Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

I break into a goofy smile. “If we get down to the wire, I could always accept Mr. Peterson’s offer of marriage.”

  She makes a face. “He’s a nice guy but…needy.”

  “Then I’ll have to keep looking, and you’ll have to be patient.”

  The genuine smile that appears on her face transforms her from pretty to beyond pretty—even with that little gap between her front teeth. She may not have my fiery red hair, blue eyes, or prominent cheekbones, and it doesn’t appear she will have my height, but there is far more to my little girl than the “plain” label others slap on her.

  Devyn shows a bit more teeth, proving she does have my smile. “You can count on me to help out however I can.”

  Ugh. “You just worry about your schoolwork, young lady. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Shortly, huddled into our jackets against the chill February air, she precedes me up the walkway, and I smile at the bounce in her step.

  As we reach the front door, the house phone rings. I turn the key in the lock, and as I push the door inward, the answering machine picks up, plays my snappy outgoing message, and beeps.

  “Maggie, it’s Piper.”

  I drop the keys in my purse and head for the kitchen.

  “I just found out that Uncle Obe’s sculptor pulled out last week.”

  I halt. What does that mean?

  “And I’m only now hearing about it. Can you believe it?”

  I feel for my formerly estranged cousin. She couldn’t have realized the extent of her commitment to help our uncle put his affairs in order.

  “The guy says he can’t work with Uncle Obe.”

  “Miss Piper sounds upset,” Devyn calls from the stairs. “Aren’t you going to pick up?”

  I should, but I’m still angry with Amanda Pigg, and right now I need a few minutes of quiet to put everything in perspective—with my Bible open, as Skippy would advise. “I’ll call her back later.”

  The stairs creak as Devyn resumes her ascent, and a sigh heaves from the answering machine. “He says Uncle Obe is crazy.”

  I wince. Odd by nature, but most recently unbalanced by slowly advancing early dementia, our uncle definitely isn’t “all there.” And I wouldn’t be surprised if Piper is questioning her decision to sell her partnership in one of the most successful PR firms in Los Angeles to move back to Pickwick.

  “I’m still trying to figure out what happened, since Uncle Obe is pretending he doesn’t remember the call that caused the guy to back out. I declare”—she groans as she does when the South creeps back into her speech—“he’s using his dementia to his advantage. So now we’re in the market for a new sculptor.”

  Reece? Surely not. He can’t be bothered to fit Pickwick into his schedule, which is one more prayer answered the way I wanted. It’s always a relief to discover that God and I are on the same page.

  “I just wanted to put you on notice, as it occurs to me that Uncle Obe has someone up his sleeve, and I don’t need to tell you who that is.”

  She’s thinking Reece too, but she’s wrong. Right, God? We are on the same page, aren’t we?

  “Call me when you get in.”

  I rush across the kitchen, but when I slap the phone to my ear, the dial tone is on the other end.

  Since Southern belles no longer wear corsets, I can’t blame my near swoon on a painfully cinched-in waist. It’s all me. And my past that may be coming back to haunt me in person.

  I place a steadying hand on the writing desk and close my eyes. “I know You know what You’re doing, but just for the record, Reece’s return to Pickwick would be a very bad idea. You agree, don’t You?” I nod. “On the same page.”

  Oh, Lord, please let us be on the same page, especially where Devyn is concerned.

  One thing that should have been established at the outset, and which will doubtless become apparent, is that my mouth is my best asset. Unfortunately, sometimes it lands me in the debit column, which is why I find myself flattened against the outside wall of Fate and Connie’s Metalworks, one hand to my mouth for fear of emitting another screech, the other to my heart in an attempt to settle it. But the screech wants out—bad. And once again, that awful feeling that I might swoon can’t be blamed on a gut-squeezing contraption. That blame lies with Reece Thorpe. In the flesh.

  As I came around the corner, one glimpse of his profile was all it took to transport me back thirteen years. And I let fly a cry as I reversed and slammed back against the wall of the building. But that’s not the worst of it. No, that would be too merciful.

