Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “I’ll see you again soon, Boone.” I hurry across the town square park toward the Pickwicks.

  Maggie’s thirteen-year-old daughter sees me coming and breaks from the group. “You made it!” A few moments later, she gives me a side hug to avoid crushing Reggie, and I don’t protest her invasion of my personal space.

  Although she’s my second cousin, I’ve always felt more of an aunt to her than I do to the rarely seen Miles and Birdie, both of whom are asleep on Trinity’s and Bart’s shoulders respectively.

  Returning Devyn’s hug, I momentarily close my eyes and sink into the rare feeling of being held and loved.

  “You should have seen the ceremony!” She gazes up at me from behind thick lenses, and I feel a ripple of movement at my waist. Reggie is awake.

  “I did.” I release Devyn. “The whole thing.”

  “Really?”

  “From back there.” I nod over my shoulder at the massive magnolia tree.

  “Why didn’t you come sit with—?” She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I know you.”

  Yes, she does. “Reggie was also a consideration, what with all the media.”

  She lifts the fanny pack’s flap. “Hey, Reg.”

  My opossum sticks out her pink nose, snuffles at Devyn’s hand, and resettles.

  I loop an arm through Devyn’s and draw her toward the others. “Uncle Obe did a wonderful job.”

  “He did, though considering the way he was yesterday—all mixed up and lost—we were worried he might not be up to the dedication. But Mom and I prayed last night, and he was more himself today.” She glances at me. “See, prayer works.”

  So does coincidence. Not that I’m ungrateful my uncle was able to beat back his advancing dementia to present the magnificent work of art to the citizens of Pickwick. It’s just that I don’t see why God would bother Himself over a little speech when He doesn’t bother Himself over rampant injustice, the suffering of innocents, the lives of those too young to be cut short …

  Oh, Easton, I need to let you go. I touch the ring beneath the dress. But not yet.

  “How are things going with your mom and her beau?” Entirely rhetorical, as evidenced by their joined hands where they stand before the statue.

  “Mr. Reece is the one”—Devyn allows the change of topic—“but Mom says there’s no reason to rush things, and much as I’d like to have a father full time, I know she’s right. And Gram says it’s best too.”

  She’s not talking about Maggie’s uppity mother, Adele, who went to Mexico for a month to visit her estranged husband and decided to stay “awhile longer.” She’s talking about her newly discovered grandmother, Corinne Elliot. At the end of my cousin’s recent DNA quest to discover which of her high school beaus fathered her daughter, it wasn’t Reece who was standing but Corinne’s son. And yet to my surprise, Reece is still standing. By Maggie. Had I never known love myself, I wouldn’t believe what those two have, but there it is. Thankfully, Devyn is a part of it. And a good thing, or Reece and I would have words.

  As we reach the others, I murmur, “To be continued.”

  “When I spend the night.”

  “Sounds good.” I release her.

  Maggie’s gaze falls on me first, and she pulls a face at the sight of my fanny pack around her raw-silk dress. She’ll get over it. Now Piper …

  She also pulls a face, but more of the “you’ve got to be kidding me” kind. I’m tempted to lift the flap, but she wouldn’t see the humor in it—that whole pickled corn incident. How was I to know Reggie would investigate the meal Piper abandoned to take a phone call in the middle of our supper?

  No, I shouldn’t have left Reggie unattended, but Piper shouldn’t have frightened her into playing possum—well, trying to play possum. Reggie’s wiring is a bit messed up, probably from the hit-and-run that killed her mother and siblings and left her nearly tailless.

  “I told you Bridget would be here.” Bart shifts a softly snoring Birdie on his shoulder.

  With a hand circling Miles’s back, Trinity bobs her head. “You were right.”

  Suddenly I have an image of them with their own children, and it isn’t as worrisome as it was months ago. Maybe they will be good at parenting.

  I cross to Uncle Obe and kiss his whiskery cheek. “That was a nice dedication. And this is certainly an improvement over that statue of Great-Granddaddy.”

  He gives a small smile. “This statue better serves our town.”

