The Potluck Club (4 page)

That night’s entertainment was
You’ve Got Mail.

I’d seen it a hundred times already, but my copy was still in some unpacked box stuck high in the garage rafters. Not that I was depressed, but that movie had a right sweet way of cheering me up. Who could ever grow tired of seeing Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks falling in love all over again? When I watch it, it’s just like I’m falling in love right along with them.

And I would too, that is, if I weren’t married to Henry Lloyd Lambert. Henry’s my husband of twenty-five years, but at times it seems like a hundred. He’s almost ten years older than me and retired from his job as a manager over at the Exxon Oil. He really lucked out, though; he got his retirement all in a lump sum, just before Exxon announced their retirement package cutbacks. So you could say dear ol’ Henry and I are set, at least financially.

But not only is Henry retired from work, I hate to say it, but he’s retired from our marriage. Of course, we’re not divorced—we’re

Baptists. But that man only gets excited about rainbow trout and the Dallas Cowboys. I don’t seem to fit in anywhere.

I’m not really sure how that all happened. But I guess it happened sometime between the kids’ soccer practice and one of my service sorority’s fund-raisers. Or maybe it happened when I was down at the First Baptist Church for choir rehearsals. But how could I help being so involved in community life? Those folks absolutely relied on my leadership. I’ve been president of every organization I’ve ever been a part of. I show up, and zap—I get the tap to wield the gavel.

The truth is, if I’m not in charge, I’m not happy. As my family’s had to figure out: if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

But one day, while I was off leading the herd, I looked back and found that Henry had just quit following. The man reminds me of a faded curtain that’s blocked the sun for too long. He’s still there, but barely.

When he is home, I can find him in one of two places: in front of the television buying fishing rods and hand-tie flies on QVC, or on the computer buying them on eBay. It seems his motto is to never miss a good chance to shut up or to shut me out.

On my way home from the video store, I drove past my new Grace Church, the cutest little white clapboard you’ll ever want to see. Too bad it’s not Southern Baptist, even if it does have pretty stained-glass windows. There is a Southern Baptist church that meets at the town library, but a church in a library is just not my speed. Neither is the Catholic church or the Church of Christ down on Main Street, not that there’s anything wrong with either denomination. Still, I’ll probably never step inside those buildings unless I have to attend a funeral.

But back to Henry. He’s a fine Christian man. He’d been a good father, though disinterested, perhaps. He doesn’t swear, and he’s certainly never laid a hand on the kids or me. So I really can’t complain, not like those from the women’s shelter that my society friends and I used to collect hotel shampoos for. Some of those women actually cried at the sight of hair conditioner. Imagine! Crying over a necessity like hair conditioner. What’s the world coming to?

But then I’m always doing charitable things like helping poor women who only want a good shampoo. Besides, that’s what Jesus would have me do.

Anyway, Henry left me to my leadership roles, and in return I let him play his golf game every Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon.

Golf I can handle. But unfortunately, Henry’s new game is fishing. He spends most of his waking moments up on Gold Rush Creek, up to his waders in rushing water. The only movement you’ll see from him is an occasional flick of his line or the sun glinting off the fishhooks covering his cap, the cap that says “Go Cowboys,” of course.

It wouldn’t be so bad, but he’s not into the catch-and-release routine. He actually brings home those slimy fish, all beheaded and gutted. G-R-O-S-S! Our garage freezer’s already full of those nasty, frosty trout. I’m a good cook, and I won’t stand for those fish smelling up my new kitchen. However, he’s determined to fry a couple for himself every night. Imagine, being married to a gourmet cook and settling for pan-fried fish that he has to cook himself.

I passed our little Gold Rush Grocery Store, and while I didn’t need anything, I was surprised to see Donna’s daddy, Sheriff Vernon Vesey, opening the door for Evangeline Benson.
My, my, but don’t
they look friendly.
I’d have to tease Evangeline about that when I saw her tomorrow.
Gotta boyfriend, Evie?

She probably had to run into the store to pick up something for some horrid little potato dish like she had brought to the all-church supper. That dish was so dry it scraped the hide right off the roof of my mouth. Too bad about that. All that dish needed was a little TLC, some butter and maybe a dash more milk. Tomorrow at the Potluck Club meeting, I’d have to find a tactful way to tell her so.

