by Tamara Leigh
“Intend? No. Interested? Yes.”
It was silly to think a decision could be made today. We are talking millions of dollars. And many more to develop the estate into something environmentally friendly and income producing. I hate being made to feel stupid, especially when stupidity is doled out by my own hand. I should have been at that meeting.
“I’ll send out my team to evaluate the property—survey and map the land, take soil samples, check water tables, address zoning issues, conduct feasibility studies.”
He says it like it’s no big deal, but it sounds like it could take a long time.
“Then,” he says, “we go from there.”
Why can’t he just buy it and put an end to the circling and sniffing of the less environmentally friendly developers? “When can we expect your people?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
“You do know there are other interested parties?”
J.C. unhooks his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and slides them on. “I’m taking it into account. However, I won’t be pressured into something to which I’m not fully committed, especially when dealing with other people’s money.”
Commendable, providing a body isn’t on this side of the matter. “Then all we can do is wait to hear from you.”
“That’s all,” he drawls, once more letting in the South.
I step past him. “Well, just know that we can’t wait forever. If you drag your feet, we’ll have to go with someone else.”
“Of course.”
Not the response I was hoping for. “We’d best get you back to town.” I head for the kitchen’s rear door but catch sight of Piper through the windows and veer right to avoid delaying our departure with small talk. As I lead J.C. around the side of the big house, he starts jangling.
Shortly we’re back on Pickwick Pike, but as I relax into the silence, he says, “Tell me about your uncle.”
Did he pick up on the dementia? Uncle Obe stumbled on a word or two and was a bit socially inappropriate with the J.C.–Jesus Christ digression, but I don’t think anything was glaring. Fortunately. Though J.C. may be environmentally friendly and though he seemed to show genuine concern for my uncle, that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t see dementia as a ticking clock to be used to secure the property at a price below market value.
I cement my attention on the road. “What about him?”
“He became agitated when I started talking about the estate—couldn’t wait to leave the room.”
I tap the brakes to keep all four wheels on the road that curves above a steep ravine. “It’s not easy for him to give up his family home. Of course, seein’ as you’re accustomed to a life of excess and have probably never lost anything of sentimental value, it might be difficult to appreciate his … feelings.” I reluctantly finish the thought, knowing Piper would say I should not have said that.
Further evidencing the bridge against which I thoughtlessly struck a match, I feel J.C.’s gaze fall on me. “That’s an assumption you have no right or insight to make.”
Deep breath. “I apologize. Other than your reputation for being environmentally conscious, I know nothing about you or your past.” Which is fair, considering he knows little about the real me—aside from my opossum-toting ways, lack of allegiance to fake nails, and off-again-on-again relationship with makeup.
He turns his head to survey the scenery. “We’ll just put it down to sensitivity over your uncle’s condition.”
He does know about the dementia. Did Piper tell him? I don’t see it. And since it stopped being a secret when Uncle Obe came out about his affliction last year, J.C. must have heard it from one of the locals. Hello, ticking clock.
“It must be hard.” He angles toward me. “Standing helplessly by as all traces of the person you know are wiped away.”
It is hard, and I’m only a niece. For that, I’m glad my uncle never married, since it seems that slowly losing a spouse to dementia can be nearly as difficult as suddenly losing a spouse. Some say more so, but I would argue. Yes, with dementia there’s not only your own pain to deal with but that of your loved one as he slips into a shell of his former self, but there would be time to say good-bye.
“I’m sorry for what your family is going through.”
“It’s a cruel disease, especially when it happens to someone as kind-hearted as my uncle.”
After a considering moment, he says, “He does seem like a good man.”
Is that surprise in his voice?
In the next instant, he adds, almost to himself, “It makes one wonder if some sins of the father are still visited on generations of the children.”
What’s that about? Once we’re on a straightaway, I look around. “Sins of the father?”
He looks out the window, shrugs. “I’ve heard some interesting stories about the Pickwicks.”
He’s done his homework, but I suppose that’s to be expected. “And?”
“Your family has a—”
There goes his phone, tempting me to snatch it from him and chuck it out the window.
He consults the screen and smiles apologetically. “Excuse me, it’s important.”
Lord, how did we survive without cell phones? Yes, I’m talking to You, but only because You’ve got to be more disgusted than I am.
Shortly, J.C. is off the phone. “The Pickwick family has a reputation for the scandalous, beginning with your great-grandfather—”
Thank you, sire of my sire of my sire.
“—and the Calhoun land.”
So he knows about that. Resenting the need to defend the Pickwicks’ honor, I say, “You’re referrin’ to the tale that the land was ill-gotten by Gentry Pickwick.”
“A rigged poker game.”
“A hundred-year-old rumor.” I reduce my speed as the pike opens up into the town of Pickwick.
“Then you don’t believe there’s truth to it. That it was put out there by bitter Calhouns.”
Actually, if I had to go one way or the other, I’d probably side with the Calhouns. There may be no proof my great-granddaddy cheated, but there’s proof he had other shady dealings, including the break with his business partner that made him grab his moneybag—and his partner’s—and flee to the hills of North Carolina.
