The Potluck Club (23 page)

No, too much fur padding,
I realized as he sprang back to life. With deafening yaps, Chucky circled the bear, dodging in and out of the bear’s comfort zone, ready to attack.

The next thing I knew that bear was loping toward my back fence with Chucky nipping at his heels. I watched as it scrambled over the top and out of sight.

The girls streamed back from the house and surrounded me. Goldie spoke for all when she said, “Vonnie, you could have been killed!”

Chucky ran back to me, and I lifted him up into my arms. “Not likely, with Chucky on duty,” I laughed, feeling like my legs would buckle.

We all turned and looked at the picnic table. What a mess. Napkins and plates were scattered about the yard, and chocolate was smeared everywhere.

Evie said, “How do you like that, Lisa Leann? That bear didn’t care much for your cinnamon rolls.”

“Well, he’s the only one, then,” Lizzie exclaimed. She turned to Chucky, still nestled in my arms. “And I take back what I said about your dog. He’s a pleasure to have in our club.”

Donna took me aside. “Be prepared for a visit from Clay Whitefield and his camera later. ‘Tiny Dog Scares off Bear’ will make the front page, for sure.”

Later, after we picked up the mess and Donna had phoned in a report to animal control, I said good-bye to Lizzie at the door. She said, “Thanks for having us, Vonnie; this was one of my all-time favorite get-togethers.” She laughed. “This is one meeting that will become part of our Potluck Club lore, I’m sure.”

I nodded at her words while I watched Goldie pull Donna aside. I heard Goldie ask, “Donna, any more news from the love and war department?”

Now, that piqued my curiosity. Had Donna confided in Goldie that she had a boyfriend? And if so, why hadn’t she told me?

I watched as Donna nodded and pulled Goldie closer. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I saw Goldie’s reaction. Goldie paled, grabbed her purse, and practically ran out my front door without even a good-bye. Heavens, what was that all about?

Before I could find out, Evie pulled me aside to discuss Lisa Leann’s nerve at praying for “our” pastor’s wife. Of course, Lisa Leann couldn’t overhear us; she had already left, and by the time Evie was through criticizing her, we were alone. Poor Evie. I tried to reason with her, but my pleas of, “Evie, Jan is Lisa Leann’s pastor’s wife too, you know,” fell on deaf ears.

Finally, I was able to wave good-bye as she headed out my front door. I turned to Chucky, exhausted. “Well, boy, care to join me on the La-Z-Boy for a quick nap? The media could show up any minute, you famous mutt you.” Chucky followed me to our favorite spot and leaped into my lap. Just as I started to close my eyes, I noticed that Donna had rearranged the photographs on the hearth. What a sweetheart. How lucky I was to have her in my life.

27

Oh, she’s got some
stories to tell . . .

Sal had always kept a police scanner in the back of the café, so as soon as Donna called animal control, the news about Chucky and the bear spread faster than butter on Larry’s just-made hotcakes.

Minutes later, Donna walked in, taking the heat for allowing a dog to be the hero of the day rather than herself. In her “Donna-esque” fashion, she dismissed them all, then sat across the table from Clay. “Take a look,” she said, pushing an old photograph framed in an equally aged brass frame across the table. “Recognize anyone?”

“I certainly do.” Wow, did this photo bring back memories.

“I’m going to have it reframed at Christi’s,” she said, shoulders flung back with a mixture of pride and excitement. “It’s Vonnie’s birthday. She’s going to be so surprised!”

Clay nodded, taking note of all the young faces—now adult men and women—lined up outside the church with their beloved Sunday school teacher. “A lot going on behind this photograph,” he said. “A lot of stories to tell.” He looked up at Donna. “If we’d only known then what we know now.”

28

Fresh Discovery

I patted my black sweater tucked on the floorboard of my Bronco and placed the paper bag labeled “Christi’s Frame Shop” on top. I was glad for my stroke of brilliance, totally unplanned, of course. Somehow when I saw that old photo of our Sunday school class in that cheap brass frame, I knew what I had to do for Vonnie’s birthday. I would reframe her beloved print.