Besides, all wouldn’t be lost. I was bringing my barbeque brisket special. I started making it the day before. First I soaked that six-pound round roast all night in a bottle of liquid smoke. Just before I left the house for my movie run, I sprinkled it with garlic, onion, and seasoned salt. Now that brisket was simmering at two hundred degrees in my oven. And there it would stay until the next morning. Then I’d drain off the juice and boil it with an entire bottle of onion-flavored barbecue sauce and a half cup of picante sauce. Finally, I’d bake it another hour.

To tell the truth, I’m glad I was able to worm my way into the Grace Church Potluck Club. God knows they need me and my barbecued brisket. And soon, I can guess, I’ll be in charge of the whole shebang. I’ll be Queen of the Potluck, all right.

I love the sound of that—and the sound my gold bracelets make every time I reach for the turn signal. I just love noisy baubles or anything that sparkles, like the two-karat rock I wear on my left ring finger. I had to do some fancy talking to get that one out of Henry. But I managed to get my way, as usual.

Speaking of sparkle, that’s exactly my plan for the members of the Potluck Club. I’m going to give those pale-faced women a Mary Kay makeover. It’s not like I need a pink Cadillac. Shoot, I’d sell that makeup at cost just to improve the scenery around here. I want to rescue those drab women from their dry skin and wrinkles. The Colorado climate is a bit harsh, and some of those women look like well-weathered sailors. But I’ll fix that with my soothing layers of creams, pink foundation, and a bit of rosy blush. I can’t wait till I can get those gals together with a tube of lipstick. Let’s see, I think I’ll paint Evangeline’s lips a luscious bashful berry. Vern might even want to kiss lips like that.

I always check my rearview mirror when I laugh, and now was no exception. My teal blue eyes look good with laugh lines, not to mention with my copper and gold eye shadow. I still look pretty good, despite the fact I haven’t even had my first face-lift. And even though I like to cook—like my mama before me—I don’t eat most of what comes out of my oven. I have to work hard to wear those size four petites. I never miss a day of Jane Fonda leading me in a workout, either. That’s unlike some of the Colorado “native” women around this town, who are, let’s say, a bit pudgy? No, I’ve never seen them on the hiking and biking trails around here. Maybe that’s what makes the trails so lonely.

Yes, it’s a good thing I’m here. Why, I’ll shape all those little darlin’s up and put a bit of sparkle on them to boot.

I have to admit it; the Potluck Club was a hard nut to crack. My lands, it wasn’t that difficult to become a member of the Woodlands Country Club. If it hadn’t been for Pastor Kevin’s wife, Jan, I’d still be out in the cold. These Colorado women are so cliquish! But not Jan Moore or her husband, Kevin. Really, the Moores are darlin’. Like me and Henry, they’re retired Texans. All the local folks of any character are, of course, from Texas. And it’s only natural for Texans to migrate to these parts. In 1836 Colorado was part of the Republic of Texas. Texans only come here to check up on their former claim and to put some life back into the place.

But thinking back to the Moores, I can’t help but admire them. They’re in Summit View on kind of a working retirement. They’ve got the right idea, really. They’re only in their fifties and they’ve got a purpose. I use to have a purpose too—after all, I was the president of my community service sorority, the president of the soccer club association, and the president of the church choir, not to mention the mother of two children. Sure, I miss my clubs, but they’re behind me and my kids have outgrown me. My son, Nelson, is a nineteen-year-old sophomore at the University of Texas, a surefire party major, and twenty-three-year-old Mandy has been married only a year and will soon be a mother herself.

I’ve got to get my purpose back. And I think I’ve found it at the church. After Henry and I visited Grace Church for the first time, Kevin and Jan drove up to our townhouse for a cup of coffee and some of my famous cinnamon rolls. But I have to give credit where credit’s due. Warm cinnamon rolls always help a friendship get off to a good start, and it certainly helped put me on Jan’s good side.

Still, I had to work like a dog to find out what the social scene in the church was all about. Finally, Jan let the news of the Potluck Club’s existence slip right through her sticky fingers.

“No one at the Potluck Club can cook like this,” Jan had said, taking another bite of a warm roll.

Aha! I could tell that Jan hadn’t meant for that little tidbit to slip. And as I’ve always said, it’s much easier to get the cat out of the bag than to put it back in.

“Potluck Club? I love potlucks!” I said sweetly.

