Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “I see it!” She pivots and sweeps a hand to indicate the right side of the tangled pile of plumbing parts. “That’s the loom.”

  Really?

  She points to the left. “And that’s the guy working the loom.”

  “The master weaver,” Reece says.

  I don’t see either one.

  Devyn gasps. “Wait! This commemorates the old textile mill.”

  Of course. The one my great-grandfather founded and around which the town of Pickwick grew. The one Reece’s father tried to save from going the way of so many old textile mills in the South. The one that forever closed its doors under Uncle Bartholomew’s mismanagement. Fortunately, from the proceeds of items sold at auction, Uncle Obe recently made restitution to all those who’d lost their jobs and were owed their last month’s wages—plus interest and a bonus as way of apology.

  “A good choice?” Reece asks, and I notice he doesn’t appear as tired as he did earlier, as if reenergized by Devyn’s enthusiasm.

  “Excellent.” She nods. “But it’s kind of small, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a maquette—a working model. Once the sculpture is complete and your great-uncle approves it, I’ll take it to a foundry in Knoxville for enlarging and casting. Trust me, not an inch of that granite block will go to waste.”

  “What do you think about the statue, Mom—the master weaver?”

  That it’s a far better choice than the statue of the beneficent-looking Gentry Pickwick that Uncle Obe dropped in Pickwick Lake. I smile at her and offer the slightly used smile to Reece, but he still doesn’t look at me. “It certainly represents our town’s heritage. I’m sure Uncle Obe is pleased.”

  Devyn returns to the platform and runs a hand over what seems to be the master weaver’s arm—providing I squint. “This almost makes me want to be a sculptor.”

  Uh…

  Reece’s jaw shifts. “I didn’t think you had an interest in art.”

  “I don’t.” She reaches higher to something that isn’t quite a head but maybe will be once he attaches more plumbing. “However, this is amazing.” She pivots so suddenly her glasses go askew. “You get to create beautiful things out of practically nothing. Why, you’re a creator. I don’t mean like God, but here on earth.” She pushes her glasses up her nose. “It’s inspiring.”

  Reece’s smile is wry. “Maybe you have a bit of an artist in you after all, Devyn Pickwick.”

  If ever there was a good excuse for swooning, this is it. But I won’t. I will keep my balance. I will not sweat, perspire, or remotely glow.

  Devyn laughs. “You know, I just might.”

  Swoonsville. I widen my stance. “Devyn, we should let Mr. Thorpe get back to work. He has lots to do, and we don’t want to overstay our welcome.” Just watch, he’ll contradict me, thereby prolonging my agony.

  “Your mother is right.”

  Mercy, thank you!

  “If I’m going to complete this statue on schedule, I need to apply myself.”

  “I understand. But can I come again?”

  Say no—gently, but no.

  “Certainly. I’ll let you know when I begin forming the clay on the armature, and you can watch.”

  “Can I, Mom?” Devyn’s eyes are luminous.

  “We’ll see. School comes first.”

  She grins at Reece. “In that case, yes, since other than the extracurricular projects I assign myself, school rarely figures into my after-school hours.”

  She’s right, and I am stupid. “Let’s go, honey.”

  “Bye, Mr. Thorpe.” She waves as she starts toward me. “And thank you for letting us see your work in progress.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I venture one more look at him where he stands before the wall ignoring me. Please stay there. Don’t see us to the door. I turn away as Devyn steps past me. A few moments later, I reach to pull the door closed.

  A hand grasps my wrist, and I pivot to find Reece before me. Now he looks at me, eyes cold. “Devyn, do you mind if I borrow your mother a moment? We have a little business to discuss.”

  She adjusts her backpack. “Okay.”

  Not okay, but what choice do I have? “I won’t be long, Dev. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “All right.” She heads around the corner.

  Reece pulls me back into the studio, closes the door, and drops my wrist. “She’s mine, isn’t she?”

  I swallow. Why is he so quick to take responsibility? Though I lied to him about the extent of my involvement with other guys after our breakup, shouldn’t he be scrambling for that lie? Demanding a DNA test so he won’t be stuck supporting someone else’s child?

