Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “Good message today,” he says.

  Grateful too soon.

  “All about being yourself.”

  If not for him, I could be myself. Could be wearing 501s instead of fancy slacks. Could be going about my day without a growing awareness of the man beside me.

  “Something a lot of people struggle with. What about you?”

  I catch my reflection in his sunglasses. “I’m Bridget Buchanan. What you see is what you get.” Ninety-nine times out of a hundred. This just happens to be the one time.

  “Is that right?” He angles toward me. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  No? Of course, toting Reggie around in a fanny pack was a pretty big giveaway. And I am missing my claws. However, to counter those losses, I did apply a thin layer of makeup this morning.

  Peripherally, I catch the tilt of J.C.’s head. Disturbingly, I feel the rove of his eyes. “Often when people want something from someone,” he says, “they put their best face forward.”

  And I let it be known I want something from him. “We all do that, don’t we?” So don’t think you’re immune, J. C. Dirk! I’ll bet there’s another side of you not open to viewing.

  “True, that’s one of my shortcomings—not being a ‘what you see is what you get’ person.”

  Something in his tone makes me glance his way.

  “You’ve been warned,” he says, then directs his attention out the window.

  What does that mean? Something to do with the Pickwick estate? But he wouldn’t come all this way if he didn’t have a genuine interest in the property. He’s a businessman. He doesn’t have time—

  Could be a widow sniffer.

  Not likely. I’ve had my share of male attention, even when I was dreaded, but this man has plenty of access to pretty women. Guess I’ll have to keep my eye on Mr. What-you-see-is-not-what-you-get.

  “I appreciate the warnin’,” I drawl, slowing the Jeep as one of several entrances to the Pickwick estate comes into view. Farther up the road is the gated entrance, complete with a long aggregate driveway that ends at the mansion set regally atop a hill, but I’ll save that for when Piper, Axel, and Uncle Obe return from their brunch-after-church outing.

  I cross the opposite lane, bump to a halt in the scrabbly grass before a rusted access gate, and reach for the door handle.

  “I’ll get it.” J.C. jumps out, unwinds the chain wrapped around the adjoining fence post, and walks the gate inward. “Should I close it?” he calls as I drive through.

  “No, it’s years since any livestock was kept here.”

  The Jeep jostles us as we traverse the overgrown dirt road. During the next hour and a half, I talk and point and J.C. listens as we cross the land that Easton presented as the work of God when we first dated—groves of trees, the leafy limbs of which are moved by what he called the sweet breath of God; gently rolling hills he named the bosom of God; wide open meadows he claimed to be the lap of God; vegetated stone ravines, out of which no grass ought to poke through, proof of the tenacity of God’s love; streams and rivers ever flowing to slake the thirst he likened to the Word of God; and traces and sightings of wildlife, the immense variety of which he was certain only God could have formed.

  Try though I do to keep Easton’s poetry out of my head, his lyrical words and reverent voice rush to the surface of my emotions as if to gasp for breath after having been under a long time.

  I turn the Jeep onto the service road we’ve mostly stuck to throughout the drive. “That ought to give you a good idea of the property’s potential. Let’s head up to the big house, and you and Piper can sit down and talk.”

  “Let’s not.”

  Then he’s decided to pass on the property? “Why?” I hate the creak in my voice.

  He looks around, and I try to see past the distorted image of myself in his lenses. “You’ve shown me the best the estate has to offer. I’d like to see the worst. The quarry.”

  That torn and desecrated acreage that sits in the middle of the property like a scar at the center of a gorgeous woman’s face. I hoped he wouldn’t bother himself over it considering how beautiful the rest of the property is. “We can take a look, but—”

  His phone goes off and he answers it. I declare, if I didn’t care so much about the land, I’d work him up one side and down the other. This call is also indecipherable, and I decide to flick him a little guilt when he hangs up.

