Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  Actually, you can, as the auction process is much more civilized than most people realize, but I’m speaking from the artist’s perspective. As everyone knows, they’re a sensitive and temperamental lot.

  Who’s stereotyping now? Oh, shush.

  Uncle Obe’s brow creases like corrugated cardboard. “That could present a problem.”

  Yes!

  “Of course, aren’t your indoor, uh…?” He taps the air as if tapping at a door behind which lies the elusive word. “…auctions! Aren’t your indoor auctions held only on Saturdays?”

  Reece doesn’t work Saturdays? Everyone knows artists work when inspiration strikes, and that could be on a Saturday. “True.” I give Reece more of my shoulder. “But business is picking up, and as we move into spring I’ll probably start schedulin’ auctions midweek as well. Then there’s summer—busy, busy, busy!”

  My uncle shrugs. “I’m sure the two of you can work things out.”

  What?!

  “Hold it.” Eyebrows flying, he looks from me to Reece. “Didn’t you two know each other in high school?”

  Ah!

  “We did,” Reece says, and though I’ve done my best to keep him outside the circle of my uncle and me, I feel his gaze. “It’s nice to see you again, Maggie.”

  Uncle Obe winks. “Looks like the two of you will get the chance to become reacquainted and catch up on all the lost years.”

  I narrow my lids at my uncle. He has to be faking his dementia. Otherwise, how else could he work through that maze of reasoning and come out on this end of shrewd, conniving, and manipulative? Not that he was any of those things before the diagnosis.

  “It’s settled, hmm?” He nods.

  I look to Reece for help, since he can’t want to work under my nose any more than I want to work under his. And that’s when I get my first eyeful of the man. Above the collar of a dark oilcloth jacket, he wears his age well, evidence of the past thirteen years mostly confined to the deepening lines in a face that is distressingly familiar—and not because of any resemblance to my daughter. No, I’m sure he isn’t her father.

  What I’m not sure of is this tingle of attraction I have no business feeling. It’s not that he’s particularly handsome. His attraction has always been more in the way he carries his lean, muscular self—shoulders broad and unbending, lower body at ease. It’s in the way his careless black hair exerts its will over him, framing his slightly too long face and brushing his brow, ears, and the collar of his shirt any which way. It’s in the way his eyes settle on a person as if bracketing them alone. It’s in the way his mouth pulls at the corners, emotions differentiated mostly by the degree of the pull, the amount of light let into his eyes, and the flare of his nostrils. The man is enigmatic. Now that’s a good fit for a daily word.

  Yes, you are enigmatic, Reece Thorpe. And you’re going to stay that way. I no longer do dark and mysterious. In fact, I don’t do anything anymore—menwise.

  “Is your hair on too tight?”

  I look at my uncle. “What?”

  “Your hair.” He points to my head. “Is it on too tight?”

  Clutching the binder to my chest, I smooth the left, then right side.

  “The way you’re staring at my artist, I thought maybe your head was bein’ squeezed by that fancy bun.”

  Ugh. Maybe there is something to his dementia.

  “And is that a pencil sticking out of it?” He shakes his head. “Pardon me for being blunt, but that hairstyle doesn’t flatter you one bit, Magdalene. You’re much prettier with your hair loose. Makes you look softer…more feminine.”

  And makes the Ms. Turnbridges of the world take me less seriously. “This is work, Uncle Obe, not a date. So about this studio space.” I glance at Reece whose modus operandi—observation at the expense of interaction—doesn’t appear to have changed in thirteen years. My awareness of him sharpening, I quickly return my attention to Uncle Obe. “Though locating the studio here would certainly cut down on the expense of hostin’ an artist in Pickwick, I’m sure Mr. Thorpe would prefer someplace more private, perhaps with living space, so when inspiration strikes he won’t have far to go.” Who can argue that?

  “Actually,” Reece says, “this location is ideal, especially since I’ve taken a room at the Pickwick Arms for the duration.”

  The old hotel on the opposite side of the town square. Can this get any worse? I finger the delicate cross suspended from my necklace. God, it’s me, Maggie. Are You there?

