by Tamara Leigh
“That’s all you want from me?” Reece says in an uncharacteristically coarse voice.
Is this an opening? No, just wishful thinking. “That’s it.” I turn and walk away. And he lets me.
I raise my hand and tap, something that’s hard to get used to in my own home.
“Come in,” Devyn calls.
I enter her room, and she half smiles at me where she sits in the middle of her bed with books spread around her.
Grateful she still appears to be in the good mood she treated me to when I picked her up from school, I smile back. “It’s nine. Ready for bed?”
“Yep.”
Bedtime has rarely been an issue for her, since she’s the one who keeps current on the amount of sleep necessary for someone her age to lead a healthy, productive life.
She starts stacking the books, and I help her gather them—until one of the titles catches my eye. “Immerse Yourself in Sculpture”? Oh, dread.
“The process is fascinating. Did you know—?”
“Devyn.” I sink to the mattress beside her. “I know you like Reece Thorpe and…I do too, but once the statue is raised in the town square, that’s the end. Reece will leave and there isn’t any reason for him to come back.”
Her expression wavers, but she bolsters it with a full-on smile. “There’s you. If you and Mr. Reece decide to do something about all that silent stuff that goes on between you, then he has a reason to return. And stay.”
The depth of her hope makes me want to cry.
“So I’ve decided to educate myself about sculpture, which will allow me to more easily converse with him—one of the keys to a successful stepfamily.” The mischievous glint in her eyes barely registers as my dread gains momentum.
Swept by the feeling of falling, I reach for her hand and am grateful when she lets me take it, since this moment may not come again for a long time.
“You okay, Mom?”
“I will strengthen you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
“I will be, but I think it’s time I told you a story—about who I was before you were born and before I knew Jesus. About what I did and how it changed my life in ways that seemed harsh, but…were actually blessings. Do you know why?”
She rolls her eyes, but in a playful way. “Does this have something to do with me?”
I hate that my smile feels sad, but it’s that kind of day. “Everything to do with you. So, are you ready to know who Maggie Pickwick was before Devyn Pickwick came into her life?”
As she studies my face, worry creeps across her brow. “This isn’t going to be a fairy tale kind of story, is it?”
“No, but despite the hard things I need to tell you”—my throat convulses—“it is the most wonderful story I have ever lived.”
Devyn considers me, then scoots near as if to prop me up. And it’s all I can do not to gather her tightly to my side. “Okay.” She nods. “I’m ready.”
Please, Lord, let her really be ready for this. And ready to forgive. “You remember that day on the way home from school when you told me Amanda said I didn’t know who your father was?”
She stiffens. “Yeah.”
Uphold me, Lord. “She was right, Dev. I didn’t know.”
She looks away for a moment but doesn’t make for the other side of the bed.
“Though not to the extent she believes. Let me tell you what happened.”
And I do, as gently as possible, while taking my cues from her lowering brow and the tension in her slight frame that flicks on and off like a lightning bug. I tell her about Reece and the peer pressure to which I succumbed that day when Yule fell. I tell her about the bad choices I made after Reece broke up with me and the drinking that coaxed me into compromising positions with two other boys. I tell her about finding out I was pregnant and how scared I was. I gloss over my mother’s reaction and focus on Skippy’s championing of my pregnancy.
“You could have aborted me,” Devyn speaks for the first time since I began.
It tears at me just to think about it. “Yes, but Skippy knew how badly I would miss you and that I would never be whole without you. She helped me see that.”
“You could have given me up for adoption.”
“That too. But then I held you and fell in love—real love. I couldn’t let you go, and Skippy made sure I didn’t have to.” Please don’t ask about your grandmother.
“Grandma was scared for you.” Devyn stares at me from behind her lenses, reminding me of a wise old owl.
“She was, but you have to know she loves you.”
Devyn sighs. “She just has a harder time showing it than Aunt Skippy, but I think a lot of that’s because of Grandpa. She’s really lonely without him.”
Yep, wise old owl. I apologize for telling her Reece couldn’t be her father when it was still a possibility, then tentatively reveal the results of Gary’s DNA sample and Chase’s, and how I came by both.
“Oh.” She lowers her chin, pulls her feet in, and stares at her toes. “I have another grandmother.”
“You do, and while I don’t know her well, she seems nice.”
“She is.” Devyn gives a little laugh. “The gum in my hair incident, right?”
“That’s how she found out.”
“And she waited this long—waited for you to come to her?”
“Uh-huh.”
She shakes her head. “That’s sad, especially since she’s probably lonelier than Grandma.”
“I think so. Though she doesn’t want to do anything that would make you uncomfortable—doesn’t want to rush it—she longs to know you better.”
Devyn nods. “We’ll go slow. But what about…?” She looks away. “Do you think I’ll ever meet my real father, seeing as he’s in prison?”
I hate that I had to tell her, but she asked where Chase is and I couldn’t put her off. “Do you want to meet him?”
“Eventually, but only if he straightens himself out.”
“He might.”
She mulls that over, then lays a hand on my knee. “Okay, so not a fairy tale, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be a happy ending. You and Mr. Reece could still get together.”
