by Tamara Leigh
“All right.” Skippy pulls back. “I shouldn’t push so hard.” She folds her napkin and sets it on the table. “After all, I ain’t your mama.”
“No, you aren’t,” says the one who is.
Skippy and I turn to peer up at the bleached-blond woman who has come to stand between us, purse in one hand, restaurant check in the other. And no sign of Devyn.
“Hello, dear.” With a brittle smile, my mother pecks my cheek.
“Why, Adele, it’s nice to see you,” Skippy says. “Wanna join us?”
I should have extended the invitation, but I know this is as far as my mother will stretch herself with Skippy, not wanting to be associated with her flamboyance beyond the inescapable fact that the woman is my friend.
My mother blinks prettily. “Shame on you, Skippy Baggett!” she says playfully, but there is nothing playful about my mother, who never got down on the floor to play no matter how much I begged. Our interactions were all about curling irons, makeup, and frilly dresses that were never to touch the floor. Ever.
She tuts. “Enticing my daughter away from me, not to mention from her own daughter, and on Valentine’s Day, when we heartbroken Pickwick women ought to be holding up one another. I declare, I have half a mind to be jealous of you and the place you hold in my daughter’s heart.”
“I am certainly grateful for her friendship.” Skippy is conciliatory as always. “Especially seein’ as I ain’t—”
The improper grammar makes my mother’s upper lip curl.
“—got my own daughter home with me on this here holiday.” Skippy gives my mother’s forearm a pat. “I do ’preciate you sharin’.”
My mother goes stiff as starch. I know she likes to keep a “public face,” but I sense she’s about to make an exception.
“Where’s D-Devyn?” My tongue trips in my haste to distract her.
Skippy pulls her hand back, and my mother blinks as if a trance has been broken. “I sent her to the ladies’ room to pick the spinach from her teeth. I don’t know why she likes that Italian wedding soup. Anyway, seeing as you’re here, I’ll save myself a trip and let Devyn ride home with you.”
As our house is on the way to hers, there is no trip to be saved. This is simply her way of coming between Skippy and me. But on a positive note, her timing is good since I don’t care to discuss Reece Thorpe anymore. Too, Devyn adores Skippy. Providing she tempers her enthusiasm, as I’ve counseled her to do to spare her grandmother’s feelings, it’s for the best. “Good idea,” I say.
“Aunt Skippy!”
Ugh. She called her “aunt” though my mother has forbidden her to do so—especially in public, where others might mistakenly connect the dots from me to Skippy’s younger brother, a bachelor who owns the old car wash in town.
“I didn’t know you and Mom were here.” Devyn sidles around my pinch-lipped mother and hugs Skippy from behind.
My friend reaches over her shoulder and pats her arm in an attempt to downplay her own affection. “Why don’t you sit beside me where I can see you good?”
Devyn turns to my mother. “Can we visit awhile?”
“You can.” My mother shakes her shoulders out. “I have lots to do today.”
“Oh, stay, Grandma.”
“Thank you, but no.” She looks to me. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Magdalene.”
Her use of my full name is just further proof of her anger. “You too, Mom.”
Back straight, she walks away, and it’s a half hour before Skippy and I hug good-bye and Devyn follows me to the car.
A few minutes later, Devyn is tapping at the passenger window as I drive.
“Everything okay?”
“Just thinking about somethin’ Grandma said.”
“What’s that?”
Her lids narrow as she continues to stare out the window. “I mentioned I’d met the sculptor Uncle Obe hired, and when I told her his name, she said it sounded familiar.”
Oh no.
“I told her you were in high school together, and that’s when she remembered. She said you and he dated”—the tapping ceases and she cuts her eyes at me—“until he moved away after the start of your senior year.”
Double oh no.
“You told me you dated during your junior year.”