  “Mom?”

  It can always get worse. I look from my uncle to Reece, who is staring at my necklace, but neither appears to have heard my daughter’s small voice. Okay, so You are there, God. Just checking. Now to intercept Devyn before she appears backstage and Reece recognizes her from Fate and Connie’s.

  “I need to get back to work.” As I swing away, I catch Reece’s startle and am as surprised by his show of emotion as he is by my socially inept behavior. I cringe at what he must think. And grimace that I should care. So what if he thinks I’m more of an airhead than I was in high school. Or that I still indulge in meaningful relationships with mirrors—

  “It’s settled?” Uncle Obe calls as I turn the corner.

  With Devyn fifteen feet away and closing, I pop my head back around. “Settled.” Not really, but I can’t have Reece and him following me.

  Taking the one remaining stride toward my daughter, I flip the emergency switch required to power a smile. “All done with your project?”

  “Yeah.”

  I catch her arm and turn her as I continue across the stage. “I’d say that calls for a hot chocolate at Mr. Copper’s.”

  She frowns up at me. “What about spoiling my dinner?”

  One of my regular buyers catches my eye as we near the steps, and I once more flip the emergency switch. When we’re past him, I say, “Sometimes you just have to cut loose, you know?”

  “No.”

  How did I end up with a child like this? “Well, give it a try.” I hurry her down the steps, release her, and dig in my skirt pocket where I earlier tucked the change from lunch.

  “Is that a pencil sticking out of your head?”

  I thrust the folded bills at her and glance over my shoulder. No Uncle Obe. No Reece. “It is. Just one more use for your everyday pencil. Clever, hmm?”

  “Or desperate.” Moving at a turtle’s pace when I need her to be a rabbit, she plucks the money from my hand. “You know, Mom, you shouldn’t worry about what other people think of you.”

  She overheard the exchange between Ms. Turnbridge and me.

  “At least”—she shrugs—“that’s what you’re always telling me.”

  “And I’m right.” Another glance over my shoulder verifies all is clear, and I give her a little push. “Get yourself a pastry too.”

  Her eyelids narrow to slits.

  “Go on.”

  She looks back at me as she ascends the aisle, and a second time when she pauses to retrieve her jacket from the seat where she earlier tossed her school things. Then she’s rummaging in her backpack.

  Move it!

  Finally, book and binder in hand, she does, and I wave. “Why don’t you hang out at Mr. Copper’s until I’m done here? It’ll be a nice change of scenery.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re acting strange again.”

  Too bad it isn’t because my hair is on too tight. “I have lots to do before I leave.” Once she passes through the double doors, I trek up the aisle after her to be certain she reaches her destination. I know, she’s almost thirteen and ought to be able to walk the short distance without my hovering, but I believe in loosening the apron strings millimeters at a time. And I have begun allowing her to stay home by herself for brief periods of time. Everything in moderation.

  From the cover of the old ticket booth at the front of the lobby, which is now used to register auctiongoers and assign paddles for bidding, I watch Devyn pass before the large pane windows that front the theater. When she goes f
rom sight, I scoot forward and lean into the glass to peer up the right side of the sidewalk she takes at a skip until she reaches Copper’s Beanery and Lending Library at the far end of the block.

  That was a close one, Reece-wise. Forget that it’s only the first of many near encounters and that eventually he will draw a connection between my daughter and me, but for now I’m living moment to moment.

  As I step back from the window, a bright yellow blotch catches my eye. Past the winter-barren park around which the town square was built, my uncle sits on a wrought-iron bench in front of Church on the Square—his church and mine—awaiting Ida’s return. Fortunately, he and Reece left the theater the way they came in. More fortunately, there is no sign of Reece, who must have returned to the Pickwick Arms Hotel.

  I gulp at the realization that my effort to put distance between my daughter and him could have gone bad had she been the rabbit I pushed her to be and exited the theater as the two men circled around from the back. “Thank You, Lord.”

