Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “Pretty woman,” Uncle Obe says.

  “She is.” I peer across the square at the church where J.C.—

  He’s gone, and I’m part disappointment that I missed an opportunity to connect, part relief that I won’t have to hide Reggie after all.

  “Over here, Bridget!”

  Piper stands in front of the old theater Maggie recently purchased from the Pickwick estate to serve as her auction house. On the other side of her is the Jeep that Axel has pulled to the curb. Her face is anxious, and for good reason.

  J.C. is with her.

  As I stare at them, he looks up from where Reggie’s head peeks above the fanny pack Piper gingerly holds before her. His eyes no longer hidden by sunglasses, he smiles. He knows, and all because I had to chase after Uncle Obe. Which is my fault—and J.C.’s! What does he think he’s doing, showing up here after weeks of silence and without a word of warning? Come to think of it, this whole thing is more his fault than mine. Maybe I will give him a piece of my mind.

  Don’t go burning bridges that may still be passable.

  I force a smile for J.C., who shifts his gaze to Uncle Obe and frowns. Doubtless, he’s drawn a connection between my flight across the park and the man at my side. For fear he’ll identify Uncle Obe’s affliction and use it to his advantage in acquiring the property, I determine to avoid introductions.

  “Piper and Axel are over there, Uncle Obe.” I ease him to the right.

  “My godson,” he says as Axel exits the driver’s side. “Goodness, that boy’s gotten big.”

  Oh dear.

  Leaning into me, Uncle Obe allows me to guide him down the sidewalk, which makes me sad. I wish he would grumble and shake me off. But not today. Maybe not ever again.

  No, it’s just been a long day. Tomorrow he’ll be more himself. I hope. Okay, Lord, I give in, but don’t think this means we’re good. Here goes: Please don’t let my hope be in vain.

  As Uncle Obe and I continue forward, Axel moves toward us with a slight hitch that draws one’s eye to his prosthetic leg, a mechanical marvel he is unashamed of. Rightly so.

  As sometimes happens, the smile in the middle of his goatee makes me regret I wasn’t ready to reset my life when he came to Pickwick several years ago. He’s a good man, but he and Piper are a better fit than he and I would have been, especially taking into account his faith. How does one go from being a lukewarm Christian to embracing God after He allows friendly fire to mince one’s life?

  “May I?” J.C. says.

  Returning my gaze to him, I catch Piper’s eager nod a moment before she lets J.C. lift Reggie out of the fanny pack. I suppress a cry of dismay.

  “Don’t take it personal.” Axel appears before Uncle Obe and me, then nods over his shoulder, allowing a glimpse of his sandy-colored ponytail. “Piper’s just not much of an animal person.”

  “Then I hope you’re not planning on having rug rats.” Of course, I know they are. I’m just out of sorts. This is not how my day was meant to shake out. Home is where I ought to be heading, a tomato and mayo sandwich on my mind—not J. C. Dirk.

  I relinquish Uncle Obe into Axel’s care and step past them. Piper watches my approach. Face guilty as all-get-out, she gives a helpless shrug.

  Helpless, my foot, the pickled corn addict! Still, I manage to pop a pleasant expression in place for the benefit of the man who appears at ease holding a wild animal. It helps that Reggie also seems at ease, sniffing at his shirt that probably cost what I spend seasonally on jeans.

  Putting on the brakes two feet from J.C. and Piper, I squash the impulse to snatch my baby back. “Mr. Dirk, what a surprise—”

  “J.C.” His green eyes are intent. “We did make it to a first-name basis the last time we met, Bridget.” His smile seems to come easily, as if a natural by-product of all that laughing he’s doing at my expense.

  “Did we?” My voice rises. “Why, that was so long ago, I hardly recall.” And you are in no position to scold. Play nice!

  He nods. “Longer than anticipated, but I’m here now. And holding an opossum, no less. Interesting choice of pet.”

  He’s thinking redneck. Unfortunately, with embarrassment rising up my neck, the word fits—colorwise. “Reggie is one of my rescues.” Did you just deny her? Why, all that’s missing is a rooster’s crow. No, what’s missing is a filter. I don’t know what the Bible is doing in my head. Was it the prayer Uncle Obe forced on me? The little prayer I slipped in?

