Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “Tomorrow, then.” J.C. says, his voice far from cajoling, humor absent.

  I turn to where he regards me from the opposite side of the truck, his lids weighted with what can only be disapproval. Though I didn’t intentionally flaunt the competition, there you go. “You’ll be in town awhile?”

  “I’ve cleared my schedule to focus on the Pickwick project.”

  Then he’ll be here a couple of days? A week? “Tomorrow it is.” I pull open the driver’s door. “I’ll meet you at …” Not the hotel restaurant. I’ve had enough of Boone’s Bridget-watching. I point across the square. “… the Grill ’n’ Swill at twelve thirty.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I jump into the cab and flip the key in the ignition. “I’m comin’, Mama.” Maybe not. I try the key again, but it and the engine are no longer on speaking terms. And another try yields more unproductive chugging.

  A tap on the passenger window turns my scowl from the dashboard to J.C. He raises his eyebrows and points to his chest.

  I could run across the square to Maggie’s auction house and ask her to drive me, but her regular Saturday auction will be in full swing, along with her gavel-wielding arm. I fling open the door and drop my feet to the asphalt.

  “Thank you.” I come around the front of the truck. “I knew something was up with my truck but didn’t get around to havin’ it checked. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “No inconvenience.” J.C. heads for the white Lexus at the corner. “I did plan to spend the afternoon with you.”

  True, but talking property was what he had in mind, not chauffeuring.

  He opens the passenger door, and I feel a fleeting touch at the small of my back as I slide in—as if he, a little late, thought better of stirring up whatever feelings made him touch my face last night.

  We leave the town square behind, and he turns onto Main Street which becomes Pickwick Pike farther on. As always, the enormous billboard that advertises a single-family home development on Pickwick Lake jumps out at me. When old man Truman passed away, his children sold his land that bordered the west side of the lake, and now it burgeons with high-end homes so closely built neighbors can nearly reach out their windows to borrow sugar. I can’t let that happen to Uncle Obe’s land. Progress is inevitable, but it has to be responsible.

  Take those office suites that look more like a village. The building was destined to be a monstrous mirrored thing, but when Easton found out, he and I drew up a petition that thousands of Pickwickians signed. In that case it worked, but not with Wal-Mart. The field where a fruit-and-vegetable stand once stood is now mostly asphalt and concrete block painted an ugly gray-blue color.

  “The hotel manager—Boone, was it?” J.C. says.

  My reflection in the glass comes into focus before my thoughts. I look around. “Boone?”

  From behind his sunglasses, J.C. looks at me. “He obviously numbers among your admirers.”

  I sigh. “Yes, another widow sniff—” Oops. “So, are you likin’ the gas mileage you get out of this fancy hybrid?”

  “Widow sniff?”

  Great. And since for the life of me I can’t think of an acceptable alternative that could be mistaken for widow sniff, I’ll have to lay it out there. “Widow sniffer.”

  His teeth flash in what I’d say is the most genuine smile I’ve seen from him, and it tempts me to snatch off his sunglasses so I can witness it all the way up to his eyes.

  “I’m guessin’ that means a man who is attracted to widows.”

  I can’t help but like him better when he relaxes into his drawl, so I decide to ride out the conversation. “That’s what I call them, whether it’s the husband’s life insurance they’re after, they’re lookin’ to exploit a woman’s vulnerability during her time of loss, or they merely rank high on the sympathy scale.”

  His smile begins to twitch. “Or they’re anglin’ to get their hands on a certain property.”

  I know what that’s about—the same as last night when he mused aloud about Caleb hiring experts to evaluate a property that is to remain a private residence. My formal education may have ended with high school graduation and I may be more comfortable with dirt beneath my feet, but I’m not ignorant of the seed J.C. is sowing. However, neither am I offended, especially since competition can only help Uncle Obe’s bottom line.

  I figure my expression into the facial equivalent of a question mark. “You’re sayin’ I should read any interest you show me as purely mercenary?”

  His smile stops its twitching.

  “Well, I appreciate the warnin’.”

  After a moment, he says, “You’re welcome.”

