The Potluck Club by Linda Evans Shepherd and Eva Marie Everson Page B

domain. And as for Donna, she was a woman who ate a meal without so much of a prayer or blessing. There was a lot more to her than her dear Grace Church friends suspected. I detected a lot of pent-up anger. But why? A dark secret, perhaps? Whatever it was, not only was I going to find out, I would somehow manage to give her a much-deserved makeover. I could hardly wait to get started.

11
    She’s got some nerve . . .
    Clay had seen Lizzie Prattle in the Higher Grounds Café earlier that day, so he knew the Potluck Club had been canceled. The news had caused a bit of a stir among those, like him, who were sitting there nursing hot cups of coffee and finishing off plates of the daily breakfast special.
    “Everybody knows that Evie doesn’t call off the meeting for just any reason.” Sal, the owner of Higher Grounds, was poised with coffeepot in hand as she refilled his cup for the fifth time that morning. “That’s just odd,” she continued. “Wonder what’s going on over at Evie’s?” “Maybe she’s not feeling well. Cold weather coming in . . . some people are getting sick,” someone from behind Clay said, though he wasn’t sure who.
    Lizzie shook her head. “Evie’s fine. Whatever the reason, I’m sure it’s a good one.”
    But when Clay saw Lisa Leann’s car heading toward Evie’s side of town, he spoke out loud but to no one in particular. “There goes trouble.” In spite of himself, he chuckled a bit. For a little bitty thing, he thought, that woman carries a lot of nerve.
    Not too much later, Donna’s Bronco passed by the café, heading in the same direction. This time, Clay nearly fell out of his chair. “What’s so funny?” Sal asked from the counter.
    He shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered. “I just got a mental picture of three hens fighting in a coop.”
    Sal frowned. “You need help,” she said.
    “Someone does,” he said, reaching for his notebook and pen. “But it’s not me.”

12
    Mincing Words
    It didn’t take long after our canceled Potluck Club meeting for us to know why the postponement. Evie’s niece coming to town seven months pregnant jolted us to no end; I won’t lie about it. After all, this was Leigh whose swollen belly we were suddenly staring at a whole day later in the middle of the church parking lot. Leigh, who’d come to visit every summer and who’d played with my own daughter, Michelle.
    Michelle and Leigh are the same age. When Leigh came to visit Evie alone for the first time, the girls were about eight years old. Evie explained to Leigh that there was a little girl she could play with, but that the little girl—my daughter—was deaf. Couldn’t hear sounds and couldn’t speak well enough to always be understood, though she does have a voice. I think it’s a beautiful voice.
    Leigh wasn’t the least bit intimidated by this. We brought the girls together, my old chum and I, and allowed their hearts to blend in a very special way. In no time, Leigh was attempting to learn sign language, and by the end of the summer she’d pretty well mastered it. For Michelle, it was more than merely gaining a new friend, or even a hearing friend. Michelle attended Denver Institute for the Deaf in those days, so she had plenty of deaf friends. They seemed to have so much in common.
    The girls loved Barbie. And Cabbage Patch dolls. And biking on warm afternoons. They spoke of their friends; Michelle’s from the Institute and Leigh’s from West Virginia. During the school year they wrote letters to each other and, eventually, when personal computers became as common as television, they emailed. The passing years only added to their camaraderie. They shared favorite movies and music, stories of boyfriends and future plans.
    To my knowledge, however, they’d never talked about being unwed mothers.
    I asked Michelle about it as soon as we returned home from church that autumn morning.
    “Did you know?” I signed to her.
    She shook her head no, then started up