Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  My uncle glowers at his brother, smiles lightly at Mary, then tips his head back to consider the ceiling.

  “If my uncle were to accept your offer, Mr. Dirk,” Piper takes a step away from the shelves, “what’s the timetable we’re talking about?”

  “Best-case scenario, development will begin in one year. Worst case, two years, since one or more of hundreds of things could gum up the process, whether on our end or the local government.”

  She nods. “And durin’ that time, the mansion sits empty?”

  I know where she’s going. I shift my attention to Uncle Obe, whose gaze is still stuck on the ceiling.

  “We believe it’s an ideal base of operations before and during development,” J.C. says, “the lower rooms serving as offices, the upper rooms as lodging.”

  Piper stands taller. “It sounds like an efficient use of space. However, I believe the family will agree that your offer on the property would be more desirable if it allowed Uncle Obe to remain in his home until the development is well underway.”

  Good for you, Piper.

  “Well, I don’t agree!” Daddy scowls. “Clearly, Merriman’s offer is the best.”

  Her smile is patient. “Though Mr. Merriman has expressed interest in the property, supposedly as a private residence, he has yet to make an offer.”

  Daddy backhands the air, his sturdy fingers coming within an inch of my nose. “Oh, he’ll make an offer. You can bet your fancy education on that, Piper Wick.”

  My cousin blinks at yet another dig at her attempt to disassociate herself from her family when she fled Pickwick at the age of eighteen and shortened her last name. Though it didn’t sit well with me when I heard about it, I understand her motivation—especially when Daddy acts like this.

  “As for my brother continuin’ on here,” he says, “you know better than most, Piper, he isn’t much longer for this place.”

  A strangely musical gasp goes around the room. I could just pinch my father.

  “That’s enough!” Mary, the spineless one, jumps up and points at Daddy. “You … parasite!”

  We all look from her to Daddy to Uncle Obe, whose gaze has finally come down off the ceiling, wearing a smile, no less.

  My red-faced father heaves upright.

  I check on J.C., who is staring, jaw slightly agape, jangling absent.

  “Young lady”—Daddy pokes the space between them—“need I remind you that you are here in the capacity of caregiver to my ailin’ brother? This is a family discussion, and if you can’t keep your yap shut—”

  “Bartholomew!” Uncle Obe’s voice is strong; then he’s on his feet alongside Mary. “You will not speak to my daughter in that manner.”

  Another collective gasp, then silence so complete the sound of a pin dropping would have little on a gnat similarly afflicted. Beneath our startled regard, Mary Folsom colors and her rigidly held arms sink to her sides.

  Daddy heaves a sigh. “Well, there you have it. You are officially off your rocker, Obe.”

  “No, he isn’t.” Reclaiming her presence, Mary turns to face Uncle Obe. “When did you know?”

  Despite the gauntness of his face, the angles soften, and he lays a hand on her cheek. “I wasn’t sure the day in the coffee shop, seein’ as Bridget hurried me away, but when you came for the … talk about the j-job, I knew you were my Daisy Marie.”

  That’s his daughter’s middle name? I stare at her. Marie … Mary …? As I noted the first day I saw her, she has a Catherine Zeta-Jones look, and if she’s to be believed, it comes from her Hispanic mother’s side. Is she to be believed?

  “Hogwash,” Daddy trumpets.

  She looks around. “If you want proof, I have my birth certificate … Uncle Bartholomew.”

  Daddy startles so hard he jiggles, but then his glower is back. “If what you say is true, that’s the most underhanded thing I ever heard—hiding your identity to spy on our family … size us up … maybe even work a swindle … dabble in a little vengeance.”

  “I want you to leave, Bartholomew,” Uncle Obe says. “Now.”

  J.C. clears his throat. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

  I pry my eyes from my newly discovered cousin and apply them to the man who is battening down his briefcase. Keep us? More like we’re keeping him, in all our scandalous glory. How is it that I, who am not easily embarrassed, should feel every shade of that emotion at him witnessing our assorted dysfunctions in one sitting? If ever J. C. Dirk was a maybe, he is no more. I’m just glad that kiss didn’t happen, because …

  It would hurt more?