  I let my gaze climb over the curves and hollows and feel heat radiate from the bronze, evidencing the sunlight absorbed by the big hunk of metal. Good old solar energy. “It really is amazin’.”

  “Did you see the … sign, er, plaque?”

  “No.”

  “Come ’round here.” He leads me to the other side that faces the church.

  I catch sight of that Wesley woman where she stands alongside her Caddy, fluttering her hand at someone, and I glare at her back.

  “Here.” Uncle Obe gestures at the engraved plaque set in the granite base.

  I bend, causing my hair to fall forward. Pushing it behind my ears, I hunker down.

  The Master Weaver

  by Reece Thorpe

  In commemoration of the textile industry

  and the dedicated men and women

  who wove life into the town of Pickwick

  Psalm 139:13–16

  Had to throw God into the mix. But it’s Uncle Obe’s right, seeing as he footed the bill. Shading my eyes, I peer up at him. “Very nice, but how does this statue of a textile worker—”

  “This here’s the master weaver.”

  I nod. “How does it tie in with the Bible reference?”

  “You don’t know those v-verses?”

  He’s forgotten whom he’s talking to. “ ’Fraid not.” Leastwise, not by their numbers, though to admit it would give him too much hope, and I don’t want to disappoint him.

  “Psalm 139:13–16.” He looks heavenward. “ ‘For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.’ ”

  How does he recite verses without stumbling, as if memory is not an issue?

  “ ‘My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven—’ ” Down comes his chin. “Woven … weave … weaver. See?”

  I nod, still trying to figure out how the words are flowing like a river.

  “ ‘When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body.’ ”

  Struck by a feeling of being watched, I glance over my shoulder, but the real estate agent and her car are gone, and no one appears to be looking my way.

  “ ‘All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.’ ” Uncle Obe looks at me again. “Appropriate, hmm? And beautiful.”

  Under the circumstances, I beg to differ on the beautiful part, since God’s Word admits to ordaining that my uncle’s last days be fraught with early onset dementia, causing him to teeter toward childlike dependence. Why, he can’t even shave himself anymore, that task falling to Piper—when he allows it, which he didn’t today.

  I straighten, and though he lifts his eyebrows to remind me he’s waiting on my agreement about the verses, I say, “So this statue is not only in commemoration of the textile workers, but of God.”

  He frowns, and I’m slapped with guilt at the confusion caused by the turn in the conversation. “You can’t honor one without the other. But see, I only referenced the …” He taps the plaque. “… verse in case someone decides to be offended by God’s Word and tries to have it removed.”

  It’s hard to believe he compromised the expression of his beliefs, especially considering how important they have become to him these past few years.

  “Of course, it has the added … you know, good thing—”

  Benefit.

  “—of piquin’ a body’s curiosity and m
aking him turn to the Bible or …” He nods over his shoulder. “… the rather convenient church across the street.” He chuckles, a warm sound I could wrap myself in for how scarce it’s become.

  Once more bothered by the feeling of being watched, I start to glance over my shoulder, but Uncle Obe says, “Can’t say I don’t still have a few brain cells wigglin’ around up here.”

  “You’re a sly one.”

  “Don’t tell my mother.”

  I catch my breath. Is he doing a bit of that back-in-time traveling that seems to be happening more frequently?

  “Something wrong?”

  “No!” I sweep a hand toward the statue. “I’m just impressed by all you’ve done. And I’m proud of you. We all are.”

  His smile comes out again, only to turn down. “Not all. They didn’t come.”

  His estranged son and daughter.

  “Piper sent invitations, but … nothing.”

  I long to tell him he’ll hear from them soon, but I can’t keep feeding into his hope.

  “My prayers aren’t being answered, Bridget.”

  Welcome to the club—Oh, stop your woe is me-ing! This is about Uncle Obe and his last wish. A dying wish.

  “I’m startin’ to think I might never see them again.”

  Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing since they appear unwilling to forgive.

  “Bridget?” He lays a hand on my shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “I know it’s not your … thing … but would you pray for me?”

