The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (9 page)

“Go ahead.” Leo waved him away. “We’ll be fine. We know how to do this.”

“Yeah, we’re good at it.” Nick dropped his bucket on the floor. “We clean for Mom all the time.”

No matter what they did, it couldn’t get any worse. Not even a herd of goats could make this any worse.

“You sure have ugly furniture,” Nick said.

“Remember your manners,” his mother said.

“Shut up,” Leo whispered.

Sam bet the older brother had just given the younger an elbow to the ribs, but he hadn’t seen it. He turned toward the bathroom and longed to shut himself inside while these two fought it out and while the luscious Willow Thomas leaned down to pick up trash. Because he hated to miss a single second of her efforts, he delayed the shower for a few minutes, until she finished.

B
efore lunch a few weeks later, Adam wandered over to the square, not a place he frequented. In the middle of a green lawn and big trees sat the courthouse, an ornate brick edifice built in 1865 with a tower and cupolas on each corner. A street wrapped around it with several gift shops, a tearoom, and an antiques mall facing the turreted brick building. Butternut Creek even had a small country music venue across from the courthouse, a site that must have once housed a movie theater.

Benson’s Barbershop was between a tanning salon and the library and looked a lot like the shop his father had taken him to as a kid. Adam entered and sat down to wait because the barber stood at a huge chair, cutting the hair of an elderly man. On the counter were a couple of jars filled with combs and a blue liquid, a germicide, Adam guessed. Hunting and fishing magazines covered a table.

“There you go, Roscoe,” the barber said finishing up with the elderly man. He opened a bottle of something red that smelled like roses and rubbing alcohol, patted it on Roscoe’s neck, then lowered the chair and said, “I’m Joe Bob. What can I do for you, young man?”

When Roscoe departed, Adam climbed into the chair. The barber tied a cape on him and raised the chair. “I like my hair long on the top and shorter than it is around the ears and in the back,” he explained. In the mirror, he watched Joe Bob nod.

The barber picked up a clipper, turned it on, and started in. Before Adam could say
That’s too short
, the man had nearly skinned him. Adam could feel his head growing larger—at least, that’s how it looked in the mirror—as his hair got shorter.

Then Joe Bob put the clippers back on the counter, took a pair of scissors and a comb from the disinfectant, and started trimming. Adam sat mute, because he couldn’t think of anything to say. Besides, the damage had been done with the first pruning. After three minutes, the barber dropped the tools onto the counter and opened that bottle of red liquid.

“No, thank you,” Adam said quickly. He didn’t want to smell like roses on top of having no hair left.

“Eight dollars.”

Adam took out his wallet, handed the barber a ten, and glanced at himself in the mirror. He had whitewalls an inch wide over both ears—and, he imagined, in the back, but he refused to use the mirror to check on that. The top measured a quarter inch if stretched. He looked like a new marine recruit. On marines, the shearing looked macho, but Adam looked like a hayseed, like Oliver Hardy. Like… he didn’t know like what, but not himself.

After five seconds of observing the scalping, he couldn’t take it. He turned and ran, leaving the barber a two-dollar tip he couldn’t afford because he couldn’t watch his reflection long enough for Joe Bob to hand him change. On the other hand, this was a bargain. For ten dollars, he wouldn’t need to pay for a haircut for months.

“Pastor Jordan?” Birdie MacDowell tapped gently on the carved door of the pastor’s study. Adam knew it was Miss Birdie because Maggie had shouted the information when Miss Birdie’s ancient van pulled into the parking lot.

The pillar, not usually so meek, didn’t come in. Had a summons directly from her minister filled her with dread?

Adam should have known better. When he got to it, he discovered the door was locked. He opened it and the pillar shoved the door wide to dash inside, followed, of course, by Mercedes.

“Why did you call us? Has someone died?” Miss Birdie glanced around her as if expecting a grieving family in the study. “Was there an accident? I know a tree didn’t fall on the church because I didn’t see any damage.”

Frightened the summons would give her a heart attack, Adam hurried to say, “No, nothing like that.” The words didn’t calm her.

“A fire in the kitchen?”

