The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (22 page)

Miss Birdie stationed herself next to the punch bowl, daring any teenagers to attempt to spike the beverage. For a few minutes, Adam wandered through the room and greeted people. Hector introduced him to a couple of his friends. Looking a little shaken, Mac sat in the corner with a few girlfriends. She gave him a wavering smile. Bree danced with a young man he recognized from the band.

Before Adam could move any farther, Miss Birdie grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the refreshment table. The grabbing and pulling actions were clues that she wanted to talk to him.

“Do you know why we do this?” Before he could say a word, she hurried on, as usual. “You know, there’s not much to do here in Butternut Creek. McDonald’s closes at nine.”

He nodded, then shook his head. As usual, he had no idea which response she wanted.

“The movie theater’s way over in Marble Falls. Twenty-mile drive on a dark, winding road. There are volleyball and football games and school-sponsored events, but not every night. So they”—she nodded at the group of about one hundred teens—“are in danger. We have these parties to give them a better choice, to keep them safe and sober and off the road.”

“Keg parties all over, nearly every night.” Mattie placed a plate of cake slices on the table. “Not just beer but hard liquor, too. You’d be amazed how many kids get drunk four or five nights a week—then drive. They think they are immortal, but I know better. I performed the funeral for Randall Sacks in May.”

“Had a basketball scholarship to Texas–El Paso.” Miss Birdie sighed and shook her head. “Coming home from a party last spring, driving eighty miles an hour on a country road, his car hit a tree. Killed him instantly.”

At that moment, they were diverted by the arrival of the football team. The crush of hungry players ate every bit of food in sight.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” Miss Birdie said as the crowd thinned, turning away from the refreshment tables and toward their friends. She paused for a moment. The short silence struck fear into his very core. He never had any idea which of his weaknesses she’d attack next.

“Have you visited Sam Peterson?” She glared at Adam, certain he’d failed her again.

His spirit lifted. “Several times,” he said. “I bring pizza, we watch sports and talk.”

“Ummh,” she grunted, as if in grudging appreciation that he’d finally, finally done something right. “Did he say anything about… anyone in town?”

“Like who?”

She fluttered her hands, an action that seemed completely out of character. “Oh, any woman in town.”

“We don’t talk about women.”

“Pssh.” She emitted a sound Adam hadn’t heard from her before.

“His father’s coming,” he said, glad to have a morsel of information to impart. “Should be here by Wednesday.”

She glanced at Adam, eyes wide. “Wednesday? Oh, my! We have to get cracking.”

A wave of relief washed over him. Sounded as if the matchmakers were on the move for Sam and whoever the chosen woman was. Also sounded as if he was safe for the time being. Adam hated to throw Sam to the Widows, but, because nothing he could say would stop them, he rejoiced at the reprieve.

“He says you brought him a dobos torte.” Adam kept his eyes on her expression to see how she’d respond to the fact that he knew about her act of kindness. “He really appreciated that.”

“Hrmph.” She turned away, an action that signaled the end of the conversation on her part and also meant the end of the conversation on
anyone’s
part.

Adam picked up a cup of punch, filled a plate with cookies, and wandered away, feeling liberated until her voice echoed through the area.

“Pastor Adam, why don’t you dance with someone,” the pillar shouted in a voice so loud and demanding that everyone froze and turned toward her, then followed her eyes to study Adam. She pointed at the Presbyterian minister, then nodded. “Ask the Reverend Patillo to dance.”

Miss Birdie hadn’t given up. Why had he thought she would? He’d never be safe.

B
irdie stood over Mac’s bed and searched for words of comfort. She couldn’t find any.

Missy was spending Saturday at Ouida’s, thank goodness. One worry taken care of. But Birdie had worried about her granddaughter ever since halftime at the football game and had come home to check on her after the breakfast crowd left. Once she talked to her younger granddaughter, she had to return to the diner to serve the lunch crowd. After that, she’d called a meeting with the other Widows. Lord, what a day. “Give me strength,” she whispered. “And I’d really appreciate it if You’d make this shoulder stop hurting.”

Mac slept, her face innocent and lovely, so much like Martha’s. She had to stop worrying Mac would turn out like her mother.

“Mac,” Birdie called. The girl didn’t wake up, and she hated to disturb her. In a heap on the floor beside the bed were the clothes Mac had worn the night before. If the child’s sloppiness didn’t shout
trouble
, nothing did.

She didn’t want to have this conversation. She wasn’t the best person to console anyone, much less this child she loved so much.

“You’re a coward, Birdie MacDowell,” she muttered, having decided to let the girl sleep. She turned and attempted to tiptoe out. Unfortunately, tiptoeing across linoleum plus rubber soles didn’t equal silence. As she squeaked across the floor, Mac woke up.

“Good morning, Grandma.” She stretched and yawned.

“How are you?” Birdie turned and walked back toward her granddaughter’s bed. “About last night, at the game?” Birdie settled on the side of the bed.

