The Wedding Planners of Butternut Creek (5 page)

T
he bump of the landing awakened Hannah Jordan. She’d slept during most of the flight from Nairobi to London, during the three days she spent with her parents in London, then the eight-hour flight to New York. The only thing that had awakened her from the trip on the red-eye between New York and Dallas was the change of planes in Atlanta.

She slept deeply, almost as if she were hibernating. She didn’t merely doze off. As soon as she closed her eyes, it was as if she’d fallen into a deep pit and had to struggle to pull herself up and out when she woke up.

As a doctor, she knew her body was attempting to make up for the sleep deficit from the last few months of fighting off the effects of malaria and persistent insomnia—but she still hated it. Fatigue made her feel stupid and weak and altogether not like the Hannah Jordan who’d been the youngest person to receive the Gestner-Croft Fellowship in Epidemiology for study in Kenya. This noodle-like person bore no relationship to the young woman who, only two years before, had stood on the edge of her life, looking forward with excitement and joy and strength and enthusiasm and confidence.

Where had that Hannah gone?

Oh, she knew. A few months earlier, the young, optimistic Hannah who still had a functioning brain had expired in a refugee camp in Kenya, among the emaciated children and dying babies. This pathetic husk had been left behind.

“Ma’am, you’ll need to collect your bags and deplane.” A flight attendant stood beside the seat looking so perky and fresh and healthy, Hannah felt even more depressed.

She hadn’t even noticed that the rest of the passengers had filed off the plane.

Putting her hand on the seat in front of her, Hannah pulled herself to her feet, grabbed her tote, wrenched her carry-on from the overhead compartment, and headed out.

When she arrived in the terminal, she considered flagging down one of the electrical carts that carried older and handicapped passengers between gates. Tempting, but she hated to confess to weakness and the constant beep-beeps would drive her nuts. Besides, the terminal had those moving sidewalks that made the trip easier.

Once she arrived at the baggage claim area and pulled her duffel bag from the carousel, she looked around. Her father had bought a car, which the dealer agreed to deliver to her at the airport as part of a plan her mother had come up with and her father had financed. She immediately saw a man holding a sign with her name on it.

“I’m Hannah,” she said and handed him her passport for identification.

He studied it and passed it back. “My name is Eddie. I’ll take your bags and meet you in the loading zone. I’ll be driving your Escalade.”

“My what?”

“Big black SUV. Lots of chrome,” he explained. “I’ll wave if you don’t see me.”

Considering her state of mind and the probable number of black SUVs, the wave sounded like a good idea. She watched him leave with her luggage and wondered if she should have asked him for ID. He could be headed off with her few possessions.

Why bother? Nothing she had was worth the effort.

Shoving that worry away, Hannah found a ladies’ room and studiously avoided looking in a mirror. She knew she looked terrible. Had for months. But she didn’t need to or want to or
have
to face that right now. Then she found a snack bar and grabbed a huge Coke and a protein bar. She paused to pull out her cell and called her parents. When the machine picked up, she said, “I’m here. Your plan is in place,” and hung up. The message made her feel slightly like a character in a bad spy movie.

That accomplished, she headed toward passenger pickup. As she walked, she reminded herself that in the States, unlike London or Kenya, cars drove on the right. Then she told herself that again in an effort to reacclimate her porous brain to driving in the United States.

After she found Eddie and the car, and accepted and signed for the keys, she inspected the huge vehicle. She would have preferred something smaller and with better mileage. Her father had listened to her suggestions but chosen this enormous thing. She tossed her bag in the back and hauled herself into the front seat. What was the name of that place her brother lived now? Oh, yes—Butternut Stream or Buttercup Creek or Butter something else. By the time she’d consumed enough caffeine that she wouldn’t be a hazard on the road and had headed south, she decided there couldn’t be many places with such idyllic names in the state.

She also knew she’d hate anyplace with a name like Butter-whatever.

Adam wasn’t expecting her. She hadn’t told him she’d be coming. She’d ordered her parents not to tell him because she didn’t know if she could actually go through with the visit, if she could face him. Adam exuded goodness and positiveness, traits she’d shed long ago and might nauseate her now. Could be she’d stop before she got to Butter-whatever, maybe head down to Houston and hide, like an injured lioness going into the bush to die. Where was the bush in Texas? The bush could cover the entire state, for all she knew, but she didn’t see any around Dallas–Fort Worth.

