The Wedding Planners of Butternut Creek (12 page)

He smoothly turned onto the highway and touched the accelerator. The car took off without his having to pray or pedal madly. He flipped on the radio to hear music coming from behind him and next to him. With a touch, he put the windows up and flicked on the air conditioner.

Dear God
, he prayed.
I really love this car. Please forgive me
.

S
aturday evening with the sun heading toward the horizon and casting shadows from the live oak trees across the lawn of the parsonage, Gussie stood on the porch and breathed in the scented air of a warm summer’s dusk.

When Hector mowed the last few times, he’d left a broad strip of wildflowers on the north side of the parsonage. The bluebonnets were past their prime and had gotten a little straggly, but even a straggly bluebonnet beat out any flower anywhere for beauty. Indian paintbrush took up nearly half of the space, their brilliant orange bracts poking up higher than the bluebonnets. A few purple wine cups showed here and there, fragile and not nearly as showy as the other wildflowers but so lovely.

Some might prefer orchids or other hothouse plants, but they didn’t compare to the brilliant spring beauty before her.

From the porch, Gussie saw the Widows park in the church lot, pull their various canvas totes and quilted casserole carriers from Blossom’s car, and head, each in her own gait, toward the parsonage.

Miss Birdie always strode, certain of her destination and determined to arrive first. Winnie, in deference to Miss Birdie’s leadership and seniority, followed behind her, only a step, and marched with equal resolve. Mercedes carefully balanced her load and moved like a graceful steamer across a calm sea. With tiny steps, Blossom flounced across the narrow path Hector had cut through the wildflowers.

For a moment, Gussie watched as they approached. The Widows were the bountiful fauna of Butternut Creek making their way through the profuse flora of the Hill Country.

“Hector,” Gussie called as she descended the porch steps and hurried toward the Widows.

“Now, don’t be pushy,” Gussie heard Mercedes warn the others, glaring at Miss Birdie. “I hear this Hannah is skittish.”

“Let me help, ladies.” Gussie took a tote from Winnie and a dish from Blossom before she headed back toward the parsonage. She could still hear them talking, because three of the Widows had no idea what “talk softly” meant.

“I’m not going to push,” Birdie said to the other Widows as they headed toward the parsonage. “You know I’m not pushy.” She paused to consider that statement. No one on earth would believe that. “Not all the time.”

“Birdie MacDowell, I’ve known you for seventy years,” Mercedes said. “Even in the church nursery, you were pushy.”

“Now, now,” Winnie said. “Let’s not scare the young woman by bickering. None of us should try to push her.”

Hrmph, Birdie thought. Like Winnie had anything to talk about. Bossiest woman Birdie had ever known.

When they reached the parsonage, Birdie followed by the other Widows entered through the door Gussie held for them and shouted, “Dinner’s here?”

She heard Hector walking down the upstairs hall. The boy had the biggest feet she’d ever seen and had never learned to move quietly. He bounded down the stairs, two or three at a time.

“Ladies, let me help you.” He took the totes Birdie carried. “I would have brought them in. Miss Birdie, you know carrying all this can’t be good for your shoulder.” With the other hand, he took a casserole dish from Mercedes. “Ladies, you leave the rest of that food on the hall table. I’ll carry it to the kitchen.”

“Nice young man,” Winnie said as he left for the kitchen.

“He and Bree still keeping company?” Mercedes asked.

Birdie nodded. “He’s a good kid but they’re so young.”

After placing most of the bags on the hall table, the Widows hurried back to the kitchen and dining room. Blossom pulled a lace tablecloth from her bag and shook it out over the dining table. “If one of you would place the napkins.” She motioned toward another bag.

“What is this for?” Hector asked, carrying the totes and a long box. “Looks like flowers.”

“I have a lovely cut-crystal vase in that bag.” Blossom pointed as she spoke to Hector. “I’ll arrange the roses while you ladies get the food ready.”

Birdie couldn’t complain when Blossom took over. The newest Widow knew how to entertain and decorate in a way Birdie could never approach.

At seven, Gabe knocked on the front door of the parsonage before opening it and shouting inside, “Can I come in?”

To his amazement, those ladies from the church hustled toward him.