  Though I ought to return to the viewing, I can’t let Uncle Obe slip away without hearing from me. Determined to make him see sense about this studio-in-an-auction-house business, I pull open the etched-glass door, turn left down the sidewalk, and wish I’d had the good sense my daughter did to retrieve a jacket. It is February, after all.

  At the corner, I shoot diagonally across the street that has little traffic to hinder my progress.

  My uncle doesn’t see me coming, eyes closed and face turned up to the dusky sky, but I know he hears my heels on the pitted concrete.

  I halt in front of him. “What are you doing, Uncle Obe?”

  He doesn’t open his eyes. “Waitin’ for Ida. Should be here any minute.”

  I sink onto the bench beside him. “You know that’s not what I’m talkin’ about.” I look toward the Pickwick Arms on the square opposite the theater. All that can be seen through the arthritic winter branches of the trees thronging the park are bits of gray stone exterior and the glint of windows. “Where did Ree—Mr. Thorpe go?”

  He lifts his lids and frowns. “You’ll catch your death of cold comin’ out dressed like that. Where’s the sense God gave you?”

  “At the moment, its resources are being pooled to deal with your meddling. Mr. Thorpe cannot set up shop in my auction house.”

  “I don’t reckon why not, seein’ as it’s the perfect setup.”

  “Not for me.” Man, it’s nippy! “What about Fate and Connie’s?”

  “Too noisy. All the time. And the other buildings around there have been let go too long.”

  My jaw creaks as I struggle to keep my teeth from chattering. “Uncle Obe, when we talked yesterday, you agreed you wouldn’t push Reece and me together—”

  “I did?”

  Not exactly, but close. “Yes.”

  He burrows his chin into his puffy collar. “I can’t remember much of that conversation. Wish I could, but what with my affliction…”

  He’s definitely using his dementia to his advantage. Between feeling as tight as an adult-size rear in a child-size chair and as chill as a barefooted chicken on ice, I’m in danger of cracking. I push up off the bench. “I don’t like the game you’re playing.”

  His small smile fades. “Give your uncle a break, hmm?” He touches his temple. “This thing has to be good for something.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. His ache is real, as is his need to turn bad into good. And when his crazy endeavor fails? I almost hope he will no longer be around—mentally.

  Times like these, I miss the self-absorbed cheerleader who rarely cried for anyone other than herself. It hurts to care for others.

  I bend down and squeeze his knee. “All right, Mr. Thorpe can set up his studio in the storage room.”

  “You won’t give him a hard time? Run him off?”

  There’s my old reputation again. “I’ll do my best to make him feel at home.” And since he’s an artist who surely relishes his privacy, that shouldn’t be hard. Far be it from me not to allow him the space he needs. In fact, other than the occasional crossing of paths, there’s no reason we should do more than exchange greetings. And six months from now when all this is behind me, I’ll make a point of laughing about it. Even if it isn’t laughable.

  “Good girl.” Uncle Obe pats my hand. “Now you’d best get back inside before your nose hair freezes.”

  I do not have nose hair! “I’ll wait until Ida—”

  “She’s here.”

  I follow his gaze to the retired nurse who is puttering his old Aston Martin past the theater and around the corner. With a whine of brakes, she pulls into the parking space in front of us.

  I instinctively reach for Uncle Obe’s arm, but he brushes my hand away and, with a grimace, stands. Though last year’s knee-replacement surgery was a success, the cold weather aggravates his joints, especially when he rises from sitting.

  “I got all of your errands run, Mr. Pickwick.” Ida jumps out of the car. “How are you, Ms. Pickwick?”

  Shivering, I hug my arms to me. “Good, thank you.”

  She hustles around the car to open the passenger door. “The only things I couldn’t get on the list are those little pecan pies you like. The store is fresh out of them.”

  “Out of my pies?” Uncle Obe steps past me. “That’s unheard of.”

  “That’s what I said to Lolly Madison, who was restocking the bread. ‘Why, that’s unheard of, Lolly,’ says I. You know what she says? ‘Bad nuts.’”

  “Bad nuts?” My uncle frowns as he eases into the seat.

