The Potluck Club (22 page)

Donna Vesey and Wade Gage had been quite the couple in their day.

Now Clay couldn’t help but remember what little he knew about their courtship—and wonder just what had gone so wrong with Summit View’s most perfect couple.

26

In a Pickle

I’d really hated to bother the protective coating of dust that covered my home. I secretly felt it wasn’t good to disturb the dust bunnies. But with Lizzie conducting an “extracurricular” Potluck Club meeting at my house, it just had to be done.

Other than dust and set up the coffeepot and trimmings, there really wasn’t much to do. Lisa Leann had pledged to bring her famous cinnamon rolls, and Lizzie said she’d bring a cake, as this was going to be more of a dessert meeting than a lunch. Lizzie had called this little get-together to tell us Potluckers what she had learned about conducting a monthly breast exam, and I’d been tapped to explain what Jan might be up against.

The doorbell rang, and I peeked out my kitchen window and saw Donna’s Bronco. What a dear. She’d arrived early to help me get set up.

I turned to Chucky, who was barking like a dog gone mad. “It’s just our girl,” I scolded as I hurried to the front door. When I swung it open, there stood my little Donna. Every time I saw her, my heart swelled with pride, and once more I secretly thanked Doreen Vesey for gifting me with a daughter.

“Donna! Come in! Oh my, haven’t you been sleeping well, dear?”

I hadn’t meant to be critical, but her appearance rather shocked me. The dark circles seemed to punctuate her tired blue eyes, and black definitely was not her best color, though I’d never say so out loud.

“I’m coming off the night shift this week, and it takes me a bit to adjust,” she said, looking around at the glints of rainbows that played through my darkened home. “What can I do?”

I opened the nearby closet and handed her a feather duster. “Dust, dear.”

I busied myself in the kitchen, and out of the corner of my eye watched as Donna flipped on my lamps and light switches, dusting my babies as she went. I saw her pause when she got to the hearth. She stooped to pick up the picture of the old Sunday school class. I silently enjoyed the smile that played on her lips.

The doorbell rang again, and Chucky repeated his barking routine. I hurried after him. “Hush, Chucky!”

I found Lizzie at the front door; she’d managed to secure a folder of notes under one arm while holding a cake plate topped with a beautiful chocolate cake. Chucky barked at her feet. We tried to ignore him as Lizzie said, “Goldie gave me her mother-in-law’s recipe. Where do you want me to put this?”

I took the folder from her and said, “Out back on the picnic table. The day’s too beautiful not to go outside.”

She nodded and carried the cake to the back door. I held the screen open for her while holding back a growling Chucky with my foot. He couldn’t go outside until we all did or else he’d be on top the picnic table in the middle of that cake.

“You really have to do something about that dog,” Lizzie scolded me.

I shrugged. “He’s a dog. He’s just letting you know you’ve entered his territory.”

I turned to see Donna folding her sweater into a neat square, which she carefully placed in a corner.

“It’s already seventy degrees out there,” she informed me. “This sweater’s a bit much with this turtleneck.”

Later, after all the arrivals and greetings, the girls gathered around my picnic table, which was covered in a yellow vinyl tablecloth graced with several of my garden pumpkins, paper plates, napkins, Styrofoam cups filled with piping coffee, along with that gorgeous cake and Lisa Leann’s rolls. Chucky sighed as he nestled at my feet for a nap. He was totally worn out from announcing every one of my guests with his convulsive fits. I reached down and petted his head. Poor thing. He plopped his head on top of my foot and fell asleep.

I looked around. It was a beautiful autumn day, one of the last before mud season settled upon us. “Mud season” is what we high-country folks call that brief spell between the glory of autumn and the cha-ching of ski season.

But for now, it was still autumn. Fred had raked up our carpet of aspen leaves last Saturday, and the grass still had a bit of green despite its annual summer scorching. My mum beds were in full bloom in ruby and gold along my wooden privacy fence, which was stained the color of redwood. Pine trees stood around us like sentries, swaying their branches with the soft breezes, while the surrounding mountains graced their emerald slopes with dotted traces of fading gold.