  He makes a harsh sound, thrusts a hand through his hair, and turns his back to me.

  What do I say? Yes, I think you’re her father. And that “think” part? That’s because I need one more DNA test to be certain. Got blood?

  Don’t be so dramatic. Tell him the truth.

  But all I need is one more sample, and then we don’t have to go there. He doesn’t ever have to know—

  What if Chase is Devyn’s father? You’ll have dug yourself in deeper by allowing Reece to believe she’s his.

  Chances are she is!

  I thought you were done with deception. What happened to “Be Skippy”?

  What’s wrong with “Be Maggie”?

  Well, that’s a new concept and a good one, providing you’re ready to listen to God directly rather than filtering everything through how Skippy would behave. And act on what He says.

  Am I? I think so.

  Prove it.

  For all my height and bluster, I suddenly feel small as I glance from Reece’s tense shoulders to his hand gripping the back of his head. “I need to tell you something.”

  He whips around. “No, you needed to tell me something. I had to figure it out—would never have known I had a daughter if I hadn’t come back.”

  I take a step toward him, though he hardly looks receptive to closing the distance between us. “I didn’t contact you about Devyn because…” Oh, I’m glowing—no, perspiring. That’s definitely a trickle at the back of my neck. “…I didn’t know for certain you were her father.”

  His lids snap nearly closed, leaving only a sharp light visible between the slits.

  “And I still don’t know.” Though I have eliminated one candidate—say it! “You see—”

  “So, the rumors you denied weren’t rumors after all?”

  The temptation to clasp my hands and knock knees is almost too great to resist. “Yes.”

  The anger that came off him when Devyn was under bully attack is back. “Then one of my classmates may have fathered her?”

  Two, actually, but how important is it? He already knows I’m guilty as charged, so why throw in unnecessary details, especially since Gary came back negative?

  You’re going to regret this. For goodness’ sake, “Be Maggie,” who listens and responds to God!

  If he weren’t so angry…

  “That’s what you’re saying,” he presses.

  Thumbs cramping, I realize my hands have joined forces and drop them to my sides. “Yes, I lied to you that day.”

  His lids lift just enough to reveal how dark his green eyes have turned. “And you’re not lying now.”

  “No.”

  Uh, doesn’t omission qualify as lying—at the very least, deceit?

  I try to stare him square in the eye but fall short. “Why would I lie?” I throw my hands out, hoping to distract him from my indirect gaze. “I’ve admitted to being a…tramp. That’s nothing to be proud of.”

  He lets me feel the weight of his scrutiny. “No, but it’s useful to keep Devyn from me like you’ve been trying to do since I came to town.”

  Then he’d prefer to believe I’m a liar now than a liar then? “You’re wrong. I mean, yes, I tried to keep you apart, but it was to prevent this from happening—baring my past…my lies…having you look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
>
  He peers down his nose at me, which is something of a feat considering he’s not much taller. “If that’s true, it’s selfish. Your daughter wants a father, and to save yourself embarrassment, you deny her.”

  But I was getting there, untangling my mess one strand at a time. Just one more sample, then I would know, and when Devyn was ready, she could make the decision about contacting her father.

  “No, Maggie. I don’t believe you. And as uncomfortable as it is for you, I will not allow you to shut me out of Devyn’s life. I didn’t come to Pickwick in search of fatherhood, but I accept the responsibility.”

  Why does he have to be so honorable?

  And what happens if he has no reason to be?

  “Why do you care so much? You barely know my daughter.”

  “Our daughter. I may hardly know her, but that isn’t by choice, and she has the right to know me just as I have the right to know her.”

  “But—”

  “No, I won’t let you deny Devyn anymore.”

  He makes it sound as if I’ve intentionally harmed my child. But to defend myself would only lead to further argument. I sigh. “All right, but know this, I am not lyin’ about the possibility you aren’t her father.”

  His gaze doesn’t waver. “The timing is about right.”

  “About. Before you claim her, Reece, you should have a DNA test.”