  “Turns out a whole mess of them pies got recalled. Makin’ people sick, they were.” Ida shoots me a knowing look. “I told him those pies would do him in, and what do you know? Just about did him in.”

  “I like my pies,” Uncle Obe grumbles. “Piper doesn’t mind me havin’ them.”

  “Of course she doesn’t.” Ida tuts. “Bless her heart, she doesn’t know any better. But that’s what you’re paying me for—to know better. I’m the professional.” She closes the door with her padded hip.

  I smile sympathetically at my uncle through the windshield. Though those sickeningly sweet pies can’t be good for him, the dementia is likely to take him before the effects of a diet high in sugar and fat. If the pies make him happy…

  “Have a nice evening, Ms. Pickwick.” Ida heads around to the driver’s side.

  I step off the curb and tap my uncle’s window. As he rolls it down, Ida climbs in beside him.

  “Uncle Obe, do you remember Martha’s pecan pies?” Martha of Martha’s Meat and Three Eatery, which closed its doors when chain restaurants came to Pickwick.

  He brightens. “I most certainly do.”

  “How about I order some from her to hold you over?”

  Ida gasps. “Now, Ms. Pickwick—”

  “Sounds good.” Uncle Obe nods. “Call her tonight.”

  I step back, and Ida shakes her head at me as she shifts into reverse. Shortly, the car’s taillights disappear around the corner.

  As I start back for the theater, the last of daylight bids me adieu, and another shudder goes through me. I could use a hot drink, and Mr. Copper serves the best hot apple cider topped with real whipped cream and drizzled with caramel.

  I cross at the corner, traverse the long stretch of sidewalk past the theater, and with a grateful sigh, pull open the glass door.

  Mr. Copper’s bald pate pops up from behind the massive espresso machine he installed a few years back to compete with the chain coffee shop he claims “put a hit out” on him. The machine, along with a change of name (previously Copper’s Coffee) and the addition of floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books he lets on loan, was a wise decision. Business has never been so good.

  “A cider, Maggie?” he calls.

  “A big one.” As I scan the tables for Devyn, the shop’s warmth wraps around me like a wool coat, and the voices of patrons lingering over drinks and books thread among the strains of classical music.


  “Hey, that’s my mom!”

  And that’s my daughter, but who is she talking to?

  “That’s your mom?”

  Oh no.

  Devyn stands at the back of the shop alongside a bistro table, a steaming mug snuggled to her chest. And seated at the table is Reece Thorpe, whose disbelieving eyes have landed on me.

  Hello, God?

  “That’s her.” Devyn waves me forward. “Mom, I want you to meet someone.”

  It was bound to come to this. Since my long legs have the advantage of quickly transporting me, there’s no excuse for my slow advance other than the obvious—I do not share my daughter’s enthusiasm. This becomes more evident when Reece rises and my stride shifts to shuffle.

  Devyn sets her mug on the table and jumps forward to drag me the last few feet. “Remember I told you about the sculptor I met at Fate and Connie’s? This is Reece Thorpe, the one Unc-Unc hired.”

  Eyes wide—as in “Play along with me!”—I meet his gaze. “Oh?”

  The momentary narrowing of his lids may be imagined, but there’s nothing imagined about the dismissing blink that turns his gaze from me to my daughter. “Actually, Devyn, your mother and I have met before.”

  Anger warming me, I feel Devyn’s surprise in her hand on my arm.

  “We attended high school together the year I lived in Pickwick,” Reece adds.

  I can’t believe I ever thought his elongated O’s were cute. They’re actually very annoying. I really don’t like this man.

  Why? Because he refuses to dummy up? To lie by omission as you’re so willing to do, Christian!

  This is different. This is delicate. This is Devyn. This is, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all,” and as my relationship with Reece ended on a bad note, there is nothing nice to say, so…

  Devyn’s baby-smooth brow wrinkles. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Mr. Thorpe when I said I’d met him?”

  Oh, the temptation to lie…the apple extended, turning this way and that to catch the pretty light…Would it really hurt to take a small bite?