I’d felt a surge of excitement as I shopped at Christi’s. I’d tugged out the photo, then held it next to every frame I saw—gold, mahogany, ornate carved oak, porcelain, and pewter.

Finally Christi herself came over to see what was taking so long. Christi was a natural Colorado beauty who had moved to Summit View from Boulder. She was all of twenty-five years old with long brown hair braided down her back. She wore not a hint of makeup on her peaches-and-cream complexion. Besides her natural beauty, she had it made. She was one of our town’s lucky trustfunders. Set for life, she merely played at being a shopkeep by framing scenic mountain prints she photographed herself. Her high prices reflected her good taste.

When I showed her the print, she gushed, “Donna, is that you with Mrs. Westbrook from church from, what, back in the eighties?”

“Afraid so. I want to get this reframed for her birthday next week.”

Christi nodded. “Great idea.”

“So, what do you think?” I asked, holding up my selections thus far.

Christi looked at my assortment, then suggested, “I’m thinking the wooden frames look best. I could mat it for you too. That would cost a little extra, but it would look really great.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “This wooden carved frame comes with a blue mat, and that looks pretty nice. I think I’ll just go with that and do it myself.”

“Good choice.”

Christi carefully wrapped the frame with tissue paper and put it in the bag for me, along with the receipt.

I felt pleased with myself as I headed my Bronco toward Dad’s house. It was our weekly night to get together, and I couldn’t wait to show him the old photograph and catch him up on today’s Potluck adventures. He loved a good story, though he always seemed a little too interested in any story that pertained to Evangeline Benson, no matter how nerdy I tried to make her sound.

Perched in the back seat was a grocery sack filled with everything I would need to create a chicken marsala dinner. I’d printed out the recipe from an e-recipe book called
Great Chicken Recipes
, which I’d downloaded from RecipeCoach.com. I smiled. This was just the kind of dish Dad would love. We usually ordered pizza, but tonight was to be special because I was celebrating the fact that my rotating schedule had finally returned to the day shift.

I pulled into the driveway. Dad’s alpine bungalow was covered in cedar and stained aqua trimmed with gray. I had spent my entire growing-up years here. But since I’d moved out, Dad had turned my old bedroom into his office, filling it with a secondhand desk and chair, along with an old filing cabinet the department had discarded. The walls were bare except for my old Barbie clock, which still kept good time.

I let myself into the house with my key and set my bags down in the kitchen. I then switched on the light and looked around. Over the years, all traces of a woman’s touch had somehow evaporated. Dad’s kitchen was a case in point. It was neat but painted stark white with no hint of imagination. The living room wasn’t much better. Again, Dad had painted the walls white, while his sofa was vinyl brown leather, as was his easy chair. The focal point of the living room was nothing less than Dad’s new big-screen TV. His old console was pushed to the side and now housed his twenty-year collection of
On Patrol
magazine.

As I began to prepare dinner, I first pounded the chicken breasts with a meat cleaver I’d found shoved in the back of his utensil drawer. After I sautéed the green onions and mushrooms in butter, I set them aside and browned the chicken. I added the chicken broth and marsala and stirred in the mushrooms and green onions. I let the mixture bubble until it thickened.

As for the side dishes, I had a large plastic tub of store-made potato salad complete with a can of freshly opened green beans. This would be some feast.

I had just set the table when Dad pulled in the driveway. He was already unbuckling his gun belt when he walked in the door.

“Hey, Donna, what smells so good?” He gave me a peck on the cheek.

“Chicken marsala,” I announced.

“Sounds good.” He put his gun belt on top of the refrigerator, just as he had when I was a toddler.

“Heard there was some excitement over at the Westbrooks’ today,” he chuckled. “Clay told me all about it after his interview with Vonnie and Evie.”

“He interviewed Evie?”

