Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  Returning my attention to Trinity and Bart, I smile. “Congratulations. You make a lovely couple.”

  Trinity blushes, my drug-rehabilitated cousin grins, and Mrs. Templeton mutters, “Mark my words.”

  I look at Bart. “Have you told Bridget?” In other words, get out before the tide of Mrs. Templeton’s displeasure comes back in.

  “Oh, Bart!” Trinity bounces. “Sure as shootin’, we gotta tell your sister.”

  He still seems pained, which probably has as much to do with Mrs. Templeton’s reaction to their engagement as Bridget’s feelings about his “carrying on” with Trinity. It’s not that she doesn’t like Uncle Obe’s Cinderella-inspired housekeeper; it’s that she regards their relationship as seriously skewed. They’re too similar, too silly, too naive. In this instance, opposites really should attract—for both their sakes, as well as those who will have to stand by them. But while I understand Bridget’s concerns, I kind of think this could work.

  “I’ll see you this evenin’, Gran, and don’t be frettin’ if I’m a tad late. Bart and me, we’ll be showin’ off this here diamond.”

  Mrs. Templeton growls at Trinity. “When you see me answer the altar call this Sunday, you’ll know what I’m prayin’ about. Um-hmm. Don’t think I won’t tell the Lord what’s goin’ on down here. Yes, I will.”

  Time to move. “Have fun, you two.” I jerk my chin in the direction of the glass doors, and they march off like good little soldiers.

  “I am not happy.” Mrs. Templeton frowns hard at me. “In fact, I am so unhappy I’d best call it a day ’cause I ain’t gonna be worth a dime you pay me.” She stomps toward her office, leaving me alone with Reece.

  I smile at him. “Sorry about that.”

  Hands deep in his pockets, denim shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned to reveal a white T-shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, he straightens from the doorway. “I needed the break.”

  So it appears, his dark hair mussed, eyes shot with red, jaw sporting a double five o’clock shadow. My, he’s bristly, but in a roughly appealing way, like he just came down off the mountain and—Enough! “How’s the sculpture coming along?”

  “Keeping me up nights.” He advances, not with his usual stride, but with shorter reaches, as if those late nights are weighing him down. “But I’m making good progress.” He halts before me. “How’s the auction business?”

  I haven’t seen him at the live auction for the past two Saturdays, though I have been on the lookout. Apparently, once he begins work on a sculpture, he’s all in. Noticing that in addition to bloodshot eyes, he has dark circles beneath them, I fight the impulse to smooth them away. “Going well, thank you. In fact, this past Saturday we broke a record—”

  Mrs. Templeton suddenly pops up between Reece and me and thrusts a thick envelope in my hand. “Here.”

  “What’s this?” Oh, please don’t let it be a letter of resignation. As difficult as she can be, I’ve come to depend on her.

  “How should I know? It’s marked Confidential so I didn’t open it.”

  I flip it over. There’s a return address but no company name.

  “I was feelin’ particularly helpful today before Trinity and Bart up and ruined everythin’, so when you walked out of here grumbling that you didn’t have time to pick up the mail, I went to the post office and got it myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If I recover from my shock of bad news,” she says, “and can summon the strength, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I could really use your help.” I give her an encouraging smile.

  “I know that.” She steps from between Reece and me. “Like I said, maybe you’ll see me tomorrow.”

  Reece smiles, and despite the fatigue that prevents his mouth from attaining full smilehood, I want to melt.

  I return my attention to the envelope and the word Confidential stamped in red in the lower left corner. Hmm. I slip a finger beneath the flap. What—? Oh! I know what this is. And I could kiss Mrs. Templeton for respecting those red letters.

  I snatch my finger from the flap and blink at Reece. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  He frowns, but with the envelope burning a hole in my hand, I slip past him and hurry toward Mrs. Templeton’s office.

  “I was going to ask you to join me for coffee.”

  “Rain check,” I call over my shoulder. A moment later, I close the door behind me and lift the envelope with both hands. Deep breath. “This is it.” In all likelihood, the end of the trail, proving Reece is not Devyn’s father.