  As he draws near on his way out, he meets my gaze and his mouth turns wry. That’s how it could hurt. I don’t want a wry smile. I want a real smile. But J.C. has to be thanking his lucky stars that, for all he had to endure, he’s been warned.

  He won’t be touching me again, not even with a ten-foot pole.

  20

  Monday, October 4

  Mary Folsom is Daisy Marie Marshall, Marshall her adoptive father’s name, Folsom her married name. According to Piper, who spent time with her and Uncle Obe after I hurried Birdie and Miles home following J.C.’s departure yesterday, our cousin is divorced from a physically abusive husband. However, when she decided to get to know her father on her own terms, she used her married name to conceal her identity. It worked, though Piper says only because she allowed Uncle Obe’s ancient attorney, Artemis Bleeker, to oversee the applicants’ background checks. The man really needs to retire.

  I feel bad that I scooted off after giving Mary … Marie … or is it Daisy … a cursory “welcome to the family,” but I needed the outdoors to clear my head, especially when Daddy demanded the keys to his car. Not that he left me stranded. He loaned me his boat of a car—as in maybe ten miles to the gallon. Things should have gotten better from there, but after a half hour at the park, my niece and nephew were downright bored. So I called Trinity last night, and she picked up Birdie and Miles this morning. Her enthusiasm over “mothering practice” was a bit annoying, but still I could have hugged her for reworking her schedule so I can tend to my nursery and visit Mama this afternoon.

  As I pick off the fingers of my old gardening gloves, I turn my wrist to check the time. “Not bad for four hours’ work.” I tuck the gloves into my right rear pocket and step back to survey the rows of weeded, fertilized, and repotted plants.

  “Lookin’ good!” Taggart calls.

  I consider the lanky, scruff-faced man who looks older than his almost-fifty years. From the top step of the trailer that serves as our office, he gives a thumbs-up.

  “Has the mulch come in?” I start across the yard toward him.

  “Allen’s unloading it now.”

  “What’s the status on the pumpkins?”

  “Ted promised a truckload first of next week.” He grins. “I squeezed a fifteen percent discount out of him to make up for the delay.”

  I would have asked for twenty. “Sounds good. I’m goin’ in to Asheville to visit my mother. Will you keep an eye on the office?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I’ll take your truck, if you don’t mind.” Actually, it’s the nursery’s truck, as is the one Allen drives, but for as hard as these men work, I do my best to take care of them.

  “Fine with me.”

  “If you need to run errands, you can take my daddy’s Oldsmobile.”

  He nods. “Did they figure out what’s wrong with your truck?”

  “All three hundred dollars’ worth. It’ll be ready Wednesday.” As I near the steps, the sound of a vehicle entering the parking lot gives me a boost. Though it was busy this morning, it’s been dead for the past hour. This time of year that’s to be expected, which is why the unexpected is so welcome—providing I’m not up to my elbows in something. Thinking customer, I glance over my shoulder.

  It’s J.C., not a customer.

  Yet. If Dirk Developers buys the Pickwick estate, they’ll need plants and trees and fertilizer. Trying to focu
s on that rather than the discomfort over yesterday’s three-ring circus and my disappointment over his plans for a golf resort, I tell Taggart, “I’ll handle this.”

  A moment later, the trailer’s screen door bumps closed, and J.C. halts near enough to confirm he hasn’t gone back to his stinky cologne. And I can’t help but note he looks good in a black jacket over a white open-collared shirt and worn denims.

  “I was hoping to find you here.”

  Refusing to be self-conscious about my appearance, I turn my hands up. “Hope granted.” You work at a nursery, you’re gonna get dirt under your nails. “What can I do for you?”

  His hand brushes my cheek, but before I can sputter my surprise, he turns his smudged fingers toward me.

  And you’re gonna get dirt on your face. “Occupational hazard,” I say, trying to lighten the lingering feel of his touch. “How can I help you?”

  “First, accept my apology; second, my invitation to lunch.”

