Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “That’s understandable.” Maggie nods.

  “So, any more news from Aunt Adele?” My aunt, her mother.

  “She extended her stay again—says Daddy’s been real good to her and she’s taken a shine to Mexico.” She frowns. “Makes me wonder if she might not be coming home at all.”

  That could be a good thing. My aunt has always been a difficult woman, but life without her husband all these years made her doubly so.

  Maggie looks around the emptying lobby. “We’d better go in.”

  I peer into the sanctuary where, the last time I was here, I set my hand on the casket and asked God, “Why?” It got grittier, as Maggie can attest. I don’t remember exactly what I said when I ran out of church that day, but I pointed at God up there who didn’t care about me down here and told Him and His Son to leave me be.

  Maggie tugs me forward. “You’ll sit with the family, won’t you?”

  My feet drag as we near the wide-open doors. “There can’t possibly be room for another body in that little pew.” Which is true, but mostly I’m thinking it would be better for me to wait in the lobby until the kids’ Sunday school class lets out.

  “Ergo, we traded it for a bigger pew,” Maggie says.

  Ergo? Since I understand she’s given up her quest to be taken more seriously by increasing her vocabulary with highfalutin words, that one must be a throwback.

  “Since our family is growing, now that Bart and Trinity are married,” she continues, “Piper and Axel are soon to be, and I—” She chuckles. “We’ll see.”

  I believe we will. In fact, there’s Reece ahead, briefly meeting my gaze before settling on Maggie.

  “Anyway,” she says at the moment I realize we’ve crossed into the sanctuary, “we’ve taken over one of the big center pews. Didn’t your mother tell you? She started sittin’ with us too.”

  I look down. I know life, not death, is at the end of the aisle; however, I’m afraid if I look too closely, I’ll remember too vividly the casket I last saw there. And it will feel as if it’s there now. What am I doing here?

  “Hello, Bridget.”

  What is he doing here? Oh, wait—Daddy. One-quarter relieved by the distraction, three-quarters annoyed by my father’s interference, I glower at Caleb.

  “What?” He splays his hands.

  “I’m Maggie Pickwick.” My unruffled cousin sticks out a hand. “A cousin. And you are?”

  “Caleb Merriman.” As he accepts her handshake, I catch a gleam of appreciation in his eyes before they dip to Maggie’s left hand. No ring yet, but Devyn confided that when Reece took her mom and her to a mall in Asheville and they went their separate ways, she saw him across the walkway looking into a jewelry store window.

  Get a move on, Reece. Not because I’m worried Maggie will snatch this “maybe” out from under my nose, but because I want to see my cousin and her daughter happy. And for Uncle Obe to see them happy while he still can.

  Maggie slides her hand out of Caleb’s. “You’re the other interested party.”

  “That’s right. I’m considering buying the Pickwick estate for a private residence.”

  “That’s what I hear. And I’d love to hear more, but the service is about to begin.”

  “Mind if I join you?” Caleb turns his secondhand appreciation on me.

  I’m tempted to discourage him, but when I catch sight of J.C. past his shoulder, I have no choice but to agree, though it appears the competition is, as yet, unaware of our presence.

  “Sure,” I say, then to Maggie, “lead the way.” And she does, past J.C., whose attention remains on the church bulletin.

  Despite the length of the pew our family has claimed, there isn’t much room left when I slide into it after Maggie and ahead of Caleb.

  “Good to see you here, Bridget,” a voice says. I know who it belongs to, and when I turn my head, first taking in the earthen fingers that curl over my shoulder, I’m grateful to see Henry and Lucy in the pew behind.

  “Yes” is all I can say, and he smiles big.

  As I seat myself, my sister-in-law’s voice soars above the chatter. “Gol!”

  I peer past Piper and Axel, beyond Uncle Obe who is conversing with the woman beside him—his caregiver, Mary—and on to Trinity, who is staring at me.

  “Am I seein’ things?” She pokes Bart beside her. “Tell me if that ain’t your sister Bridget what just slipped into our pew—at church, I might add.”

  Talk a little louder, won’t you? Caleb surely heard and quite possibly J.C., but those in the back row might be feeling left out.