  Ignoring a stab of regret, I open the flap, pull out the pages, and unfold them. “Okay,” I whisper at every period I come to as I read the polite letter that surely includes the word positive. It’s not on the first page that goes on and on about it being an honor to be entrusted with something so personal and important, followed by an explanation of the procedure carried out to determine the existence of a genetic relationship between the samples. “Okay.” Next page…

  Of all the words in all the little boxes stuffed with data, the one that stands out is printed in red like the one on the front of the envelope. I read it again and drop my arm to my side. “Okay.” I sag against the door. “That’s that.” I slide down, drop the lab report, and gather my knees to my chest. “Negative.”

  Gary will never have to face an illegitimate child on his doorstep—at least, not mine. Though I’m relieved by the elimination of Candidate Number Two, anxiety sticks its head around the corner, the intensity of its gaze making me hug my knees tighter.

  I’m not done. Miles to go before I sleep, or in this case, before I obtain another sample. I consider Devyn’s date of birth and what she weighed—seven pounds on the dot. If Reece is her father, she came into the world a couple of weeks late. Shouldn’t she have weighed more? If Chase is her father, she came into the world a couple of weeks early. Shouldn’t she have weighed less? Of course, if I factor in how petite she is…Maybe God kept her in the womb a bit longer to get her up to a healthy seven pounds.

  Or let her out early since she had attained a healthy weight. Just because she’s petite now doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have been a big baby had she stayed in the womb a couple more weeks.

  True, but there seems a better chance that Reece is Devyn’s daddy. Tentative relief unfurling, I unhug my knees. Even if it means I lied to Devyn, I’d rather that than have her father be someone who shunned her all these years.

  “Reece,” I whisper to the ceiling, the sky above, the heavens overall, God everywhere. “Please let it be Reece. I don’t know how and when I’m going to work this out, but I need it to be him. And so does Devyn.”

  And the only way to know for certain is to resume my DNA quest.

  Or face this head-on by having a talk with Reece.

  I clasp my head between my hands. “I can’t.” And this angst would be entirely unnecessary had I not been so certain Gary was the one, had I rooted through the Dumpster to search out the rag Reece bled onto, had I accepted his invitation and set my mind to snagging a chewed stirrer or toothpick over coffee—

  Mr. Copper’s Beanery and Lending Library! Devyn’s destination.

  “Stupid, stupid!” I snatch up the lab results and stuff them in my purse. “Not good, Maggie,” I flout for all the word’s worth. “How could you?”

  Reece is at the far end of the counter where customers claim their drinks. However, my relief fizzles when I follow his gaze to the back of the shop. Against the backdrop of crowded bookshelves, Devyn is there with Amanda Pigg and her friends, all of whom stand over my daughter by inches and then some. Whatever is going on, it isn’t friendly, as evidenced by Devyn’s defiant stance and the other girls’ thinly sarcastic smiles.

  While all of me tenses in preparation to rescue my daughter, I hesitate, afraid my interference will embarrass her and make matters worse.

  Reece has no such inhibitions, and I catch my breath when he strides from the counter toward the girls. “What’s going
on?”

  Amanda and her friends glance around.

  “What concern is it of yours?” Amanda tosses her hair back.

  “It sounds like you’re bothering Devyn.” Reece to the rescue of a damsel-in-bullying. Again.

  Move it, Maggie!

  Amanda slides her gaze over him. “What? Are you her dad?” She drops her mouth open and looks to Devyn. “Oh, wait! You don’t have a dad. Or should I say, you have no idea who he is.”

  As I weave between the tables and sidestep errant chairs, Reece says, “You girls need to leave.”

  “We need to leave?” Amanda puts her hands on her hips.

  “Hey, aren’t you that famous artist guy who was in the paper last week?” another girl says. “The one makin’ a new statue for the square?”

  Amanda’s eyes widen, and in the next instant, she’s boldly appraising him.