Jan was wearing a white T-shirt with scalloped edges. Her cheeks suddenly glowed pink beneath her big brown eyes. Those liquid eyes of hers are fringed by salt-and-pepper bangs, and that short, wavy haircut makes her look like a million dollars. But Jan looked uncomfortable as she crossed her petite legs under her broomstick skirt. That pink skirt absolutely blended with my velvet-covered Victorian chair.

She cleared her throat. “The Potluck Club? Well, it’s a tradition, really, with some of the church’s old-timers.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, they meet once a month for potluck lunch and prayer. But I think it’s a closed group.”

I just pushed my red curls out of my eyes and stared her down . . . sweetly, of course. “What would it take to get an invitation?” I asked.

“Lisa, I’m the pastor’s wife and I’m not even a member.”

Right then I reached for a pad of paper. “Honey, just give me their names. I’ll handle the rest.”

I’d tried not to laugh at the list of corny names. And the funniest of all had to be Evangeline Benson, the Potluck Club president. I could just imagine Evangeline, a plain-faced spinster with her graying hair pulled up in some painful-looking twist. I love a challenge and made a point to meet her the very next Sunday. Of course, I didn’t go empty-handed. I came armed with a paper plate full of warm cinnamon rolls. And honey, you just can’t ignore rolls like that.

That Sunday, just before I pulled my rolls from my oven, I’d dressed in a long but simple V-necked chenille dress in a delicious cobalt red. It was belted with a gold metal coin belt that showed off my slender waist. Once at the church, I caught up with Evangeline in the parking lot—one of the parishioners, an elderly gent, had helped point her out. Though his help hadn’t really been necessary.

I would’ve recognized Evangeline Benson anywhere. I’d been right about the plain face and the hair (except that her hair was cut short and still plain), but I could never have imagined her clothes. That burnt orange and white polka-dotted polyester pantsuit had to be working on at least three decades. At least it was topped off by a lovely white silk scarf. And with that scarf, one could almost forgive such a flagrant fashion violation. But even so, it was hard to forgive her tacky pinecone brooch that held her scarf in place.

Me in my camel-colored fashion boots skipped across the gravel to where Evangeline stood with a cluster of polyester-clad women. “Evangeline, darlin’, I thought I’d bring you these buns.”

Evie eyed me with suspicion. “Do I know you?”

Naturally I ignored her question entirely, the point being that she may not know me now but would certainly know me in the future. “They’re still warm from my oven. Try one.” I shoved the plate closer to Evangeline’s nose so she’d get a better whiff of heaven on a platter.

It didn’t take long for Evangeline to pull back the foil. She slid a warm pastry into her mouth. When her eyes sparked, I said (just as pretty as you please), “I’m Lisa Leann Lambert, and there’s more where that came from, darlin’. I made these special just so you would know what a great addition I’ll make to your little Potluck Club.”

Evangeline almost choked, but to her credit, she managed to swallow that first bite. But there she stood, tempted between another gooey bite or a quick getaway. It’s not hard to say which one won.

An expert at handling awkward moments, I said, “Evie, darlin’, isn’t that what they call you? Evie? You should taste my brisket. Could I bring one with me, next . . .”

Before Evangeline could help herself, she’d responded, “Saturday.”

I smiled in triumph. “At your house? What time?”

Evangeline looked a bit like a trapped animal. Imagine . . . there she was, holding a plate of warm cinnamon rolls, poised to take one more mouth-watering bite. Poor thing. She’d even looked to her friends for support. I saw that their faces registered both shock and admiration for my cleverness. And now, in front of an audience of her peers, holding sticky buns dripping in icing, Evangeline had not been able to refuse my question.

“Noon, and bring your brisket.”

So that’s how I got into Evangeline’s club, which of course will soon be my club. All it’ll take is a couple of briskets and maybe a couple of slices of my mom’s daffodil cake. Yes, the daffodil cake. Heavy artillery, I know, but I’m going to need it. Donna Vesey’s been a bit standoffish so far, but she’ll get used to me. And I have to admit my gratitude to Jan. She’s just the sweetest thing. I’m sure I’ll be able to wiggle her into the club too. Some of the Potluckers weren’t so sure about me, but Jan has treated me like a long-lost friend. Yep, that Jan’s from Texas, all right. She may have lost her accent, but she still has class.