Then the loud honking started. So much for not being a traffic hazard. The light must have turned green two seconds earlier and the cars behind her let her know. She reminded herself that in the United States, most people stopped at a light within a second of its turning red and started through the intersection when it turned green. In Nairobi, waves of drivers flowed through the intersection for seconds after the light changed and drove fast in the hope no other vehicle would hit their car. There, starting through an intersection at the exact time the light turned green was suicidal.

In an email, Adam once told her drivers in Texas believed yellow lights meant,
Speed up. You can make it through
. That constituted a problem for him. He’d never driven in Kenya.

Fifty miles south of DFW, she began to feel nostalgic. The landscape had become greener with more trees. The scenery of Texas, a state she’d always thought of as flat and barren, surprised her. It looked a little like Kentucky, a bit like parts of Africa.

But no matter how pretty, Texas wasn’t Africa. The golden glow she associated with the continent didn’t shimmer in the air or reflect against the brown fields. The trees looked like trees instead of the distinctive acacias she’d learned to love, as flat as if someone had squished the limbs down and parallel to the ground.

Seeing cattle grazing in a feedlot, the knowledge that she wouldn’t gasp at the sight of a rhino or laugh at a curious monkey close to the camp hurt.

People had told her that Africa grabbed one’s soul and squeezed it tight. At this moment, she knew that well. She almost couldn’t breathe she missed Kenya so much, even more than she’d come to hate it.

Later that Saturday morning, when the phone in the parsonage rang again, Adam checked the calendar over the phone. He wanted to be sure he did nothing to mess up a scholarship opportunity for Hector. Right now, the college coaches were in an evaluation period. He knew a couple of scouts had attended the past few games but couldn’t talk to him or Hector during that time frame. Still, college and juco coaches could email—Coach Borden dealt with those messages—and call. Adam answered the phone and took notes. Hector hadn’t wanted to deal with them during the season and had asked Adam to continue fielding the calls.

After he hung up, Adam watched Janey and Yvonne. They sat at the dining room table, working on Janey’s reading.

“You know,” Yvonne said, “Janey’s a really smart little girl.”

Janey glowed with the praise.

He nodded. “People with dyslexia usually are. As the school counselor explained, that’s how the problem is caught—when a bright student doesn’t perform as well as expected.”

“I found some fun ways to help with comprehension online,” Yvonne said.

“Thanks. Hector and I really appreciate your help.” Before he could say more the phone rang again.

He glanced at the messages in his hand, then at the clock. Ten o’clock Saturday morning and already eight calls from colleges recruiting Hector.

They started at nine, probably knowing that a kid wouldn’t be up earlier and a parent wouldn’t like being awakened early. On Saturdays—Adam’s day to be with Gussie and the kids, an oasis of calm and quiet, a day to sleep a little late to recover from a basketball game, a day to tweak his sermon—he’d become an answering machine for calls from recruiters. In fact, every evening and all weekend he assumed that role.

He picked up the phone, chatted briefly with the assistant coach who called, wrote down the name of the college and of the coach, and thanked him.

As Adam promised to pass the message on, Gussie entered the front door. He quickly finished the telephone conversation, clicked the phone off, and headed toward her for a hug.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Small college up close to Midland.”

“Hector’s a good player.” She went into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. “A good player from a middle-size high school in a small town and you get lots of calls. How in the world do those top players from 5A high schools keep track of all this?”

“I had no idea the amount of time and organization it would take.” He held up his hand. “Not that I mind. It’s better for me to spend the time than take it from Hector’s studies and basketball, but I’ll be glad when the signing date arrives.”

He grabbed a cup of coffee, left phone duty with Gussie, and headed for his study at the church. The house where Hector and Janey lived and where Gussie and her parents spent most of their time, a home filled with noise and activity, was great—but work there was impossible.

When he headed back to the parsonage for lunch, he waved at Hector, Bobby, and the other guys who were playing a pickup game in the parking lot.

