Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  Their first stop is Uncle Obe, who sidesteps my mother too quickly for her not to notice his eagerness to escape her.

  Reece extends his hand. “I apologize for being late, Obadiah. A family emergency needed to be handled.”

  Uncle Obe’s shake is two-handed. “I’m just glad you could make it for…” His lids flutter. “Yes, glad you could make it. And I’m certainly familiar with emergencies of the f-family sort.”

  And increasingly familiar with dementia. Recently, Piper vowed that if he doesn’t finish his umpteenth draft of the letter to his estranged children, she will take it on herself—and hand deliver it if need be since time is running thin for any possibility of reconciliation. After all, though his children might forgive him for choosing his inheritance over them, it will eventually reach the point that he’s entirely unaware of any peace they might offer. And, of course, they need to know about the early onset dementia they may carry in their genes.

  “Let me introduce you around.” Uncle Obe pulls back from the handshake. “This here is my sister-in-law Belinda. She’s married to…my brother over there. You may have met him when your father worked at the textile mill.”

  “I did.”

  My throat tightens at how happy Devyn seems standing beside Reece. It’s as if she senses he’s more than an acquaintance.

  “Thorpe has stopped by several times to see your uncle,” Axel says near my ear, “and we talked some. Seems decent enough.”

  “Yes, well…” I shrug.

  “Devyn likes him.”

  There’s no getting around that. “I think I’ll check in on Martha. She might need help.”

  “Time to regroup?”

  I nod and, shortly, enter the cavernous kitchen that was put to good use this past December when Uncle Obe stepped outside of his reclusive nature to host a Christmas Eve dinner for the Pickwicks. It nearly proved a disaster. Most notable was Uncle Bartholomew getting into it with Luc, whom he accused of selling him a lemon at “that slimy, lowdown, no-good used-car lot.” Then Bridget sniping at Luc’s wife for double flushing the toilet when one bowl of water was wasteful enough, and my mom’s table-pounding attempt to convince Devyn to be fit for contacts so she wouldn’t look so, “ahem, plain.” Oh, and mustn’t forget the argument Uncle Obe had with his long-dead father over how best to slice the ham. That shut us up. From what we can tell, it was the first and last hallucinatory conversation he’s had, which made me wonder if it was an act. After all, he’s always on the lookout for a silver lining to his dementia, and we did behave after that, for the most part.

  Martha looks up from where she stands at the island before crystal bowls filled with frilly salad greens and sliced tomatoes. “Everyone gettin’ along out there?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Well, that’s somethin’ better ’n nothin’.” She claps her palms together and rolls her eyes up. “Lord, let peace reign in this big ol’ house.” She parts her hands and flashes a mouthful of yellowed teeth. “That there girl of yours seems to have taken a shine to your uncle’s artist.”

  I know there’s more to her words than meet the ear; however, seeing no reason to probe, I pan a hand at the platters of food that will feed the Pickwicks. “This looks wonderful.”

  She gets back to work, sprinkling each salad with sliced green onions. “I like doin’ this. In fact, what with your weekly pie orders, Mr. Copper’s daily orders, caterin’ jobs, and only so many hours in a day, I might have to hang up my Cracker Barrel name tag.”

  I was hoping it might come to this. “You can count on me to keep the pie orders coming. They’ve given my auctiongoers more staying power.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  As Martha checks on the entrée in the oven, I deliver a salad to each place setting in the formal dining room, then fill the water glasses with iced tea. That’s when I notice the place cards and read around the table to discover I’ve been assigned the seat between Devyn and Reece. Surely the work of Uncle Obe.

  Ten minutes later, everyone enters the dining room, and Uncle Obe tells us to join hands where we stand for the blessing of the meal. We spread out a little, reaching for the hand of the nearest person, in my case Devyn’s and Trinity’s. In Devyn’s case, Reece’s and mine. And so here we are with our daugh—my daughter—between us. But as soon as we take our seats, this threesome is over.

  “Lord God,” Uncle Obe says, and we all bow our heads, “bless this food that it be nourishing to our minds, b…bodies, and souls. Bless this gatherin’ of Pickwicks and not-so-Pickwicks, and thank You for that. We could use some dilutin’.”