  “Reggie?” J.C. glances down. “So this is the friend that doesn’t like to sleep alone.”

  It takes me a moment to decipher that, but then I recall standing in his office and voicing my concern that Reggie would have to sleep alone if I missed my plane. J.C. assumed I was talking about a man. Now he knows better, and there goes a piece of the image I suffered for.

  Resigned to whatever he thinks of me, I say, “Yes, Reggie,” and step forward. She looks around, and although I expect her to scramble for me, she stares at me as if with accusation. Why do I have this feeling she knows I denied her?

  J.C. hands her over, and our fingers touch in passing. On the outside, I bear up, but on the inside, something wrong is going on. Get behind me, Sa—! Ah! The Bible again, much of it learned through everyday conversation with Easton who, for all his unwillingness to conform to how a Christian ought to look and behave, believed as I’ve never known anyone to believe. And look where that got him.

  No, I won’t. I have too much going on to top it with regret and bitterness I’m doing my best to get past.

  “It’s been a long while since I had contact with an opossum,” J.C. says as I settle Reggie against my chest, “but I know tails are standard equipment.”

  Making fun of Reggie’s affliction, is he? “I’m surprised you’ve had any contact with opossums.”

  A muscle moves in his jaw. “You assume I’m a big-city boy.”

  Boy nothing! “Aren’t you?”

  “For the most part.” He sweeps his gaze around the town square. “But this setting isn’t entirely unfamiliar to me.”

  Then he’s lived in a small town? The pace must have driven him crazy.

  “Excuse me.” Piper holds out the fanny pack. “But I need to get going. Axel and Uncle Obe are waiting.”

  I forgot about her—rude. Hooking the pack over my arm, I smile at my cousin. “I assume the two of you introduced yourselves.”

  “We did, and I told Mr. Dirk I’d be happy to discuss his interest in the Pickwick estate.”

  Meaning I can slip into the background, holey jeans and all.

  J.C. extends a hand to my cousin. “I look forward to meeting with you and your uncle.” They shake. “And, of course, Bridget.”

  There’s no of course about it. Not only does this man disturb me like I’m not ready to be disturbed, but this time of year is about my busiest, what with running the nursery and constructing crop mazes for farms in the area that depend on the extra income generated by harvest festivals. “Actually, my part in bringing together the two parties is done, so I’ll let you and Piper hash it out.”

  J.C. frowns. “I believe I made it clear that should I pursue an interest in the Pickwick property, your continued involvement would be required.”

  That gets my back up. Yes, he said that if he decided to look into my family’s property, he and I would speak again, but we’ve spoken.

  “And you did lead me to believe you have a special interest in the land being developed in an environmentally responsible manner.”

  Still, I want to argue with him. But I also want something good to come of the sale of the family estate, and seeing as he’s the closest we have to a “taker,” I have to be on my best behavior—what’s left of it.

  Stroking Reggie, I look at Piper. “I’ll see you at the meetin’.”

  She nods and steps toward the Jeep. Momentarily, it pulls from the curb.

  “Your uncle,” J.C. stares after the vehicle, “is he all right?”

  His inquiry sounds ge
nuine. Even so, considering his reason for visiting Pickwick, it’s best to leave him in the dark for as long as possible. “He’s tired.” Not a lie. “It’s been a big day.”

  “Yes.” J.C. returns his gaze to me. “The statue is a nice addition to the park—his gift to the town of Pickwick, I understand.”

  Did he see the unveiling? “That’s right.”

  The space between his eyebrows creases, then clears. “So, tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. While it’s still cool. Will that work for you to show me the property?”

  Of course he wants to see it. But I’ll be laying out a design for a corn maze. And isn’t showing property the job of a vulture—er, real estate agent? “I’m sure the agent—”

  His cell phone rings, and after an “Excuse me,” he leaves me hanging. Fortunately, his noncommittal responses to his caller span less than a minute.

