The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (12 page)

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Fall out.”

The boys zoomed past him—not difficult—through the house and out the front door before he made it inside. Within seconds, they came back carrying pans covered with aluminum foil and Tupperware bowls. Plastic cake carriers dangled from both of Nick’s wrists.

“Where do you want these, Captain?” Winnie said.

By this time, he’d finally arrived in the kitchen. Fortunately, earlier this morning the boys had cleared off and scoured the small, round breakfast table and the counters. He hadn’t had time to mess them up again.

“Anywhere you find room. I’ll—we’ll put them away later.”

“This one”—she held up the pan she had in her hands—“is a very nice brisket Pansy Martin made for you. Over there are two chocolate cakes.” She turned toward him. “I didn’t realize the duplication. I hope you like chocolate.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nick and Leo said in unison. “We do.”

She smiled at them. “Are you going to help the captain eat all this?”

Because the boys looked at him with bright, hopeful eyes, Sam had to say, “At least the desserts.”

“The ladies made some vegetable casseroles.” She turned a serious gaze on him. “We really want you to get healthy, young man. You’re far too skinny. That’s why we used a lot of cheese and butter in all our dishes.”

The
fatten-you-up
result of their concern sat all over the kitchen surfaces and he’d enjoy every bite of it.

“Thank you, Miss Winnie,” he said. Yeah, he really had become a wimp who could be bought with lots of cheese, extra butter, and brisket.

“This is my specialty.” She patted a covered bowl. “It’s my orange gelatin and carrot salad.”

His stomach clenched at the memory of gelatin salads at church dinners, but he smiled. “Your salad takes me back to when I was a kid.” Which was the truth. He’d hated it then and bet it tasted just as bad as he remembered.

She beamed. “Someone’s bringing a ham tomorrow. All this”—she waved her hand—“and the ham should hold you for a week.”

“Miss Winnie, this should feed me for the rest of my life. Thank you.” He leaned over—almost falling but steadied himself on the table—and kissed her on the cheek. An odd reaction he couldn’t really explain but he knew if he tried to say something, emotion would overwhelm him.

“Oh, my, young man.” She put her hand to her face and held it there. “How sweet of you.” Then she picked up the basket she’d brought in. “When you’re through with the dishes, I’ll pick them up and take them back to church. Or
you
could bring them back,” she added. “We’d love to see you.”

Not committing himself, Sam said. “Please thank everyone.”

When she left, the boys gazed at him with that hopeful expression that usually got them whatever they wanted. “Okay, guys, but if you tell your mother I let you eat chocolate cake this close to dinner, we’re in big trouble. All three of us.”

Fortunately, they’d finished the cake, rinsed the plates and forks, and headed for the backyard by the time Willow showed up. Was he happy to see her only because he always liked to see her or because he had no idea what to do with the guys next?

He’d have to think of some odd jobs before they came again. Shampoo the furniture? Paint the house? No, repairing the rickety fence would probably work best. For now, he’d enjoy her presence and consider the chores later.

“Hello, boys.” Willow hugged each son before they wiggled away. “I see you’re wearing the prosthetic device, Captain. How does it feel?”

He shrugged. “Fine.”

“How did the day go?”

“Fine.” He nodded. For some reason, he lost the ability to communicate when she stood too close. What an idiot he was, a marine who shot macho weapons in war, who’d faced incredible odds and death, but who couldn’t carry on a conversation with a fragile-looking redhead.

“Captain, I didn’t drive today. The boys and I are going to walk home. Would you like to go with us?”

Her smile was friendly but not particularly inviting, the expression of a mother asking the boys’ little friend to join them.

Nevertheless, he wanted to kiss those gorgeous lips and pull her next to him, to cover himself with her long hair, to touch her and… He refused to complete the thought. After all, her sons were only a few feet away.

“No thanks,” he said.

“Oh, please, sir,” Nick begged.

This time, he didn’t give in to their expressions. And Willow Thomas was much more inviting than chocolate cake and one hundred times more delicious.

“Good exercise,” Leo said.

“You guys give me more than enough exercise,” he said.

She smiled, almost in relief he thought. “Don’t forget your next appointments,” she said. Then the three left, the boys hopping down the porch steps and along the sidewalk with her.

He longed to join them, be a part of that group. To be carefree as he’d been when he visited Aunt Effie, back when he ran along the sidewalk with his friends looking for a pickup game of basketball or riding bikes to the lake.

Instead, he watched her walk away.

They were getting too close, Sam realized as he got ready for bed that night. He hit the counter in the bathroom with his fist.

It hurt.

He remembered the laughter of the three as they walked away from the house. He smashed his hand against the counter again. Hurt even more.

He could feel the town and the people and the boys and their mother all sneaking inside his carefully constructed barrier. He didn’t want them inside. He did
not
want to care about anyone or anything. All he wanted was to be left alone in this mess of a house. He couldn’t take
feeling
again, didn’t want to, refused to.