  It’s more than “not my thing.” It’s not me, Easton Buchanan’s widow. Unfortunately, the only way out is to hurt Uncle Obe. Or fake it. I give his hand a squeeze. “All right, but I warn you, it’s been a long time.”

  His face lightens. “Too long.”

  Is he using his dementia to his advantage again? Regardless, his need is real. “Okay. I think we bow our heads, right?”

  My attempt at funny bounces off him. “You can. I’m gonna look up.”

  Not a bad idea, especially if it keeps onlookers from getting the wrong idea about the state of my faith. Give them an inch, and they’ll be walking the quarter mile up my driveway to talk me into church. Er, in case You get any ideas, God, this doesn’t change a thing. This time, I really am just the messenger.

  Focusing on the blue overhead, I say softly, “God, You know my uncle’s heart and the hearts of his children. I pray You will give them peace and restore them to one another.” Of course, knowing You, that’s asking a lot. “Amen.” I pull my hand from Uncle Obe’s.

  He drops his hand from my shoulder. “That was sh-short, kind of sweet.”

  “My specialty. Now let’s rejoin the others.”

  He steps ahead of me. As I follow him around the statue, I once again have the feeling of being watched and look over my shoulder. That’s when I see him where he sits on a bench in front of the church. He’s here. In Pickwick. The dog!

  8

  Here’s my chance to tell J. C. Dirk what I think of his big-city manners, his superior attitude, his—

  Whoa! Bad manners aside, this could be good. What else would he be doing here if not to take me up on my proposal? Or at least consider it more fully? This means I’ll have to hold on to that piece of mind I was going to give him.

  Though I can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, I know from his closed-lipped smile to the palm-out hand he raises in acknowledgment that he’s looking at me.

  Suddenly grateful for Maggie dressing me—not that I would have worn ratty jeans to the dedication—I turn toward him. And feel a wiggle at my middle. Reggie. In a fanny pack around a silk dress.

  I hold up a finger, turn, and loosen the pack’s clasp as I hurry around the statue. Piper is the only one of the family who remains, and a look around reveals the others are heading across the park.

  “Axel went to get the Jeep so Uncle Obe won’t have far to walk.” Piper hooks her straight red hair out of her eyes.

  “Good.” I extend the fanny pack, out of which Reggie has stuck her pink nose. “I’m sorry about this, and I know you’d rather not, but he’s here.”

  “What?” She shakes her head and peers past me. “Where—?”

  “J. C. Dirk. The developer. Here.” I snatch up her hand and push the pack into it.

  “Oh no!” As she thrusts it back at me, my opossum’s head emerges; however, when my critter gets a gander at who’s holding her, she goes back under.

  “I won’t be long.” I head opposite. “Be gentle.”

  “I … but … this …” As I turn the corner of the statue, Piper says sharply, “Where’s Uncle Obe?”

  That stops me. Surely he’s here, having come around the statue ahead of me. However, when I scan the area, there’s no sign of him. But I was only momentarily distracted by J.C. Or maybe not …

  “He was just in front of me.”

  The concern on Piper’s face doubles. “He’s wandered off again.”

  On my watch. But he can’t have gone far. He has to be near. I look across the street to where J.C. sits, but my uncle is not among those strolling the sidewalk in front of Church on the Square, the boutique, or the ice creamery. I turn to the west side of the square. Not in front of the gift shop, Maggie’s auction house, or the coffee—

  Back up! That’s him going into Copper’s Beanery and Lending Library. “I see him!” I show Maggie’s dress no mercy as I cut diagonally across the park. Fortunately, the shoes are flats. Not so fortunately, I’ll bet my little scene doesn’t escape J.C. But at least he won’t witness my opossum-toting side.

  I enter Mr. Copper’s shop and am assailed by the scent of ground coffee beans. Though the place is a local favorite, especially since the recent opening of a chain coffee shop forced him to renovate and add the lending library, today it’s busier than usual owing to the dedication.