Lizzie stood to speak. “First let me say this: breast self-exams are something you can do for you!”

Everyone nodded. Lizzie continued. “The first step is knowing how your breasts feel normally. Secondly, don’t do this when it’s ‘that time of the month,’ if you still have ‘that time of the month.’” The words brought laughter, and even Lizzie got tickled at herself. “Your breasts change during this time anyway, so you won’t have a clear . . . uh . . . feel for things.” More laughter. “The best time to examine yourself is seven to ten days after your cycle has ended, but if you’ve stopped your monthly periods, then set a date like the 1st or the 15th. Think: I pay my car payment on the 15th. Pay my car . . . feel my breasts.”

I thought Lisa Leann was going to fall on the floor she was laughing so hard. “What if Henry makes my car payment?”

To which Donna said, “Oh my goodness. This is turning into some kind of freak show.”

Lizzie placed her hands on her hips. “Girls, this is serious. Let’s keep in mind what’s caused us to do this in the first place.” Everyone sobered. “Okay, then. You’ll want to stand in front of a mirror and examine each breast separately. Note size, shape, color, and contour. Note the direction of your breasts and nipples.”

Every woman in the room looked down at her chest. “The direction they are now or the direction they used to be?” I asked.

Lizzie smiled at me. “Now. Forget used to be. I know I am . . .” The women chuckled again.

“This is fun, you know what I’m saying?” Leigh asked. “Of course, mine are . . . at this stage of my pregnancy . . . well . . .” She looked down.

“Out there,” Donna said. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Rub it in.”

Leigh frowned. “I was going to say ‘tender.’”

“Who doesn’t remember tender?” Lizzie now teased.

“Me,” Evie said. “Not once did my breasts get tender when you were pregnant, Lizzie. What about you, Vonnie?” she asked, looking my way.

I’m sure I pinked. “Why in the world would you ask me?”

“Can we get back to this?” Lizzie asked. Again, everyone moved their attention back to her. “Okay, raise your arms over your head . . .” Lizzie demonstrated for us. “Turn slowly—side to side—and look. Now, place your hands on your hips . . .” Again, she demonstrated. “Push your shoulders forward. Look at each breast.” She stood erect. “Now you know your breasts.”

“Let’s throw a party,” Donna said, then chuckled at her own humor.

I have to admit, it was funny.

“Ready?” Lizzie asked. “Now it’s time for the BSE . . . or breast self-examination. Using the left hand for the right breast, start just below the collarbone. Moisten the pads of your three middle finger-tips with body lotion, apply pressure, and make small circles.”

“And be sure to cover the entire breast area,” I interjected. The girls nodded. “You’ll also want to do this lying down on your back with your hand raised over your head.”

“That’s right,” Lizzie said. “And that’s all I have to say.”

It was now my turn, so I handed out laminated shower cards with BSE instructions. “Be sure to look for lumps, thickening, red, hot, or orange peel skin—”

“What kind?” Goldie asked.

“Orange peel. Looks dimply like an orange peel.”

“Oh,” Goldie said.

“Look for an itch, a rash, a sore, unusual pain, dimpling, puckering, bloody discharge from the nipple, a retracted nipple, a change in the direction of the nipple—”

“Gracious,” Leigh commented. “That’s a lot to remember.”

“It feels that way, yes,” I said. “But this is important. I don’t think it takes a rocket scientist to tell us when something is wrong. Go with your instincts. Remember, most of the time, it’s nothing. But sometimes it is something. More than two hundred thousand women in our country alone will be diagnosed with invasive breast cancer in the coming year.”

“What does all of this mean for Jan?” Evie asked.

I sighed. “I don’t know. Jan’s was undetected. I really can’t say why . . . it just was. And Jan’s has spread.” I pressed my lips together. “That’s really all I know to say on Jan.”

Evie said, “Well done, girls, and with that I’d like to suggest one last thing before we slice into that cake.”