  Goodness, by now he and Caleb should have given up on cozying with me over a meal. But here stands J.C., and last night Caleb left an invitation for dinner on my answering machine. I should call him back, since a private residence, even without a reclaimed quarry, seems preferable to a golf resort. That is, providing Caleb isn’t trying to obtain the property under false pretenses as J.C. would have me believe.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Unless you’re apologizing about your resort and making good on that apology by rethinkin’ it, I don’t need to hear it.” Yes, as Piper pointed out, investors expect a return on their investments and J.C.’s investors are no different, but if he were Easton—

  He’s not. And even Easton couldn’t change the course set by the Pickwicks years ago and cemented by your uncle’s determination to do right. One way or another, the estate has to be converted to cash.

  “My apology is for cutting out on you yesterday,” J.C. says. “I knew you wouldn’t be thrilled with the plans for a resort, and I intended to talk to you afterward to alleviate your concerns, but …”

  His slow smile crawls the wall of my resentment. While I want to be mad at him for not buying the estate for a wildlife preserve or some other beneficent purpose, I recall him in the library, looking out of place as one eyebrow-raising scene after another shook out like so much dirty laundry. Though I try not to smile, I feel my mouth curve. “But suddenly you found yourself on the set of The Good, the Bad, and the Pickwicks.”

  He chuckles. “I did wonder if I was being had.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first. But in defense of my family, what you saw is not the norm. We’re usually better behaved—well, some.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Lunch?”

  I sigh. “You won’t be surprised to know I have plans, but I could do an early dinner. Fiveish?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m going to Asheville this afternoon. I’m not sure I’ll be back by then.”

  “What’s in Asheville?”

  “Business.”

  I raise my eyebrows, but all he says is, “How about a late dinner?”

  Here we go again. “Sorry, but Trinity is dropping Birdie and Miles at my house around seven, and I’ll have them all day tomorrow, so that won’t work either—” My plans catch up to my brain. “Hold it! The reason I can’t have lunch with you is that I’m visiting my mother at the hospital around one. If we drove to Asheville together, not only will one less car on the road save gas and put one less ding in the environment, but it’ll be a good use of time since you can try to alleviate my concerns about your golf course during the drive.”

  He starts to frown.

  I return the favor. “Or was that all talk?”

  He looks momentarily away, and I get a whiff of the discomfort that came off him yesterday when he was a lone Dirk among Pickwicks. “No.” He looks back at me. “But if I drop you at the hospital, it could be as late as six before I pick you up.”

  I shrug. “I like my mama. We’ll find some way to while away the hours.”

  “All right.”

  “And maybe we could do a drive-through on the way out of town. I’m starved.”

  His eyebrows jerk. “You eat fast food?”

  “I prefer slow food—even make my own bread—but sometimes a body’s gotta have a good ol’ greasy burger.” I tip my head to the side. “What about you? Do you ever give in? Or is it fine dining all the way?”

  He smiles again. “Sonic and I go way back.”

  I’m surprised, and yet not. As I’ve seen time and again, J. C. Dirk has more layers than first supposed. “It would seem we’re both more than we appear to be.”

  He checks his watch. “When can you leave?”

  “Give me ten minutes to clean up.” Motioning for him to follow, I take the steps two at a time; however, when I enter through the trailer’s rickety screen door, I find myself fighting my own discomfort. My office with its cluttered desk, cracked vinyl chairs, and stained indoor-outdoor carpeting is a far cry from the one J.C. is accustomed to. And then there’s Reggie curled up on the desk. I whip around to tell J.C. I’ll meet him at his car, but he’s right behind me.

  Oh well. “There’s water in the fridge if you’re thirsty.” I point to the cubicle that contains a dozen stainless-steel bottles of water I purify myself so my employees and I can do our part in keeping plastic bottles out of landfills.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I indicate the chairs before my desk, behind which sits Taggart, glasses down his nose as he examines the nursery’s bank statement, having exchanged his gardener’s hat for a bookkeeper’s hat. What would I do without him?

