“So what? Get up and try again.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Only one way to find out.”
I touch the edge of the photo, feeling the curl of the aged paper.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”
Then I go to bed, and for the first time since I arrived in Copper Creek, I sleep without dreaming of my mother’s disappointed face.
CHAPTER 7
The church potluck is at noon.
I learn this information at approximately 11:47 a.m., when Dolly appears at the top of my apartment stairs, slightly out of breath and holding a casserole dish that smells like heaven.
“You’re coming, right?” she asks, as if we’ve already had this conversation. “To the potluck?”
I’m standing in my kitchen in my silk pajamas, holding a cup of coffee, with my hair doing something that can only be described as being “ambitious.”
“I have not been informed of any potluck. What potluck?”
“The First Baptist monthly potluck. Everybody goes. Mavis never missed a single one.” Dolly sets the casserole dish on my counter and looks me up and down, her expression telling me that my current state of dress is not acceptable.“You’ve got about ten minutes to make yourself look presentable. I’ll wait.”
“Dolly, I can’t just… I don’t have anything to bring. I’m not even Baptist?—”
“Honey, half the people there aren’t Baptists. It’s not about religion; it’s about community.”
She’s already moving toward my closet, which feels like a huge invasion of privacy. I should protest, but I don’t.
“And don’t worry about bringing something. You’re new. First time’s a freebie.”
“I really don’t think?—”
“Wear this,” she says, holding up a dress that I don’t remember packing. A navy sheath with tasteful white piping. “This is church-appropriate, but not too fancy. And for heaven’s sake, you’ve got to do something with that hair.”
Thirteen minutes later, because Dolly’s definition of ten minutes is apparently flexible, I’m in the passenger seat of her ancient Buick, speeding toward the First Baptist Church of Copper Creek as she fills me in on everything I need to know.
“Now, Pastor Dale’s a sweetheart. Don’t let the title intimidate you. His wife, Ruthie, makes the best banana pudding in three counties, so be sure to compliment it. Mayor Birdie will corner you within five minutes of your arrival. Just smile and nod, and don’t commit to anything. And whatever you do, don’t mention the new stoplight. It’s a sore subject.”
“The new stoplight?”
“Long story. Just don’t mention it.”
I’m trying to process this flood of information when we pull into the church parking lot, which is already packed with vehicles, pickup trucks mostly, but also a surprising number of sedans and a few minivans.
“Remember,” Dolly says as we get out. “These are good people. They loved Mavis, and they wanna love you too. Just let them.”
I’m not sure how to let people love me, but I follow Dolly through the front doors anyway, clutching my purse like a lifeline.
The fellowship hall is chaos. It’s organized chaos, I suppose, but chaos nonetheless. Long folding tables are covered with food, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. Casseroles, salads, and desserts in endless variety. People stand in groups, talking and laughing, while children weave between the adults like small, sugar-fueled torpedoes. The noise level is equivalent to that of a small stadium.
“Eleanor.”
A woman stands in front of me with the sudden intensity of a heat-seeking missile. She’s small, maybe five foot three, with a honey-blonde bob that’s shellacked into architectural perfection. She’s wearing a coral pantsuit with a big flag pin on the lapel.
“I’m Birdie Parsons, mayor of this fine town. I’ve just been dying to meet you properly.”