“And enjoy my homemade cinnamon rolls,” Lisa Leann added.

Evie stared at Lisa Leann for a second and then continued. “Let’s take this opportunity to pray for Jan.”

We all voiced agreement and, as one, lifted our bodies off the picnic benches and walked toward a grassy space near my pumpkin patch. There, we formed a circle and held hands. Chucky followed and sat at my feet, cocking his head up at me as I closed my eyes. As I stood next to Evie I felt her hand muscles tense as Lisa Leann led us off. It was as if I could hear her silent scoff,
The nerve of that
woman.
I squeezed back my thoughts.
Be nice, Evie.

“Dear heavenly Father, we come to you on behalf of our precious sister, Jan Moore,” Lisa Leann’s hushed voice whispered. “Father, we ask that you spare her life and leave her, at least for this season, with us. Father, we know that one day she will spend eternity with you, but, Lord, we just ask that you delay that day as long as . . .”

I heard a loud snap above us. I peeked and saw Chucky spin his body toward the picnic table. His hair stood on end.

I turned my head just in time to see a small black bear lumber down from his perch in the pine tree above the table. Making himself at home, he sat down smack in the middle of my yellow tablecloth.

I’m not a screamer, mind you, but I’m afraid I let a mighty big one loose. My yell was joined by those of my friends as their eyes snapped open to the sight of that bear gobbling chocolate cake. I don’t think our initial panic was as much from fear as outrage at our loss. Our voices fell silent as we watched that bear stuff paw after paw of chocolate goo into its mouth.

I noticed Donna’s hand reach for her back hip, as if going for her gun. But it was her day off, and her gun belt was probably locked up in the Bronco or at home in that cute alpine cottage of hers.

Chucky bounded across the lawn and landed his front paws on one of the picnic benches as he looked up at our intruder. He barked ferociously.

The bear licked at the chocolate on his paws and stood up, right on top my table, and batted the air with gooey paws. He seemed to say, “You don’t scare me, dog!”

Donna commanded us all to go inside, and the Potluckers stampeded toward my back door.

I alone stood in the yard, determined to save my dog. “No, Chucky, no! Come here!”

“Vonnie, you come back this instant!” Evie called from the back porch.

But even before I could respond, the bear pushed off the table in a flying leap, landing a mere three feet from where I stood. The girls screamed, and I froze. Chucky whirled toward us, continuing his high-pitched barks.

The bear and I stared at one another as he sat on his haunches, his brown eyes level with my blue ones. He lifted his head and sniffed in my direction, twitching his black velvet nose. It was as if everything was suddenly in slow motion and I was merely observ–Shepherd_ ing. I noted that this was a black bear, though cinnamon in color. I guessed he weighed about 350 pounds. I didn’t know if he would really hurt me, because I had once read in one of Fred’s hunting magazines that black bears weren’t nearly as aggressive as grizzlies. And being nose to nose with this creature, I found that thought to be comforting to no end. As these thoughts played through my mind, I could hear Evie scream, “Run, Vonnie, run!”

I couldn’t. I was caught in the bear’s hypnotic stare. Mesmerized, I suddenly thought that this creature looked like a fuzzy oversized teddy bear. If it hadn’t been for his unbelievably bad breath, though scented of chocolate, I just might have reached out for a hug. Maybe not.

The spell broke as soon as he stood, towering eight feet tall.

There were more screams from the Potluckers as the bear lifted his paws and extended his long, sharp claws. He stepped close, drooling on my tennis shoes as he bared his fangs. I stared up at this apparition, and my heart literally stopped. My teddy bear had turned into a monster.

All it would take was one swat from those extended razors, and my life would be over. As the bear moved toward me, Chucky jumped forward and bit him right on the rump. I’m not sure the bear could really feel that bite through all that fur of his, but nevertheless, it got his attention. To my horror, the bear turned and swatted his razor-sharp claws at my dog. Direct hit. Chucky yelped and flew toward the picnic table. The bear turned and looked at my fallen dog.

I screamed. Was Chucky dead?