“Bird, calm down.” Mercedes patted her friend’s back, then turned toward Adam. He could tell the exact moment she noticed the haircut. She stopped talking, her eyes grew larger, and her mouth dropped open. Quickly recovering, she said, “Every time Bird’s called to the preacher’s study, she worries. She’s certain something terrible has happened to someone in the church.”

“Oh, my Lord.” The pillar stopped glaring at the chaos of the minister’s study and scrutinized him. Then she stalked toward him, keeping her eyes on his newly visible ears. “You got a haircut.” Her voice filled with awe.

“As ordered,” he said.

“Look, Mercedes.” Miss Birdie pointed at Adam as if her friend couldn’t figure this out on her own.

“I noticed, Pastor.” Mercedes put her hand over her mouth—probably hiding a smile or perhaps stifling a giggle.

He couldn’t blame her.

“You must have gone to Benson’s on the square, didn’t you?” the pillar asked. “They cater to the old men and the ranchers.” She shook her head. “Good thing your ears aren’t too big or you’d look like a jug.”

Having Miss Birdie notice that his ears didn’t stick out didn’t make him feel a bit better.

“You might should go to Marble Falls, next time, Preacher,” Mercedes suggested. “You know, the best thing about hair is it grows.”

The pillar continued to stare, her glance falling to his newly naked neck. “Terrible cut. Your neck’s long and bare, like a giraffe’s.”

Exactly what he wanted to hear.

“No, it’s not, Bird. You know giraffes have fur,” Mercedes said.

As if that helped.

“But all in all, you do look better,” Miss Birdie added.

“Don’t worry, Preacher,” Mercedes added. “It looks…” Adam thought she wanted to say more, but he was learning she had a complete inability to lie. She didn’t utter another word.

In an effort to change the subject, Adam waved toward the cleared chairs. He now had much smaller piles of books and papers
beside
each chair. A great improvement in his opinion, but he could tell by her posture Miss Birdie didn’t share that view. “Please make yourselves comfortable, ladies.”

“Comfortable would be in the kitchen where we have pie and coffee,” Miss Birdie grumbled.

“Now, Bird,” Mercedes chided. “Preacher, she doesn’t always realize how crabby she sounds.”

Miss Birdie straightened and turned regally toward her friend. “Yes, Mercedes, I do. I sound the way I want to sound.”

Before the two could argue more—an event that probably happened fairly often—Adam said, “But there’s no privacy in the kitchen and I need to talk to you about something confidential.”

The Widows exchanged a satisfied glance when they heard the word
confidential
.

“After all,” he added, reeling them in, “anyone might walk into the kitchen or overhear our conversation from the fellowship hall. If I had important, private, hush-hush information to share with the two of you, I wouldn’t want anyone to overhear.”

Her attention grabbed, Miss Birdie seated herself and asked, “What is it, Pastor?”

As Mercedes settled in another chair, the pillar studied Adam. As much as Adam had rehearsed what he planned to say, speaking and looking at Miss Birdie at the same time made him more than nervous. She’d pick up on that uncertainty and exploit it.

So he looked at Mercedes instead and took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. “I’m not sure exactly how to phrase this.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you invited us to your office,” Miss Birdie stated.

Adam could feel his lips quiver. Her predictability amused him, but only for a second or two. When she noticed his expression, she glared. Had she thought he was laughing at her? He hoped not. He bet no one laughed at Birdie MacDowell.

He continued solemnly. “You’re right as usual, but the matter is a little sticky.”

“Has Harvey Wallace finally run off with his receptionist?” Mercedes asked.

“Did the bank turn the church down for the loan for the new air-conditioning unit?” Miss Birdie said at the same time.

“No, no.” He gave them a quick update on the lack of action on the air-conditioning before, smiling at both of them, he returned to the subject at hand. “You know how much I appreciate everything the Widows have done for our church.”

Miss Birdie nodded. “We’re still doing it, Pastor. We aren’t done yet.” She spoke forcefully, as if warning him of the consequences should he dare to stick his nose in the business of the Widows.

“Of course not. Everyone tells me you’re miracle workers. I know that from how you welcomed me—you’re practically the welcome committee of Butternut Creek. And you do so much for the congregation and the town. Truly, you are the heart of the church.”

