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

sleep till 11:00 in the morning. Then I would grab my Crock-Pot, stop at the grocery for apple cider, and head for Evangeline’s house for the next installment of our little Potluck Club.

9
    No one can call her
a cream puff . . .
    If Clay had said it once, he’s said it a thousand times: Donna Vesey is no cream puff. She doesn’t tread lightly, and she says just what’s on her mind. “Believe me, I know,” he said to Larry, Higher Grounds’s chief cook and bottle washer. “I’ve been on the other side of her sharp tongue enough times to testify.”
    “Who hasn’t?” Larry asked with a wry grin. He leaned over the countertop of the bar, resting his elbows against the edge. “Knowing that girl can leave a man with scars he doesn’t want to talk about.”
    Clay nodded in agreement. “But on the flip side,” he said, “I know enough about Donna Vesey to write a book . . . and I just may one day. I’d call it Feisty , because that’s a good word for her.” “That ain’t what I’d call it,” Larry said. “But I can’t repeat what I’d call it.” He grabbed at the damp cloth nearby and stepped back. “Gotta get back to work before Sal fires me,” he said with a wink.
    Clay gave him a “take care” salute, then flipped open the notebook he kept handy at all times.
    “Donna Vesey,” he scribbled, then rested his chin in the palm of his hand. Nah, he wouldn’t ever write that book. He and Donna went way back. Too far for him to say much else, because, like it or not, he considered himself a gentleman.
    “ PLC, ” he jotted, then shook his head. A smart guy like him couldn’t help but wonder what a girl like Donna was doing in the Potluck.
    Among other things . . .

10
    Barbecuing the Competition
    When my alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., I bounced out of bed. Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about disturbing Henry; he’d gotten up at 5:00 and had already left for his favorite fishing hole. That meant I had the place all to myself. I flipped on the radio to K-LOVE, a godsend of contemporary Christian music that somehow reached this remote mountain town. I turned up the volume to sing with Michael W. Smith as he belted out one of my favorites, “Place in This World.”
    The coffee’s automatic timer had already started my first pot of coffee brewing, and my trusty bread machine with its automatic programming had just finished baking a loaf of apple cinnamon bread. It looked perfectly risen with a cinnamon tan. I checked the brisket. It had been in the oven simmering for more than ten hours. In a couple more hours the tender slab of barbeque would be ready to serve. My home was a symphony of aromas and music. I felt sorry for Henry. Imagine, he was missing all this wonder just to stand in his waders in a freezing river.
    After I sipped my cream-swirled coffee, ate a slice of fresh bread with apple butter, and danced with Video Jane, as I call Ms. Fonda, I returned to my bathroom and warmed up the shower. I slipped out of my gold satin pj’s and stepped under the hot jet. Hmmm. This did beat a hot, muggy morning in Houston. Things would almost be perfect here. Almost, if only it weren’t so lonely.
    After my shower, I slipped into my designer teal blue sweater with the fringe around the bottom, my size-four blue jeans, and my kicky black leather boots, then I applied my makeup with the skill of an artist. After that, I combed my hair to curl just so around my face. Happily, in this mountain air, it would be dry in no time. Next, I grabbed my Bible and headed for the deck with my favorite comforter.
    The morning was crisp, and the sky already a brilliant blue. The lake sparkled with reflections of the mountainsides. Gone were all traces of yesterday evening’s snow shower, except for a couple of white patches hiding in the shadows. It was amazing how fast the weather could change around here. Like last evening, one minute we had swirling snow and the next minute we had brilliant stars. It was all