Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  She halts alongside me. “What’s this about?”

  The slight movement of her fanny pack draws my gaze. Yep, Reggie. Since normally she would pop her nose from beneath the flap, she must be sleeping.

  “It’s about the theater,” Uncle Obe says, “and the Pickwick estate. I’m sorry to have to be the…the…” He grunts. “…the you-know-what of bad news, but I’m gonna have to sell the estate.”

  Bridget’s hands at her sides snap into fists.

  “’Course we knew I’d have to, but it seems like sooner rather than later.” Another chuckle, though this is tinged with bitterness. “You see, I’ve decided to give the th-theater to Maggie and Devyn as their inheritance.”

  As all of me breaks out in chill bumps, I look to Piper.

  She shakes her head, obviously just as much in the dark.

  Joy starts to bubble to my surface, but then I see Bridget’s fists go white.

  “Sell the estate.” There’s a tremor in her voice.

  “Yes. Were I to sell the theater, I could hold out awhile longer, but the end would be the same. So, sooner rather than later.”

  “Meaning the Pickwick estate is destined to become a theme park,” Bridget says with her own brand of bitterness. “Or a bunch of tightly packed single-family homes. Or both. Or worse!”

  He sighs. “I don’t know, but I’ve been thinkin’ on this awhile, and it’s the right thing to do for all my kin, including you.”

  “Me?” Her laugh is not pretty. “Me?”

  “I’m gonna break off…What was it? Uh, I think I told Artemis thirty acres. Anyway, I’ll break off some acreage nearest town for you so you can expand your…plant business like you been wantin’ to do.”

  Her face is a struggle between gratitude and desperation. It’s a beautiful gift, so perfectly “Bridget,” just as the theater is so perfectly “Maggie.” Still, she loves this land, its heritage, and its wildlife.

  She steps to the desk. “Maybe I can find someone to buy the estate who won’t bury it. I’ve been lookin’ into organizations that finance private wildlife preserves. They’re hard to crack, but if I could just have some more time—”

  “Time I do not have, Bridget. I gotta set things right now.”

  “But—”

  “It’s gonna be hard for me too, especially if this”—he taps his head so hard I hear the knock on bone—“doesn’t take me sooner. I love this place, and I don’t want to be lookin’ out the back window of a…thing with wheels and knowin’ what I’m seeing is for the last time.”

  My throat tightens, Piper’s chin quivers, and Bridget whispers, “I understand.”

  He jerks his chin around. “You did mail that letter to my children, didn’t you, Piper?”

  Her eyes brim with tears. “I did.”

  “Good, good.” He reaches across his desk and pats one of my dreadlocked cousin’s hands. “It’s the only solution.”

  Not true. It’s the only way to give me what I want—No, that’s not true either. There is another way, one I was working out for myself. And still could. It would require sacrifice, but I was willing to make it. And still am.

  I sit up straight. “You should sell the theater, Uncle Obe.”

  He leans to the side to peer around Bridget. “You are going to have that building, Magdalene.”

  “Yes, I am.” I rise and step alongside Bridget. “But I’m going to buy it.”

  “What?”

  I laugh. “I’ve been working with the bank for the past few weeks to get a loan for fair market value. And I have a good chance of being approved, especially considering how my business is growing. Though the estate will still have to be sold, it will give Bridget more time to find the right buyer.”

  I look from Piper, who is staring big eyed at me, to Bridget, whose mouth is hanging open so unbecomingly I’m tempted to pop her chin into place. But despite my height, I’d probably end up flat on the floor, my smaller cousin straddling me, dreadlocks thwacking me in my face.

  “I may need a cosigner and may have to rent out a portion of the theater to cover the mortgage payments, but I know I can do it.”

  My uncle eases back in his chair. “I suppose that could work.”

  “It will.”

  Piper raises a hand, as if requesting permission to speak. The band that appeared on her ring finger two weeks ago, causing a stir in Pickwick, glints. “If you do need a cosigner, I’m in.”