  “As I was sayin’ before you took a call in the middle of my sayin’ ”—I give him a narrow-eyed look—“since it’s so warm and I’m sure you’d like some refreshment, it would be better for us to come back later.” The quarry doesn’t look near as bad at twilight.

  “I’d prefer to see it now with the sun overhead.”

  Of course he would.

  “And I apologize for taking the call. It was important.”

  I draw a deep breath. “The quarry it is.”

  We head down a different service road at a speed that churns the dirt beneath the grass and weeds and causes dust to float through the open windows. And not a word of complaint from J.C., though his slacks are as formerly black as mine.

  I navigate a half-dozen hills, the lushness of which does nothing to prepare a body for what lies ahead. And then, suddenly, it’s there, and I feel embarrassment—an increasingly familiar emotion when I’m around him—as I pull into what should be a scenic lookout point. But there’s nothing scenic about that long, deep gouge in the earth below us.

  Though vegetation has reclaimed large portions of the quarry in the century since the land was mined, it will take several hundred more years before it begins to look like anything other than earth carved out by man and left to fend for itself—unless man gives it a hand. Maybe that hand will be J.C.’s.

  Face taut, he peers down into the mess made by my great-grandfather.

  “As you can see,” I venture, “nature is reclaiming it, but it’s slow.”

  “Too slow.”

  “Yes, but with a little help—”

  “A little?” He looks around. “There is nothing little about this, Bridget Pickwick.”

  “Buchanan is the name.”

  He shifts his jaw. “If your family’s estate is to be turned into income-producing property, the quarry has to be reclaimed. And it will be a major undertakin’.”

  The rebuke, sounding more personal than it has a right to—as if I had something to do with this—is softened by the drawl that slipped the g off his last word.

  “Yes,” I say, “and I know it won’t be cheap.”

  He opens the door and steps out.

  Guessing he doesn’t need me tagging along, I cut the engine and sit tight as he walks to the front of the Jeep. While he stares out across the gouged-out earth, his cell phone rings but he doesn’t answer.

  Dare I believe that had anything to do with my rebuke?

  When he sets off along the rim, I lean back in the seat to watch his progress. Unfortunately, it’s hampered by frequent stops and minutes spent surveying the quarry from different angles. The minutes tick by, then quarter hours. And though I’m tempted to start the engine to air condition my perspiring body, I resist the waste of energy. It’s not as if I’m going to die in this heat—maybe pit out my clothes, but I can wash them. However, ten minutes later I escape the sunlight, abandoning the Jeep to stand beneath a nearby tree.

  From time to time, J.C. goes from sight, and each time he reappears, he’s more distant. It soon becomes apparent he intends to walk the quarry’s perimeter. If that isn’t a good sign he hasn’t written off the estate, I’d be real annoyed.

  When he finally approaches the Jeep from the opposite direction, I’ve given up on my denimless outfit and plunked down at the base of the tree.

  I feel J.C.’s gaze through his sunglasses, but he halts before the Jeep and pushes his hands in his pockets to consider the quarry. I leave him to it, since for a man who moves in fast motion he seems to be making up for it now.

  Finally, he peers o
ver his shoulder. “It must have been beautiful before they cut it up.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Tell me about that.” He points to the right.

  I stand and slap at my backside as I cross to his side. “What?”

  “There.”

  I lean near to follow his finger out past the quarry to a distant cleft in the land made not by man, but nature. Barely visible are the remains of a cabin I haven’t seen up close in ages.

  I wrinkle my nose at the scent of J.C.’s cologne, though it doesn’t smell as powerful as it did before, and pull back. “That’s the old homestead of the Calhouns, who owned this portion of the estate before my great-granddaddy.”

  He lowers his arm. “Are they still around?”

  “No.” And hard to track down, according to Piper. “Long gone.” Not that a remnant of the family didn’t linger, but eventually the last of them left Pickwick. Apparently, when I started grade school, there were some Calhoun kids in the grades ahead of me. I don’t remember them, but that’s probably because they left Pickwick shortly thereafter. White trash, some called them, according to Uncle Obe, who related it with disapproval.