  I turn my gaze forward and am surprised to find we’re already on Pickwick Pike, not far from my parents’ home and a few miles from Uncle Obe’s. “In about a mile, turn right at Mew Way.” My folks’ private driveway, Mew short for Bartholomew. Hold it! I look anew at J.C. “How did you know my folks live off Pickwick Pike?”

  Did his jaw tighten, or was it like that already? “When I’m considering investing millions of dollars”—he flips on his turn signal—“I make it my business to know the logistics, not only with regards to the property but also the surrounding area.”

  Talk about thorough, but I suppose he would take into account the proximity of my folks’ home. And I do remember Piper had one of those maps that showed their acreage, name and all.

  J.C. turns the car onto Mew Way, which is in sorry need of a new layer of asphalt, what with weeds and grass poking through cracks. The driveway, a shorter version of the one on the Pickwick estate, rises and curves gently toward my childhood home that will come into sight any second now.

  “So,” J.C. draws out the word, “how do you distinguish between a widow sniffer and a man who is genuinely attracted to you?”

  It’s my turn to twitch, but not from a smile—rather, discomfort. How did we end up back here?

  “That’s assuming you don’t label all men who show an interest in you ‘widow sniffers.’ ”

  “Of course not.” My denial is knee-jerk, but it’s all I have because, come to think of it, every man who has sought me out since Easton has been a widow sniffer.

  “What about Merriman? Would you call him a widow sniffer?”

  I remember his kiss. He can’t be after Easton’s life insurance money, since he seems to have plenty, and he doesn’t strike me as someone who feels sympathy for a person he hardly knows, but because of his interest in the Pickwick estate and my involvement in its sale, he might be hoping to use me to his advantage. But that’s none of J.C.’s business.

  I cross my arms over my chest as he brakes before a scaled-down version of the Pickwick mansion and behind a car that is not Daddy’s.

  “Because there he is.” J.C. inclines his head.

  I look around, and as Daddy blusters off the bottom step, I see that Caleb—the owner of the car ahead—is on the veranda up top.

  Have I been had again? I’ll bet Daddy either eavesdropped on me telling Mama I was having lunch with J.C. or she let on (she did say J.C. seemed a fine specimen of a man). And under pretense of worrying over Mama, Daddy determined to interrupt my meeting by throwing Caleb at me. Sometimes I really do not like the man who fathered me.

  I’m too mad to think straight enough to open the car door, and so Daddy opens it. He pokes his head in and glowers at J.C. “You again,” he says, rude as all get out.

  I could explain about my truck, but I’m in no mood. “J. C. Dirk, Daddy, the other party interested in the property.” I’m tempted to tell J.C. to take us back to the restaurant, but Mama appears at the top of the steps, a pink pocketbook swinging from her arm, makeup doing a poor job of disguising her fatigue. This may have been a ruse on Daddy’s part, but Mama will see her doctor today.

  “Excuse me, Daddy,” I say as my mother gingerly descends the steps, her little Malti-Poo dog tinkering alongside.

  He steps back, and I swing my legs out.

  “I supp
ose we’ll talk tomorrow,” J.C. says.

  I peer over my shoulder at him. “Actually, providing you don’t mind a little down-home hospitality, we can talk here.”

  “Did I hear right?” Daddy huffs as I rise before him. “Did you invite that man into my home?”

  “I did.” I close the car door. “In between keepin’ an eye on Birdie and Miles, J.C. and I can finish what we started over lunch.”

  “But Caleb—”

  “As I’m sure you know, I’m havin’ dinner with him tonight.” Behind me, J.C.’s door opens and closes. “He and I can talk then. Now”—I kiss the cheek Mama extends as she comes off the steps—“you’d better get to the doctor.”

  Daddy clomps up the steps to where Caleb is watching.

  “Hello, Mr. Dirk,” Mama says as he comes around the car.

  “Call me J.C.”

  She nods. “Welcome to our home.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  True, though it needs a lot of TLC, most of which Daddy hasn’t delivered on despite his promises.

  While J.C. shakes Mama’s thin-boned hand, the Malti-Poo yips and strains to look up at the man who has hold of her beloved.

