Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

Though he doesn’t speak again until I pull the truck through the estate’s gated entrance, the air thickens with his anxious thoughts, and I guess he’s back from whatever beckoned him onto the pike.

  “I’m afraid, Bridget.”

  Did You hear that up there? A grown man afraid. And he still believes in You. And why am I talking to You anyway?

  As I negotiate the brightly lit driveway that winds upward to the mansion, I look at Uncle Obe. “No reason to be afraid. I’m here.”

  “That’s the problem.” He rests his head against the window. “I don’t rightly know how I got here with you. One minute I’m in bed, the next …”

  I try not to reach to him, not because of the issues I have with personal space, but because a show of sympathy can upset him when he’s in this state. Still, I put my hand on his arm.

  “It will be too late,” he says. “If ever.”

  As the incline increases near the top of the driveway, I give the Ford more gas. “What, Uncle Obe?”

  “My little ones.”

  Antonio and Daisy. But his children aren’t little. They’re in their early thirties like me. “You’ll hear from them soon,” I say, although I have no business doing so. After all, they’ve been estranged for thirty years. If my father had chosen an inheritance over me, could I forgive him? True, they were young when their mother wearied of waiting for Uncle Obe’s father to pass away so they could be a family, but it has to hurt that he placed money before them, especially if they’re unaware of his sacrifice—that most of his wealth was drained off to keep his three brothers, my father included, out of financial trouble when they were cut from my grandfather’s will for scandalous behavior.

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Obe says as I brake in front of the mansion where Piper and her fiancé, Axel, await us on the steps. “It’s been months since I sent them that l-letter. Maybe they wrote me off.”

  Times like these, it would be merciful if the dementia had him fully in its grip so he wouldn’t know any better. But the disease is cruel, preferring to play with its food while it slowly eats him alive.

  I open my door. “No, I don’t believe they’ve written you off. You’ll hear from them.”

  Too bad saying it doesn’t make it so. Of course, my mother would disagree. She leans toward the “speak into existence”—say it again and again and it will happen—philosophy of life. With the caveat of prayer, of course. Unfortunately, her speaking into existence doesn’t have a very good track record, especially where my father is concerned.

  As I come around the truck, Axel opens the passenger door and reaches in to assist my uncle. “Did you have a nice walk, Obe?” he asks as if it were an intentional late-night outing.

  “I’d have to remember it for it to have been nice,” my uncle grumbles.

  Axel looks at me. Midshrug, he widens his eyes. Before I can translate his reaction, Piper gasps, staring at me from the bottom step, a hand over her mouth.

  The hair. I don’t know how I forgot, especially since my head hurts all over.

  As Axel recovers sufficiently to lead Uncle Obe up the steps, I lean against the front fender and wait for Piper. Like me, she’s also cautious about setting off our uncle with a show of concern. She tells him she’ll be in to fix him some tea, then crosses to me and looks up from her three-inch deficit. Not that I’m tall. She’s just short, and shorter yet considering my thick-soled Crocs.

  Her eyes pick at my hair in the light cast by the numerous bulbs that shine up the face of the mansion. And it annoys me, but as I’m about to say so, she shakes her head. “I’m wonderin’ ”—for once, she doesn’t wince at the return of her drawl—“what happened to my dreadlocked Barbie-doll cousin.”

  Despite the circumstances that brought me here tonight, I feel a smile. Though she and I clashed when she first returned to Pickwick after trading in our hometown for Los Angeles twelve years ago—chalk it up to the pickled corn incident—I’ve gotten to like her. For the most part.

  I smooth a hand over my hair and grimace at the oiliness of the conditioner. “I had myself undreaded. Came straight from the beauty shop to find Uncle Obe.”

  She glances over her shoulder at where our slump-shouldered uncle is entering the mansion. “Thank you, Bridget. Lord knows what would have—”

  “Yeah, well, he’s home safe and sound.” I push off the fender. “Which is where I ought to be.”

  “I need help,” she says with unexpected force.

  “With?”

  “Uncle Obe. I won’t put him in a memory-care unit, but I have to do something.”