  Praying my screech wasn’t heard over the racket coming from the tin-and-cinder-block building—You can at least do this for me, can’t You, Lord?—I draw a stiff breath and inch forward to peek around the corner.

  That’s the worst of it. With his hands in his jacket pockets and face to the sky, Reece stands over my daughter. God and I are definitely not on the same page…chapter…maybe even book.

  Lying on her back on the scrubby grass where I left her to make snow angels while I met with Fate to discuss my new signs, she shades her eyes against the sun and swings her hand to the right where the clouds have retreated.

  “Those there are stratocumulus,” she sweetly drawls. “You see the way they’re formed, like pillows stacked on each other?”

  “Yes.”

  With a strangled gasp, I once more apply myself to the wall—not because of the spine-tingling inflection on that single word, but because the voice is almost as familiar now as it was thirteen years ago. As if I never stopped hearing it—

  Ridiculous! Fanciful! You are no Disney princess, and Reece Thorpe is no tights-wearing prince.

  You can say that again. He may have been more interested in art than chest-pounding, bone-crunching football, but he was all guy in a quietly assured way that made a girl take a second look and a third—Oh, stop! He’s just someone I knew, dated, and…may have conceived a child with.

  Lord, what have You done? Piper assured me she had convinced Uncle Obe to go with a female sculptor out of Florida, so what is Reece doing in Pickwick? I peel myself off the wall and peer around the corner of the building again.

  His head is still back, his wavy black hair brushing the collar of the shirt beneath his jacket. “So, no more snow, hmm?”

  “This is it.” Devyn pats the pitifully thin layer that caused the schools to let out early.

  Yes, we do that here—cancel school at the first whisper of snow. People from places like Minnesota, where snow is the status quo and a foot of the white stuff barely registers as a hiccup in their day, can laugh all they like. They’re prepared. We’re not. And so school is canceled and everyone rushes to the grocery store to stock up on milk, bread, and canned goods, just in case more than an inch falls and they find themselves snowed in. Well, snowed in by our standards.

  Reece turns his back to me, and I notice that his well-worn jeans fit him even better than they did in high school. He filled out nicely for someone who was already well filled out—just an observation.

  And a waste of time that would be better spent extricating Devyn and myself from what threatens to become a mess. I look over my shoulder at the loading dock, which is the only way to get Fate’s and Connie’s attention, since they don’t employ office help and have no time for front door etiquette. As it would seem to be Reece’s destination—most of the manufacturing businesses on High Holler Road having closed long ago—I can’t go back inside.

  I consider my SUV parked thirty feet away. It sports a magnetic door sign that advertises Serendipity Auction Services—my business, the one that makes such good use of my mouth. Hey bidder, bidder! Fortunately, the sign is only on the driver’s side, where Reece can’t see it, the passenger-side sign having departed for parts unknown. Unfortunately, I can’t get to the vehicle without being seen. Of course, Reece might not recognize me. Oh, like you didn’t recognize him? Note: you are nearly six feet tall and still an unapologetic redhead.

  “What about those clouds?” He n
ods at the balls of fluff creeping toward Pickwick.

  His elongated O’s evidence he still possesses some of the mid-western accent that set him apart the one year he lived in Pickwick. I don’t know why, but I loved those O’s.

  Devyn rises onto her elbows, causing her hood to drop to her shoulders and the sunlight to play up the golden hair among the brown. “Just passing through.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah, it would be nice to have more snow, but—” She frowns and then whips her head around.

  I slam back against the wall so hard my head bounces off it. That hurt! But worth the lump if Devyn didn’t see me. Did she? Please, God, this is such an easy prayer to answer. What have You got to lose? Surely not as much as I do.

  Above the grind and screech coming from the building, I hear Devyn’s voice again…then Reece’s…back to Devyn…more Reece. What can they possibly have to talk about?