  With a jangle of his pockets, J.C. says, “The deed for this land is in your family’s name?”

  “Uncle Obe’s, but it’s proper and legal.”

  He turns toward the Jeep. “If you’re ready, I’d like to see the mansion.”

  If I’m ready? “Forgive me for keepin’ you waiting.” I know I shouldn’t nip at him, but I’m stretched thin.

  J.C. pauses at the passenger door, and one side of his mouth curves higher than the other. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

  I raise my eyebrows and climb into the driver’s seat.

  Though it would take less time to reach the mansion by continuing on the service road, I return to Pickwick Pike to afford J.C. a better impression of our family home via the gated entry and the driveway that ends atop the hill where the big house perches in all its old glory.

  “So this is where some of the stone taken from the quarry ended up,” J.C. says as we near the mansion.

  Being a Pickwick by birth, an environmentalist by heart, I’m guilted at knowing the earth was ripped open so its beauty could serve my great-grandfather’s aspirations. “That’s right.” I make a sharp turn to pull into the front parking area. “Let’s go inside.”

  The mansion shows well—far better than it did before Piper came home. Although there is still plenty to do, the efforts of my PR-consultant-turned-HGTV-viewing cousin are visible upon our entrance.

  Piper leads us down the hallway toward the grand staircase. “We’re in the library.” She pauses at the arched doorway.

  As J.C. steps inside, Uncle Obe raises his head from where he sits on a worn sofa perpendicular to a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “Who’s this?” He squints at J.C. from beneath a gathering of eyebrows.

  Piper hurries forward. “It’s Mr. Dirk, Uncle Obe. You met him in church today.”

  He did? I shift my gaze to J.C., who has gone to stand to the right of my uncle.

  “Remember?” Piper prompts. “I told you he’d be dropping by to discuss the purchase of the estate so you can continue your good works.”

  Uncle Obe’s face slumps. “I was hopin’ it was Antonio.”

  My heart squeezes. First, his son would have to respond to his repentant father’s letter, and it seems that neither he nor his sister are willing. Again, I wish his early onset dementia would release him from his regrets.

  As I halt beside J.C., he leans forward and extends a hand. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Pickwick.”

  Uncle Obe places a bony hand in J.C.’s. “And you, Mr.…”

  “Call me J.C.”

  As they part, Uncle Obe looks closer at the other man. “The only J.C. I know is Jesus Christ. What does your J.C. stand for?”

  With a faint smile, J.C. says, “If I told you, I’d be back where I started when I made the shift away from my given name. Suffice it to say, I have a good reason to favor my initials.”

  “An embarrassin’ family name?” Uncle Obe chuckles, unaware of J.C.’s suddenly stiff stance. “Try livin’ with Obadiah.” In the next instant, his smile goes belly up. “Not to mention Pickwick.”

  The awkward silence that follows is broken by J.C. “Bridget has shown me around the property. It has good potential, but it’s not without its problems, foremost among them the quarry—”

  Uncle Obe makes a wide sweep with a hand. “It’s been a long day, seein’ as I was up early to walk with God in my garden. I’m not up to this … er, talk.” He pushes to standing. “Piper here knows what’s what and has authority to act on my behalf.”

  J.C.’s brow furrows in what seems like concern. “Certainly, sir.”

  Uncle Obe reaches to me. “Would you see me to my room?”

  His lack of effort to play down his infirmity makes me hesitate. “I’d be happy to.” More than happy if it removes me from the business side of preserving the Pickwick estate.

  I settle his hand in the crook of my arm. With a glance at Piper, who is nibbling at her lip, I guide my uncle from the library. We cross to the corridor that leads past the kitchen, then enter the living quarters that belonged to the cook during the mansion’s heyday. Though Uncle Obe was forced to move downstairs following his knee surgery over a year ago, he has yet to return to his upstairs bedroom. Piper says it’s a good thing considering his wandering, and he seems content with the arrangement, since it affords him one of the best views of his backyard garden.

