Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “Sorry.” J.C. pulls back maybe six inches, a hand on the trunk on either side of me. “You’re a hard one to catch.”

  Though reason tells me momentum is responsible for what feels like intimacy, it also points out there is no excuse for us to remain so close—unless he’s trying to catch his breath. I know I’m trying to catch mine. In fact, I seem to have lost it altogether. Our bodies are no longer touching, but I feel him. And for some reason, it doesn’t bother me that he’s practically smothering my personal space.

  “So”—he peers into my face—“let the tie stand? No winner, no loser?”

  I pick out the gold flecks in his green eyes only to wonder if I imagined them. Perhaps even the color, his pupils have grown so large. I swallow, an unladylike gulp that, had I not already tarnished my image, would do it for me lickety-split. “I can live with a tie.” Was that my voice? And what’s he doing looking at my mouth? He’d better ask permission first, is all I can say. And if he does?

  His gaze returns to mine, and I see the question in his eyes. Was it there last night when he touched my face? I don’t know what possesses me, but I lean forward.

  “Whatcha guys doin’?” Miles asks from far away. Or so it seems until J.C. drops back and I find my nephew beside me, the football under his arm.

  His mouth transforms into an open-mouthed grin. “Aunt Bridge and Mr. J.C. sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage—”

  “Miles!”

  “—then comes baby in a baby carriage.”

  Avoiding J.C.’s gaze, I push off the tree. “Nap time, buddy.”

  The grin evaporates. “Do I have to, Mr. J.C.?”

  “That was the agreement. Also, your aunt and I need to talk business.”

  With a grumble, Miles turns toward the house.

  Keeping my gaze averted, I walk wide around J.C. He about kissed me. And I made it easy for him. I can’t believe he’s really interested in me—

  Bingo! He did warn me on the drive over that any interest he showed should be considered purely mercenary.

  Actually, that was your conclusion—and sarcastic at that.

  True, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t his answer to Caleb—as in, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Or something like that. And I don’t like it. J.C. and I need to talk. Caleb too. If either of them thinks he’s going to the head of the property-acquiring line by courting me, he has another think coming.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m in a bit of a better place when I hear J.C.’s tread on the stairs. When he offered to put Miles down with another story of the “Seven Caves of the Seven Winds,” I was so perturbed I nearly turned him down, but that would have been cutting off my nose to spite my face. Too, it gave me time to make lunch and put Mama’s recycling bins in order that Daddy always puts out of order. The man simply can’t be bothered to do his part to ensure his grandchildren and their grandchildren inherit a world worth living in.

  “I hope you like Spanish omelets,” I say as J.C. enters the kitchen.

  “I do.”

  As he settles at the glass-topped table, I slip a slice of my creation on each of the plates I set out. “Orange juice okay?” I nod at his filled glass.

  “Sure.”

  I return the cast-iron skillet to the stove top, seat myself opposite J.C., and raise my fork. As I zero in on the beautifully turned omelet (I’m something of a cook, if I say so myself), I realize something is missing that is always at this table whether I like it or not. I glance at J.C., who is watching me, but is he waiting? And how’s it going to look if I jump in and eat without saying grace? I suppose I could—

  He lifts his fork and cuts into the omelet.

  Problem solved.

  “This is good.”

  “Thanks to Mama. She pretty much let me grow in the direction to which I was inclined, but she did push me to learn to cook.” In fact, those are some of my best memories. She longed for me to be a Southern belle befitting my “lineage,” but after the cotillion-skunk incident, she settled for a tomboy who could whip up a batch of tasty.

  “So no cotillion or fancy coming-out balls for Bridget Pickwick?”

  Did I think that out loud? I’m sure I didn’t. I suppose it just follows that my nature-loving self wouldn’t go in for the stereotypical Southern-girl things. “No cotillion. No debutante ball.”

  “But plenty of tree hugging.”

