Free The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek by Jane Myers Perrine Page B

dresser for…I don’t know why. Maybe decoration. Could be to protect the dresser but they don’t. They aren’t waterproof. A spill would go right through.” She shrugged. “But his mother gave me a pair that she’d embroidered at a wedding shower. I should have known they meant trouble. I should have realized I was not the kind of woman who’d take good care of those dresser scarves, not like Magda did. But it’s the boxer shorts I hate most, ironing them.” She sighed.
    “You starch and iron George’s—” Adam stopped, pretty certain he didn’t want to discuss this and wondering why he’d asked for clarification.
    “No starch. Just iron.” She nodded. “That’s how he likes them. That’s what his mother did for her husband and all the wives in the family back through the centuries of Polish women who married Kowalskis. And his shirts. Those I do starch.”
    “Why not take the shirts to the laundry?”
    “George has a chart. It shows how much better and cheaper it is for me to do his shirts, less wear and tear on the fabric so the shirts last longer. Besides, he says I use the right amount of starch and the ones done at the laundry irritate his neck.”
    “Have you ever heard of permanent press, wash and wear, no-iron?”
    “They don’t look as crisp as George likes. He wants the front—” She placed a hand on her chest. “He wants it crisp and without wrinkles. But, you know, I think it’s the boxers I mind most. Who sees them?” She stood, looking resolute. “That’s where I’m going to start, with those boxers,” she said with a vigorous nod. “I’m going to tell him I’m not going to iron them anymore.” She held a hand in front of her, palm forward. “Don’t try to talk me out of this. If he doesn’t like that, he can take care of them himself.” With that, she placed the remaining muffins on a napkin on Adam’s desk, picked up the plate, and stomped off.
     
    * * *
    Why hadn’t she thought about this long ago?
    Ouida nearly skipped across the parking lot and the lawn of the parsonage.
    She’d been a limp rag for too long. When she’d started to date George, she’d been overwhelmed that he was interested in her, amazed this tall, handsome, intelligent man had fallen in love with plain old her. In exchange for his love, she’d done whatever he’d asked: given up her dream of being an artist, quit school to work so he could finish his MBA, and moved to Butternut Creek because he thought that would be a great place to raise a family.
    She’d give him the last point. She loved the little town and she loved her children and, truly, she loved George. But she was overwhelmed suddenly by her complete loss of who she was, her individuality—which she’d been pretty certain she’d had when she’d entered UT.
    Now she wanted more—or, perhaps, less. She wanted to find out more about herself, like why had she given up painting? And why had she allowed herself to change so much?
    She entered the house and looked around. Much like their lives, everything was neat as if it had been lined up with a yardstick. George had charted out the financial burden of children, and had showed on that chart—expenses of college, et cetera—that they should have another child in two years, then stop. On his chart, the last child would be a boy.
    She didn’t want that. Oh, not that she didn’t want another child, but the scheduling of their entire lives on an actuarial table no longer sat well with her. He’d probably also plotted out the date of conception. She used to think George’s compulsiveness added structure to her life, but no longer. Now it drove her nuts.
    She would take charge of their lives now, in little ways like those boxers, and move ahead bit by bit. Perhaps she’d find time to paint again.
    Slowly she turned to study the room. It was spotless, and George wouldn’t be home for hours. Why did she struggle to keep it perfect when George was sixty miles away? She and the