He wanted to take a step back but one of them, the lead woman, the white-haired lady—what was her name? Oh, yes, Miss Birdie, the one Adam and Sam had warned him about. Anyway, she grabbed his arm and heaved him inside while another closed the front door behind him. For a moment, he feared she was going to lock it in an effort to imprison him.

Surely, if the need arose, he could shove aside one of these ladies to escape, right? But at six-five and weighing at least a hundred pounds more than any of them—except maybe the fluttery one with the blond hair—he’d look like a bully.

“Hello, ladies.” He forced a smile and shoved back that first reaction to escape.

“We’re so glad to see you,” Miss Birdie, the obvious leader, gushed. She didn’t act or sound like a woman who usually gushed.

Could be she was trying to put him at ease, but her powerful-for-an-elderly-lady hold on his arm didn’t help him relax. In fact, her intense interest scared him a little.

“I’m Birdie MacDowell.” She pointed at herself. “This is Mercedes Rivera.” She waved toward the pretty Latina woman standing with her back against the door. “Winnie Peterson and Blossom Brown.”

The women smiled. Why did he feel so uncomfortable? They looked like perfectly nice women, welcoming and friendly.

With that, Miss Birdie—Adam had warned him to call her that, not just plain Birdie, which might seem too familiar to her, or Mrs. MacDowell because that would sound too formal—grasped his arm even more tightly.

“We are the Widows,” she said.

The words struck fear in him. Instantly, Gabe remembered more about these women. Sam Peterson had told him about the Widows and their matchmaking. Adam had warned him.

Now three of them surrounded Gabe, and Mercedes blocked his escape route.

With their alarming and predatory presence, he recalled the odd incident that had happened a few months earlier at church. Miss Birdie had put exactly the same hold on him as she’d dragged him out of the building. She had looked all around the sidewalk, then, still hauling him along, searched the parking lot.

After a sigh of disappointment, Miss Birdie had explained that she’d wanted to introduce him to the new dental hygienist down at Dr. Winder’s office. She’d scrutinized him for a moment with particular attention to his mouth before she asked, “Having any problems with your teeth?” For a moment he feared she’d pry his lips open and check but she hadn’t. He’d run toward his truck and driven away.

The memory of that episode returned in great detail tinged with fear. Surely these women weren’t going to try to get
him
married, were they? At some point, he might reach a time in his life when he did want to find the perfect woman, fall in love, and get married, but he’d always considered
he’d
make the choice of who and when. He refused to allow the Widows to take over, to push him toward something he didn’t want. Could he stop them? Sam and Adam hadn’t succeeded, and they seemed happy about that failure and their futures.

Then the woman called Blossom stepped forward and took his other arm. Together they towed him into the living room. He didn’t resist because he refused to hurt them. After all, if the moment arrived when he did need to flee, he could—Mercedes had moved away from the door.

They led him toward the ottoman and, with one final Amazonian effort, heaved him toward it.

Unfortunately, Hannah’s feet already occupied the footstool. As he began to plummet and before gravity dragged him down on her, the two Widows did an amazing deke with his body. He landed on the corner of the stool. They steadied him for a few seconds before moving away, chuckling.

Hannah glanced up from the
Journal of the Institute of Theoretical Pathogenics
to see the Widows hurrying toward the kitchen and the basketball coach sitting only inches from her toes. She dropped her feet to the floor and straightened.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

For a man who must have excited great interest in millions of women, he looked painfully awkward. His lips curved into an artificial smile with more than a bit of embarrassment. In addition, the footstool was so low his knees almost touched his chin. Not an attractive position.

“I have no idea.” He shrugged.

She lifted her eyes toward the sofa, where her brother had been watching some sports show with Gussie. Probably basketball because he lived for that. Maybe some running thing. When the word
deuce
came from the television, she realized it was tennis.

Not that she cared.

What did grab her attention was that Adam had stopped watching the program. So had Gussie. They both observed her and Gabe with a great deal more interest than they’d shown in the match.

Why?

In fact, she noticed, both sat forward, elbows on their knees, their eyes flipping back and forth between Gabe and her as if they were still watching tennis.

Why?