  His color deepens. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Unless it comes to that.”

  “Comes to what?”

  “I don’t want to fight you for the right to spend time with her.”

  Lord, help!

  “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to her—yet.”

  I swallow hard. “Is that a threat?”

  “Mom?”

  The door muffles the voice, then Devyn sticks her head inside. “The car is locked, and I started getting cold.”

  I thrust a hand into my purse in hopes the keys are somewhere at the bottom.

  “Sorry, Devyn, I didn’t mean to keep your mother so long.” Reece looks to me. “I appreciate your input, Maggie.” His mouth tilts, enough to pass for friendly. “I’ll see you at your uncle’s home for dinner this Friday.”

  I freeze. What is he talking about?

  “And you, Devyn.”

  Oh, that. Piper warned me to expect an invitation to join the family for a dinner Uncle Obe is hosting for Reece. Of course, I was going to be too busy preparing for Saturday’s auction to attend, but now…That was a threat.

  “I didn’t know we were having dinner at Unc-Unc’s.” Devyn beams. “That’ll be fun.”

  Since my back is turned to her, I make no pretense of a smile. “Then we’ll see you there, Reece.”

  He pulls a toothpick from his shirt pocket, clenches it between his teeth, and says around it, “Definitely.”

  Frustration wells inside me. I hate the feeling of being cornered. And with no antacid at hand. I turn away. “Time to go.”

  Devyn pushes the door wider and, as I step past her, waves at Reece. “Bye again.”

  “Good-bye, Devyn.”

  He said her name differently—a bit softer and slower, as if it held meaning for him.

  Devyn catches up with me in the corridor. “Who all do you think is comin’ to dinner at Unc-Unc’s?”

  “The entire family is invited—a belated welcoming party for Mr. Thorpe.”

  “Awesome!”

  Another word I’m unaccustomed to hearing from her, at least in this context.

  “We, um, probably won’t stay long, what with my auction on Saturday.”

  “Then I’ll spend the night with Miss Piper.”

  And have her keep company with Reece without me present? On second thought, even if it means my auctioneer’s chant is off the next day, I’m not going anywhere before Reece calls it a night.

  Lord, help me.

  He might not be coming at all.

  Answered prayer, Lord?

  Not that I prayed Reece wouldn’t put in an appearance tonight, but I did pray for a way through this evening, especially after what I’ve had to endure these past few days. Though I’ve avoided Reece like a bad banana, Devyn is determined to match us. If she’s not pressing me to put in after-school hours at the auction house (“You don’t want to get behind in your work”), she’s not-so-subtly dropping Candidate Number Eight’s positive attributes (“How often does a single mother come across a single guy who knows how to talk to kids—and not in a condescending way?”). Doubtless Reece has garnered more positive marks on her spreadsheet.

  I glance at the front door beyond the pillars that separate the mansion’s entryway from the great hallway where most of us are gathered. Unfortunately, even if Reece doesn’t show, it could still be a long night. After all, where two or more Pickwicks are gathered—well, in Uncle Obe’s name—it can get choppy.

  Devyn’s moodiness is in remission, as evidenced by her smiles and animated conversation with Piper and Bridget, but Uncle Bartholomew is unhappy. Standing alongside the banister of the grand staircase, a plate of stuffed eggs in one hand, his other hand splayed over his rounded stomach, he glares at Trinity where she hangs on his son’s arm in the library’s arched doorway.

  Then there’s Luc and his overly made-up wife, who have been arguing since their arrival. Thankfully, they stepped into the library and are carrying on against the backdrop of ceiling-high bookshelves.

  As for my mother, she has practically pinned Uncle Obe to the wall and keeps interrupting Aunt Belinda’s attempts to get a word in edgewise.

  Yes, unless I find a way to pry Devyn free, it’s going to be a long night. And I’m only fifteen minutes into it, meaning it’s more likely Reece is fashionably late.

  Lord, I don’t want anything to happen to him, but it’s fine with me if he’s so caught up in his art—You could send a little inspiration his way—that he forgets about the dinner party. He does have the excuse of being an artist, so You might as well put it to good use. I mean, if You want.