Now the house was clean and people walked in and out.

He cursed as he hit the counter again but not as hard because, although depressed, he wasn’t stupid.

What should he do if she and her sons and the insufferably friendly people of Butternut Creek persisted in trying to tear his defenses down? These people needed to leave him alone, stop bringing food and tortes and dropping in. He wanted to be dead inside. He wanted to stay that way, had no desire to join the happy throng parading through his house. Why had he let them inside? He should’ve guessed the cheerful name of the town described exactly the positive attitude of the people who inhabited it.

He cursed Butternut Creek.

For a moment, tears gathered in his eyes, but he refused to let go. He had to be tough, had to remember who he was and what he’d left behind, the parts of himself he’d abandoned in Afghanistan, one visible from the outside, the other losses hidden inside.

He lifted his gaze to the mirror. A useless man looked back at him. If he forgot Afghanistan, he’d forget Morty and the others who’d died there and those who still fought. He’d start agreeing with people who said he was lucky to get out alive, even if he had lost a leg, and he couldn’t do that. Morty had died on an isolated mountainside, killed by an enemy they hadn’t even seen. Losing his best friend while he still lived didn’t feel a bit lucky.

He scrubbed any trace of grief away, then hardened his expression. He was a marine, not a pansy. Not a rainbow of peace and light.

Once the sanctuary emptied on Sunday morning, Adam wandered back down the central aisle, unzipping his robe as he walked. Hot to wear on an August morning with the air-​conditioning spitting very little cool air into the sanctuary. Another repair. The crack in the wall from the corner of the baptistery to the ceiling and the peeling paint on the windowsills also needed to be fixed. He and the church members could repair and paint the walls themselves, but the air-​conditioning would cost.

The bank had turned down their loan request. Where would the money come from?

Adam hadn’t seen Captain Peterson in church. Not that he’d expected to. He’d gone by Sam’s house two more times, left notes in the door, and telephoned twice, but no one answered. So he’d written a letter.

“Dear Lord,” Adam whispered. “Please help me reach him.”

It was the first Sunday of the month, which meant it was time for the fellowship dinner. As in all churches and as he’d learned with dishes people dropped off at the parsonage, the food was great. He hurried to his study, hung up the robe, and studied the jacket that lay across a chair. Too hot. He checked his tie in the mirror and wished he could leave that in the office as well, but a new minister without his suit coat and his tie would probably cause Miss Birdie to hyperventilate. At least his hair was not “too long” anymore. It had grown a little, enough so his scalp didn’t show around his ears quite as much. Nearly enough that people didn’t stop on the sidewalks and snicker, although Hector and his buddies hadn’t let Adam forget.

Once in the fellowship hall, Adam said grace. He’d learned the minister’s trick of saying the blessing only a foot away from the serving table. When he said “Amen,” he moved quickly into the head of the line and arrived at the counter spread with dishes of so many kinds he hardly knew where to start. He piled on the sauerkraut and sausage, the pickled beets—which he seldom had—the chicken and dumplings, the beans, and more.

“We’ll fix you a plate to take home,” Pansy said. “You can make a couple more meals out of it.”

Adam was beginning to enjoy being spoiled.

After about two months here, he knew almost half of the people gathered by name. Willow Thomas sat with two kids. He waved but steered clear of her. If he sat next to her, tongues would wag. He chose a chair across from two couples—all four with white hair—he barely knew and talked with them for a few minutes.

At least until Ralph approached, dragging a young blond woman behind him. Adam wanted to slip under the table, but people found such behavior by ministers unseemly. Unfortunately. Because she looked nearly as uncomfortable as he felt, Adam smiled and hoped someone would take the chair next to him before she got there.

No one did.

“Hey, Preacher. Want you to meet my niece Nancy from San Saba.” Ralph pulled out the chair and shoved the reluctant young woman in it. “She’s visiting today.”

Nancy glared at Adam, uncomfortable and rebellious, as if her presence were his fault. He smiled but had no idea what to say to a female who obviously wished she were anyplace other than sitting next to him.

“That’s not the way to handle it.” Birdie watched from the long serving counter between the fellowship hall and the kitchen as the preacher politely attempted to engage Ralph’s relative in conversation. “Too obvious.”

“Neither of them looks happy,” Mercedes observed. “How old is Nancy?”

“Don’t know. Hear she has a boyfriend the family doesn’t like, but forcing her on the preacher isn’t going to work.” Birdie could hear a note of satisfaction in her own voice. Why? Shouldn’t she rejoice if anyone found a good match for the preacher? Of course, but this woman didn’t look like “the one.”

“We have to keep looking,” Mercedes said.

With a nod, Birdie checked out the crowd in the fellowship hall. About half of the diners had filled their plates and another half stood in line. Of all those people, she couldn’t see another single woman in the place younger than sixty. Well, except Willow Thomas, but Birdie had plans for her.