I nearly tell her how impossible that is, but there’s been enough reality for one day.
“I may not be his daughter, but he likes me, I like him, and more important, you two like each other. So you never know.”
I know. “Now that everything’s out in the open, are you okay, Dev?”
When she doesn’t immediately answer, nausea stirs my stomach, but finally she says, “Yeah, and I suppose I ought to be grateful to Amanda. Though she was being a bully by telling me all that junk, I guessed there was some truth to it, so this wasn’t the shock it could have been.” She frowns. “You know, I feel bad for her, especially if she doesn’t turn out like you did.”
A warm shiver goes through me. “You think I turned out okay?”
She slides her small hand from my knee to my fingers. “Better than okay.”
Moisture fills my eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t straight with you sooner.” I sniff. “I was just so ashamed that I didn’t know who your father was, and I couldn’t stand the thought of burdening you with a past like mine. You were so young, and maybe you still are—”
“No.” She squeezes my hand. “The timing’s good, Mama.”
Did she just call me Mama? It’s been so long. I swallow, swallow, swallow, but the sob pushes through.
Devyn puts her arms around me. “Everything’s goin’ to be all right.”
I turn my face into my little girl’s hair and breathe in God’s gift. “I love you, Dev.”
She pats my back. “I love you too, Mama.”
Thank You, Lord. “And I’ll try to give you a father.”
“I’d like that, but only if he’s a keeper. For both of us.”
I’m relieved she didn’t try to push Reece on me again. But then, we Pickwick women must be realistic. “Yes,” I whisper, “for both of us.�
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“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11)
April 29
Nothing hope shattering happened between Reece and me. At least, that’s the way it might appear from the outside.
Work continues on the statue, and I have it on good authority that Reece’s master weaver will do this town proud. Though he and I politely avoid each other, Devyn refuses to be affected by what I revealed a month ago, continuing to seek out Reece when she accompanies me to the auction house. To his credit, his behavior toward her doesn’t appear to have changed.
To my relief, Devyn and Corinne are easing into each other with weekly after-church visits. My mother is another matter, but she tries to keep her jealousy in check. And she is going to Mexico—only for a visit, she says—but she sparkles when she talks about seeing Daddy again, so maybe longer.
I crumple the aluminum foil that wrapped the chicken salad sandwich I made this morning, then push open a lobby door and brake at the sight of the three men on the sidewalk outside the theater—Macon times two and their unshaved, tobacco-chewing father.
“Sizin’ it up, they are.” Mrs. Templeton pokes her baseball cap–covered head out of her office.
“They can size all they want. We’re not closin’ up shop.”
“They seem to think so.” She raises her eyebrows. “You want that I should go get Reece Thorpe? He’ll send them slitherin’ back down their snaky holes.”
“No! I mean, I can handle them.” I set my shoulders and stride forward on unfortunately low heels (just had to be practical today).
“Gentlemen,” I step onto the sidewalk, “what can I do for you?”
Puck pushes his tongue into his tobacco-stuffed lip, causing it to bulge larger. As for Macon, his choice of mouth fixation is a toothpick he works awkwardly from one corner to the other as he leers me up and down.
Ugh. I would never have guessed there was an art to toothpick chewing, but Reece has it down in a nonoffensive way. Hmm. Was he working on one the day he intervened when Macon showed up at my auction? I believe so.
“Hey, Mag,” Macon mumbles around the toothpick.
Macon’s younger brother gives an appreciative sigh. “Maggie.”
I really wish he’d get over his crush. Compared to his brother, he’s not so bad, but he really isn’t a nice person. I tilt my head to the side. “I presume you’re standing out here for a reason.”
“Yep,” Puck says.
“Mighty fine buildin’, this,” Macon muses, causing the toothpick to waggle alarmingly. “Lots of potential.”
I start to cross my arms over my chest but remember Piper’s admonition that the defensive posture weakens my presence. “I’m very happy with it.”
“Pity,” Macon says. “You see, we’ve”—the toothpick flops onto the sidewalk—“we’ve—”
“You are going to pick that up, aren’t you?” I glare at him.
“Uh…sure.” He bends and pinches the object of what I’m certain is a newly acquired fixation. “Like I said, we’ve put in an offer on this buildin’.”
I feel a chill, though I shouldn’t, since I have the situation under control. Or nearly so. I glance at the bank across the square where I’ve been spending quite a bit of time. “You don’t say.”
“Yep.” Puck again, showing no evidence of his ability to yammer up a storm at auction. “Sent our offer over to Artemis Bleeker yesterday.”
My uncle’s aged attorney must not have alerted Piper. But then, his mental faculties aren’t much better than Uncle Obe’s.
Macon takes a step back. Still pinching the toothpick, he frames his hands overhead. “Puck & Sons Auction World. That’ll look nice, won’t it, Pa?”
“Is everything all right?” a painfully familiar voice asks.
I swing around and there he is, closer than I’ve been to him in weeks.
“You again,” Macon grumbles.