Both Widows smiled proudly.

“Yes, we know, but it’s pleasant to have it confirmed.” Miss Birdie nodded with the grace of royalty.

“Howard tells me there were six of you only two years ago.” He pretended to study the list on the desk. “Now there are only two Widows.”

“Oh, yes.” Mercedes sat forward in her chair. “Effie Bannister died and Blanche Moore went to live in a nursing home in Cedar Park. Emilia Post moved to Atlanta to stay with her daughter.”

“And Jenny Dunn married her no-good second cousin and went to live with him in Conway,” Miss Birdie finished.

“With only two of you left, I’m concerned.” Adam shook his head in an effort to show sympathy and worry. “How can you do all the good works the Widows have always done? Strong and willing and committed as you are, the two of you cannot do
everything
.”

“We don’t do everything,” Mercedes said. “As much as we try. Pansy Martin helps a lot.”

“But she’s not a widow, you know,” Birdie said, watching Adam closely as if she’d picked up on his purpose.

“No, her husband is amazingly healthy for a man his age,” Mercedes added. “Will probably live for years.”

Before either woman could say more, Adam continued, keeping his voice clear and pastoral. “The Widows are a living treasure. We don’t want to wear the two of you out.”

Mercedes preened at his words. Miss Birdie looked skeptical.

“Are you setting us up for something?” the pillar asked. Her expression said that whatever it was, she would not like it.

“Mercedes.” He leaned toward her and smiled. “You keep the town library working wonderfully and keep up with your big family.”

He turned his gaze toward Miss Birdie. “And you’re so busy with your job and taking care of your granddaughters. With everything else you do, I don’t want to take advantage.”

He attempted to color the words with both admiration and concern, but Miss Birdie wasn’t buying a word of it.

“My job’s just not hard, Pastor, and my granddaughters don’t take a lot of care. I can handle it all.”

“Never thought you couldn’t, but I don’t want to take advantage of your good nature.”

When Mercedes laughed, Miss Birdie glared at her. He’d probably gone too far with that last remark. Possibly no one in Butternut Creek would describe the pillar as
good-natured
. Adam hurried to distract them.

“Do you mind if we have a word of prayer?” Without waiting for an answer, he bowed his head. “Mighty and most merciful God, we come before You with praise for these women and their service.” He glanced up to see Miss Birdie frowning, as if attempting to discover where the prayer was leading. He quickly lowered his gaze. “We ask, most loving God, that You will find others to share their good works and that You strengthen all who serve You. Amen.”

Finished and feeling fortified, Adam said, “I have a few pastoral concerns to share with you.”

He picked up several index cards from his desk. “Sam Peterson,” Adam read, then glanced at the women. “I still haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

“Such a sad thing.” Mercedes shook her head. “He used to visit Effie during the summer, played baseball with my son. Now he’s lost his leg. I hear he lives like a hermit.”

With an echoing shake of her head, Miss Birdie added, “We set up a schedule to make sure he has enough to eat. When I call him, he doesn’t answer the phone. I saw him at the hospital and invited him to church, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Guess the best we can do is keep him in our prayers and keep trying.” He dropped the card on the desk and looked at the next. “Willow Thomas has come back to town.”

“Yes,” Mercedes said. “I knew her back when she was Willow Brubaker, kin to the Brubakers down on Lampasas Road.” She pointed east. “The Brubakers lived in the big yellow house next to where the post office used to be. Willow went off to school, married a man from Chicago about ten or twelve years ago, here in the sanctuary.”

“I saw her at the hospital, too,” Miss Birdie added. “She said she’d be coming to church.”

“As usual, you ladies already know more than I do.”

He picked up another card and gazed at it. “Winnie Jenkins gave me the information on the woman they hired as the new CEO of the asphalt company. She’s very new to town.”

Mercedes reached for the card. “I’ll call her.”

Adam handed her the card. “Winnie recommends you give her another week or two to get settled, both in her apartment and the company.”

“Oh, Winnie did, did she?” Miss Birdie said, then made a low
grumph
sound. “Who is she to make suggestions? The nerve.”

Adam had no idea what to say to diffuse the unexpected.