The Potluck Club Read Online Free PDF

about. Finally, Jan let the news of the Potluck Club’s existence slip right through her sticky fingers.
    “No one at the Potluck Club can cook like this,” Jan had said, taking another bite of a warm roll.
    Aha! I could tell that Jan hadn’t meant for that little tidbit to slip. And as I’ve always said, it’s much easier to get the cat out of the bag than to put it back in.
    “Potluck Club? I love potlucks!” I said sweetly.
    Jan was wearing a white T-shirt with scalloped edges. Her cheeks suddenly glowed pink beneath her big brown eyes. Those liquid eyes of hers are fringed by salt-and-pepper bangs, and that short, wavy haircut makes her look like a million dollars. But Jan looked uncomfortable as she crossed her petite legs under her broomstick skirt. That pink skirt absolutely blended with my velvet-covered Victorian chair.
    She cleared her throat. “The Potluck Club? Well, it’s a tradition, really, with some of the church’s old-timers.”
    “Do tell.”
    “Well, they meet once a month for potluck lunch and prayer. But I think it’s a closed group.”
    I just pushed my red curls out of my eyes and stared her down . . . sweetly, of course. “What would it take to get an invitation?” I asked.
    “Lisa, I’m the pastor’s wife and I’m not even a member.”
    Right then I reached for a pad of paper. “Honey, just give me their names. I’ll handle the rest.”
    I’d tried not to laugh at the list of corny names. And the funniest of all had to be Evangeline Benson, the Potluck Club president. I could just imagine Evangeline, a plain-faced spinster with her graying hair pulled up in some painful-looking twist. I love a challenge and made a point to meet her the very next Sunday. Of course, I didn’t go empty-handed. I came armed with a paper plate full of warm cinnamon rolls. And honey, you just can’t ignore rolls like that.
    That Sunday, just before I pulled my rolls from my oven, I’d dressed in a long but simple V-necked chenille dress in a delicious cobalt red. It was belted with a gold metal coin belt that showed off my slender waist. Once at the church, I caught up with Evangeline in the parking lot—one of the parishioners, an elderly gent, had helped point her out. Though his help hadn’t really been necessary.
    I would’ve recognized Evangeline Benson anywhere. I’d been right about the plain face and the hair (except that her hair was cut short and still plain), but I could never have imagined her clothes. That burnt orange and white polka-dotted polyester pantsuit had to be working on at least three decades. At least it was topped off by a lovely white silk scarf. And with that scarf, one could almost forgive such a flagrant fashion violation. But even so, it was hard to forgive her tacky pinecone brooch that held her scarf in place.
    Me in my camel-colored fashion boots skipped across the gravel to where Evangeline stood with a cluster of polyester-clad women. “Evangeline, darlin’, I thought I’d bring you these buns.”
    Evie eyed me with suspicion. “Do I know you?”
    Naturally I ignored her question entirely, the point being that she may not know me now but would certainly know me in the future. “They’re still warm from my oven. Try one.” I shoved the plate closer to Evangeline’s nose so she’d get a better whiff of heaven on a platter.
    It didn’t take long for Evangeline to pull back the foil. She slid a warm pastry into her mouth. When her eyes sparked, I said (just as pretty as you please), “I’m Lisa Leann Lambert, and there’s more where that came from, darlin’. I made these special just so you would know what a great addition I’ll make to your little Potluck Club.”
    Evangeline almost choked, but to her credit, she managed to swallow that first bite. But there she stood, tempted between another gooey bite or a quick getaway. It’s not hard to say which one won.
    An expert at handling awkward moments, I said, “Evie, darlin’, isn’t that what