  “Cute dog.” He withdraws his hand, slips it into a pocket, and there’s that jangling again.

  Mama smiles, although normally she would beam—all the more reason for Daddy to get a move on. “I named her Itsy because she’s so itsy-bitsy.”

  I look to where Daddy and Caleb are conversing in low voices and say, “J.C. prefers small dogs.” Oops. I swoop my gaze to Mama, but she doesn’t seem surprised by my insight. Miles probably told her about J.C.’s visit to my home last night and, going by Daddy’s behavior, him too.

  “If it’s small dogs you like,” Mama says, “you certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be here when we had a pair of bull mastiffs years ago.” She shifts her attention to me, and I suppress the impulse to rub away the dark smudges beneath her eyes. “I don’t know if you remember them, you were so little.”

  “I do.” Huge dogs, well over a hundred pounds each. I loved them like I love all animals but feared them too, the way they ran over whatever was in their path.

  “Anyway”—she goes a little more limp—“I don’t care that your daddy said they were the best guard dogs you could buy. If he’d had them properly trained, perhaps, but they were unpredictable. Why, we could have been sued when they chased a couple of boys who came onto the property and bit one of them on the face. Not long after, the male knocked over our little Bonnie and caused her to break her leg. And that’s when I put my foot down and told Bartholomew to get rid of them.”

  “Is that right?” J.C.’s posture is the opposite of hers—all stifflike, as if he’s remembering what made him wary of big dogs.

  Time for Mama to go. “Daddy!” I scoop up Itsy for fear she’ll get tangled in Mama’s legs and unbalance her. “You’d best get Mama to the doctor.”

  He leans nearer Caleb, chuckles at something, and tromps down the steps again.

  As Itsy settles against my chest, I touch Mama’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re getting checked out.”

  “I’m fine.” She pats my hand, then her little dog. “Your daddy’s makin’ this tired of mine more than it is.” Her smile is wan. “I appreciate you watchin’ the young uns. They’re eating lunch now, but if you can get them down for a nap—Lord knows, they hardly ever go down for me—it would make the afternoon less busy.”

  “I’ll do my best.” But if J.C. wants to weave another of his “Seven Caves of the Seven Winds” stories, I’ll take his best.

  Daddy cups his wife’s elbow. “We’ll be back soon.” He gives J.C. a meaningful glare.

  I look beyond him to where Caleb is descending. “And Caleb?”

  “I told him he could stay, but he’s got business to attend to.”

  Good. Juggling J.C. and the twins is one thing, adding Caleb to the mix, quite another. Hopefully, the twins will give me time to settle in before—

  “It’s Mr. J.C.!” Miles shouts.

  I guess not. As Daddy urges Mama toward their car, J.C. waves at my nephew, who has come out onto the veranda.

  “Aunt Bridge,” Birdie pulls up behind her brother, “come read the new book Grandma got me. It’s a happily … ever … after story.”

  Right. “Coming!”

  Or I was. Suddenly, Caleb is in front of me, and before I realize what he intends, he kisses my cheek. “I know,” he whispers as Itsy squirms between us, “I should have asked permission, but …” With a smile and a glance at J.C., he says, “I’ll pick you up at your house at six o’clock. Wear something that looks good in candlelight.”

  Seeing as we already confirmed the time and dress code, that was for J.C.’s sake.

  “I’ll do my best to get Bridget home on time,” J.C. says smoothly.

  Doubtless, he’s letting the competition know there is competition, and he’s as familiar with where I live as Caleb. And in J.C.’s case, his claim is backed up by Miles’s excitement at seeing him again.

  With a slightly slipped smile, Caleb says, “You do that,” and looks to me. “Tonight.”

  Goodness, if a body didn’t know the bone these two are wrestling over is the Pickwick estate, she might think I’m the most eligible woman in North Carolina. I blink at the realization that the seed J.C. sowed took hold—that Caleb’s interest in me is tied to the acquisition of the property. But is he just another widow sniffer? Or might he still be a maybe?

  He steps past me. As he opens his car door, he finds my gaze, smiles a smile that would earn him the front cover of a magazine, and winks.