  “I thought you hired someone.”

  She nods. “Ida Newbottom.”

  That’s right—ex-champion hog wrestler turned nurse, now retired.

  “She’s odd, but does a good job. The problem is, she can’t give me more than twenty hours a week now that she has a new grandson.”

  Although Piper sold her partnership in a prestigious PR firm in L.A. to move back home, she does consulting work that takes her out of town several times a month. Fortunately, Axel lives in a cottage on the property and can spend nights with Uncle Obe when needed, but during the day Axel is maintaining the estate grounds in his capacity as gardener or running his landscaping business. That puts Piper in a bind.

  “This time of year, I’m puttin’ in lots of hours at the nursery, but I’ll help however I can. And if you and Axel want a night out, I’ll stay with Uncle Obe.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the offer.”

  Enough to hug me, I’m afraid. I sense it. “It’s not as if I have anyone to go home to.” No sooner does my attempt to lighten the mood exit my mouth than it stings me. I can’t believe I said that. “Other than Reggie, that is.” I slide past her. “Call me anytime.”

  As I start to climb in the truck, she says, “I will, but only until I find someone who can give me forty hours a week—a live-in, though it’s bound to be expensive.”

  Whatever it takes to keep Uncle Obe in his home, even if only for a while longer.

  “Good night.”

  “Bridget?”

  I peer across the hood. “Yes?”

  “Your hair—does it have something to do with that J. C. Dirk you asked about?”

  In her line of work, I thought she might have a connection to him that would get my foot in his door, so I showed her the magazine article. After noting he looked like Simon Baker, an actor who plays a body language expert on one of the few shows Piper tunes into—something “mental” or other—she said she’d only heard of J. C. Dirk. However, she agreed that if the Pickwick estate were to fall into the hands of a developer, he looked to have decent enough hands. I told her that even if I had to storm his office, I would get in to see him.

  “I needed a change, but the timing is good.”

  “Then you are going after him.”

  “I fly to Atlanta on Monday.” I lift my gaze to the impressive Pickwick mansion that, when my great-granddaddy built it more than a century ago, was his attempt to put him on par with George Vanderbilt and his Asheville castle. “I have to try, Piper.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “How?”

  “I am a PR specialist.”

  I narrow my lids. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Only that I’m familiar with the world you’re steppin’ into, and just as dreads don’t exactly fit there, neither do jeans or dirt under the nails.”

  A firefly flits by, its little green bulb flicking on and off. I gently scoop the slow-moving creature into my palm. “What’s your definition of help?”

  “The right clothes, the right body language, the right words.”

  I could be offended, but it would only further prove how contrary I can be. I open my fingers and the firefly glows green against my skin before it lifts off and rejoins the night. It makes me smile. “You forget that I attended cotillion.”

  Piper laughs. “Only the one time. Banned for life, I believe.”

&nbs
p; “All because of a little old skunk.”

  “Okay, admit it. You need me.”

  I sigh. “Let me think on it. Good night.” As I slide into the cab, she hurries up the steps to Uncle Obe and Axel. And I head home to no one. Well, there is Reggie.

  “Hey, you,” I coax. “It’s me. Come on out.”

  In the darkness I strain to hear a response, but the only sounds are those of the night beyond the screened-in porch—insistent cicadas, cacophonous crickets, and the murmur and whisper of things high in the trees and low in the grass.

  “I could use a little company.”

  Still nothing.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.” I lower a leg over the side of the hammock and push off the planks. “Nice.” And it is, the cooling air stirred by the hammock’s sway—far better than my stuffy house that requires an enormous waste of energy to be anywhere near as comfortable in a short amount of time. In fact, though I only meant to hang out here until the windows I threw open cooled off the inside, maybe I’ll sleep out tonight. If I can get to sleep. Some nights I’m so restless it’s nearly impossible.

  “Come on, Reggie.” I run fingers over the damp hair that took three shampoos to remove the conditioner, as well as built-up residue despite years of conscientious grooming. “Same old me.” I make kissing noises.