  I look up, but if he’s funning with us, I can’t tell from his deeply bowed head. As I start to resume the position, a toe-tapping Bridget catches my eye where she stands between Uncle Obe and her mother. Mouth turned down, my cousin’s gaze lazily flits from bowed head to bowed head.

  “I pray You will watch over each of us,” Uncle Obe continues, “and draw us nearer one another as we draw nearer to You.”

  Bridget raises her eyebrows at me. Caught. I shrug. She shrugs back, causing the dreadlocks on her shoulders to shift. Well, at least she didn’t scoot off to the garden for this part of the evening. Progress?

  “And, Lord, You know our…” A long pause as he searches for the word. “…sins better than we do. Please help us to overcome those things that stand between us and You that we may walk strong in Your merciful shadow. It is in Jesus’s name I pray. Amen and amen.”

  “Amens” buzz around the gathering like flies around a watermelon; then we move toward our assigned seats.

  “Well, look at that!” Uncle Obe says as Bridget starts to lower into the chair beside Reece. “Someone up and changed my seatin’ arrangement.”

  He’s not going to make a scene is he?

  “Bridget, you switch places with Maggie. Devyn, you switch with your Aunt Belinda.”

  I long to snatch Devyn back as she eagerly moves toward the head of the table, but it would only make matters worse. And so, avoiding Uncle Obe’s narrow-eyed gaze, I follow my daughter, sidestep Bridget who grins knowingly, and slide into the chair she vacated without protest.

  For all my dread over sitting beside Reece, Uncle Obe pretty much monopolizes him throughout the meal. The only real source of discomfort—besides the occasional bumping of elbows—is when Devyn talks to him around me. That’s when the contents of my plate become something to behold.

  At last, dessert arrives, and Aunt Belinda chirps with delight. “Martha, no one does red velvet cake like you.” Her eyes devour the elegantly tall slice set in front of my mother. “It looks ever so moist. I can practically taste it. Of course, perhaps I ought to decline.” She turns to her husband. “What do you think, Bartholomew?”

  So he’s minding her calorie intake again—my uncle who could stand to lose quite a few more pounds than his wife.

  “Well now, a woman must watch her figure, Belinda dear, and you have been indulgin’ of late.” He leans near her as if to continue in privacy. “Got yourself a bit of a paunch there.”

  So much for privacy.

  “Daddy!” Bridget bites. However, in the next instant, she draws a deep breath. “Perhaps you and Mama can share a piece.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps not. Seein’ as you haven’t been around much lately, you couldn’t have noticed your mother’s weight problem.”

  Embarrassed color flushes my aunt’s face; angry color sweeps her daughter’s. But it’s Trinity’s voice that rings out. “Oh, she doesn’t have a weight problem.”

  Gulps go around the table, Bart’s being the loudest.

  “You’re”—Trinity considers her future (maybe) mother-in-law—“zaftig.”

  Did I hear right? Did Trinity Templeton, better known in high school as Trinity Simpleton, use my daily word for highly successful career women? A word that, if I’d heard it before today, I would not have known the meaning? Does she know the meaning? For her sake, I hope not.

&nb
sp; “Zaftig?” Uncle Bartholomew grunts. “What in blazes is that?”

  “Why, it means ‘pleasingly plump.’” Trinity nods. “Looked it up myself when that lady on HGTV was talkin’ about fluffy pillows—the kind with big buttons in the middle that pinch and pouf up the stuffin’ all around.”

  Bad visual.

  Uncle Bartholomew juts his chin forward. “Are you implyin’, Miss Templeton, my wife is fat?”

  Her eyes widen. “Why, no! She’s zaftig. That’s the desirable end of fat. Like I said, pleasingly plump.”

  Mercy! I clear my throat. “It’s a compliment, Aunt Belinda…Uncle Bartholomew.”

  The latter scrapes his chair back, stands, and points a finger at Trinity. “There is nothin’ pleasin’ about fat, Miss Templeton, especially used in reference to my wife.”

  Bart puts an arm around his fiancée’s shoulder. “Trinity didn’t mean any harm, Daddy.” He looks to his mother. “You know that, don’t you, Mama?”