  I peer around the corner. Devyn is standing now, two feet separating her from him. I drop to my haunches behind the straggly hedge that fronts the building and look between the branches. Unfortunately, another of Fate and Connie’s whiny, high-pitched machines starts up, and I can’t hear what Devyn says. Reece’s answer makes her laugh, and then his mouth turns up. Is that my daughter’s smile? No, she has mine.

  Still, I search for a resemblance between the two that probably doesn’t exist. Her hair is brown, his is black. If memory serves me correctly, his eyes are green, while hers are brown. What about noses? Maybe Devyn’s is on the slightly big side because Reece’s is? No, his has a bit of a bump halfway down the bridge, whereas Devyn’s is smooth. Thankfully! As for their chins—

  My daughter extends a hand.

  I clench my fingers around handfuls of snow, grass, and dirt. “Don’t say it,” I whisper. “Do not say it.”

  But she does, just as the whiny machine quiets. “I should introduce myself.”

  You should not! Vaguely aware of the chill against my palms, I stare hard at her profile, willing her to be capable of telepathy. He’s a stranger, and you know what I’m always telling you about strangers—

  “I’m Devyn Pickwick.”

  Obviously, we need to have a talk, young lady!

  Were I not watching for the snag between the time Reece’s hand comes out of his pocket and the time it closes around my daughter’s, I wouldn’t have noticed his hesitation. But it’s there. In a collective Pickwick sense? Or a Maggie Pickwick sense?

  “Reece Thorpe.” He returns his hand to his pocket. “I knew some of the Pickwicks when I lived here years ago.”

  Please, Dev, don’t ask which ones.

  She pushes her glasses up her nose. “So you’ve moved back?”

  Good girl.

  “Actually, I’m here on business.”

  Uncle Obe and I also need to have a talk, but first I have to get my daughter away from Reece. It’s me again, Dev. Cease and desist! Say you need to…uh…finish reading your psychology journal!

  “What kind of business?” she asks.

  How about you have to go to the bathroom. Bad!

  “I’ve been commissioned by Obadiah Pickwick, who I would guess is your great-uncle?”

  She dips her chin. So much for telepathy.

  “He wants me to sculpt a statue for the town square.”

  “I thought he was going to hire a lady sculptor.”

  I press my cold, raw hands together—hands that have grown oddly numb.

  Reece shifts his lower jaw, causing something to appear in the left corner of his mouth. A toothpick? He clamps down on it and shrugs. “Must have changed his mind.”

  Devyn wrinkles her nose. “He does that.”

  Reece tilts his head to the side, as if sizing up my daughter’s face as he once sized up mine before setting it to paper with charcoal. “I’m guessing you’re either Luc’s—”

  Help me out here, Lord!

  “—or Bart’s—”

  I can’t say where the snowball came from, all compact and reinforced with grass and pebbles, but the moment of contact is etched in my mind—a blur of white striking Reece upside the head, his grunt of surprise, and then his chin coming around.

  Finding myself on my feet and wondering why my throwing arm feels strained, I run. Down the side of the building. Around the loading dock. Behind the building. Up the other side of the building with its obstacle course of ankle-breaking debris.

  When I stick my head around the corner, my daughter is alone with her hands on her hips as she stares at the opposite corner that Reece must have gone around in pursuit of the snowball bandit. Time to go.

  “Devyn!”

  She turns and startles at the sight of me.

  I don’t look that bad, do I? Of course, my face feels flushed, moisture dots my upper lip, and if my peripheral vision serves me right, grease graces my pant leg. Great.

  Though I control the impulse to run for the SUV, I feel the impatient jerk in my stride as I close the distance between us. “I’ve okayed the new signs, so we’re good to go.”

  Her lids narrow. “Are you all right?”

  I fan my face. “It was hot in there.” It really was. All that metalworking generates a lot of heat. Now if only I had the feeling back in my hands. Discreetly wiping my wet palms on my pants, I draw even with Devyn. “Let’s go.”

  “But you look—” As I hurry her forward, she snaps her chin around. “Why did you come around that side of the building?”

  “You know that article you were reading about the differences between the brains of happy people and depressed people?”

  She gasps. “You haven’t been throwin’ snowballs, have you?”