  I look sharply at him; however, the light in his eyes isn’t derogatory. Nor is his smile, which reminds me of a certain tree and a certain leaning toward something I shouldn’t have. “That’s right.”

  He slides another forkful in his mouth, and I watch his lips close around it and remember—

  I look to my omelet.

  A few bites later, J.C. says, “About the estate—”

  “Can we clear the air first?”

  “What air is that?”

  “The stuff that was floatin’ around when we were up against the tree outside.”

  He smiles another smile that goes straight to the center of me. “Yes?”

  Why is my heart thudding? It’s not as if I’m not used to speaking my mind. It’s second nature. Maybe first. I clear my throat. “You nearly kissed me—”

  “You nearly let me.”

  I feel another blush coming on. “That’s neither here nor there.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I lower my fork. “I just want you to know I’m not up for that kind of sport.”

  “What kind is that?”

  Is he baiting me? “You asked earlier how I determine the difference between a widow sniffer and a man who is genuinely interested in me.”

  “And you didn’t answer.” He leans back, looking so relaxed I almost wish he’d start jangling. “However, something tells me you think I was sniffing.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  He looks ceiling-ward as if replaying the scene.

  I wish he wouldn’t do that. It sets my own film rolling. And for some reason, it’s not only in high definition, it’s scented. Why I should smell the grass, dust, and sweat of J.C. now when I don’t recall smelling any such thing when he was inches from me, I can’t say.

  “I suppose there was some sniffing goin’ on.” He looks back at me.

  Only some? Then a part of him really wanted to kiss me?

  “Chalk it up to business instinct, something I’ve struggled with since I stepped back into my faith a year ago.”

  Meaning he also turned from God? Why? And what brought him back?

  “As I said the last time I was in town, I have a hard time being a what-you-see-is-what-you-get person, especially when I perceive the competition is playing dirty. Or, in this case, sniffing around. It tends to bring out the worst in me. That and my … past.”

  The vulnerability that peeks through his face is gone in an instant. Obviously, behind that big-city facade lurks someone who has more to say than he’s saying.

  Amid the awkward silence, we return to our omelets. “I appreciate your honesty, J.C. However, just because you’re doing some sniffing doesn’t mean Caleb is.”

  “I could be wrong, and if I am, I apologize. But what I do know is that Merriman has ties to a firm looking to plant an industrial park outside of Asheville.”

  That gives me pause. J.C. has been checking on his competition. Piper did the same, but she didn’t find anything like this. If it’s true, it could be coincidence only. I slowly chew through egg, tomato, and green peppers. “You know that for certain?”

  J.C. nods. “That brings us back to the question of how you spot a widow sniffer.”

  I guide another bite of omelet toward my mouth. “Now what kind of fool would I be to reveal my means of sniffin’ out a sniffer?” I laugh to lighten the mood, but he stares at me. “All right, you got me. I tend to see y’all as widow sniffers.”

  J.C. pushes his plate forward and rests his forearms on the table. “You must have loved your husband very much.”

&
nbsp; My heart flickers, but the weight I anticipate to descend on it is blessedly—did I think blessedly?—lighter than expected. “I did.”

  “How many years has it been?”

  “Four.” Disgusted with the wimp in my throat, I sit straighter. “Easton’s been gone—” Here I go again, refusing to acknowledge the finality of his death, as Bonnie so painfully pointed out. “My husband died four years ago.” There, I did it. Out loud. On my own.

  “And you still feel the loss deeply.”

  Is he giving me a talking-to the same as Bonnie? “You think I shouldn’t?”

  His shrug is slight. “Though four years seems a long time to be in mourning, some people take longer to heal than others. Of course, there are those who simply find it easier to live in the past. They refuse to move on and miss out on life—God’s plans for them, if you will.”

  Maybe he is giving me a talking-to.

  “They play dead. Like your opossum.”

  Not my opossum. But Reggie tries, bless her heart. In the next instant, I draw a sharp breath, belatedly struck by the irony to which J.C. is alluding—a woman who pronounces every man who threatens her widowhood a widow sniffer keeping a pet that, in the face of danger, closes down.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Which one do you think I am? Someone who takes a long while to heal or one who finds it easier to live in the past?”