For dinner that evening, five of them—all three Miltons, Janey, and Adam—sat around the table and lapped up Yvonne’s homemade cream of broccoli soup. Hector was with his calculus study group and due to get in soon. In fact, those gathered at the table appreciated Hector’s arriving a little late because they all got to fill their bowl and pick up a biscuit or two before the kid could eat everything.

“Has Hector come to a decision about school next year?” Henry asked.

“He and Coach are going to talk more and set up some visits.” Adam reached for another biscuit. “Gabe’s coming over later to share info from college scouts he’s talked to.”

Janey looked up, eyes wide. “I’m going to miss him.”

“That’s why we’re looking for a school close by,” Adam said. “So you can go to his games and he can come home.”

“Okay.” Janey nodded. “But I’m still going to miss him. I know it’s good, but…”

Before she could finish the sentence, they heard the front door open.

“Hector?” Janey said.

“Gabe?” Adam shouted.

“You’d think someone in this town would know where Twelve Church Street is,” a grumpy but definitely female voice grumbled loudly from the front hall.

Adam jumped to his feet and ran to the foyer. “Hannah? Is that you?” Of course it was. Who else but his sister would arrive unannounced and grouchy?

She looked terrible. Not that he’d tell her that and not that his parents hadn’t warned him, but he hadn’t expected her to look this bad. Pale, painfully thin, even for his family, and sagging against the doorjamb. Her short dark hair looked as if she had spikes sticking out all over her head. Not fashionable spikes, but spikes that looked as if she never combed it. Clean, of course, because Hannah was fastidious, but tangled and unruly and disheveled.

“Good to see you.” Adam pulled his sister into his arms and hugged her.

Because she wasn’t a particularly huggable person, Adam was surprised she didn’t pull away immediately. No, she collapsed against him for nearly a second before she stiffened, then shoved him away weakly and took a stumbling step back. Was that a shimmer of tears in her eyes? Certainly not. Hannah never cried.

She blinked, and the impression disappeared. She repeated, “Why doesn’t anyone in town know where Twelve Church Street is? That’s the address Mom gave me.” She pointed behind her. “The street sign says
CHURCH STREET
and the number by your front door says
TWELVE
but all anyone could tell me was to try behind the Christian Church. As if I knew where
that
was.”

He heard Yvonne’s footsteps in the hall.

“You must be Adam’s sister,” Yvonne said. “How good to see you.”

Adam knew his sister, knew she wanted to answer with a snarky comment like,
Why
must
I be Adam’s sister?
She had two ways of communicating: in scientific terms and in snark, the latter to protect herself. This time she didn’t. She must be really sick.

Hannah sorted through the cotton candy her brain had become but couldn’t come up with an answer. Instead, she gave Yvonne a quivery smile and said, “I’m Hannah. Are you Miss Birdie?”

“Oh, no, no. I’m Yvonne Milton.” When that statement left Hannah confused and blinking, Yvonne added, “Gussie’s mother.”

“Oh, yes. Gussie’s mother.” Hannah nodded.
Who is Gussie?

Yvonne must have read her expression because she said, “Gussie is Adam’s young woman.” She took Hannah’s hand and patted it comfortingly. “You must be tired after that long trip.”

Hannah felt her brain click onto “overload” again. Why couldn’t she keep anything straight? Of course she knew who Gussie was, but she’d become so forgetful lately.

Even harder to understand that she’d allowed Adam to hug her and this woman she’d never met to grasp her hand and pat it. She’d never considered herself a person who liked to have her hand patted, but she did at this moment. Quickly Hannah snatched the patted body part back. Her plans did not include being happy and comfortable, although that soothing moment of compassion hadn’t felt all that terrible.

“Dear, you look so tired,” Yvonne said. “Why don’t you join us for dinner, then we’ll find you a bed and you can take a nice, long nap.”

She didn’t really feel like eating but it never worked to turn a meal down because no one ever listened to her when she said she wasn’t hungry. Logically, if a person looked like a walking corpse, nice people assumed she should eat. Made sense, but she’d discovered that sitting down at a meal with others and stuffing food inside reminded her of starving refugees. Not the vision one wanted when gathered around a table of healthy people.