A lot had happened to the ladies of the Potluck Club.
Then again, a lot had happened to Clay Whitefield, ace reporter for the Gold Rush News, though neither the job nor the title kept him going. What really buttered his biscuits was keeping his eyes and ears open to whatever was happening to his favorite ladies of Summit View, Colorado. The ladies of the Potluck Club.
Evangeline Benson, chief potlucker, had started the club in the dining room of her home years ago when she and the late Ruth Ann McDonald gathered for coffee cake and prayer. By the time Ruth Ann had passed on to glory, the club had grown, adding Lizzie Prattle, high school librarian and wife of Samuel, president of the Gold Mine Bank; Vonnie Westbrook, retired nurse and wife of Fred; Goldie Dippel, one-time homemaker, now legal secretary and wife of Coach Jack Dippel; and Donna Vesey, a deputy sheriff. Finally, and most recently, Lisa Leann Lambert, Texas transplant, had added herself to the mix.
Back up. The other thing that kept Clay Whitefield on his reporter’s toes was the aforementioned Donna Vesey, the youngest member of the Potluck Club.
Clay got up from the scarred desk in his tiny one-room apartment overlooking Main Street, which he shared with his two gerbils, Woodward and Bernstein. He needed a break from the notes he was tapping into his laptop computer, so he walked over to the single window overlooking the touristy town he called home and peered down to the snow-blown streets below.
He wondered what those ladies of the Potluck Club might be up to now. That’s when it hit him. It was Saturday. And not just any Saturday. Potluck Club Saturday. Rumor had it the venue had been changed to Lisa Leann’s home so as to blend a baby shower with the monthly potluck and prayer meeting.
Lisa Leann, his newest and most controversial columnist over at the Gold Rush News.
His stomach rumbled a bit as he spotted Fred Westbrook’s pickup truck heading down Main Street and turning toward where Lisa Leann lived. Clay cocked a red brow. Fred wasn’t alone. But who was that with him?
Could it be . . . nah . . . it couldn’t be.
Or could it?