Before Birdie realized what her granddaughter had in mind, Mac sat up and put her arms around her.

“It’s okay, Grandma.” She squeezed Birdie. “Thanks for asking,” she mumbled against Birdie’s shoulder.

Birdie had no idea what to do, how to react to a sign of affection since they were very seldom shared. For a moment, tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back before she patted her granddaughter on the back and whispered, “There, there.” As if that helped.

Letting go of her grandmother, Mac said. “Hey, it really is okay. I was mortified, but I talked to Pastor Adam for a while last night at the Fifth Quarter. He helped me a lot.”

“He did?”

“Why are you surprised?” Mac tilted her head. “He is our minister.”

Birdie hadn’t meant to sound amazed although the fact
had
astonished her. Why? He’d visited Sam Peterson and helped with Missy. She hadn’t seen him chat with Mac, but that could’ve been when she’d gone to the kitchen to make more punch. Maybe she’d have to admit he did have some good material in that tall, skinny body. After all, he’d gotten a haircut like she’d told him.

“He said we all have to accept the fact we aren’t perfect, that we all make mistakes. He said I’ll be famous for years to come, that people will say, ‘Do you remember the night Mac MacDowell marched the junior high band all the way down the field?’”

“That’s good?” Birdie attempted to figure this out.

“We decided it’s good. We’ll all laugh together and I’ll be a legend. He told me he’d once scored a basket for the other team in seventh grade. When he goes back, everyone still kids him about it.”

Birdie nodded. “It’s okay.”

If Mac felt okay, her grandmother was fine. “I need to get off to work.” She stood.

“Thanks, Grandma. I’m going to get up in a while.” Within seconds she was asleep.

So, Birdie guessed, Mac’s jeans on the floor didn’t reveal a meltdown, only a tired teenager. She picked up the clothes and tossed them into the hamper because, as much as she didn’t mind clearing up a little bit for an exhausted child, darned if she’d do her wash.

She had something more important ahead. If this wasn’t a time to call a meeting of the new and expanded Widows, Birdie didn’t know when would be. The information the minister had given her about the arrival of Sam’s father constituted an emergency. The entire matchmaking enterprise faced complete failure.

Oh, the preacher was a lost cause, she mused as she headed over to the diner. No need to even discuss him. Maybe later they’d try to get him married. If the preacher didn’t approve of their machinations—sadly stalled at the moment—he could get busy finding a wife on his own.

For now, they’d have to write Pastor Adam off unless a new, single woman turned up, which seldom happened in a town this size, out here fifty miles from Austin. In fact, the appearance of two single women within a few months of each other constituted a minor miracle.

They could count on no help from the Methodist Church. It was too late for a female minister to show up there this year. They’d had that little musical-chairs dance the Methodists did when all their ministers changed churches a few months ago. Now the Methodists were stuck with a man with a solid marriage and three darling children.

They had to marshal their forces on only one front. The captain and Willow Thomas—
that
was the relationship they needed to work on. If she weren’t so tired, Birdie’d come up with a really good scheme. Although she hated to admit defeat, she had to admit her usually top-notch matchmaking skills had stopped functioning. She hoped Winnie or Mercedes would have an idea.

Winnie sat so straight, it looked as if she’d had recent back surgery. She also beamed, obviously delighted to be sitting with the Widows in public although only the three of them remained in the diner. Guess it had been a good idea to include her. New blood, fresh ideas, and she seemed proud to be part of the group, as she should be.

“I believe the preacher is a lost cause,” Birdie said. The other Widows nodded. “I’ve tried, goodness knows, we’ve all tried. He’s not interested. But”—she paused to emphasize her disappointment—“that Sam Peterson.” She shook her head. “He seemed to be smitten with Willow Thomas. Don’t know what changed. What do we do about him?”

“You’re sure there was something between Willow and the captain?” Winnie asked.

For a moment, Birdie bristled. How dare anyone question her?

Mercedes put her hand on Birdie’s arm. “Winnie wasn’t here when we discussed this before, Bird,” Mercedes interjected. “She’s asking for confirmation and information. That’s all.”

“All right.” Birdie nodded. “Oh, yes, I saw it. He fell in love with her right away, at first sight.”

“Although Bird doesn’t look very sensitive,” Mercedes explained to Winnie, “she’s very good about recognizing all sorts of emotions.”

“I haven’t seen that look in weeks,” Birdie moaned.

“Then we have to bring them together somehow.” Winnie nodded, as if she were the boss of the Widows.

If Winnie’s only contribution was to state the obvious, what good was she? They needed ideas.

“Perhaps we could invite them someplace, then leave them alone,” Winnie suggested.

Hmmm, that idea had possibilities.

“Where?” Mercedes asked. “You mean like a meeting?”

“Don’t think we could get Sam to attend a meeting or even drag him out of his house,” Birdie said. “He’s a real hermit.”