  “Doing what?” I open my eyes wide and innocent, the art of which I perfected during my elementary years.

  Devyn scrunches her nose again and shrugs. “This really weird thing happened.”

  “Oh?” I give her a little push toward the passenger door.

  “I was standing over there talking to this man, who, by the way, has been hired by—”

  “Get in, Dev.” I hurry around the grille of my SUV. “You can tell me on the way home.”

  “O…kay.”

  As I yank open the door, I imagine hot breath on my neck and glance around. No Reece. Hopefully, he’s caught up in a conversation with Fate and Connie.

  “Hurry,” I say as Devyn slowly slides in beside me.

  “Why?”

  I shove the keys in the ignition. “We have lots to do.”

  “But I thought we were going home.” She closes the door.

  “We are.” I reverse, crank the wheel, and accelerate out of the parking lot.

  “Mom!” She clicks the seat belt in place. “What’s the hurry?”

  I check the rearview mirror. Still no Reece. “Well, there are your chores, and…” I turn onto High Holler Road. If I can just make it around the curve ahead, we’ll be out of sight. “…while you’re at them, I need to run over to Uncle Obe’s.” I take the curve fast, and though the wheels stick, it’s a close one.

  Devyn grips the door handle. “You’re acting strange.”

  Yeah, well, you may have just met your father for the first time, so I’m a little shaken up. Thank goodness she isn’t telepathic.

  “Sorry. It’s just that this early school dismissal has thrown my day.” I ease up on the gas. “So tell me about the man you were talking to.” I slide her a stern look. “You know I don’t like you talking to strangers.”

  She sits back. “His name is Reece Thorpe, and he’s the sculptor Unc-Unc hired to make the new statue. Anyway, we were talking when a snowball came from out of nowhere and hit him in the head.”

  I shift my hands on the steering wheel, glad that feeling has returned to them. “I suppose someone was just having fun with him.” I chuckle. “It’s not as if he was hurt, right? It was just a little snowball.” Even if a bit hard and scratchy and pebbly.

  “He seemed fine though annoyed. I told him it was probably Mr. Fate and Mr. Co
nnie messing around. You know how they are.”

  Fortunately for me, they are a bit off the scale. “So he went in search of the perpetrator?”

  “Yep.”

  I shrug. “I’m sure they’ll work it out.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Is that it? Did I pull it off? My tension eases when she opens her psychology journal. Thank You, Lord—

  Do you honestly think He had anything to do with you worming your way out of that one? It’s called deception, Maggie. God does not do deception.

  The tension returns. Though I’m not perfect and have to ask for forgiveness on a fairly regular basis, I broke myself of the everyday habit of deceit years ago, but I have the feeling it’s back. And under the circumstances, I have no idea how to make do without it. I can’t tell Devyn the truth, not at her age. And, in my defense, it’s not as if I came right out and lied. I skirted the issue, cut out the objectionable matter—

  Ah! I bowdlerized. I sit straighter. Though my daily word calendar defines the word in terms of written work, with a little bending, it fits. And with its highflying pronunciation—long O and all that—it lends an air of legitimacy to my attempt to spare my daughter the truth.

  “Here’s the article,” she says.

  “Hmm?”

  She nods at the picture that features colorful brain scans. I should have known my earlier attempt to change the subject would come back to bite me. Boring!

  “It says there are decided differences between the brain of a person who is not experiencing major strife and the brain of a person who is under great stress—”

  That would be me.

  “—and has been diagnosed as depressed.”

  No diagnosis yet. I point to the scan on the right. “That one’s kind of pretty.”

  “It’s also kind of depressed.”

  Figures.

  “You want yours to look like this.” She taps the left scan.

  Does my brain look like that? If so, for how much longer? Be proactive. Right, as in find a way to get Reece Thorpe out of town. And out of my life. Again.

  Got it.” Cell phone squeezed between cheek and shoulder, I scribble the phone number called off by my seventy-year-old assistant—a desperate hire until I can replace the traitor my competition enticed away from me.