With the sound of retreating footsteps tapping across the hardwood floor, she turned toward the kitchen to study the Widows. Blossom hastened toward the dining room carrying a tray while the other three had begun shoving pans into the microwave and ladling food into serving bowls, all those movements done with great energy and focus. None would meet her gaze.

Very suspicious.

Closing her eyes to a slit, she studied Gabe. Really good looking, almost perfection. Most women would consider him yummy. Actually, she did, too, in a watching-from-afar-and-pretending-I’m-not way. Very pleasing, aesthetically. Who wouldn’t appreciate those shoulders and that smile? Although the expression did seem a little forced at the moment.

Adam and Gussie turned their gazes back to the television. Gabe leaned forward and twisted his neck so he could watch with them, too polite to move or perhaps still intimidated by the women who’d abandoned him there. Hannah alternated between reading her journal and admiring the amazing morsel of masculinity. Finally, she completely stopped reading and watched Gabe, who’d turned away from her. She enjoyed the view of the muscles on his arms and neck, the great haircut, how his shirt stretched across his back. She didn’t feel a bit guilty for allowing herself those few seconds of visual pleasure, suddenly understanding what
eye candy
meant.

Having fulfilled her aesthetic quota, she turned her interest back to an article on exposure assessment modeling.

After about fifteen minutes, Winnie called, “Dinner’s ready,” from the arch into the dining room. At the same time Henry Milton shouted out the back door, “Hector, Janey, dinner.”

Janey must be playing on the swing set and Hector, as usual, shooting buckets in the church parking lot. Adam would probably be with him if Gussie wasn’t leaving after dinner.

After Hector clomped inside and Janey came in from the backyard, both washed their hands. The Widows waited in the kitchen to serve while the families gathered to stand at the table and took each other’s hands around the circle.

“Tonight, let’s sing the Doxology for grace,” Gussie said. They joined their voices.

Hannah would really prefer if Janey and Gussie sang a duet. Adam’s voice wavered, the Miltons only listened, and Hannah’s voice, although steady and usually on key, couldn’t compare to Janey’s and Gussie’s. Next to her, she heard a clear tenor. She didn’t turn to see who it was, because it had to be Gabe. How had he ended up next to her? When she’d first arrived at the table, her brother had stood to her right. Sometime in the nanosecond between arriving at the table and stretching her hand out, the men had switched places.

When they sang, “Amen,” the Widows sprang into action, hurrying back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room carrying steaming bowls and heavy platters.

“My cook makes these.” Blossom spooned something orange and runny on Hannah’s plate. “You’ll love them.”

Every time the Widows passed in and out, they smiled smugly at Hannah and Gabe.

Okay, what was going on?

Then she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes to sort this out.

It only took a few seconds. Only someone illogical and incompetent could miss it, and she was neither. What an idiot she was not to have recognized the Widows’ stratagem much earlier. All the clues had been in front of her but she’d gone blithely skipping by them, ignoring them until this very moment. She so seldom blithely skipped by anything, she could only blame the lingering effects of malaria for the sludge her brain had become. Also, she found it difficult to imagine that anyone would have the slightest bit of interest in her love life. She didn’t.

Now she understood.

Matchmaking. She could have hit herself in the forehead at the revelation but didn’t want to attract even more attention. Oh, she’d heard about
the Widows
aka
the Matchmakers
. Adam had emailed her at least weekly to cheer her up and often included stories about the women. Her favorite had been when they trapped him and Gussie on a sofa during a youth rally at church. But she also remembered—although with a lot less detail—what Adam had written about the Widows setting up a romantic dinner for Sam and Willow early in their courtship. Widows + dinner + hunky coach + pitiful and needy girl = something she did not want to face.

This meal resembled those efforts far too much for Hannah to feel in the least bit comfortable. She opened her eyes again to meet three pairs of eyes—Gabe’s wary stare and the fascinated gaze of Adam and Gussie—while the rest served themselves and started to eat.

She couldn’t force herself to look at the four women standing in the corners of the dining room. She bet they’d all have their eyes on her. She felt like an exotic animal, hunted down, trapped, and caged.

“Coach, here are some of my special yams with butter-coconut sauce.” Mercedes stood on the other side of Gabe and gave his chair a shove toward Hannah with more strength than Hannah would have thought a woman her age could exert. The coach wasn’t a lightweight.