I consider telling J.C. about Uncle Obe’s plan to make restitution to the Calhouns, but there’s no need to raise concerns that the sale of the property will be anything other than smooth. After all, only a fool poisons the pond from which she’s about to drink.
Making it through a yellow light, I glance at J.C. “Who am I to say—?”
The phone again! But this time it’s mine. Not that I’ll answer it, what with being behind the wheel and in the middle of a conversation. Why not? A taste of his own medicine would do him good.
I dig the phone from my pocket. “Excuse me, but this is very important.” Of course, that might be more believable if I first consulted the screen. I flip open the phone. “Hello?”
“I believe that’s a first!” a voice crackles in my ear as if I might lose reception. “Don’t know that I’ve ever gotten through without first being sent to your voice mail.”
“Daddy?” I say, too late remembering the man beside me. Well, that takes the wind out of my very important phone call.
“Just wanted you to know there’s a change of plans for tonight.”
Good. After the day I’ve had, I could do with a quiet night as opposed to sitting across the dining room table from my folks and my active niece and nephew. “All right. We’ll have supper another night.”
“No, we’re still gettin’ together, but we’re going out.”
“With Birdie and Miles?” Are we talking McDonald’s?
Daddy snorts. “Bart and Trinity agreed to keep them another night. I don’t understand it, but they seem to enjoy spending time with the young uns.”
Hmm.
“Thought we’d try out that new place off the square, the one with the onion name.�
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“The Scallion?”
“Something like that. Anyway, we’ll pick you up on the way there.”
More unusual. However, as much as I don’t care to eat out, I hate to disappoint my mother. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll meet you there.”
“No trouble. Just wear something pretty—you know, fittin’ for a fine restaurant.”
Now that’s trouble. Or would be if I had returned the dress borrowed from Maggie for the dedication. “What time?”
“Our reservation is for seven o’clock, so we’ll swing by your place at six forty-five. Be ready, hear?”
“See you at six forty-five.” I close my phone and toss it on the dashboard.
“Supper with your parents?”
I startle at the realization that I allowed J.C. to slip into the background. “Yes.”
“That would be Bartholomew and Belinda Pickwick?”
I probably shouldn’t be surprised he knows my folks’ names. “Yes.”
“I wouldn’t mind meeting them.”
Why? I nearly ask, but that would open a door best left shut since Daddy tends to talk himself into the ground—a weakness J. C. Dirk might exploit. “If you decide to invest in the Pickwick estate, I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities to meet my folks.”
He’s quiet a long while, and when he turns to me, I catch a whiff of cologne. “So you don’t believe the Calhouns were cheated in a card game?”
I should have known he would return to that. I give my tingling nose a rub. “Who am I to believe one way or the other? I wasn’t there.” With a sniff that makes me more grateful J.C. will soon be out of the vehicle, I put on my blinker to turn into the town square. “As I said, everything’s legal, so if you’re worried about Calhouns poppin’ up to stake a claim, don’t.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I am.” I draw the Jeep alongside the curb of the Pickwick Arms. “Here you are.” And not a moment too soon. I sniff again to keep my nose from running.
“Coming down with a cold?”
Will he be offended if I speak the truth? Oh, why not? “No, colognes and perfumes irritate my sinuses, especially when they’re strong, like what you’re wearin’.”
His eyebrows rise. “I apologize. I’ll keep that in mind if we meet again.”
He will? The only thing I want him to impress me with is his environmental stance. Of course, going by his “if we meet again,” I may never know just how “green” J.C. is.
He reaches for the door handle. “Thank you for driving me around.”
When he steps to the sidewalk, I have the feeling Dirk Developers is about to slip away. I lean across the seat. “So we’ll hear from you soon?”
He peers back inside. “I’ll be in touch.”
When? And what is he doing between now and his return to Atlanta? “You said you’re stayin’ through tomorrow.”
“I have a meeting in Asheville before I fly out, so I’ll be leaving Pickwick early.”
The good news is I won’t have to reschedule the hotel’s plant service to avoid further assassination of my image. The bad news is I have no idea how Asheville fits into his plans.
I tip my head to the side. “I assume your meeting has something to do with my family’s property?”
“All part of the evaluation process.”
What other parts are there? And why didn’t I get myself to the meeting with Piper and him? Much as I’d like my involvement to be over, there’s too much riding on it for me to take the easy way out. Thus when I return to the estate to swap out Axel’s Jeep for my truck, I’ll have to get the lowdown from Piper.
“Enjoy the remainder of your stay.”
He reaches through the window. “Good-bye, Bridget.”
I hate that I hesitate before slipping my hand into his. And there’s the reason for the hesitation—skin on skin, even if it is only in the vicinity of palms and fingers. This thing that I don’t want to be attraction bothers me more than I can say. It’s too much like what I felt for Easton before he and I started dating. I haven’t felt it with Boone or any of the others who have come sniffing around. And in spite of my intentions to reset my life, it feels like betrayal.
“Good-bye.” I start to pull my hand free, but J.C. keeps hold of it.
And smiles. “You ought to let your skin breathe more.”
“Excuse me?”
“Freckles are a good look for you.”