  He considers me. “I don’t know you well enough to be certain, so it’s not for me to say.”

  “All right then, which are you?”

  He blinks. “What makes you think I’m one or the other?”

  “You said your past tends to bring out the worst in you.”

  He inclines his head. “So I did.”

  “Then?”

  With a smile that seems directed at himself, he says, “I’d say I’m missing out on life, letting seemingly unfinished business get in the way of the present. You?”

  Seemingly unfinished business. In my case, regret over something I wish could be undone. And disillusionment with God denying me the ability to undo it. “The same, I suppose, but I’m making progress. After all, though I did suspect Caleb was a widow sniffer, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Do I also get the benefit of the doubt?”

  I don’t look away. “You admitted to being guilty of sniffin’.”

  “Some.”

  That little word makes me so jumpy, my fork nearly gets loose. I set it down.

  “It’s true the business side of me longs to beat Caleb at his own game, but I am interested in you in a personal sense, Bridget.”

  Feeling my skin warm, I snort. “I may come from a prominent, albeit scandalous, Southern family, but you can’t tell me I’m what you’re accustomed to. I clean up fairly well, is all.”

  “You’re one surprise after another. I like that.” He lowers his gaze to his arms on the table and is gone a long moment. “You’re not the typical Pickwick.”

  He’s dug into our family’s history. But that’s just it—history. Yes, my daddy falls into the “typical” category, as do two of my expatriate uncles and my used car–salesman cousin Luc (to an extent); however, despite a here-and-there peculiarity, the rest of us are doing just fine.

  I push the remains of my omelet aside. “You mean stereotypical Pickwick.”

  “True.”

  I really ought to be more annoyed. “Well, in case you haven’t heard, firsthand knowledge is more credible than tittle-tattle.”

  He looks down again and draws a breath. “Actually, Bridget—”

  “I woke up.”

  I look around, and Birdie’s in the doorway, a book dragging from her hand. “Why, Birdie, that wasn’t a long nap.” I push my chair back.

  “I need another happily … ever … after.”

  Me too. I scoop up my niece, and she drops her head onto my shoulder. “As soon as I get her back down”—I look at J.C.—“we’ll talk about your plans for the property.” Which is what we should have been doing all along.

  “I’ll clean up here.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Birdie and I near the stairs, the house phone rings. “Don’t worry about that,” I call. “The answering machine will get it.”

  When Birdie drops off again, I return to the kitchen, where J.C. is at the sink.

  “All done.” Wiping his hands on a towel, he turns to me.

  “I appreciate—” I falter at the sight of Mama’s cast-iron skillet overturned on another towel. “Tell me you didn’t …” There are beads of water on the black iron surface. “You did.”

  “What?”

  I point at the skillet. “You washed it.”

  “Yes?” He frowns harder. And then stops. “It appears I’ve forgotten the importance a Southern woman places in a skillet that’s … What do you call it? ‘Well seasoned,’ isn’t it?”

  Wasn’t it? I turn the skillet over and whimper when I see that, instead of being wiped clean, layers of seasoning are scoured away. And there, in the bottom of the sink, is the steel wool pad that did it in—with the help of J.C.’s energy-infused elbow grease.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I draw a deep breath. “I know. You were just trying to help.” Poor Mama. What will become of her gravy? And fried chicken? And breaded okra? Wait! She gave me the skillet’s twin when Easton and I married. Much as I hate to lose it, I’ll gladly give it up to keep her from becoming anxious—and Daddy from grumbling over his supper not tasting right.

  “You’ll want to listen to the message.” J.C. nods at the answering machine. “It’s from your father.”

  Probably complaining about how long it’s taking the doctor to see Mama. I set the skillet on the counter and hit the playback button. How am I going to swap skillets without alerting Mama?

