A manda had never seen a religious authority’s naked legs before. Not counting Mark’s anyway.
Ervin Plumley’s legs looked like chicken limbs fresh out of the plastic bag. Pinkish white and plucked, with saggy skin around the joints.
Over a barrel-shaped torso, he wore a monogrammed knit shirt tucked into coach’s shorts. The emblem on his shirt read LAKEVIEW COMMUNITY CHURCH. Sweat stains soaked through the underarms in spite of the Panhandle’s cooler temperature. What he lacked in appearances, he made up for in enthusiasm.
“Howdy… howdy… hi!” he shouted up to the U-Haul. Pearly teeth shone through his beard as he waved a tanned forearm.
Several women started up from folding lawn chairs in a circle on the driveway. A brunette smoothed her skirt over slender hips. An elderly grandmother type scuttled to a folding table and adjusted some serving pieces. One lady pulled a compact from her purse and checked her lipstick.
Amanda realized they looked as nervous as she felt, and found strength enough to unbuckle her seat belt. She stepped down to the cracked driveway and leaned in to get Mr. Chesters in his traveling cage, covered with a towel to keep him from going ballistic. A bewildered mewl sounded from inside. The cat’s weight shifted, tilting the carrier in her hand.
Mark came around the truck and took the box from her. “We can do this.”
“I know. I’m okay.” She wasn’t okay, but he tried so hard. He’d handled everything from the planning to the packing, taking care of her along the way. Pulled all this together, not just for himself, but for her too. They both wanted this move to work, and she would do her best to see that it did. After all, she’d signed on for the long haul. For better or for worse.
Looking at her new life, at a group of complete strangers, she couldn’t tell which end of that spectrum she faced.
“You’ll see,” Mark whispered. “It’ll be fine. Hang in there.” His lips came soft against her hair. He faced the small gathering. “Well, we made it!” After setting the case down, he threw his arms wide. The triumphant traveler.
A spattering of applause ran through the group, a few men in cutoffs and Wranglers came up and clapped Mark on the back.
Amanda freed Mr. Chesters, coaxing his shaking form from the shadows near the back of the cage. She wished, for an instant, she could trade places with him and hide in a small, dark place.
“Quite a rig you got there.” A tall man with a wide Western belt smacked the side of the U-Haul. “What kind of mileage she get?”
“Eight to ten.”
The man whistled through his teeth, low and long. “At least it’s a one-way trip,” he reasoned. “I’m Joe Don Wexley.”
“Mark Reynolds. Good to know you.”
“Well, we’re not paying for the return drive, so I guess you’re stuck with us.” The chicken-legged man edged close to the U-Haul and pumped Mark’s hand up and down a few times. “Good to see you again, son.”
The interview process had been mostly by telephone, but Ervin and Mark held a meeting in Dallas, a halfway point, to shake hands and discuss particulars while Amanda recovered in Houston. She didn’t know what excuse Mark had used for her absence at that final interview, but the miscarriage wasn’t part of the dialogue.
“No need to air our problems,” Mark had said.
Our problems. She understood. James Montclair hadn’t told, and the new church didn’t know about the baby or the miscarriage. It would be Mark and Amanda’s secret.
The new job depended on it.
Mark’s boss smiled at Amanda. “Ervin Plumley. Glad to finally lay eyes on you.”
Ervin turned back to the house. “Hope y’all like it. We’ve tried to get her shipshape for you, but if there’s anything you need, just let us know.”
The house looked like an unruly toddler who’d just had a scrubbing. Freshly painted trim brightened uneven brick, a new cedar swing hung from the tiny porch. Flowerbeds wound around the edges of the house. Plantings of yellow flowers with big, dark eyes bobbed in the wind, nodding hello to the newcomers.
Joe Don hooked a thumb in his belt loop. “Me and the boys got down under the house for you. Plumbing’s sound. Wiring’s covered, no termites. That’s the thing about pier and beam, you can figure out what the he …”-Joe Don shot a guilty look at Ervin-“… eck’s going on without having to get a jackhammer.”
A small woman with dark eyes stood on the edge of their conversation. “Pansies.” Her soft voice in the midst of the deeper tones drew Amanda’s attention.
“I’m sorry?” Amanda put Mr. Chesters down, and he darted to the side of the house, his tail splayed out like a toilet brush. She hoped he wouldn’t go far.
“Pansies. They’re only annuals-so if you don’t like them, you can take them out.” The woman bit her lip, looking at the cheerful beds. “Do you like them?”
Dirt formed semicircles on the tips of the gardener’s nails as she twisted the end of her T-shirt.
“Yes,” Amanda decided. “I’m Amanda Reynolds.”
“Of course.” The woman raised her hand, then noticed her soil-stained fingers and did a quick retreat. “Oh!” She settled on a short, flappy wave. “Yes, hi. Um, I’m Missy Underwood. That’s my husband, Jimmy.”
Jimmy was bent over digging in a cooler, so all Amanda could see were jean shorts riding dangerously low on a flat behind.
“You can meet him in a minute.” Missy’s face reddened and she focused on the flowers again. “We weren’t sure what kind you’d want, or even if you garden. We went with something seasonal that would last. With fall coming on, they should make it through winter.”
“I don’t know much about gardening, really.” At Missy’s crestfallen expression, Amanda added, “But I do want to learn.”