  “All better now?” Uncle Obe eases onto the mattress edge.

  “Better?”

  “I know you don’t care to be in that meetin’ any more than I do.” As I open my mouth to object, he shakes his head. “It’s right what I’m doin’ selling the …” His eyes flit left and right. “I can’t think of the w-word. Can’t even think of another word to use.”

  I sink down beside him and lay a hand over his hands. “I believe estate is what you’re looking for.”

  “Yes. Estate.”

  “And you said that selling it is the right thing to do, but …?”

  “It doesn’t make it hurt any less.” He half smiles. “Actually it lessens the blow knowin’ I’m doing the right thing, but it still hurts. And I know you, of all my k-kin, understand my ache at losin’ our family home.” He stares at my hand on his. “Times like these, it might be better if this thing I got would … get on with it.”

  I catch my breath.

  He looks around, eyes watery. “You think that’s wrong? For me to want to use this disease as poorly as it’s usin’ me?”

  “No, I …” Was thinking the same thing.

  He pulls a hand from beneath mine and sets it atop my fingers. “Don’t tell me that, along with that mess of”—he looks left and right of my face—“hair you got rid of, you also did away with your refreshin’ ability to speak in truth.”

  “Refreshing? There are plenty of people who would say otherwise. I can’t tell you the number of bridges I’ve burned speakin’ in truth.”

  He grunts. “Some people take themselves too seriously. As for my b-bridge, if you burn it, chances are I’ll forget and it’ll be good as new come mornin’. So is my thinking wrong?”

  I stare into the pale, lined face of this beloved man who became beloved too late in my life, absorbed as I was in my causes and my marriage. Not that he’s all that old—sixty-two or three—but he’s aged so rapidly these last few years, he could be in his seventies.

  He raises his eyebrows, and I have to be truthful. “I understand your thinkin’. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I’ve thought it too—that it might be better were you unaware of all this change. But I don’t want you to go someplace in your mind where you can’t be reached.” My voice breaks. “You’re the last great Pickwick. Maybe the only great Pickwick. And I don’t like to see you hurtin’.”

  He regards me a long time, then lowers his chin to his chest. “Than
k you. I should get some rest now.”

  Bridge still standing, I rise and hover as he lifts his legs onto the mattress. “Would you toss that over me?” He points to the throw at the foot of the bed. “I have a chill.”

  On an eighty-five-degree day. I spread the throw over him. Despite its many years—from the day his mother finished crocheting it to this—it’s still vibrantly blue and green.

  I look to my uncle to ask if he needs anything, but his lids are lowered. “Rest well,” I murmur.

  Though I know I should return to the library for the discussion between J.C. and Piper, I need air. And pretty things around me. All of which can be found in Uncle Obe’s garden.

  10

  I was just thinking I might have to beg a ride back to town.”

  His voice striking me square in the back, I look around at where J.C. stands over me. Caught. On my hands and knees in my very formerly black slacks. I only meant to pull the most aggressive weeds from the flowerbeds, but I couldn’t stop myself. And now I’m at J.C.’s feet, my image further tarnished.

  Brushing myself off, I rise. “Leave it to me to get caught up in gardenin’. I do enjoy the outdoors.”

  “I can see that.” His green eyes travel over me, a bit too slow for comfort. “You were going to join me on the tour of the mansion and discussion about the property.”

  “I apologize.” I start to cross my arms over my chest, but Piper has pointed out that closing off my person drains me of presence and power. “After I got my uncle settled in, I needed fresh air.” I reroute my hands to my hips. “And now”—I glance over my shoulder to gauge the sun’s position—“look at where the time’s gone.” Two hours, I’d guess.

  He sighs. “In our future dealings, am I to be stood up time and again?”

  There does seem to be a pattern developing, and as I search for a better defense than simply the need for fresh air, I bump into two promising words. “Future dealings? You intend to purchase the Pickwick estate?”