Dad and I sat down and began to shovel the food on our plates. Dad continued, “Clay asked me which Potlucker I recommended as a good interviewee. I suggested you naturally, but he said he needed a fresh face. That’s when I thought of Evie.” Dad chuckled again. “Clay told me she bent his ear for an hour and a half.”

I smiled and tried not to roll my eyes. “You don’t say.”

Dad grinned. “What I’d really like to hear is your version of this tale.”

As we enjoyed the meal, I repeated the story, pausing for questions and laughter.

Later, after we cleared the table and washed the dishes, I pulled out the old framed photograph and sat down at the kitchen table. “Dad, take a look at this.”

Dad sat down across from me and handed me a steaming mug of coffee, then took a sip of his. “Say, is this you and Vonnie Westbrook?” He laughed. “Why, just look at you two, fast friends since the beginning of time.”

I pulled the oak frame, carved with forget-me-nots, from the Christi’s bag and said, “I thought I’d reframe it for her birthday. What do you think?”

“Good idea.” He turned the picture over, then slid the cardboard backing out of the old frame. “There’s another photograph under here.”

He pulled out what appeared to be an old wedding photograph and handed it to me. “What do you make of this?”

The yellowed photo showed a couple, a handsome Latino man dressed in a sky-blue suit smiling down at a petite blue-eyed blond who was holding a bouquet of tiger lilies. “That looks like a very young Vonnie,” I said.

Dad nodded. “But the groom doesn’t look a thing like Fred.”

My chest constricted. “No, Dad, and as a matter of fact, the groom looks like a fellow I just met, a guy named David Harris.” “Harris?”

I slowly turned over the photograph. “Some Californian claiming to be searching for his birth mother, a Jewel something or other, said to be living in Summit View.”

I looked at the back of the photograph and read the carefully printed words. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph and Yvonne Jewel.

The picture slipped from my fingers and floated to the floor.

“Let me see that,” Dad said as he reached over and picked up the photo. He studied it for a moment, then looked back up at me. “If this doesn’t beat anything.”

I nodded.

“Somehow, Donna, I think you’ve just found David Harris’s mother.” He studied me for a minute. “So, what are you going to do?”

I was almost too stunned to answer. I slowly shook my head. “Honestly? I don’t have a clue.”

All I did know was that the only woman I had called my friend had betrayed me with a past she had failed to share. As I stared at the picture of the happy couple, my shock turned into anger. Could Vonnie be living a lie? Had she run out on her first husband after putting her baby, her own flesh and blood, up for adoption? That meant she was no better than my own mother. To abandon your baby . . . well, it couldn’t get much lower than that.

Vonnie, to think that I admired you, loved you like a mother, thought
you were special. Instead, you’re the worst liar I know.

29

What secrets doesn’t
that girl know . . .

At least every other day, Clay drove from Higher Grounds to the courthouse before making his way to the newspaper office. He checked on recent arrests and various other unsavory Summit View activities.

Not that there was much, but it gave him an excuse to stay on top of things. To catch the more male-oriented gossip. To check on Donna, most of all.

He entered the door nearest booking, skimmed over the names scrawled in a large black leather book, noted that no one had been brought in over the past forty-eight, and then sauntered to the side of the building where Sheriff Vesey typically kept himself.

A quick glance to the left as he entered the room told him that Donna was not at her desk. Sheriff Vesey, however, was sitting at his, staring at the monitor of his computer, scribbling frantically on a yellow legal pad.

“Sheriff,” Clay greeted, stepping into his office.

Vernon’s head jerked up and he dropped his pen, laying his arm across the pad and his notes. Clay was quick enough to catch a word or two:

Harris.

California.

He narrowed his eyes at the sheriff. “Whatcha got going there?” he asked. Did Donna and her dad know something about Harris?

Vernon flipped the pad over. “Police business,” he said, turning the monitor off.

Clay had missed his chance to read the screen by milliseconds. But his curiosity had been piqued, and for a reporter, that was everything.