“Oh, I’m no expert either.” Missy’s words fell over themselves like eager puppies. “But I can tell you about pansies. I planted some at my house, and they’re going gangbusters.” Missy shoved her hands in the deep pockets of her culottes. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m bragging.”
“No, not at all.” The smell of the cut grass and new paint wrapped around Amanda like a comforter, even as the ache resonated through her inner thighs to the bottoms of her feet. She hadn’t stood this long in a while.
Ervin’s drawl to the men overrode their conversation. “Joe Don here runs a farm way south of town, and he’s a handy fella to know when it comes to fixing most things.”
Joe Don shuffled his left boot under this great praise.
“He’s the one who did most of the work on the house for y’all,” Ervin said.
“Thank you so much.” Mark shared a glance with Amanda. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate being able to move right in.”
“Well, we want you to feel like Potter Springs is home.” Ervin clasped an arm around Mark’s shoulder. “We’re glad to have you, son. So glad to have you.”
The preacher turned to Amanda. He wasn’t very tall, so she didn’t have to crane her neck to look at him. His eyes were brown and opaque. He took her hand gently, not a shake really, but a hand-holding. “And you too, little miss. Welcome to Potter.”
Amanda pulled away first. “The house looks beautiful. Thank you.”
“My gosh.” Ervin slapped his forehead. “Here I am yapping at y’all, and you’re probably dead on your feet. Peggy, come on over here and help these kids inside the house.”
Peggy radiated competence as she marched up to the group in soft-soled nurse’s shoes. She stood four inches taller than Ervin and outweighed him by thirty pounds. She wore a shiny floral shirt over stretchy pants. Her short curly hair had more than a few specks of gray twisted in it.
“I’m Peggy, Ervin’s wife. Been married twenty-eight years, and he’s hauled me all over the state of Texas, and some other places too.” She didn’t shake hands but grabbed Amanda immediately into a crushing hug. “I know just how you feel, honeygirl.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” Amanda murmured into the polyester folds. “A little tired.”
“It’ll get better,” Peggy assured as she patted Amanda’s back in a soothing rhythm. As if she’d known her forever, or was kin somehow. “And you’ll like Potter Springs too. Maybe not now, but it’ll grow on you. It’s like a fungus that way, but a good kind.”
When Peggy released her, Amanda realized she’d been hugging the woman back.
The men circled around Mark, talking, asking him questions. He looked for her over their shoulders, and she nodded to him, I’m okay.
Nonverbal marital permission. Go ahead and play with the boys, I’ll go crochet with the womenfolk. My heart isn’t broken, and I can’t wait to exchange cookie recipes.
Mark went back to whatever story he was telling. As Amanda followed Peggy across the driveway, she heard the men’s laughter and knew he had them in the palm of his hand already. Golden-boy.
Peggy ushered Amanda through the bustling one-car garage and shooed the welcoming women out of the way. “Y’all get back to the truck and start bringing the little stuff in. Amanda here needs to sit down a minute, and she don’t need y’all pecking around her like a bunch of hens.”
“Who’s calling who a hen around here?” In the kitchen, a rosycheeked woman with oversized pot-holder mittens took a steaming casserole out of the oven. “I’m Shelinda James,” she announced, shoving the oven door closed with one skinny hip. Placing the dish with care on the stovetop, she grinned at Amanda. “Hope you like King Ranch. We’ve got this for your dinner and a few more frozen besides.”
“Thanks so much, you didn’t have to-” All the faces, the sincere smiles, combined to overwhelm Amanda. She couldn’t arrange her own expression in an appropriate response.
But no one seemed to notice, or mind in the least.
“It’s nothing. Really, we’re just busybodies and wanted to be the first to get a good look at you.” Shelinda laughed and covered the casserole with foil. “If I get to vote, I think you’ll do just fine.” She pointed a spatula. “And don’t you talk her ear off, Peggy. We want her to like us.”
“Shelinda, hush now and get on out to the truck.” Peggy flapped her arms. “You can start with the kitchen things.”
“She’s bossy, but good as gold, Mrs. Reynolds. I’ll catch up with you later. Maybe have coffee or something.”
The woman’s easy manner and offer of companionship pulled at Amanda. She sensed a future friend here. “Please, call me Amanda.”
“Amanda then.” Shelinda nodded with a smile. “Welcome home.” The ruffled lace curtains on the back door fluttered as she stepped out into the garage.
Home. She sat in a cool metal card chair in the quiet of the empty den. The house wasn’t much bigger than a cracker box, but the voices outside remained thankfully muted.
Peggy’s pants made scratchy sounds as she seated herself next to Amanda.
Red and orange streaks filtered through the high windows from the backyard. Leaves swayed, making cutout pictures of light. A tree. My backyard has a tree. She’d taken trees for granted in south Texas. Not anymore.
Potter Springs hadn’t been quite the Mayberry she’d hoped for. But not as bad as she’d feared either.
Dusty on the outskirts, flat all the way through. But green in town, just like Mark had said. Their postage-stamp lawn, the tree, the shrubs here and there. Green meant someone took the time to water. To nurture. Making green must take a long time in the Texas Panhandle.
Amanda wondered if she’d ever be green again.
Soft hands covered hers and squeezed. Peggy shifted on the chair to get closer. “Now, tell me, honeygirl. How was the trip? How are you?”
And to Amanda’s surprise, waves of unshed tears rushed from her eyes and made dotted patterns on Peggy Plumley’s polyester pants.