  Confusion pinches her face as she peers down her front, as if in search of that big button in the middle. “Well, it is a pretty word, zaftig. Sounds like somethin’ a New York City person would say.”

  “See?” Bart looks hopefully at his father.

  “I do not see. Just like I don’t see why you had to go get yourself engaged.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being zaftig myself,” Uncle Obe says with more volume than I’ve heard in a long time, causing all of us to shift our attention to the man at the head of the table. He pats his concave chest. “Too much bone on me. Makes me seem sickly.” He smiles at Trinity. “Thank you for introducing that artsy word to us.” He moves on to his sister-in-law. “Zaftig sounds healthy, don’t you think, Belinda?”

  She looks up at her husband, who remains standing. “Bartholomew?”

  “Yep, healthy,” Uncle Obe overrides him, “somethin’ we could all stand to be—in body, mind, and spirit. I’m sure my brother agrees.”

  Uncle Bartholomew drops his pointing finger, which somehow unbalances him and causes him to teeter. With even less grace than usual, he plops down in his chair.

  “See there!” Uncle Obe smiles at Martha where she hovers behind his brother and sister-in-law, a cake plate in each hand. “No need to skimp on that c-c-…er, sweet bread you’re so famous for. We’ll each take a big slice.”

  Uncle Bartholomew’s eyes widen as Martha sets her generous creation in front of his wife. “Well now, maybe we could share a piece, Belinda.”

  To my surprise, she pulls the plate closer. “Actually, I think Obe is right. A little zaftig never hurt anyone.” She lifts her fork. “And if I can’t finish it, I’ll take it home.”

  Martha slides a slice in front of my uncle, and thus ends what could have been an unpleasant scene.

  “Close one,” Devyn murmurs.

  Before I can respond, warm breath fills my ear. “Welcome to the family, hmm?”

  I gaze at the man who isn’t supposed to be talking to me. Or breathing in my ear. Or alluding to being part of my family, even if he is.

  I glance at Uncle Obe. Though his face is turned to my mother where she sits on his other side, I know he’s listening.

  I lean toward Reece and whisper, “I wouldn’t blame you if you ran for the hills.”

  His smile isn’t nearly as forced as mine. “That sounds like advice disguised as comment.”

  It is. And selfish, but I don’t want him taking any part of Devyn from me, especially considering what he thinks of me. If only—

  “I said,” my mother hisses, “Bart is makin’ a mistake.” She scoots nearer Uncle Obe, and my glance around brings comfort that only Reece and I heard. Everyone else is too busy with their own buzzing. And cuddling. Luc and his wife have made up, her head on his shoulder as he slides a forkful of cake into her mouth.

  Returning my attention to the latest drama to hit the Pickwick table, I cringe to see my uncle’s brow pucker hard. Please, Mom, don’t be judgmental…pull back…stop!

  She nods. “Big mistake.”

  “Trinity is a fine young woman,” Uncle Obe rasps. “Just look at the change in my nephew since they started seein’ each other. She’s kept Bart honest and outta jail, so you and my brother had best get used to the idea that she’s gonna be one of us—”

  “Ha!” My mother scoffs. “If a cat had kittens in the doghouse, would that make them puppies, Obadiah Pickwick?”

  I nearly drop my face in my cake. Antacid. Need it now.

  Not daring to look at Reece for the distaste surely on his face, I push my chair back. “Excuse me.”

  No one questions me or seems to notice, thankfully. As I step from the dining room, I hear Devyn exclaim, “Really?”

  I glance around. Obviously, she noticed my exit, having claimed my chair, the better to converse with Reece. I nearly turn back, but I need an antacid.

  Shortly, I stand alongside the enormous telescope Uncle Obe had mounted on the rooftop observation deck when Devyn first became interested in astronomy. I prop my elbows on the railing and take in the cool breeze on which a Carolina spring snow travels, big flat flakes angling left to right, then right to left, as they take the long way to the ground where tomorrow’s sunshine will begin to dry them out. Yes, dry. These are no ordinary flakes. Though at first glance they appear to be of the shivering snow variety, they’re actually the delicate petals shed by the Bradford pear trees on the property. Pretty, soft little things but smelly—like dirty socks.