  The screen door between the house and porch squeaks, and I hear the patter of feet. A moment later, a cool nose touches my ankle where it dangles over the side.

  More pattering, and when I reach down, soft fur grazes my fingers. I stroke the little body and, once it relaxes, scoop it from the porch and settle it against my side. It’s too dark to see much, but a bit of light reflects off Reggie’s beady eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you, sweetums.” My nearly tailless opossum rarely moves as fast as she did when I let myself into the house an hour ago. After a frozen moment, she shot under the sofa and refused to come out. “And I’m sorry for being so late in gettin’ home.”

  As she works a place for herself, I swing my leg into the hammock.

  “My hair will look better in the light of day. I promise.” A promise J. C. Dirk is going to help me keep. Though I may not fit into his world, Savannah will bring me one step closer. But as for the rest of the way …

  Maybe I should let Piper make me into someone like her. Imagining myself recast in her image, I reach to tug a dread. All gone, nothing but fine strands that slide through my fingers. “Okay, Piper. Do with me what you dare.”

  5

  Monday, August 16

  Piper dared big, from my hairline where the pore-clogging makeup starts to the fitted jacket and skirt to the tips of my toes that are stuffed into high heels that have no business on my formerly calloused feet. Yes, formerly. Over the past few days, I’ve been pumiced, scraped, and plucked nearly raw.

  I frown at the woman reflected in the back wall of the elevator. She may look put together, especially holding Piper’s expensive briefcase, but she’s a fake. However, if she gets me an audience with J. C. Dirk, I’ll suffer her. And if she doesn’t … On the upside, I’ll be back in jeans. On the downside, I’ll have to figure out something else.

  As I continue my solitary ascent, I perform a quick check of my hair on which Savannah worked her magic such that it angles down from my cheekbones, brushes my shoulders, and capes my upper back. It’s more feminine than I aimed for, but Piper assured me the style went well with the professional attire, softening the look enough to decrease the chance of being thrown out on my rear. In other words, it might help if Dirk finds my looks even more appealing than my proposal.

  Hmm. I already don’t like him. But if I can put the ball in play, he’ll never know that beneath the makeup, clothes, walk, and talk is a formerly dreadlocked nursery owner more inclined to dirt under the nails than the acrylic tips that make my nail beds ache something terrible. Once I’m on the plane home, they’re coming off.

  As the elevator slows, I set my shoulders back per Piper’s crash course in exuding confidence in the world I’m about to enter. “You can do this,” I mutter. “Now get in there and do it.”

  Hoping “speaking into existence” works better for me than my mother, I step into the lobby of Dirk Developers Inc. It’s all gleaming wood, faintly green glass, and cows. That’s right. As environmentally friendly as J. C. Dirk is said to be, he likes his leather, as evidenced by the plush chairs and sofas that congregate in the waiting room.

  Noting the other occupants who likely have appointments, I approach the receptionist’s desk. And once more my feet beg to be free of the heels Piper assured me were worth the fifty dollars I plunked down so I wouldn’t have to borrow her too-small shoes again. While I probably should have broken them in, I have a nursery to run, and heels are not compatible with fertilizer and the like. Too, the last thing I need is to draw more gawking and gossiping than what’s come my way since I undid my dreads.

  “May I help you?” a well-rounded young woman asks as I near the reception desk. Zaftig, my new sister-in-law, Trinity, would call her as she referred to my mother not long ago, rousing Daddy’s ire, though Trinity thought the “pleasingly plump” label was flattering. She still has a lot to learn about my family.

  I set the briefcase on the counter. “I’m here to see Mr. Dirk.”

  She glances at her computer screen. “The eleven o’clock meeting?”

  “No.” Ugh, that could have been my in. “But he’ll want to see me.”

  “Then you”—her pretty smile falters—“don’t have an appointment?”

  Not for want of trying. “I don’t, but if you tell him Bridget Buchanan is here to discuss an investment opportunity, I’m sure he’ll make time for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Buchanan—”

  “Mrs.”

  Her gaze flicks to my barren left hand atop the briefcase, and I feel the pale band of skin that is the only visible symbol of my marriage. “Er, Mrs. Buchanan.”

