into a damp church basement like some big-boned zaftig pack mule.”
“That’s all I’m saying.” I turned to my friend. “Is that so much to ask?”
“Apparently.” She looked past me, toward the doorway.
“You should be lifting your own babies and little children, Bernadette. You should have a big, strong husband to carry that for you.” Gallina Roja backed into the room. Her hands flapped with every word, and her bony little wings—um, arms —swung back and forth, giving the impression that she thought her granddaughter might crumple under the weight of the dark brown cardboard file box at any moment and she would need to catch the contents, piece by piece, like a circus performer gathering juggling pins. “Get that thing in here and do something with yourself before the new minister sees you and decides he should become a priest.”
At that suggestion, Jake Cordell stood up. Whether he intended to go over and offer to take the box from Bernadette, or had just gotten to his feet out of deference at the ladies’ having entered the room, I don’t know. I will never know, because he had hardly taken a step away from his folding metal chair when his whole face lit up and his hand went swinging outward in greeting.
“Well, hey, there. You must be this Bernadette I’ve heard so much about. I am definitely very pleased to meet—”
Crack.
Splat.
Ooph.
In short order, the seam of the box split.
The contents pitched forward and hit the floor. Bernadette lurched. Trying to save herself, she clomped down her shoe, hit a piece of paper and started to flail and skid—until she plunked down on her well-padded bottom and went sprawling right at the poorly shod feet of Jake Cordell and the scuffed-up army boots of the young girl who ran the health-food booth.
That girl hardly missed a beat as she faced the man who had so clearly been enamored of her quiet entrance by saying, “No, my name is Chloe Morgan. I believe that’s Bernadette.”
As I believe I’ve mentioned, there is much to be said for the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing. At least as far as committees are concerned.
Maxine and I certainly had tried to keep our mouths shut about our matchmaking agenda. But somehow it always seems that a woman like Bernadette ends up looking like she has two left feet.
Chapter Four
T hey say you never get a second chance at a first impression. When you meet new people, they pretty much make up their minds about you in less than a minute. No wonder commercials no longer bother to tell clever stories or offer testimonials. They know you are not going to take the time to listen and observe, to compare and evaluate. So they shout, tout and get out.
That’s the reality of things these days. We are living in a shout-tout-and-get-out world. The clock is ticking. Impress me, or don’t waste my time. One minute. That’s a lot of pressure for a person like Bernadette, who in all probability hasn’t actually made up her own mind about herself, about who she really is and, most importantly, about who she is capable of being.
“So, what do you think about Jake?” I asked Bernadette the next day as we stood in the side lot of the old drive.
In my brilliance and, frankly, my desperation to save the day and grant Bernadette that most unlikely of gifts—a second chance—I had suggested that those who had showed up for our first council meeting should form into two subcommittees.
It made sense, really, because by the time we got all the spilled papers cleared away and the introductions over with, Jan had to leave to pick up her husband from physical therapy. And because Jake and Chloe seemed to hit it off, and Gloria continued to snap at her daughter, and that still-red-headed terror Gallina Roja kept scratching around trying to find out if Jake was the marrying type, we weren’t getting any work done….
And by work, I mean matchmaking, of course. I took it upon myself, as the chairperson,
“That’s all I’m saying.” I turned to my friend. “Is that so much to ask?”
“Apparently.” She looked past me, toward the doorway.
“You should be lifting your own babies and little children, Bernadette. You should have a big, strong husband to carry that for you.” Gallina Roja backed into the room. Her hands flapped with every word, and her bony little wings—um, arms —swung back and forth, giving the impression that she thought her granddaughter might crumple under the weight of the dark brown cardboard file box at any moment and she would need to catch the contents, piece by piece, like a circus performer gathering juggling pins. “Get that thing in here and do something with yourself before the new minister sees you and decides he should become a priest.”
At that suggestion, Jake Cordell stood up. Whether he intended to go over and offer to take the box from Bernadette, or had just gotten to his feet out of deference at the ladies’ having entered the room, I don’t know. I will never know, because he had hardly taken a step away from his folding metal chair when his whole face lit up and his hand went swinging outward in greeting.
“Well, hey, there. You must be this Bernadette I’ve heard so much about. I am definitely very pleased to meet—”
Crack.
Splat.
Ooph.
In short order, the seam of the box split.
The contents pitched forward and hit the floor. Bernadette lurched. Trying to save herself, she clomped down her shoe, hit a piece of paper and started to flail and skid—until she plunked down on her well-padded bottom and went sprawling right at the poorly shod feet of Jake Cordell and the scuffed-up army boots of the young girl who ran the health-food booth.
That girl hardly missed a beat as she faced the man who had so clearly been enamored of her quiet entrance by saying, “No, my name is Chloe Morgan. I believe that’s Bernadette.”
As I believe I’ve mentioned, there is much to be said for the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing. At least as far as committees are concerned.
Maxine and I certainly had tried to keep our mouths shut about our matchmaking agenda. But somehow it always seems that a woman like Bernadette ends up looking like she has two left feet.
Chapter Four
T hey say you never get a second chance at a first impression. When you meet new people, they pretty much make up their minds about you in less than a minute. No wonder commercials no longer bother to tell clever stories or offer testimonials. They know you are not going to take the time to listen and observe, to compare and evaluate. So they shout, tout and get out.
That’s the reality of things these days. We are living in a shout-tout-and-get-out world. The clock is ticking. Impress me, or don’t waste my time. One minute. That’s a lot of pressure for a person like Bernadette, who in all probability hasn’t actually made up her own mind about herself, about who she really is and, most importantly, about who she is capable of being.
“So, what do you think about Jake?” I asked Bernadette the next day as we stood in the side lot of the old drive.
In my brilliance and, frankly, my desperation to save the day and grant Bernadette that most unlikely of gifts—a second chance—I had suggested that those who had showed up for our first council meeting should form into two subcommittees.
It made sense, really, because by the time we got all the spilled papers cleared away and the introductions over with, Jan had to leave to pick up her husband from physical therapy. And because Jake and Chloe seemed to hit it off, and Gloria continued to snap at her daughter, and that still-red-headed terror Gallina Roja kept scratching around trying to find out if Jake was the marrying type, we weren’t getting any work done….
And by work, I mean matchmaking, of course. I took it upon myself, as the chairperson,
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