  I stand on tiptoe and spot my uncle in the back corner. All the tables are occupied, but he stands in the middle of the area frowning from one table to the next.

  “Uncle Obe!” I call but am drowned out by the buzz of customers and the hiss, grind, and roar of the monstrous espresso machine. Squeezing past those in line, I slowly advance across the shop. As I near, a woman with dark auburn hair, who appears to be about my age, rises from a two-person table. She says something to my uncle and gestures for him to join her.

  He stares at her for a long, socially inappropriate moment before nodding.

  I’m grateful for her compassion, though it’s almost unnecessary. No sooner are they seated than I reach them. I claim my uncle with a peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry we were separated, Uncle Obe.”

  “Were we?”

  “Just for a moment.” I look at the woman. “Thank you for offering my uncle a seat. It’s been a long day, and he’s tired.”

  Her smile is tentative, gaze faulty. Still, she’s pretty in a Catherine Zeta-Jones way. Of course, that’s an understatement, since anyone in a Catherine Zeta-Jones way is beyond pretty.

  “I imagine he is.” There isn’t an ounce of the South in her voice. “I attended the d-d-”—cheeks coloring, she swallows—“I attended the dedica-cation.”

  Either she’s terribly shy or it’s me. Though I’m used to bringing out the nervous in people (that Wesley woman was an exception), it doesn’t happen as frequently since the shedding of the dreads. Too, today I’m dressed “civilly.” Terribly shy, then.

  “It”—her smile is apologetic—“ran a bit long.”

  Not my uncle’s fault. That honor goes to our yackety mayor. “Well, I’m glad you could attend. It was a special day for our family.”

  Her gaze becomes more certain, and I wonder if the glimmer in her eyes is silent laughter. “The Pickwicks.”

  Our reputation for dysfunction precedes us again. “That’s right.” I touch my uncle’s arm. “Time to head home, Uncle Obe. Piper’s waiting.”

  “Oh, Piper,” the woman says. “I have an appointment with her—your cousin, I believe—on Mond
ay.”

  I look more closely at her. “For?”

  She glances at Uncle Obe, presses her lips together, and raises her dark, thinly shaped eyebrows.

  Oh. That. I forgot Piper is seeking a live-in caregiver. Maybe compassion wasn’t what made this woman rescue Uncle Obe. Maybe she wanted to see what she was getting herself into.

  She stands and sticks out a hand. “M-Mary Folsom.”

  Hopefully her caregiving skills are more certain than her speech. Uncle Obe may be the best in the line of Pickwick men, but when his streak of stubborn meets the disease of dementia, he’s difficult to handle.

  I shake Mary’s hand and am surprised by her firm grip. “Bridget Buchanan.”

  As we part hands, her eyes shift to my ring finger, and my heart goes bump. What if she thinks I’m divorced? That Easton left me? Since when do you care what people think?

  Since I took off my ring. It wasn’t hard to go from being Bridget Pickwick to Bridget Buchanan, wife of Easton. Hard was going from wife to widow, and now widow without a ring that might make some think I’ve shed my husband and his memory as easily as my dreads. That fear visits me when someone who doesn’t know about Easton glances at my left hand, and I long to pull the ring from my shirt and say, “See, not divorced! Happily married. Unhappily widowed.” But I don’t. And I won’t. If Mary Folsom is hired, she’ll learn more about our family than she cares to.

  “It was nice m-meeting you,” she says.

  Maybe that’s not shyness but a stutter. “And you, Mary.” I turn again and cup Uncle Obe’s elbow to urge him to his feet.

  Frowning at the woman, he says, “It was good to meet you, Marie.”

  She appears taken aback, but while I expect her to correct him to “Mary,” her slightly gaped mouth turns into a smile. “I hope to see you again, Mr. Pickwick.”

  “That would be n-nice.”

  They share a speech impediment, though his is dementia based. I give Mary a parting smile and step aside to allow my uncle to precede me across the coffee shop. It takes some zigging and zagging to get past the press of customers, but finally we exit onto the sidewalk.