I return my attention to the road. “That’s right, and through the summer. However, we broke up shortly after the start of our senior year and weeks before he moved away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Come on, Devyn, he’s not the only guy I ever dated. There were boyfriends before him and after him.” And that was a careless thing to say. But if it throws her off the scent…
Silence so completely fills the space between us that it feels as if it’s pressing me against the door. Then, in a voice so soft I nearly miss the underlying accusation, she says, “That’s what I hear.”
From Amanda Pigg. And verified by the perpetrator herself.
“Is he my dad?”
“Reece Thorpe?” His name jumps out of me. After all, I didn’t expect her to come right out and ask.
“Is he?”
“No.” At least, I’m pretty sure he isn’t, so I’m not lying. “What makes you think that?”
“Timing.”
Once more, she’s staring out the window, and I can almost see the numbers running through her brain—July 1 minus the gestational weeks. Next, she’ll ask exactly when Reece moved. Unfortunately, he was still in Pickwick during the conception window, even though he’d broken it off with me weeks before. Of course, if I was off on my calculations (I was never good at keeping track of my periods) or she was one of those babies who lingered past the gestational period, Reece could be her father. But she wasn’t a big baby—barely average.
The silence lasts until I pull into the driveway. “Mom, when did—?”
“Devyn, I know you want a father, but Reece Thorpe is not him.”
Her jaw juts. “I asked Grandma about when you and Mr. Thorpe broke it off, and she got real quiet. The next thing I knew, she was talking about how pretty I look today.” Her eyes flash. “And seeing as I don’t look any different from any other day when she’s harping about my sorry appearance, it was highly suspicious.”
Thank you, Mother. Not that she knows who fathered Devyn, but now I also have to deal with her suspicion. “Regardless, he is not your father.”
“Are you positive?”
Close, but I can’t tell her that or she won’t let go. And I am ninety percent certain she isn’t any part of Reece. Please, God, You know I would prefer he’s the one who fathered her, but don’t let me be telling a lie. “Positive.”
Her mouth twitches, eyes water, and my heart aches for her disappointment. “Okay.” Her shoulders slouch. “Okay.”
But it’s not okay, especially if it turns out I lied. Of course, neither of us will ever know, will we? And that’s a good thing. I think…
Surely I didn’t wet the bed! I sit straight up and draw my hands from my hips to my chest and neck—wet, but no pungent odor. Perspiration, then. Why so much? A bad dream? Was something chasing me? Threatening Devyn? I search for images that surely played through my mind, but the film is blank.
I start to lie back down, but as with most of my middle-of-the-night awakenings since Devyn grew too old to sneak into my bed, I’m swept with loneliness. No one to snuggle with…with whom to whisper long into the night…to love.
“Oh, stop!” I toss back the covers and shiver as the sixty-two-degree air latches onto my dampness. Though I know my cousin Bridget is right about the need to conserve energy, especially at night when we’re hunkered down beneath the covers, the awakenings tempt me to set my furnace to something more humane—say, sixty-eight.
As I drop my feet to the carpet and push off the bed, I hear a whisper. I look to the doorway, expecting to see Devyn’s small shadow, but she isn’t there. The whisper sounds again, and I realize it came from within me. The video portion of my dream may b
e blank, but not the audio. Liar, it whispers.
I trudge to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, the whisper is in stereo—LIAR-LIAR! Grudgingly, I accept what I must do. I turn off the shower and, as I towel dry, watch the last of the hot water swirl down the drain. There go my carbon credits, if I had any.
In thick socks, fleece pajamas, and a robe, I ignore the thermostat as I head into my home office. I can generate my own heat. Not only will my effort to conserve make Bridget happy, but I’ll be on friendlier terms with my heating bill.
Wishing that were all I had to worry about, I settle into the chair behind my desk and coax my computer out of hibernation. The bear awakens with a whir and a happy twitter reminiscent of a Disney movie.
Shortly, a Google search yields surprising results. I knew paternity testing had come a long way from the cringe-and-wince “who’s your daddy” talk shows, but I had no idea that do-it-yourself kits are now available online and at pharmacies for around two hundred dollars and include laboratory analysis with results within five days. I’m relieved, as I was expecting it to be more expensive and extensive.