  “And me,” Bridget says. “My nursery’s doin’ all right for itself.”

  I could hug them both. “Thank you.”

  “Pickled corn,” my uncle murmurs, eyes suddenly unfocused.

  My cousins and I exchange glances.

  I sigh. “Goodness, who would have thought, hmm? I came here worried about Puck & Sons and—” I frown. “Uncle Obe?”

  He blinks back to us, and I’m struck by the urge to put an arm around him to hold him here. “M-Magdalene?”

  “You said you had two offers for the theater. Who else?”

  He scratches his forehead. “Oh, yes.” He smiles, and the dry skin at the corners of his mouth ripple like disturbed water. “The artist.”

  I teeter on my low heels. “Reece?”

  “That would be him—offered to buy it when I visited his studio last week.” His eyes brighten. “That statue is going to be a beautiful thing. The Master Weaver—that’s what he’s titled it.” He turns to Piper. “It ought to have a Scripture inscribed on a plaque. Piper, I’m going to need the family Bible.”

  If the heart truly has strings, mine are about to snap. “Why would Reece want to buy the theater? He’s here for only a while longer.”

  “Maybe.”

  Oh, Lord.

  Uncle Obe puts an elbow on the chair arm and cups his chin in his hand. “I asked him, ‘Why do you want that old theater? You don’t have any ties to Pickwick, not a one.’”

  I recall the pained disappointment on my uncle’s face when I revealed who fathered Devyn. Piper said that day was among his worst.

  “Then I said…what did I say? Oh! ‘Nothin’ holding you here.’ I let that sit, then asked the big one. ‘Or is there?’”

  I hold my breath.

  He grins.

  “And?” I croak.

  “He loves you, Maggie.”

  I feel a flicker of hope, and it frightens me. “No, he doesn’t.” The words are shrill but followed by softly spoken words. “He said that?”

  “No.”

  Of course not.

  “I saw it in his eyes—realization, panic, d-denial, the need to pretend I was a crazy old fool. Of course, that last part didn’t require much pretendin’, I imagine. But the man does love you.”

  “Or just wants to control her,” Bridget suggests.

  “Oh!” I throw my hands up. “He doesn’t love me, and he isn’t trying to control me.”

  Uncle Obe pushes out his lower lip. “Then you probably should find out for yourself what is what.”

  “I will.” I consider Piper. “I know we were going to have lunch, but I need to get back to town.” To find out what is what. Nothing more. Of course, something more would be nice, but I’m not holding out hope. Not much.

  I almost walk past him, focused as I am on reaching his studio, but the feeling of being watched makes me glance across the street to the grassy square that spring has lovingly turned green.

  Reece is sitting on the granite block, legs hanging over the side, hand in a bag of something. And he is watching me.

  I hesitate to change course. After all, I thought I had a couple more minutes to work through what I want to say. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

  “For I know the plans I have for you…”

  “But I don’t, Lord,” I whisper. Is Reece part of Your plan, or has what Uncle Obe said gone to my heart?

  Uncertainty makes me want to walk on, but then I might never know. Might never ask the question, and an unasked question might never be answered. And then Reece will be gone. I step fro
m the sidewalk and cross the sleepy street.

  “Hi,” I say as I near.

  “Hi.”

  Shortly, my heels sink into the damp ground from this morning’s light rain. In this instance, I’m grateful I eschewed (yes, a daily word throwback) high heels.

  I halt before the granite block and look up at where he sits above me. Only then do I become aware of the slight breeze as it runs its fingers through his black hair, shifting strands in and out of his eyes.

  “I…um…” How do I say this? And what if his answer hurts?

  “…plans to prosper you and not to harm you…”

  “Boiled peanuts?”

  I blink at the bag Reece offers. “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Because they taste good?”

  “No, why did you make an offer on the theater?”

  He looks away, paying too much mind to where he sets the bag beside him. “Why do you think?”

  “I…” So much for my mouth being my best asset. “I don’t know.”

