The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek by Jane Myers Perrine Read Free Book Online Page B

his response had exceeded the bounds of decorum. Blossom still looked confused and uncertain. Their expressions made him laugh harder.
    When he could finally speak, he said, “Do you really believe that if anything happened between me and any woman, I’d tell you about it?”
    When the comment made them look both confused and exasperated, he added, “Not that anything has happened between me and a woman recently, but I do have a private life. You may deny that, but I do deserve a little space of my own.”
    “I guess you do,” Winnie said grudgingly. She turned toward Miss Birdie and said, “He does have that right. He doesn’t have to tell us everything.”
    The pillar narrowed her eyes and said, “We still expect you to do something about…”
    “Yes, yes, I know.” He grinned. “Thank you, ladies, for your concern. It’s good to see you. Now, tell me about plans for the spring bazaar and chicken spaghetti dinner.”
    “We’re meeting every afternoon, the ladies of the church, to start on crafts,” Mercedes said. “Blossom’s a real hand with colors and painting.”
    Miss Birdie counted on her fingers as she said, “Pansy’s getting the food organized, Winnie’s getting donations from the businesses, I’m working with the community center on the setup, and Mercedes is in charge of publicity.”
    “Sounds as if everything is well in hand.” Not that Adam doubted that. He hurried to introduce another topic before they were tempted to return to their own. “I’ve heard Jesse’s brother still needs care. Can you tell me anything about him?”
     
    * * *
    Sunday evening, Ouida stood on the porch and drew in the beauty of Butternut Creek. She loved the town at this time, as the day wound down. The sun had set and the sky had paled to gray. The girls were in bed, sweet smelling from their baths, and she had a moment of quiet.
    “Ouida, would you get me a newspaper?” George called. As she went back inside and crossed the living room, she picked up the newspaper and headed toward the kitchen.
    When George placed his shoe-shine box on the kitchen table, she handed him a section. He placed his shoes on top of it. His best pair. Oh, he had other pairs, but this was his favorite: Italian and expensive but, he always said, very comfortable. They were gorgeous. A little flashy for George, Ouida had always thought, with the narrow silhouette and the midnight-gray trim a little lighter—only a tiny bit—than the glossy black leather.
    He sat down and, using a special rag, began his favorite Sunday chore by gently cleaning any dust or dirt that dared to settle on the glossy leather surface.
    For a moment, she wondered if George loved those shoes. He took such good care of them. Cleaned and shined them every week, never wore them on a rainy day, never two days in a row. The consideration made her blurt out an unexpected question.
    “George, do you love me?”
    He stopped wiping the shoes for a second before he said, “Of course.” Then he put the rag down, opened the box, and took out the brush and polish he used only on these shoes.
    “Why?” she asked.
    “Why wouldn’t I?” Keeping his eyes on his work, he carefully and evenly spread the polish and rubbed it in. After inspecting the right one to make sure he’d covered every millimeter of surface with polish, he set it down and picked up the left to repeat the process.
    As if realizing that Ouida’s minute of silence meant he hadn’t answered correctly, he said, “You’re my wife.”
    “And?” she prompted.
    “And you take good care of me?” His statement became a question, as if they were on some kind of marital Jeopardy!
    She didn’t answer. Darned if she’d help him out on this. She really needed to know how George felt, not how she hoped he felt, but he didn’t speak, either. Finally she said, “How?”
    He shrugged, still focused on the shoes. “You always have dinner for me when I come home and you iron my clothes.”
    “So you