“Not even the church?” Mercedes asked.

“Don’t think so. He hasn’t been to church since he got here,” Winnie said.

“Then they’ll have to meet at Sam’s house,” Birdie stated with a decisive nod. All of her nods were decisive, but she put greater resolve into this one.

“We’ll have to set something up there. How do we get the two of them together, alone, at Sam’s house? Any thoughts?” Winnie asked.

Maybe Winnie would work out, but she had to stop acting like she was in charge.

Winnie opened her purse and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “We have logistics to work out.” She uncapped the pen, ready to write.

“We’ll have to do that before his father arrives on Wednesday,” Birdie said, proud to know something the others didn’t.

“His father’s coming Wednesday?” Mercedes asked. At Birdie’s nod, she added, “We don’t have much time.”

“We’ll have to get rid of the two boys somehow.” Winnie noted that on her page.

“I’ll ask my granddaughters to take care of them,” Birdie volunteered. “But Bree has a volleyball game Monday night so it will have to be Sunday or Tuesday.”

“Tomorrow’s too soon to get everything together,” Mercedes added.

“All right, Tuesday evening.” Winnie wrote “Tuesday” on her pad. “What are we going to do?”

By the time they’d finished planning, they’d decided to invite Willow and the boys to dinner at Sam’s house. They’d tell Sam they were bringing dinner for him, then—after the guests he didn’t know about arrived—have Bree and Mac whisk the boys and Missy away. Once everyone else left, the Widows would serve the food, then take off, leaving Willow and Sam alone.

“I don’t know what more we can do,” Birdie said. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll wash my hands of those two.” But she knew she wouldn’t.

She glanced at the clock. “Now I need to pick up Missy. We’ve got a good plan. Should work. Let’s meet in front of the captain’s house at seven fifteen.”

No matter how carefully events were planned they didn’t always succeed, Birdie reflected on Tuesday evening.

Winnie had scrupulously charted out the entire time. She’d brought a boom box and romantic CDs by Barry White. Mercedes had chosen a lovely wine and made her delicious gazpacho while Birdie had brought a dobos torte and great vegetable dish. Winnie also contributed two lovely steaks, seasoned and ready to grill, and baked potatoes.

But when they rang the doorbell, a tall man with white hair opened the front door.

The three women nearly dropped their bundles.

“Hello, ladies. I’m Sam’s father, Mitchell.” He spoke in a voice filled with authority.

As if she couldn’t have guessed that. The man looked exactly like Captain Peterson with twenty years added, the posture of a general, and an air of command.

“What are you doing here?” Birdie blurted sounding ruder than usual. Probably should have welcomed him but the words had jumped from her mouth because, doggone it, the man really upset their plans. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Come in, ladies.” He stepped back and gestured them inside. “I got here about an hour ago. The drive took less time than I anticipated. Sam tells me you’re bringing dinner. Hope you don’t mind an extra.”

He smiled, a nice, friendly expression. Didn’t look much like a general except for his straight back.

“My son says you’re the best cooks in the state.”

He included all the women in the compliment but seemed to pick Winnie out for special attention. Winnie must have noticed that, too. At the age of sixty-something, the woman’s cheeks turned pink. Didn’t that beat all?

When the three women bustled inside followed by Bree and Mac and little Missy, they caught sight of Sam and Willow in the living room with the two boys sitting on the floor.

“Look, we have more guests,” Mitchell Peterson said, waving toward the Thomases.

It was that stupid corn pudding. It wouldn’t set and had slowed them down. And finding Missy’s bear. The child had refused to leave the house without it. Otherwise, they would have been here before the Thomas family arrived. What a fiasco—well, maybe not. Everyone was settled. If they could get rid of the general…

Willow stood and smiled at each Widow. “I must have made a mistake. Sam”—she gestured toward the captain—“seemed surprised when the boys and I showed up.”

Sam gazed at Birdie. She hoped that was laughter in his eyes but didn’t know. Surely he didn’t mind seeing Willow, did he?

“Wish you’d have mentioned the Thomases would be here,” he said. “I’d have been less confused and more welcoming.”

Birdie turned toward Winnie and Mercedes. “Didn’t you tell the captain what we had planned?”

“Oh, dear,” Winnie mumbled as she attempted to cover. “I thought I had.”

“But we weren’t supposed to do that,” Mercedes said. “You told me…”

Poor dear, she always told the truth, as inconvenient as it often was.

“I thought we’d told you,” Birdie spoke over Mercedes’s attempt to explain.

“I didn’t realize there’d be eleven of us,” Willow said. “Hope you have plenty of food.”

Birdie hadn’t realized that, either. Unless they planned to act out the miracle of the fishes and the loaves, they hadn’t brought nearly enough food. Of course, they had plenty considering that five—the boys, Missy, and her granddaughters—would be leaving and the Widows weren’t eating. The food would stretch to include the general, but they didn’t want him here. How could they get rid of him?