However, as I read on, my relief deflates. The two hundred dollars is for standard samples obtained from cheek swabs, and there is no way I’m getting inside Devyn’s mouth, let alone Reece’s. If I’m going to do this, it has to be on the sly, meaning I’ll need to order a special kit for nonstandard samples (bloodstains, hair with roots attached, licked envelopes, chewed straws, et cetera). Worse, the cost triples and it takes two weeks for results. Maybe it’s not such a good idea after all.
“No, I can do this.” And no one need ever know, especially Reece. And why should he? It’s just a matter of elimination, of proving to my overworked conscience that I didn’t lie to Devyn when I said he isn’t her father. But if I’m wrong—
He didn’t father her. And I’ll prove it, no matter how much it costs.
“It’s a good thing I’m saving on my heating bill.” Cupping a hand over my cold nose, I blow hot breath over it as I consider the chart that ranks the different types of samples that can be tested and their success rates. For Devyn’s sample, a few strands of hair are probably the best bet, but for Reece…Though blood is highly accurate and it might be possible to arrange a deep paper cut, I’ll aim for a saliva sample via something like a chewed straw.
Better yet, a toothpick. Surely I can get my hands on one of his discards. I drag my bottom lip through my teeth. I will get it. I will make a silk purse (proof Reece is not Devyn’s father) out of a sow’s ear (his invasion of my workplace). I log off and return to bed. Unfortunately, all the warmth earlier invested in it is lost, a common affliction of single-person beds.
“Look out, Reece Thorpe,” I chatter as I pull the chilled covers over my head. “One way or another, I’ll have my pound of flesh—er, DNA.”
Three days since Reece appropriated the back room for his studio, and in all that time I’ve barely seen hide nor hair of him. But he’s in there. I can hear him when I listen at the door. Though I should be grateful he’s avoiding me, I need that DNA. Once I get a sample, he can go right back to avoiding me—and vice versa!
I continue to pace the corridor, with each pass pausing to listen at the door behind which Reece is doing whatever artists do behind closed doors.
Knock and he will come. But what do I say? Er, that toothpick you’re chewing looks mighty tasty. Mind if I have a go at it? Why, thank you. But wait! It’s almost lunchtime. I’ll save it for later. And would you look at this! I just happen to have a sterile baggie to put it in for safekeeping. Courtesy of the laboratory that overnighted the kit to me.
I throw my hands up, then stop to listen again. Silence, paper shuffling, the scrape of a chair, footsteps. I jump back, ready to hightail it; however, the footsteps head away, and a moment later, I hear the whine of the rear door. Is he leaving? The door closes with another whine, and all is silent. If he left a freshly chewed toothpick behind, this could be good.
I pull keys from my jeans and locate the one for the inside door. It protests a little going in, but gets downright stubborn when I try to turn it. Did I use the wrong key? I pull it out. It’s the right one, but two tries later, the door remains locked and my red-headed excuse for anger is surfacing. Reece must have changed the locks—without my permission.
I give the keys a hard shake and the door a kick with a pointed, size nine-and-a-half shoe.
“Goodness me,” Mrs. Templeton’s creaky voice sneaks up on me, though I have no idea how I missed the creaky joints. “You’re actin’ like a rooster shut outta the henhouse!”
I swing around, and there she stands with her hands on the hips of her elasticized polyester pants, eyes magnified by bifocals, and hair poufing like gray cotton candy from beneath an orange and white baseball cap.
I may be acting like a rooster, but I feel like a dog caught with a stolen steak. “He changed the lock.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Um-hmm. The locksmith came yesterday, rekeyed that door and the rear one.”
Probably while I was drumming up business with an old tobacco farmer who wants to sell the farm and move to the coast to live out his retirement. Unfortunately, on my way out the door, he told me he was more impressed with Puck & Sons’ presentation. His wrinkled little wife had nodded in agreement.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the locksmith?”