  “Well, if it isn’t Reggie,” J.C. says as I scoot into the bathroom. Then, “J. C. Dirk. And you are?”

  “Name’s Taggart.”

  I close the door and step to the mirror over the sink, relieved to find I don’t look half as bad as expected. Still, I wish I kept a change of clothes here. I shouldn’t care how the man who wants to commercialize the Pickwick estate perceives me, but I do.

  “A waste of time.” I unwind the rubber band from my ponytail and rake fingers through my soft blond hair to which I’ve finally become accustomed. “J. C. Dirk is not part of your world.” I narrow my eyes at my reflection. “Never has been, never will be.”

  21

  Tell me about your husband.”

  I stop dragging at the milkshake that remains reluctant to inch up the straw though we left Sonic ten minutes ago.

  “Easton, right?”

  I lower the milkshake to my lap alongside the cheeseburger I was hungry for a moment ago. Is Trinity’s comment that I’m a “confirmed widow” behind J.C.’s request? Is it curiosity that makes him ask?

  “That’s right—Easton. But shouldn’t you be trying to sell me on your plans for the estate?”

  “True.”

  Only curiosity, then. The open places in me start to close, and I feel relief at the protection they offer—but also a flutter of resentment that they’re trying to keep me in the past where I don’t care to stay.

  “I apologize.” J.C. merges onto the highway. “That’s too personal—at this point.”

  What point is that? And what other points lie ahead? “What do you mean?”

  He balls his burger’s wrapper and drops it in the paper bag. “Though the … meeting with your family made me think twice about crossing the line between business and personal, I’m attracted to you, Bridget.”

  Still?

  “I’m hoping it’s mutual.”

  The almost-kiss. I sigh. “Just as you question Caleb’s interest in me, I’d be a fool not to question your continued interest in me, especially seein’ as my family made you think twice and you admitted to being a widow sniffer.”

  “Some.”

  I shrug. “I don’t care to be a knuckle on the bone you and Caleb are wrestlin’ over—you know, the part that’s the first to get chewed up. So if you really want to know me on a more personal level, let’s start w
ith J. C. Dirk. You said your past tends to bring out the worst in you. What past is that?”

  His jaw tenses. “I do want to talk to you about that, but it would probably be best if we hold off on the personal side of things until negotiations for the estate are closed.”

  Is his past really that bad? Might he have experienced greater loss than I have? Though the stubborn in me doesn’t want to share if he won’t, I remember Bonnie’s warning about carrying my loss to the grave. “All right, I’ll go first. What do you want to know about my husband?”

  J.C. reaches for his bottled water, and his Adam’s apple slides twice before he returns his drink to the cup holder. “Why Easton?”

  Talk about personal. “We met shortly after he moved to Pickwick and opened the nursery. He understood who I was, even when I wasn’t sure myself.” I nip my bottom lip. “We wanted the same things—a good but simple life that respected the environment. Of course, we had our differences, especially in matters of faith. He was a Christian and I wasn’t sure about God. But Easton didn’t push, and eventually I wanted what he had.” For awhile …

  “You loved him.”

  “As I’d never loved. I was sure we’d grow old together. You know”—I settle on J.C.’s profile—“so bent and feeble we’d get to hold even tighter to one another.”

  After a brief laying on of eyes, he nods.

  “It didn’t work out that way. Do you want to know how he died?”

  “If you want to share.”

  Strangely, I do. And J.C.’s eyes being turned forward—that he can’t look pity at me—makes it easier. “I suppose my brother, Bart, put it best when he said Easton ‘up and died.’ Of course, I about purpled his arm the first time he said it.” My hand remembers, curling into a fist. “Bad timing.”

  Peripherally, I see J.C.’s head turn toward me.

  “Hunting season was coming on, and I was banging around the kitchen one morning, gripin’ about the owner of the neighboring property who allowed family and friends to hunt his land. If that wasn’t bad enough, the bow hunters—his teenage nephews—liked to use an old deer stand our neighbor claimed was on his property, which the tree probably was as a sapling but I was pretty sure had grown partly onto our land over the years.