  “Reece Thorpe,” he says, and though his back is mostly to me, there’s no mistaking his anger. It’s in his voice and the span of his broad shoulders. “I don’t like seeing kids bully other kids, especially younger ones.”

  I suck air so hard that were my tongue not attached, I might swallow it.

  “She’s not younger than us.” Amanda flashes a coy smile. “She’s just a runt.”

  I practically leap the last few steps to Reece’s side. “There you are, Devyn.”

  Her eyes go big, the kind of big that says, “Not my mother!”

  I don’t look at Reece, afraid of what might be playing across his face. I don’t look at the other girls, afraid I might say or do something stereotypical of a redhead. Instead, I jut my chin at the table where Devyn set her backpack and hot chocolate. “Grab your stuff; we need to go.”

  She opens her mouth. I stare deep into her eyes. She opens it wider. I raise my eyebrows. She eases it closed. I breathe again.

  “Oh, right!” She beams at Reece. “I forgot that you’re going to show Mom and me how work is progressing on the statue.”

  She’s saving face, and I can’t begrudge her, but why did she have to pull Reece further into this?

  Amanda stands straighter and flutters her lashes at Reece. “Ooh, can we come?”

  His fatigue is still there, but anger and annoyance are firmly alongside it. “I’m sorry, but I prefer to keep my projects under wraps until they’re ready for public display.”

  She sticks out her full bottom lip and says in a baby-doll voice, “Why does Devyn get to see it?”

  “Rules are meant to be bent—for friends.”

  The slate of Amanda’s face wipes clean, but in the next instant, she’s clenching her jaw.

  Reece turns to Devyn. “Ready?”

  She grabs her backpack and drink, and I stand back to let her past.

  A narrow-eyed glance is all Reece affords me as he turns. He crosses to the pickup counter, retrieves his coffee, and follows Devyn from the shop. I bring up the rear, and as I head outside, Devyn falls into step with Reece.

  “I respect your need for privacy,” she says, “so you don’t have to show me the statue. I just said that so it didn’t seem like I was running away from Amanda and her cronies—a dangerous precedent to set.”

  “I know.” He slows to accommodate her shorter stride. “But I don’t mind if you have a look.”

  “Really?”

  He nods.

  Though I feel like a second-class citizen as I follow behind, I hang back, afraid of another of his narrow-eyed looks—or worse. I told you to talk to him. He’s no dummy, knows Devyn is older than you led him to believe, might even be entertaining the possibility he’s the father she doesn’t know.

  Lord, are You listening? It’s me, Maggie Pickwick. Help!

  Reece holds open the theater’s door for Devyn, and I half expect him to let it swing closed in my face, but he remains the gentleman.

  I have every intention of meeting his gaze as I pass through but make it only as far as his unmoving mouth before I’m overwhelmed by the need to avert.

  Inside the lobby, I drop back and fumble for an excuse to deny Devyn a peek at what’s happening behind Reece’s closed doors. But there’s nothing for it unless I want to look like a highly suspect killjoy. I lower my eyes as I step ahead of Reece into the storage-room-turned-studio.

  “Hey!” Devyn drops her backpack and turns full circle. “You cleaned up the place and painted it and everything.”

  He certainly did. As he brushes past me, I stare at the formerly dingy and disorderly room. The discolored cinderblock walls have been painted white, the rotting indoor-outdoor carpeting torn out and the cement floors stained in earth-tone colors, the blown-out bulbs replaced with new bulbs that shine light in every corner, the ceiling-level windows scraped clean to allow sunlight to mix with electric light. As for the mildewed boxes and broken and rusty film equipment, the piles have been replaced with a drafting table, chair, a set of cabinets, and two tables. And here I thought Reece was drawing away during those first few weeks.

  “It’s back here.” He heads toward a multipaneled room divider at the rear of the studio. Where did that come from?

  Devyn turns to me. “Come on.”

  I hesitate to follow. After all, she’s the one to whom Reece directed the invitation.

  She waves me forward, and my feet drag as I close the distance between us.

  “Are you all right?” I ask as we walk side by side.