  Yeah, maybe.

  17

  I step onto the porch overlooking a deep Carolina wood through which a creek runs wet and cool all year excepting the hottest summer months. And there on the back lawn that would be scrubby if I didn’t keep it groomed for Mama, J.C. and Miles are running plays with a child’s football, which looks tiny in J.C.’s hands. As for the energy that seems to churn within him, it’s being put to good use as he gives my nephew a workout. Hopefully, it will pay off at nap time.

  I ought to have put Miles down shortly after I entered the house behind the others, but he begged J.C. to throw a ball with him, buttering his toast on both sides by reminding me his daddy isn’t here and his granddaddy is too busy for him. I relented, mostly because Miles is in need of male attention but also because it got J.C. out of the house.

  Though I’m at Mama and Daddy’s fairly often, I feel out of place in the home Daddy managed to hold on to through the thin times when his investment schemes went belly up. Inside, the need for TLC is less evident, since Mama works hard to keep it bright and in good repair, but the aged house is out of date—lots of lace, lacquer, and gold this ’n’ that.

  After watching J.C. take it all in, gaze moving up the walls of the foyer, tracing gilt mirrors, sliding over thick-waisted pillars better suited to supporting a roof than framing a formal living room, I found myself on the verge of apologizing for the bold extravagance. Instead, I excused Birdie and myself and headed upstairs.

  After closing Itsy in Mama and Daddy’s bedroom to save her from my niece’s attempts to dress her in baby-doll clothes, I tackled the task of putting Birdie down. This was easier done than expected, Birdie drifting to sleep after a single reading of her “happily ever after” story.

  “Catch, Aunt Bridge!”

  A widening of my eyes sharpens Miles’s blurred figure a moment before I focus on the flying football. I easily catch it, my love of the outdoors extending to sports.

  “See,” Miles smiles, “I told you she could catch—almost as good as my dad.”

  That’s debatable, and I think that not to brag but to prove a child’s education ought to extend to the great outdoors. Claude de Feuilles may be highly intelligent, but it’s obvious his parents’ love of knowledge took precedence over time spent in the pursuit of the increasingly endangered outdoor play of children. I’m encouraged that J. C. Dirk appea
rs to be at home outside as well as inside a shiny office tower. Maybe more so.

  “Join us?” He looks decidedly un-Atlanta with his mussed hair, tie-less shirt, rolled sleeves, and bare feet.

  Since the image meant to impress him has been dismantled—excepting my dread-to-silky hair, thank goodness—I step from the porch.

  “All time quarterback!” Miles pokes his chest. “You and Mr. J.C. against each other.”

  I falter. I don’t want J.C. chasing after me, literally or otherwise.

  “I’m game,” he says. “Two-hand touch.”

  Though I know it’s backyard football terminology, I don’t like the sound of that.

  “You’re defense, Aunt Bridge.”

  “O … kay.” With the toes of one shoe, I peel off the heel of the other and, shortly, cross the lawn in bare feet.

  J.C. smiles, a true smile as verified by the absence of his sunglasses, extending the warm expression to his eyes. “Let’s do it.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, marked by whoops, laughter, and fairly benign laying on of hands, J.C. and I catch Miles’s throws and attempt to reach the agreed-upon goal between oak trees on the far side of the lawn. With two touchdowns to my name, two to J.C.’s, we take up positions for the tiebreaker.

  On offense, I run toward the goal, looking over my shoulder for Miles’s throw and J.C.’s whereabouts. He’s too near, unlike the football that arcs high toward me. However, I pull off a fingertip catch and carry the ball into my chest. I pump my legs hard to evade J.C.’s reach, but he’s nearer than before, so near I can hear him breathing as he forces me to zig and zag toward the nearest oak.

  A hand brushes my upper arm, but just one. It has to be two. Another brush, then a hand lands in the middle of my back, the other on my shoulder.

  “Oh!” I cry as the tree rises before me. A moment later, I collapse against the gnarly trunk, as does J.C.—rather against me. Feeling heat fly beneath my skin, I twist around and the football falls from my hand.