Potter Springs (9 page)

“Not too much,” Mark answered. “A few more hours, after we stop for gas.”

She bent over to find her flip-flops, feeling a warm gush between her legs. She straightened and rubbed the small of her back,
hoping with every hope in her body that Potter Springs would be the refuge she needed.

A place to heal.

POTTER SPRINGS, TEN MORE MILES
, read the sign. Mark saw Amanda shift straighter in her seat. He snapped off the radio and rolled down the window, letting
the town’s breath roll into the stagnant U-Haul.

The minutes passed slowly, the landscape still yellow and flat. They rode in silence, with only the music of the rushing wind
and the occasional roar of an oncoming car or truck. The road narrowed and dipped down, and the landscape turned greener on
either side.

He glanced at her to see if she noticed the green. Green, he knew, was important to her.

WELCOME TO POTTER SPRINGS!
announced a hand-painted placard with a cow on it.
POPULATION
10,927. Tended shrubs grew at the base. No trash cluttered the embankments leading into town.

They passed a few truck stops and twenty-four-hour coffee shops. In town, a sixties-inspired post office threatened to take
off for outer space at any minute. Mark eased the U-Haul to a halt at a light in Potter Springs’ downtown square.

Their new hometown.

The courthouse, with red-brown brick and a towering steeple, dominated the four surrounding streets. Manicured trees and a
statue of a man on a horse decorated the grassy area around the building.

Slowly Mark circled the corners. An old movie marquee proclaimed two evening shows of last year’s blockbuster. In front of
an ice-cream shop, customers lounged on wrought-iron chairs, visiting and swatting at flies. A mother shared a vanilla cone
with her baby, pushing the stroller back and forth with her foot.

An antique shop displayed a rusty tricycle and a wide-eyed doll in a wicker carriage. The banner overhead,
DOWNTOWN MINI- ALL
, had a faded place where the
M
for
Mall
must have been. As if the owner preferred the more inclusive title and left well enough alone.

“Need anything?” Mark pointed to the eclectic store. “They’ve got it ‘all,’ ” he punned, hoping to cheer her with bad humor.
Hoping she didn’t hate this small town on sight.

This elicited a small smile from her. “No.”

“Let’s do it then.” He turned down a long street, where they passed a Dairy Queen, a tire shop and an orange building with
B-B-Q
painted in bold black letters.

They veered left again, to a neighborhood with pastel houses with large front porches. Decades-old columns strained against
pitched roofs like strongman Samson from the Bible. Some yards had dogs tied on long metal chains, and too many cars parked
out front. Windows looked like mismatched little girls in various shades of curtains. Not the elegant wood blinds of their
Houston apartment, in muted tones of bone and alabaster.

Katy Thompson, he knew, would hate this neighborhood.

On their new street, Mesquite, they turned right. About halfway down, trucks, minivans and people crowded around a yellow
house with green trim and a bright red door. The garage yawned open, empty save for folding chairs and coolers beside tables
with checked cloths.

Mark slowed even more and they pulled into the driveway, narrow and cracked as an old woman’s face. He killed the engine,
wondering what his bride thought of this strange threshold. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

She looked terrified.

Katy Thompson would despise this house. Dragonlady, no doubt, would sneer at these people.

But would her daughter?

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.”