Mrs. Templeton’s wiry eyebrows wiggle together. “Mr. Thorpe said your uncle gave him permission, so I figured you knew.”
I can hardly blame her for the assumption, as it would have been proper for Uncle Obe to tell me, and the opportunity was certainly there when he called yesterday morning to thank me for the pecan pies Martha delivered.
“Did he say why it was necessary to change the locks?”
“No, though I’d say it was to keep his project under wraps by keeping uninvited visitors out.”
And I have just served up myself as proof of the necessity. I feel guilty, and yet I would hardly be trespassing on square footage I pay for. It isn’t fair, especially since I don’t care a hoot about his project. All I want is a nasty, chewed-up toothpick. However, I’m grateful Mrs. Templeton believes curiosity over the new statue is what had me acting like a frustrated rooster.
I step forward. “I suppose I’ll have to wait and see like everyone else.” As I approach, she turns with a crackle of joints.
“So, is there something you need?” I ask as we head toward the stage.
Her mouth tilts as if to smile—a rarity. “I’m the bearer of good news.”
I could use some. “Yes?”
“Jenkins called to say he’ll be in this afternoon to sign your agreement.”
The tobacco farmer who made it clear he’d be signing with Puck & Sons. I halt near the stairs that lead to my office. “You’re kidding.”
“Sure as shootin’, I ain’t.” She gives in to the smile. “When you told me what he said, I took it on myself to pay Becca and him a visit. Assured ’em you’d get a good sight better for that farm than Puck and his whelps.” She chuckles. “’Course, I got some pull with Becca, seein’ as we go back a ways to when she frequented my knittin’ shop—before it went outta business.”
I’m amazed. Though I need to find a real assistant, my desperate arrangement with Mrs. Templeton might not be so—
Deleterious? Tempting, but bad is a better fit. I squeeze her shoulder. “Thank you for going above and beyond, Mrs. Templeton.”
And there goes her smile. “Just earnin’ my pay.” She gives my hand on her a hard look that makes it skedaddle back to my side. “No cause for gettin’ all friendly. You know how I feel about you Pickwicks.”
The way a lot of people feel, which is why Uncle Obe is set on making restitution to those our family has wronged. I respect him for it, but that doesn’t mean I like it, especially as the public apologies have made it harder for the Pickwicks to hold up their heads. And it all started with last year’s Four
th of July celebration, when Piper confessed to the celebrants that it was she, not Trinity Templeton, who many years earlier played Lady Godiva and rode nearly naked through town. Bad, especially as her confession was what spurred Uncle Obe to reveal the truth about the statue and his dementia.
Mrs. Templeton brushes off her sleeve where my hand was. “I just hope my Trinity comes to her senses and doesn’t run off with that devil’s dust–usin’ cousin of yours.”
I understand her concern, but it does seem that Bart has changed. “He doesn’t use drugs anymore.”
“Um-hmm.” Her mouth crimps. “Looks that way, don’t it?”
Best not to argue. I step past her and head for her office. “Why don’t we take care of that contract for Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins.” It can’t be put off until this afternoon since I won’t risk further exposing Devyn to Reece.
“It’s ready to go.” Mrs. Templeton sets her own pace as she follows. “Exceptin’ your signature and theirs.”
I falter. Considering how disagreeable she can be, I never expected her to be so efficient. And if she has more connections like the one with Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins—No, I need a real assistant.
Ten minutes later, satisfied the contract is properly completed, I sign and date it. Now all it needs is the sellers’ signatures, which should be on the dotted lines by this afternoon. My day is starting to look up.
And it looks up even more when I leave Mrs. Templeton’s office and am drawn to the lobby windows that overlook the park at the center of the square. Even dressed in spindly winter finery, it’s lovely, but that isn’t what grabs my attention. It’s the man behind the big granite block that once lifted high a statue of Great-Granddad Pickwick. It’s not just the black hair that identifies Reece from this distance; it’s the way he carries himself, which is apparent even though I can only see his head and shoulders.
What is he doing?