I wore makeup for the benefit of the image created for him, but I didn’t expect him to notice. Maybe I’m not the only one feeling these flutterings. Though the possibility makes my pulse jump, I question whether I’m ready for something like this. Best not to encourage it.
I pull my hand free. “I don’t believe I asked for your opinion on my freckles.”
Something like confusion crosses his face, but then he chuckles and straightens from the Jeep.
Accelerating away from the hotel, I look in the rearview mirror and catch J.C.’s back as he enters the hotel. “Of all men, why him, Lord?” I slant my gaze heavenward. “Just so You know, I wasn’t talkin’ to You.” Oh yes, you were. “No, I was … takin’ Your name in vain. So don’t be thinking You’ve found one of Your lost lambs. I’m not one of them.” Baa-aaa.
“Not much to tell.” Piper grimaces. “I expanded on the information you gave him in Atlanta and answered a few questions. Unfortunately, he’s hard to read, so I can’t say where he stands on the property.” She sighs. “What he needs is competition.”
I sit forward in the patio chair. “There are plenty of others interested in the property.”
“They’re not real competition.”
Because of my standards. And J.C. knows all about them. “I shouldn’t have come on so strongly about the importance of an environmentally friendly development.”
“Probably not.” Piper frowns. “You said Dirk is meeting with someone before leaving Asheville.”
“Yes, but that’s all I know.” I look past her to Uncle Obe’s garden. Its summer beauty is fading, but the deep oranges and golds of autumn are coming into their own. “I did consider setting Maggie on him, what with her undercover work experience.”
Piper groans. “Don’t remind me.”
I’m surprised by the laughter that exits my mouth. “It all worked out, didn’t it? Maggie got her DNA sample, found out who fathered Devyn, and she and Reece are together again. I call that a successful covert operation.”
“She went about it wrong, and you know it.” Piper sits on the opposite side of the wrought-iron table, her flippy red hair tucked behind her ears, blue eyes reproving.
“She was trying to protect Devyn.” I defend my favorite cousin. Not that Piper hasn’t grown on me, but a twelve-year absence from one’s life does strain a relationship, especially if those in question don’t much care for each other in the first place.
“Still,” Piper says, “if she had—”
The kitchen screen door creaks, and Axel starts down the ramp he built to give Uncle Obe easier access to his garden. Good man. Piper had better deserve him.
“Am I interrupting?” His blue eyes, which have no business being so blue, smile.
“Not at all.” I sit back. “We’re just tryin’ to figure out J. C. Dirk’s game plan.”
He brushes his mouth across Piper’s, and I remember what it felt like to be loved that way. Is it possible to be loved that way again? Although I don’t summon remembrance of J.C. holding my hand through the Jeep window, his smile, or his comment about my freckles, it rises all the same. And I feel warmer than the weather warrants.
“My guess,” Axel says, “is that Dirk plans to make the most amount of money on the least amount invested.”
Grateful for words that put me back on track, I hold up a finger. “But in an environmentally conscious way.”
“That does seem to be where the money is nowadays.”
True. And I wish it were more about the environment than making a buck off those who
want to make a difference for future generations. (Honestly—organic jeans that cost five times what I pay for 501s!) Still, I’ll take what I can get, even if it is J.C. with an eye on profit. And an unsettling ability to affect me.
I scoot my chair back. “I’m having supper with my folks, and I’ve been instructed to dress up.”
Piper and Axel walk me through the house to the front door, where I pause. “Let me know how your interviews go tomorrow.”
Piper nods. “You said you liked the woman who offered Uncle Obe a seat at the coffee shop?”
I shrug. “She seemed nice. But as I said, her personality is mousy.” I raise a hand. “See you.”
I hurry down the steps to where Axel parked my truck alongside the Jeep. “Hello, Ford,” I croon as I turn the key in the ignition. I back out, shift into drive, and glance at Axel and Piper on the top step, his arm around her.
Feeling a pinch of jealousy, I loosen its grip by calling out the window, “Set a date!”
11
As sure as flies on butter, I’ve been had. I know it the moment the hostess halts at what should be a party-of-three table. And to further prove it, Tall-Dark-and-Handsome smiles from Daddy to Mama as he rises to greet us, then turns an even brighter smile on me. Yep, had. From my prettily pulled back hair to Maggie’s girlie dress, Bridget Buchanan is all trussed up with no place to go. To make matters worse, our fourth wheel is wearing cologne.
I shoot a frown at the increasingly hefty Bartholomew Pickwick, who ought to know better than to set me up. I love my daddy, but I don’t always like him. Mostly because he didn’t like Easton … didn’t believe Easton was good enough for me … refused to accept Easton even after the ring was on my finger. I touch it through my blouse. Though Daddy may be on the hunt for a husband worthy of his daughter, he’s wasting his ammo.
As he continues feigning ignorance of my angst that began with our entrance into the restaurant when patrons set to whispering (she’s wearing a dress again!), he thrusts a hand at the other man. “Glad you could join us, Caleb.”
“I appreciate the invitation, sir.” Their hands part and the man reaches to my mother. “You must be the lovely Belinda.”