  Great. Not only was I short with Dirk Developers’ first line of defense but she’s correct in assuming I’m husbandless. Old habits, even good ones, are hard to break.

  “I’m afraid that Mr. Dirk is about to go into a meeting.”

  “The eleven o’clock.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s twenty minutes out. More than I need.” I nod at the multi-line phone, causing my hair to shift across my brow so lightly I nearly mistake it for a cobweb as I’ve done repeatedly since my change of hairstyle. I clasp my hands to keep from swiping at my face. “Would you let him know I’m here?”

  “I’m sorry, but his schedule is full.”

  “Don’t burn bridges.” Piper’s final piece of advice swoops down on me. “Well then, I could be in for a mighty long wait.” Hopefully not so long that I miss my return flight.

  I cross to the waiting area and lower onto a cow that, in another life, was hardly as plush or pleasantly scented. As I settle in, I hear the receptionist on the phone. Though she’s discreet, I catch my name. I only hope she’s not going through Dirk’s cranky assistant—probably a futile hope, but maybe the woman is out of the office.

  “Mrs. Buchanan?” the receptionist calls.

  I stand. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Dirk’s assistant has confirmed that he’s unable to fit you in. She said for you to call her and she’ll be more than happy to set up an appointment.”

  I struggle against the urge to burn a bridge. This young woman is only the messenger.

  I return to the desk. “I’ve been tryin’ for weeks to do just that, but Ms. Wiley has been far from happy to pencil me in. That’s why I’m here—all the way from North Carolina.”

  She rolls her lips inward.

  “So please tell her I’m not goin’ anywhere until Mr. Dirk gives me ten minutes.” When I turn back to the cow, the framed photos around the waiting room catch my eye.

  Hearing the receptionist on the phone again, I step to the first photo. It’s an aerial of a sprawling ski lo
dge in Aspen, Colorado—doubtless one of the Dirk developments. And since the magazine article that brought J. C. Dirk to my attention mentioned his love of the outdoors, he’s probably enjoyed the fruits of that labor. As I continue around the room, mostly admiring but sometimes cringing over the height, breadth, and amount of glass and metal used in the buildings, the elevator hatches more visitors.

  I look from a family-themed wilderness resort to the three men and two women who exit.

  “I’ll let Ms. Wiley know you’re here.” The receptionist glances at me and back to the new arrivals, then comes out from behind her desk and steps toward them with a soft tinkle from her coin belt. “Actually, why don’t I take you back?”

  Afraid I’ll make a scene in front of Dirk’s VIPs?

  She holds open a door and leads them down a glass-fronted corridor and out of sight. No sooner do I return to the photos than movement pulls my gaze back to the corridor. A very front-loaded woman peers into the waiting room. Ms. Wiley?

  Her frown momentarily settles on me, and I give a wave that makes her stiffen and waddle in the direction the VIPs went. Definitely Ms. Wiley.

  Continuing to move around the walls, I keep a peripheral eye on the corridor. Shortly, the receptionist returns to her desk. Since she surely has the task of keeping an eye on me, leastwise until someone escorts me off the premises, I feel for her.

  The next photo shows the environmentally friendly oceanside condos featured in the magazine that first brought J. C. Dirk to my attention. Again, I’m struck by how beautiful they are—low to the ground, generously spaced, and constructed of easily renewable natural materials that enable them to blend with the environment. If there had to be a development, at least it’s conscientious. That’s why I need J. C. Dirk.

  As I cross to the next photo, I catch sight of a fast-moving object in the corridor—a man, and Ms. Wiley is hurrying alongside him despite her baby bulk. He’s not tall, leastwise not compared to Easton, whose lanky six-foot-six frame is the standard by which I measure all men. In fact, this man, who is definitely the one who graced the magazine cover, would be lucky to top me by an inch were I standing beside him in heels that boost me from five foot six to five foot eight. But what J. C. Dirk lacks in height, he makes up for in breadth. Even outfitted in a business suit, it’s evident he’s buff. And he’s about to go from sight.