  My brother meets my gaze as I lower to the bench. “Why, it is her.” He taps Uncle Obe on the knee. “Bridget’s here.”

  My uncle raises his head and says something too low for me to catch over the other voices; however, I see my name on his lips and his smile is for me, the reach of which I haven’t seen in so long it makes my walk down the aisle worthwhile. Then he shifts his gaze toward the ceiling and moves his lips in what has to be prayer.

  “It would seem you’re not much for organized religion,” Caleb says.

  I shift around to face him where he sits on the end of the pew. “God and I …” No need to go into specifics. “Well, it’s been awhile since I felt comfortable attending services.” Not that I feel comfortable now. “What about you?”

  He opens his mouth, but it’s Devyn’s voice that sounds between us. “I got the twins settled.” She slips past our knees, and I scoot nearer Caleb to make room for her between her mother and me. “The oatmeal cookies are a hit.”

  “Thank you, Dev.” As I return my attention to Caleb, the music starts, causing conversations to hush and the congregation to rise.

  Caleb stands with me. “Since we couldn’t get together last night”—he takes my hand—“I thought we could have lunch.”

  I stare at my fingers. Compared to his, they appear more tan than they are, even my ring finger without its bandage. One of us spends quite a bit of time outdoors, the other not enough. I gently tug, but he holds on.

  “What do you say?”

  The voices around us rising in song, I put my mouth near his ear. “Let’s talk after service.” He releases me, and I catch sight of J.C. on the other side of the aisle, several pews back. He meets my gaze.

  I have no reason to be bothered by his witness to what appears to be intimacy between Caleb and me. And I’m not. Well, maybe a little, but that’s because of J.C.’s kiss.

  He didn’t kiss you.

  True, but for some reason, I feel his almost-kiss more deeply than Caleb’s actual kiss. But what am I doing thinking such thoughts? I snatch up the hymnal, open it at random, and set my eyes to words penned in the eighteen hundreds.

  “Wrong song,” Devyn whispers. “Page 232.”

  I flip ahead but don’t join in the voices that praise God. Everything is moving too fast. I’m here, and that’s enough for now—maybe too much. Even the sermon that follows pretty much goes over my head, since it doesn’t apply to me. All I can think is that if God really wanted me here today, the sermon would be relevant to Bridget Pickwick Buchanan. After all, how many times did Easton go on about sermons that seemed tailor-made for him?

  In fact, on one occasion, I pointed out that perhaps they seemed that way because he was looking for a fit. He frowned, then said, “You’re right, but that’s just good stewardship of God’s Word—taking it in and letting it conform itself to one’s own circumstances. Not letting any of it go to waste.”

  His words had been lofty, and still are, seeing as there seems no way this particular topic can conform to my life and struggles—raising up a child in the way he should go so when he is grown he won’t turn from it. I’d like to have children to “raise up,” but that doesn’t seem likely to happen anytime soon, even though two men who say they’re attracted to me are nearby.

  I glance at Caleb. He’s nodded off, though not in any way obvious. He still sits erect—no telltale leaning or snoring—but his lids ar
e closed. Despite his claim to wanting the Pickwick estate as a private residence where he can raise a family, maybe children don’t figure into his near future either. Maybe he does want it for an industrial park. Or maybe J.C. is dabbling in deceit to eliminate the competition.

  So how do I discover the truth? Though I best like the idea of the property remaining a private residence, even if the scarred land of the quarry is left to mend itself, I’d take whatever ecologically sound development J.C. has in mind over an industrial park.

  I consider Caleb again. I could ask him, but if J.C. is right, then he’s a proven liar and I can’t believe anything he says.

  I peer over my shoulder. J.C. is not sleeping but appears to be following Pastor Stanky’s sermon. Surely he could show me proof of Caleb’s intentions, seeing as he professes to have uncovered them.

  His gaze shifts to me, making my breath back up, and he raises his eyebrows in silent question.

  I turn away. Ten minutes later, my reintroduction to church comes to a close. And if I wouldn’t have to climb over Caleb, I’d be the first one down the aisle.