  He clasps his hands between his knees. “Neither did I. That is, until your uncle stuck his nose where it wasn’t welcome.”

  I’m flickering again, though I shouldn’t. Humiliation of Pickwick proportions could lie in that direction. I don’t dare, but… “Do you love me, Reece?” Oh. My. Lord.

  He pulls back slightly, but after a moment, a smile appears. “Good question.”

  “…plans to give you hope…”

  I moisten my lips. “But is the answer good?”

  He reaches a hand to me. “Let’s find out.”

  I stare at his callous fingers, afraid to believe what this could mean. If I do, what if this moment is the height of the memory of this day? It’s a long way down from here.

  “Maggie?”

  “…plans to give you hope…”

  I consider his mouth out of which he softly spoke my name. Lord, just help me to receive as You would have me receive. I put my hand in his.

  Reece helps me up onto the granite block, but even after I’ve settled beside him, he doesn’t release my hand. That has to be a good thing.

  “You have to know”—he lifts his gaze to mine—“that the last thing I wanted when I came back here was to have anything to do with Maggie Pickwick.”

  Not good. Can’t be. But he is still holding on. “I know.”

  “But I’ve come to realize I had nothing to worry about.”

  Not good at all.

  “Because that Maggie isn’t here. You are.”

  “…plans to give you hope…”

  “I told myself it was teenage infatuation all over again, that the bits of you I was drawn to years ago were just that. Bits. That the bigger part of you was the girl on the school steps with Yule and you had simply become more sophisticated in dealing with others. I struggled with evidence to the contrary, but after I kissed you that night…”

  Yes, that night.

  “…it became harder to look back. I wanted to know you from that point forward. That’s why when I thought Devyn was mine…” He closes his eyes for a moment. “…I was angry. Yes, for the years when I should have been a father to her, but also for letting myself believe you had changed. You should have told me.”

  “I was ashamed and afraid you would judge me by my past and my lies.”

  He sighs. “I would have. And I did. Then, just as I settled into the idea of being Devyn’s father and started to think we could give her a real family, I found out she isn’t mine. And I was angry all over again, mostly because I should have been relieved. I’d convinced myself the plans I was making were out of obligation, but all I felt was disappointment over the loss of Devyn and you.” He turns my palm up and stares at it. “You asked if I love you.”

  “…plans to give you hope…”

  He gazes into my eyes, and it’s as if he’s holding open a door to allow me to see into him. “I feel strongly for you, and I want to feel more, but we need to take our time getting there.”

  No declaration of love, but there’s something oddly comforting in that. No rush. Time to allow our relationship to root deep and wide so when adversity comes, what lies below holds firm. Though I long to hear, “I love you,” it means more that he wants to do it right.

  His mouth tilts. “That is, providing you feel what I think you feel for me.”

  “I do.”

  “So, you’ll give me a chance to know you and Devyn better?”

  Hope. “And for us to know you.” I smile, but only for a moment. “You’ll be leaving in a few months.” How much of a chance is that?

  Reece holds my stare with a confidence I want to believe. “When I approached your uncle about buying the theater, I did so to help you keep it out of the clutches of Puck & Sons. However, there was the added benefit of giving me a reason to stay in Pickwick—that I could make my studio here permanent.”

  Then he wants to greatly improve our odds—here, in little old Nowhere, North Carolina. “You still can. I’ve been working on a loan to buy the theater, and today my uncle agreed to sell it to me. So once you finish The Master Weaver, I could rent the space to you. That is, if you still want to know my daughter and me better.”

  His gaze moves all over my face, and I feel it almost as strongly as if it were the brush of his fingers. Then he leans toward me. “Put me down for a thousand square feet.” And his mouth touches mine.

  “…plans to give you hope and a—”

  “—future,” I whisper against his lips.

  True, in the end my future and Devyn’s may not include Reece, but I believe God is at work here. In fact, if I let Him, my faith, rather than my mouth, could become my best asset.