  “Bridget? You there? No?” He grunts. “Probably outside. Just want you to know we won’t be home anytime soon. Though I see no reason to get all het up, the doctor insists on admitting your mama to the hospital in Asheville for testin’.”

  My breath seizes up.

  “Typical doctor junk. You just know they get a kickback on every test they order. Well, we’ll see you when we see you. Probably late.” With a click, he’s gone.

  Tests … Mama’s fatigue … the circles under her eyes … What if Daddy’s wrong? What if she really is sick? It could be cancer. Or something worse. Is there anything worse? Besides death?

  “Oh, God,” I breathe, and I mean it. You aren’t going to just stand by this time, are You?

  “Bridget?”

  I can’t go through it again. Please don’t make me go through it again.

  A hand on my arm startles me, and I turn and come chest to chest with J.C.

  With a sharp breath, he releases me and steps back. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “If you’d like, I can give you and the kids a lift to the hospital.”

  That’s right, I have no way of getting there. Actually, I do. “Thank you, but I’d best wait to hear from Daddy. And he’s probably right, that it’s nothin’. But if I do need to go into Asheville, I can borrow a car from him.” Surely he won’t begrudge me one of his garaged classics, the sale of which would go a long way to keeping Mama and him from being financially strapped all the time.

  “I should probably go, then.”

  I nod. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to discuss the property.”

  “We can discuss it tomorrow at the Grill ’n’ Swill.”

  I shake my head. “Until I know what’s happenin’ with my mother, we’d best not plan on that.” Goodness, if I’m not canceling on Caleb, I’m canceling on J.C. How did life get so worrisome?

  “I understand.”

  A minute later, I close the door behind him and rest my forehead against it. “Okay, God, I need You to make this better, to make Mama well. You wouldn’t do it for Easton, but please do it for her. Amen.”

  18

  Sunday, October 3

  I’
m going in. I can. Not will—can. Now. I draw a solid breath and, with Birdie and Miles in tow, enter. The lobby of Church on the Square opens up wide as I cross the threshold. For a moment, I feel as if I’m being swallowed, but then I hear, “Bridget! Oh my goodness, Bridget!”

  I turn to the side, and there’s Maggie, the elegant length of her advancing past the others who make their way to the sanctuary. A moment later, my red-headed cousin is upon me, the mint of her recently brushed teeth fanning my face. And it’s okay. Her smile is that big and eyes that bright, it’s okay if she stomps all over my personal space. Providing she doesn’t make a habit of it.

  “Hey, Birdie and Miles,” her daughter says, having followed her mother. When Devyn grins up at me from her petite height, I notice the gap between her front teeth is closing. Bit by bit, the sweet little duckling is growing out her swan’s wings. “Welcome back, Aunt Bridge.”

  Welcome back … Though I’m sending out feelers in an effort to reconnect with God, I wouldn’t go that far. “Would you mind takin’ the kids to their Sunday school class?”

  “Sure.” Devyn waves a hand. “Come on, you two. I saw Miss Elaine with a plate of oatmeal cookies. You don’t want to miss out.”

  Without a backward glance, my niece and nephew follow.

  Maggie hugs me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Is she thinking of making a habit of this touchy-feely stuff? Not that it doesn’t feel good …

  She pulls back. “I sure didn’t see this comin’.”

  “Mama asked me to bring Birdie and Miles and … I could hardly refuse her.”

  Her lush mouth turns down. “Is she not feelin’ well again?”

  I tell her about yesterday’s events and the half-dozen calls from Daddy informing me that this, that, and the other test came back negative.

  “Praise the Lord.” Maggie’s pretty brow smoothes.

  “I’m tryin’.” I’ll save further praise for when His answer is different from Easton’s answer. “I’m just … a little scared, what with Mama havin’ to stay overnight for further testing.” That, of course, meant I had to cancel dinner with a rather curt Caleb, which annoyed Daddy when I refused to ask Bart and Trinity to watch Birdie and Miles.