  “Lunch?” Caleb asks as he takes his sweet time exiting the pew.

  I’m tempted to put him off, but it is getting to be past rude. “Sure,” I say as we walk side by side up the aisle, “but I am keeping my niece and nephew, so—”

  “Oh. Right. Look, let’s do it another day. I know how seriously you take your responsibilities.”

  No, he doesn’t, but since I prefer to postpone our get-together, so be it. “Yes, I do.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  We exchange the sanctuary for the lobby, and he leaves me behind. I step aside to await my family, who are moving at a trickle—well, not Maggie and Reece or Trinity and Bart. They’re not moving at all where they stand outside the family pew, engaged in what appears to be a lively conversation.

  Devyn crosses the threshold, tells me she’ll collect Birdie and Miles, and hurries away.

  “Bridget.” Uncle Obe appears, an arm hooked with Mary’s, which surprises me, since he doesn’t care to be coddled. “I can’t tell you how good it does my heart to see you here.” He sets a hand on my arm. “All through service I prayed your comin’ back to God would be fulfilling and you would resume the blessed habit of w-worshipin’ with fellow believers.”

  My smile feels tight. “I suppose this is a good start.”

  “Your mother has also been in my prayers.”

  Then Daddy must have called him. “Thank you.” I turn my attention to the woman at his side. “It’s good to see you again. Mary, isn’t it?”

  “Marie,” Uncle Obe corrects despite Mary’s nod.

  Beginning to blush, she pats his hand on her arm. “Your uncle has taken to c-calling me Marie.”

  “Because you are a Marie,” he says.

  She nips her bottom lip. “It’s nice to see you again, Bridget.”

  Piper appears. “I’m glad you’re still here. I just spoke with J. C. Dirk. He wants to meet with the family to discuss the acquisition of the estate.”

  Moving right along, with or without me. Not that I have the right to be offended, since he has tried to discuss his plans with me. “When?”

  “Today, two o’clock, at the mansion.”

  I sigh. “I’ll be there, along with Birdie and Miles.” I had hoped to drive in to Asheville to see Mama, even though Daddy discouraged a visit, since I would have to bring the kids and “Really, your mama needs a break from those two.” True, but more, I think, Daddy is looking for a break, though hardly well deserved. However, in his defense, he has stayed by Mama’s side, going so far as to cancel a tee time that was “not easy to arrange in the first place, let me tell you.”

  Tomorrow, then, I’ll go see Mama if she’s still in the hospital.

  “Uncle Obe, Mary”—Piper turns her attention to them—“while Axel’s gettin’ the Jeep, I’ll let Maggie and Bart know about the meeting. Be right back.”

  “We’ll be here,” my uncle says as she hurries away.

  “I want another cookie.”

  I look down to find Birdie looking up. “I don’t have any—”

  “Devyn does.” Miles points at his second cousin, who does indeed hold a Ziploc stuffed with two cookies. “I want another one too.”

  Since they’ve already indulged, they don’t need more sugar. “Maybe after lunch. If you eat well.”

  Birdie’s big, beseeching eyes turn small and smoldering. “I want mine now.”

  “Later,” I say firmly.

  She stomps, causing churchgoers to frown. “Now!”

  “Now,” Miles echoes. “I’m hungry.”

  More eyes turn to us, and I resent how often it falls to the Pickwicks to provide entertainment for those with nothing better to do than tune in to our show. Though I try to act as if I’m not bothered by the attention, I don’t care for it, especially when it’s negative.

  I look Miles in the eye. “If you’re hungry, what you need is food, not sugar.”

  He thrusts his jaw forward, then whips around and strains for the Ziploc.

  As Devyn stumbles back, she tosses me a wide-eyed question.

  I answer it by reaching past my nephew and relieving her of the bag. With a grateful smile, she hurries back into the sanctuary to join her mother.

  “That’s enough, Miles.”

  He jumps, and his fingertips brush the bottom of the bag. A glance around confirms we’re the cause of much murmuring. Is that J.C. at the entrance?

  “I want my cookie.” Birdie drops to the floor and starts kicking her heels like the three-year-old she isn’t. As for Miles, he continues to jump for the bag.