Yes, once more showing up when the question arises of whether or not I’ll hang on to the auction house. Thank you very much, Mrs. Templeton. Catching sight of her on the other side of the glass door, I give her a “look.” She raises an eyebrow, then flaps a hand as if to shoo a fly, and ambles toward her office.
When I look back at Reece, I nearly smile at the ease with which he clenches a toothpick. “Yes, everything’s fine. Puck & Sons and I were just discussing—”
“Our ac-qui-si-tion of this here theater.” Puck enunciates each syllable.
“That’s right.” Macon clamps down on the dirty toothpick, as if issuing a challenge to Reece.
Oh, dear, it’s the battle of the toothpicks. Who will prove himself the master of the manly art of toothpick chewing, and who will cry “wee wee wee” all the way home?
As Reece draws alongside me, I look sidelong at him. No contest.
“My understanding,” he says, “is that Obadiah Pickwick wants to keep the theater in the family.”
How did he come by that? Or is he bluffing?
“Well, now”—Macon’s toothpick waggles, and he bites down with a crunch—“we’ll see about that.”
I press my lips hard. No matter how ridiculous, obnoxious, or mean some people are, I don’t laugh at them anymore. It’s cruel. Reece doesn’t either, though a glance his way confirms the muscles of his mouth are taut.
Macon rubs a thumb across his fingers. “Money talks, you know.”
True. I consider the bank again. Come on, big shot loan officer. Get it approved.
“Have a good day, Mr. Puck…& Sons.” Reece puts a hand on my elbow, then turns me toward the door.
I’m too breathless to protest. It’s just a hand on your arm. And it’s just for show.
Reece pushes the door inward and guides me inside.
“Thank you.” I walk beside him across the lobby, certain we’re being watched. “Not that I needed your help, but…” I look across at him. “Thanks.”
Green eyes on mine, he removes the toothpick and drops it in his shirt pocket. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh, and thank you for letting Devyn continue to visit your studio. She enjoys watching you work and, I’m sure, talkin’ your ear off.”
“She’s good company.” He releases my elbow, pushes open one of the doors that lead into the theater, and nods me through. “Would you like to see how the statue is coming along?”
As the door swings shut behind us, I face him. Is this an olive branch? Maybe. I disregard the hope that searches for a spark to return it to life. He’s just trying to make the best of the time he has to spend in my presence.
“I think I’ll wait for the official unveiling. After all, good things are worth waiting for.”
He considers me, and it may be my imagination, but I sense he’s gearing up to say something profound, but all that comes out is, “True.”
Yes, just my imagination. “I almost forgot that I need to talk to Mrs. Templeton. Have a good day.” I back my way through the door, averting my gaze from Reece. Once the door is between us, I peer at the sidewalk outside. Puck & Sons have cleared out, and from the sound of it, Mrs. Templeton is on the phone. No problem. I need to make a phone call myself.
“Haven’t heard anything about it,” Piper says a couple minutes later, “but Artemis did take Uncle Obe to breakfast this morning, so…”
“You don’t think Uncle Obe would sell to them, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“I need to talk to him, Piper. Can I come over?”
“Sure. Hey, Bridget’s delivering a load of fertilizer around noon. Why don’t you come a little early, and after you and Uncle Obe talk, we can all sit down to lunch.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I do that too,” my uncle’s voice scores the book-scented silence.
I pull my shoulder from alongside the window and turn from the view outside to where he advances across the library with Piper shadowing his measured stri
de. “You do what?”
Uncle Obe pauses halfway across the room and grips the back of a sofa, as if to catch his breath, and my chest grows heavy at the noticeable decline from this past Sunday when I sat beside him in church. Maybe he’s just having a bad day.
“Daydream,” he says, “though my version is surely less…”
I glance at Piper, who presses her lips to keep from supplying the word and earning his wrath.
“…less…without thinkin’…” He wags the fingers of one hand before him as if flicking through file folders. “Deliberate! Yes, my daydreams are less d-deliberate than yours. Obviously.” With a sad chuckle, he continues forward, and Piper drops back when he settles in the chair behind his desk.
“Come ’round here where I can see you, Magdalene.”
I cross to the chair before his desk and lower into it. “I need to talk to you about—”
“Did you know I sent my letter to…?” His eyes grow large. “…to…” He blinks. “…my children?”
Antonio and Daisy, whose names have left him. Hopefully, only temporarily.
I start to rise. “You know, maybe we should talk later.”
“No!” he practically shouts, then more quietly, “Later doesn’t work for me anymore.”
I glance at Piper. She smiles sadly.
“Now…” He sits forward and clasps his hands on the desk. “You want to talk to me about the theater, hmm?”
“I understand you’ve had an offer on it.”
“Two, actually.”
My heart beats faster. The more people there are who want one thing, the more it costs. I know it by heart.
“I heard Puck & Sons put in an offer, but who was—?”
“Is that you, Bridget?” He peers past me. “Well, this is good timin’. Come on in.”
My cousin considers us as she pulls at the fingers of her striped work gloves and steps into the room on legs encased in worn, dirt-smudged jeans. She looks out of place in the elegant library, but more out of place is what’s probably in her fanny pack—Reggie, the opossum.