  As he lowers the cell, I clear my throat. “As I was sayin’, I’m sure the agent who has the listing will be happy to take you over the property.”

  “I prefer to be shown by someone who knows it well. My guess is that’s you.”

  I grab at the nearest excuse. “You do realize tomorrow is Sunday. And in these parts, it’s a day of worship and rest.” His offices are in the South.

  “I hadn’t considered that. I apologize. So why don’t I join you for the service? Afterward, we can look over the property.”

  Me in church? Bridget Buchanan whose last walk down the aisle was on legs that barely carried her to the casket—

  “Ow!” I snatch my finger from Reggie’s mouth. She bit me! Of course, I am about squeezing the life out of her. “Reggie,” I gently rebuke, “not nice.”

  “I suppose that’s why people shouldn’t keep wild animals.”

  He supposes wrong—in Reggie’s case. She needs me. I smooth her tense back. “She’s just out of sorts what with all the handling.” No thanks to you.

  “Should you have a doctor look at that?” He eyes my hand.

  “Reggie is perfectly healthy. Nothin’ to worry about.”

  He nods. “I see you decided to do away with the fake nails.”

  My throat clenches as I remember the ride to the airport when I said I was grateful I’d be home soon so I could have my nail repaired. So there goes another piece of my image. Not that my fingernails look bad—I did clean under them.

  “My nails needed a break from the nasty chemicals.”

  “And your face?” He leans into my personal space. “You have freckles that you didn’t have in Atlanta.”

  Makeup had concealed the light sprinkling. Yet another chink in my image. “I’m lettin’ my skin breathe.”

  With a cheeky smile, he takes a step back. “So, which church do you attend?”

  Not a one. And had I considered J. C. Dirk in the context of church, I believe I would have applied “not a one” to him. I don’t like it when people surprise me. I wave a hand. “Don’t let my Sunday habit inconvenience you. We can meet up afterward.”

  He tilts his head to the side, causing the afternoon sun to turn the tips of his light brown hair blond. “No inconvenience. I like a good service, especially as I too often allow work to keep me from regular attendance.”

  My attempt to keep my Sunday out of his greedy hands has backfired. “All right.” Honestly! What else can I say? How about “I don’t attend”? And damage my image further? Make him think I’m not only a redneck but a heathen? Cause him to reconsider doing business with a Pickwick?

  “I didn’t realize I was asking such a difficult question.” His eyes glint.

  “Sorry, I’m just …” I touch my forehead. “Long day.”

  “I understand. Where should we meet tomorrow?”

  Feeling the call of Church on the Square, I peer past him. It was our church.

  “Convenient.” J.C. follows my gaze. “I’m staying at the Pickwick Arms.”

  Great. Not only is he zeroing in on my ex-church, but he’s parking himself at a business on my plant-care rounds. And why is he staying at that old hotel? It’s had a face-lift, but surely the new all-suites hotel is more the speed of a technology-savvy, concierge-dependent businessman.

  “It’s all of a thirty-second walk,” he adds.

  More like a minute, but with that energy of his …

  “I saw the church has an early service at eight thirty. Let’s meet in the lobby at eight twenty.”

  Just like that? As if it’s a given?

  I jump at the rumbling hiss that rises from my chest like a teakettle before it sets to whistling. It’s Reggie, the surprise being that I rarely hear the sound from her. Fortunately, this time my squeezing doesn’t earn me a bite. Easing my hold, I look up to find J.C. watching me with raised eyebrows.

  “Am I ruffling your feathers, Bridget?”

  “No, I—” Oh, forget it! “Yes, you are.”

  He considers me, giving rise to the hope he’ll back off and leave me to my Sunday. “I apologize.”

  Then we understand each other.

  “However, I do need to see the property. And I’d like you to show it to me.”

  Well, I understand him, a man who is accustomed to getting his way.

  “I’m weighing a few projects to determine which best fits the needs of my investors.” He jangles the contents of his pockets. “So before I return to Atlanta Monday night, I need to evaluate the property’s potential.”

  My nerves teeter. Regardless that his development of the Pickwick estate would be environmentally conscious, I’m realistically aware it would have to be a moneymaker, but potential sounds exceedingly commercial.