  I want this mess over—to be out of the spotlight and on my way home. Maybe this isn’t a battle worth fighting, after all. Maybe for the sake of sanity I ought to—

  “Don’t forget what … er … the guy at the podium said,” Uncle Obe whispers.

  What? Oh, Pastor Stanky and his message about raising children and the importance of not giving in to the temptation of easy fixes that will lead to long-term behavioral problems. But these aren’t my kids, so it isn’t my place to instill values.

  Whose place is it? Your mother’s? She’s in the hospital. Your daddy’s? He passed on the privilege. Bonnie and Claude’s? They aren’t here. You are and you agreed to help. As for wanting today’s sermon to apply to your situation? Here you go.

  Too bad I didn’t stay tuned in to the pastor’s words. Of course, common sense tells me what’s needed—that I stand firm. “It’s time to leave, Miles.”

  As he jumps again, I hear a telltale jangling. I start to look behind, but this time when my nephew comes down, the weight of his sturdy little body lands on my foot. I yelp, the bag slips, and it’s all I can do not to grab my foot and hop around the lobby.

  “Miles!” I snap as he scrambles for the bag. However, it’s not his hand that whisks it from the floor but a broad and long-fingered one.

  Miles glares at J.C. where he straightens beside me, but he doesn’t jump at him. Oh no, he has too much respect for the man. Though I’ve tried to earn that respect by being firm with my sister’s kids and teaching them manners, they still think they can manipulate me as they do their grandmother. And here’s J.C. coming to my rescue as if to confirm I’m incapable of such respect.

  “Need help?”

  I look up only to have my resentment sputter—a little—at the realization J.C. isn’t completely bulldozing me. “No, thank you.” I take the bag and feel a tingle where our fingers meet. Unfortunately Miles starts jumping again … threatening my feet … testing my patience … and then Birdie joins in.

  J.C. leans near enough that his shoulder bumps mine, his breath warms my ear, and I feel another tingle. “You sure I can’t help?”

  “Gimme!” Birdie whines.

  Once more I consult our audience. Though it’s diminishing as rumbling bellies urge the congregation outside, the die-hard gossips want to see how this plays out. I meet J.C.�
�s gaze. “What do I do?”

  “Time-out.”

  I’ve seen Bonnie use that discipline at the mansion. But what about in public? “Here?”

  “It’s just for a few minutes,” he says low, disturbing me with that breath of his. “Remove them from the situation and their audience, and they’ll likely settle down.”

  Worth a try. “Time-out.”

  My declaration ends the jumping, but as I silently congratulate myself, Miles says, “No!”

  “Now what?” I murmur out the side of my mouth.

  “A good paddlin’, is what.” The strength of Uncle Obe’s voice startles me. “Worked for my brothers and me when we got out of l-l-line with our daddy.”

  Not a good example—at least, where the other three Pickwick boys are concerned.

  Miles glowers at his great-uncle. “Mama and Daddy don’t believe in paddling.”

  “No paddling,” Birdie chimes in.

  “May I?” J.C. asks. At my nod, he bends down, puts a hand on Birdie’s shoulder and one on Miles’s. “Your aunt Bridget has told you it’s time-out. Do you want to walk to that bench over there”—he juts his chin—“like the big girl I know you are, Birdie?”

  Some of her scowl slips.

  “And the big boy I know you are, Miles—especially as demonstrated by that powerful throwin’ arm of yours?”

  My nephew smiles.

  “Or would you prefer that your aunt carry you?”

  Carry them? Have them fighting me all the way? Making more of a scene?

  “I can walk,” Miles says. “I got powerful legs too, you know.”

  “Me too,” Birdie says, and the two of them run to the bench where they plop down and look to J.C. for approval.

  He gives a nod and straightens.

  I sigh. “I’m relieved they chose to walk there on their own. The thought of carrying them kicking and screaming …”

  “You can’t let embarrassment dictate discipline or you’ll be hostage to them,” J.C. says. “Also, remember that nearly everyone staring at you has been or will be in the same situation.” His grin is one-sided. “Of course, time-out doesn’t always work. Sometimes you just have to let them melt down.”