkled behind large glasses.