  “In the words of Jesus, there will always be the poor among us. I submit this is also true of the mean, but”—she shrugs—“sticks and stones…” Then she frowns. “Do you think Amanda and her friends will ever change? You know, once they mature and discover it’s not all about them?”

  I feel suddenly caught in her sights. How much does she know about my past?

  “You did.”

  That much. Doubtless, also courtesy of Amanda.

  “Anyone can change if he or she really wants to and has enough faith.” Reece stands beside the room divider, eyes on Devyn, words on me. “But those are the keys, want and faith. How much you have will determine the degree of change.”

  I had both, thanks to Skippy. Unfortunately, since Reece’s return to Pickwick, I haven’t much exercised the faith element, which is the reason I find myself in this predicament.

  “So yes,” he still looks at Devyn as we halt before him, “those girls can change. How old are they?”

  Oh, Lord!

  “Around thirteen.”

  I drive my nails deeper into my palms as the tension increases around Reece’s mouth, revealing his struggle to keep his smile in place.

  “And you?” he asks with a subtle deepening of the voice.

  Devyn tilts her chin up. “Most everyone mistakes me for being years younger and assumes I must have skipped a couple of grades, but I’ll be thirteen on July 1.” She grins. “A teenager at last!”

  “July 1…” He still doesn’t look at me. “Just think, if you’d been born late, you could have been a Fourth of July baby.”

  I swallow the last of the moisture in my mouth. With that seemingly innocent comment, he’s gone fishing, probably in hopes Devyn will volunteer she was born on time or premature. Were she, it could disqualify him from fatherhood. And he could rest easy.

  I feel for him. This is not how a man should learn he’s a father. I had the chance to do it right, albeit painfully humiliating to me. Now not only do I get my just deserts, but he gets his unjust deserts. I’m sorry, Reece. Please look at me.

  He continues to wait on Devyn, whose thoughtful face he’s likely searching for resemblance to his own.

  “Yeah.” She nods. “But since my mom chose natural childbirth, I don’t think she wanted me any bigger than I was.”

  That pretty much nixes the possibility she was significantly premature, might even be assumed she was late. But does Reece remember the exact day I seduced him?

  “I wouldn’t think so.” He turns away. “Let me show you what I have so far.”

  Devyn hurries after him, but I d
on’t move, even when they go around the screen and out of sight.

  She gasps. “What is that?”

  “The armature, the structure that supports the sculpture and on which I’ll apply clay to build the form.”

  “Cool!”

  I remain rooted to the spot, my world too shaken to satisfy my curiosity over what she applied that particular word to—a word I don’t know I’ve ever heard her use.

  “All these pieces,” she marvels, “they look like…”

  “They’re mostly plumbing parts and wire.”

  “Plumbing parts?”

  He chuckles, and the sound gives me a measure of comfort that whatever he’s thinking can’t be too bad if he can still laugh. Right?

  “That’s right,” he says, “believe it or not.”

  Too bad he isn’t talking to me. But how could he, seeing as I’m cowering on this side of the divider? Since Devyn’s bound to question my reason for hanging back, I step around the corner and do a double take at the sight of what rises from a three-by-two-foot pedestal.

  Goodness! What is that skeletal jumble of plumbing parts supposed to be? Has Reece gone all modern-slash-abstract-slash-junk?

  Devyn walks around the metal monstrosity. “I can’t tell what it is.”

  “That’s because the armature isn’t complete.”

  That’s a relief. Still, it’s hard to believe all that metal will look like anything I’ve ever seen. And isn’t it a bit small? Something three times that size could easily fit on the granite block.

  “Look over here.” Reece turns toward the numerous sketches taped to the wall behind them.

  As Devyn follows, she flashes me a lively smile that wouldn’t have been possible when she stood before Amanda and her friends. If not for what that encounter cost me and that I might never be able to pay the bill, I would be grateful to Reece for this gift. If, if, if…

  The two stand side by side, backs to me as I cling to the furthermost reaches of their realm, Reece with his hands in his pockets, Devyn looking from sketch to sketch.