  Readers Guide

  In high school, Maggie was a stereotypical popular girl—“self-centered, superior, and more concerned with hair and makeup than the state of the world.” What are your experiences with this type? Do you believe the stereotype is justified? Why or why not?

  The painful irony of Maggie’s adult life is that her daughter is an outcast like those Maggie looked down on throughout high school. Thus, her proud behavior haunts her. What in your teenage past has haunted you?

  Skippy has every reason to dislike Maggie, but she heaps grace on the young woman and offers encouragement on her journey toward salvation. Has anyone heaped grace on you? Do you feel you deserved it? Have you ever heaped grace on another person?

  When Devyn asks if Reece is her father, Maggie’s quest to discover who fathered her daughter begins with a lie. As with so many lies, it backs Maggie into a corner out of which she can escape only by coming clean. However, Maggie chooses instead to add to her lie, with dire results. When has a lie backed you into a corner? What choice(s) did you make?

  Reece lost a church commission when he was open about his recovery from alcohol dependence. Have you ever been penalized for being honest about your struggles? What did you need that you were denied?

  We are called to forgive, even if a person doesn’t acknowledge an offense. Though Yule is outwardly accepting of Maggie, it isn’t until Maggie asks for forgiveness that Yule is able to truly forgive her. Why is it so hard to forgive a person who doesn’t seem repentant? How does forgiveness benefit the forgiver?

  When Maggie finally owns up to her DNA quest, Reece is angered by her deception and initially is unwilling to offer forgiveness. When have you struggled to forgive another person? Were you able to overcome your struggle? If so, what steps did you take to extend forgiveness?

  Maggie’s relationship with her mother is strained by past offenses. Thus, they miss out on the blessings of a loving mother-daughter relationship. How strong is your relationship with your mother? Are there issues you need to address to receive the blessings that Maggie and her mother begin to enjoy once they pack away the past?

  Maggie corrects her thoughts and behavior with a reminder to “be Skippy.” However, she finally realizes she needs to be herself—the Maggie who kept her baby, was saved, and made a good life for herself and her daug
hter. A mentor who sets a godly example is a blessing, but as we grow as Christians, we need to move toward reliance on our own faith. Do you agree?

  Uncle Obe’s early onset dementia first appeared in Piper’s story, Leaving Carolina. His deterioration continues in Maggie’s story. How close have you come to someone with dementia? A parent? spouse? relative? friend? How has this heartbreaking disease affected you?

  Don’t miss Bridget’s story—Available Summer 2011!

  Deep breath. “And they lived…”

  I can do this. It’s not as if I didn’t sense it coming. After all, I can smell a Happily Ever After a mile away—or, in this case, twenty-four pages glued between cardboard covers that feature the requisite princess surrounded by cute woodland creatures. And there are the words, right where I knew the cliché of an author would slap them, on the last page in the same font as those preceding them. Deceptively nondescript. Recklessly hopeful. Heartbreakingly false.

  “Aunt Bridge,” Birdie chirps, “finish it.”

  I look up from the once-upon-a-time crisp page that has been softened, creased, and stained by the obsessive readings in which her mother obviously indulges her.

  Eyes wide with anticipation, cheeks flushed, my niece nods for me to continue. “Say the magic words.”

  Magic?

  More nodding, and is she quivering? Oh no, I refuse to be a party to this. I smile big, say, “The end,” and close the book. “So, how about another piece of weddin’ cake?”

  “No!” She jumps up from the footstool she earlier dubbed her “princess throne,” snatches the book out of my hands, and opens it to the back. “Here!” She jabs H, E, and A. “It’s not the end until you say the magic words.” Jab, jab, jab. “Right here.”

  And I thought sneaking away to entertain my niece and nephew would be preferable to standing around the reception, watching as the bride and groom were toasted by all the happy couples—among them, my cousin Piper, soon-to-be-wed to my friend Axel, and my other cousin Maggie, maybe-soon-to-be-engaged to her sculptor man, whatever his name is.