  I raise my glass of Coke, only to pause at the sound of crackling paper as my arm brushes the breast pocket of my silk wraparound dress. I tug the scalloped edge forward and peer at the folded paper I belatedly pulled from the little block calendar as Devyn dragged me toward the door so we wouldn’t be any later than I’d already made us.

  Though I usually start my day with a daily word, my routine has been off for the past three days, thanks to Reece’s revelation—one I’m sorely tempted to accept, since I’m almost certain now he is Devyn’s father, and it’s not as if he’s demanding a DNA test. If he’s willing to believe she’s his sight—er, DNA—unseen…

  I turn my attention to the daily word for which I have fewer hours than usual to speak or think into my vocabulary. “Zaftig. ‘Plump, pleasingly.’”

  “Who’s plump pleasingly?”

  I jump at the appearance of my uncle’s ponytailed godson/gardener. Despite Axel’s prosthetic leg and the accompanying hitch, he’s stealthy. “No one.” I smile and am rewarded with a twinkle in eyes Piper calls “capital-B blue.” “At least not in this family. You know how body conscious we are.” In fact, the only one who comes remotely close to pleasingly plump is Aunt Belinda. As for Uncle Bartholomew, he’s past pleasingly plump and defends his right to be now that he’s retired.

  Axel nods. “Before Thorpe arrives, I thought I’d ask how it’s going with him working out of the auction house.”

  He knows Reece may be Devyn’s father, since I gave Piper permission to share this with him in hopes he could use his influence with Uncle Obe to convince him to go with a different sculptor. Plus, Axel was my friend before he was Piper’s, and I trust him, even though I didn’t care for his advice that I be up-front with Reece. Advice I should have listened to.

  I shrug. “It’s uncomfortable.” I’m tempted to confide the most recent development, but I resist. This is not the time or the place. I sweep waves off my brow and tuck them behind an ear. “So, how are th
ings between you and my cousin?”

  Were I not watching closely, I might have missed his momentary smile. “What are you hiding, Obadiah Axel Smith?”

  He clears his throat. “Nothing I can talk about.”

  In the next instant, the weight of my worries eases. “Hold up!” I step closer to him to prevent others from hearing. “You did it, didn’t you? Asked her to marry you.”

  He glances at where Piper is leaning forward to capture something my daughter is saying. “I’m not supposed to say.”

  That means yes! “Why?”

  “It turns out Bart and I proposed on the same day.”

  Meaning Axel and Piper don’t want to steal the spotlight from Bart and Trinity. I pat his arm. “I’m happy for you.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t say she accepted.”

  I snort. “Of course she did.”

  A broad grin rises above his goatee. “Just remember, I didn’t volunteer the good news.”

  “Okay. What about the ring?”

  He whispers, “She’s wearing it as a necklace.”

  As I shoot my gaze to Piper, I register the beep of the front door that alerts Uncle Obe’s caregivers that he may be wandering. Unfortunately, my cousin has buttoned her blouse all the way up, meaning I won’t be getting a look at her diamond anytime soon. Might it be zaftig?

  “Brace yourself”—Axel settles back on his heels—“the guest of honor is here.”

  My joy over the pending nuptials pours out the hole that Reece’s arrival opens in me as I look down the hallway to where Martha, hired to cater the dinner, ushers him toward us.

  I have never seen this side of Reece. His usually mussed hair is almost tamed. Gone is his everyday attire, and in its place is a sports jacket, the dark color of which contrasts nicely with a white button-down shirt. Thankfully, he didn’t throw in a tie, as it would have looked pretentious on an artist whose hands shape clay into metal. His slacks…well, they’re slacks, aren’t they?

  I look back at his face. I expect him to avoid eye contact as he did while showing Devyn his sculpture, but he smiles. Then—?

  “Mr. Reece!” Devyn runs to him. She’s the one who put the curve in his mouth. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.” She tugs his shirt-sleeve. “Come on.”