  “Tomorrow it is.” J.C. reaches to me.

  I startle, but it’s Reggie’s feathers—er, fur—he ruffles. And she doesn’t bite him. “See ya around, Reg.”

  I watch him all the way to his hotel across the square, not because I like his backside or anything carnal like that but to be certain he doesn’t see me heading for my truck. I’m not ashamed. It’s just that I’ve lost enough of the image created for him.

  9

  Sunday, September 19

  Not going in. Can’t. Not won’t—can’t. Not yet.

  How’s that for “speaking into nonexistence”? Uncurling my fingers from the door handle of the Jeep I borrowed from Axel, I look from Church on the Square to the dashboard clock. Eight twenty, and I’m not where I should be. I’ll just have to say something came up. J.C. doesn’t have to know the “something” was memories. He wants to see the Pickwick estate, fine. He wants me to walk down that aisle and sit beside him in a pew, not fine.

  At 8:25, he exits the Pickwick Arms and strides down the sidewalk to join those heading for church. I slip down in the seat. “Late, hmm?” And here I assumed he was waiting inside. But then I can’t see him hostage to anyone’s timetable. Meaning, he’s not going to like my no-show, but what can I do? I can’t. Not yet. All I can do is wait for him to get his “God fix” and hope the interest of the single women in church appeal to his ego enough to render my absence unnoticeable. And our Pickwick-ettes are sure to take a shine to him, what with his fine face, expensive attire, and absent wedding band.

  I glance at my ring finger that less and less misses the weight of my wedding band. It felt so light at first.

  When J.C. enters the church, I return to a full upright position and shift my thoughts to how to pass the next hour. I consider the hotel that is on tomorrow’s plant-care route. Had I brought my “stuff,” I could take care of business today, but I’m empty-handed. And overdressed.

  I peer at the white blouse and black slacks I pulled from the back of my closet—not the best attire in which to explore the Pickwick property, but I dressed according to the belief I could walk into church. Of course, it could be worse. I could have worn another of Maggie’s dresses that she offered when I tried to talk her into accompanying me today. Unfortunately, since she and Reece are taking Devyn horseback riding at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville after church, it’ll just be J.C. and me.
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  I tune in to the Carolina Gardening Spot radio show, not only to have something to show for my time, but to drown out any hymn singing that might sneak out the cracks in that old building.

  I try to appear casual-like, though not five minutes ago I was thanking my stars I’d roused from my doze before church let out. Had I not, I might have missed J.C.—or been caught sleeping behind the wheel.

  As he strides toward me, I straighten from where I leaned against the Jeep’s fender moments before the church doors were propped open.

  Holding me with his half-hooded gaze, he halts. “I’ve been stood up before—”

  And he admits it?

  “—but never after being invited to someone’s church.”

  He wasn’t invited! Play nice, Bridget. “I apologize.” I relax into my Southern lilt, the better to defuse the situation (when I need to tap into my inner belle, I can). “There are just some days when a body can’t get going. But here I am, and your carriage awaits.”

  His eyes shift to the vehicle behind me, and he frowns.

  Does he consider it beneath him, this man accustomed to having a driver? Huh! Wonder how much deeper that frown would go had I picked him up in my truck.

  “Borrowed?” he asks.

  Is that what the frown is about? That he recognizes the Jeep as the one Axel picked up Uncle Obe in yesterday? “It is.” I turn and give the hood a pat. “Great for all terrain. So jump in and we’ll—”

  “You might want to dust off your backside.”

  I jerk my head around.

  Smiling up one side of his mouth, he looks at said backside. “I’d offer to, but my attempt to set you right might see my backside dusted.”

  I twist myself out of shape to confirm the presence of dirt that transferred from the Jeep’s fender to my black slacks. Lovely. I slap at my rear. “It’s good to know you have common sense, J.C.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re cruising down Pickwick Pike. With the only sounds those of the road beneath the tires and the air flapping at the canvas top, I’m grateful for J.C.’s interest in the passing scenery that saves me from conversing.