  I flick them from my shoulders and sleeves, but it’s futile since the shedding is in full swing. Working my tongue over my teeth to dissolve the last of the antacid, I head to the telescope and put my eye to it. With a little adjusting, the unclouded night sky is crisply magnified, revealing thousands and thousands of stars. Slowly I pan the heavens until something like a wispy cloud fills the lens. Hmm. Devyn could tell me what it is—probably some far-off galaxy—but I think…

  “Hello, God. I see You. Well, not see see You, but I know You’re there. And that You’re listening and wondering why I’m not listening.” Sigh. “I know I should get off this train, even if I land on the tracks and the next train runs right over me. But I’m scared. I’ve messed up, and I don’t know how to fix this without getting my mess on Devyn. Would it be so bad if I let Reece believe what he wants to believe, which is probably true? And why is he so eager, anyway? A deep sense of responsibility? Or does he really want Devyn to be his?” I lift my face to the sky. “We’re a package. If he wants to be her father, he’ll have to deal with me, and I don’t think…” I shake my head. “He won’t like that, even if he still likes kissing me.”

  “Is that right?” someone drawls in the night.

  I know the voice, but still I screech.

  Mercy! A body would think I’d attacked you.” My blond-even-in-the-night cousin steps from the top of the stairs that ascend from a third-floor balcony on the backside of the mansion.

  “Bridget!” I choke. “You could have let me know you were there.”

  “I just did.” She steps forward, her rubbery shoes making squishing sounds as she crosses the observation deck to where I stand. “So, you and Reece Thorpe are becomin’ intimately reacquainted, are you?”

  Though I know she will keep my confidence, there’s still cause for discomfort. After all, she isn’t Skippy. “I don’t know why it happened.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe the two of you were alone, and just maybe it was…daaark.” She puts every bit of the South into that last word.

  “Oh, stop.” I return to the eyepiece.

  “Tell me, did this nose rubbin’—I am givin’ you the benefit of the doubt here—occur before or after you told him he’s Devyn’s daddy?”

  So much for stargazing. And talking at God. And getting myself out of this mess. “I didn’t tell Reece. He—”

  “Is this a Maggie-Bridget thing, or can anyone join?”

  Am I really so out of it that I didn’t hear Piper either? Bridget may be wearing Crocs or Dawgs or whatever
those fat, ugly things on her feet are, but Piper is wearing noisy heels.

  “Apparently, I’m havin’ an open house,” I call. “Come on over.”

  With her short red hair, Piper isn’t as visible across the rooftop, but as she nears, I make out her petite figure in the taupe pantsuit she wore this evening. Oh, to be so small and feminine. Hard to believe she envies my height.

  “Things appear to be a bit strained between you and Reece.” Amid the drifting petals, Piper comes alongside Bridget, and I feel as though I’m standing before a united front.

  Did they plan this? No, they may have started coming around to each other, but I can’t see them being in cahoots—yet. “I—”

  “They kissed,” Bridget says, “so how strained can it be?”

  I growl. “That was before all the clues added up and he figured out that Devyn is”—another growl—“or thinks Devyn is—”

  “He knows?” Piper gasps. “And she is?”

  Bridget harrumphs. “So the DNA test came back positive. I suppose that’s good news considerin’ the alternatives.”

  “DNA test?” Piper sounds confused.

  I considered telling her, but I knew she would try to talk me out of it. “Yes, a DNA test, but the result was negative.”

  “Say wh-at?” Bridget’s voice cracks.

  “And the test was for Gary.”

  My dreadlocked cousin moves closer. “It was Reece’s DNA you were after.”

  “Yes, but he came this close to catching me in his hotel room pickin’ at his hairbrush. When he was suspicious about why I was in the hotel, I knew it best not to push my luck. Rather than try to verify he’s Devyn’s father, I decided to use the process of elimination by getting a DNA sample from Gary. That’s why I went to Charlotte.”

  “I thought you were there on business,” Piper says.

  “Gary agreed to be tested?” Bridget asks.

  “Er, no, I…” Grateful for the night that conceals my heated embarrassment, I square my shoulders. “I arranged an accidental meeting. At the opera.”