Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “He’s a very good kisser, but best we not say anything to Daddy, hmm?”

  “I understand.”

  “So when will they let you come home?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. Depends on the results of the colonoscopy they did awhile ago.”

  I stiffen. “Why are they checkin’ your intestines?”

  “They’re kind of hush-mouthed, but I heard your daddy in the hall with the doctor. He said they’re lookin’ for signs of something called … celiac?”

  What is that?

  “And colon cancer.”

  That takes my breath away. No wonder Daddy was crying.

  “It’s just a test.” She pats my hand. “No need to get all het up about it.”

  I nod. “What can I do for you?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Bridget darlin’, the one thing I’d ask of you, I don’t think you’d give me.”

  I frown. “Of course I can—anything.”

  “Even prayer?”

  I blink.

  “I know that’s what Easton asked of you, and for all that, God didn’t answer the way you wanted Him to. And His answer may be the same for me, but still I take comfort in knowing our prayers are heard and touch the heart of God.”

  So give her some comfort. You did it for Uncle Obe the day the statue was dedicated. And you’ve started adding prayers to your attempts to speak into existence. Same thing, just open your mouth. “Of course I’ll pray for you.”

  Mama beams so bright it’s hard to believe she’s in the hospital. “Thank you.”

  “Okay … so …” I close my eyes, bow my head and, after two false starts, say, “Dear Lord, thank You for hearing the prayers of one who has had a hard time believin’ in You these past years. You know why. I’m trying to get back to You, and it’s slow, but if You’ll just heal Mama, I’ll—”

  “Bridget.”

  I look up.

  She shakes her head. “This isn’t about testing God … putting conditions on your faith. It’s about comfort. That’s all I ask.”

  I draw a deep breath, close my eyes. “In Jesus’ name, I ask You to give Mama comfort, and if it’s in Your will, go all the way and heal her of whatever is workin’ against her body, especially if it’s cancer. Though I have a hard time understanding how Your will to heal can be different from ours—”

  My cell phone vibrates, then rings. J.C.? Surely he can’t be finished with his meeting. Probably hasn’t even started it.

  “—I’ll try to trust that Your plan is without error as Easton promised me. Be with my mama and daddy, give them comfort and strength. And I’d like some too.”

  “Yes,” Mama whispers. “And ask Him to help your daddy with his patience. He’s been hard on the nurses.”

  I’ll bet. “And please help Daddy to be patient with Mama’s caregivers. Amen.”

  “Amen.” She opens her eyes. “That means more to me than I can say.”

  “I’m glad I could do it.” I am. “Excuse me, but I need to check to see if that was J.C. He’s my ride home.”

  “Certainly.”

  The call is from Caleb, and his message points straight to Daddy, who surely called him the minute he left the room. He wants to have dinner with me and is happy to relieve J.C. of driving me home. He suggests dinner around five when he’s done meeting with his real estate agent, who’s putting together an offer for the estate. Wesley did warn we’d have future dealings.

  Uncertain as to whether or not to call him back—I’ll just have to turn him down again—I pocket the phone.

  “How are things goin’ with those rascals of ours?”

  I tell her about my adventures with Miles and Birdie, leaving out anything that might make her feel guilty about not being with them, then transition to talk of her garden club, her work on the Pickwick Beautification Committee, and her ideas for another family Christmas at Uncle Obe’s. An hour passes without word from Daddy, then another, during which Mama struggles to stay awake, though I encourage her to rest.

  Finally she says, “I should get some sleep.”

  I kiss her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Mama.”

  She closes her lids. “I’m glad you’re being kissed again,” she murmurs. “So very glad, Bridget.”

  “Me too,” I whisper and stay at her side until Daddy reappears a half hour later.

  “Did he call?” are the first words out of his mouth.

  I frown. “He did.”

  “And?”

  “Mama and I were in the middle of somethin’ so I let him go to voice mail.”

  “And you haven’t called him back?”

  “No.” I rise and move toward the door. “Let’s talk outside.”

  He follows me into the corridor and holds up a hand. “Trust me in this. Caleb Merriman is the one we ought to go with.”

  I grit my teeth. “There isn’t any ‘we’ in this, whether you’re talkin’ the estate or trying to marry me off.”

  He glowers. “I’m only looking out for our best interests.”

  “Nor is there any ‘our’ in this. The estate is Uncle Obe’s to dispose of as he chooses, and I am my own to dispose of as I choose.” Though that last didn’t come out right, he gets the gist. I touch his arm. “Please, stop pushing.”

  To my surprise, his fleshy chin quivers, and he squeezes my hand with such ferocity one might think he’s drowning.

  “Daddy?”

  Even a passing nurse falters at the sight, her soft-soled shoes losing their rhythm.

  I look closer at my father. “Are you all right?”

  His face starts to crumple, but he looks down, heaves a breath, then looks up. “You know your mother and I have only ever wanted the best for you.” More crumpling and again he averts his face.

  First crying, now this. Softening toward him, I put an arm around his shoulders. The first words of comfort to come to me are ones that reassure him Mama will be fine, but I stop myself from saying so. We don’t know she’ll be fine, at least not in the way we want her to be fine. Only God knows. So I hug Daddy. “We’ll get through this.”

  He shakes his big head against my shoulder. “I don’t know if I can—not if something happens to Belinda. They were checking her for cancer. Cancer!”

  Again I squelch the impulse to offer reassurance. “I’ll be here for you, Daddy.”

  He gives a shallow laugh. “Like I was there for you when Easton died? Excuse me if that doesn’t make me feel better.”

  I stare at his profile, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. Is his regret real? In my darkest times, especially during those first weeks following the funeral, anger at Daddy was what often got me up off the floor and spoonfuls of cold funeral casseroles down my throat. I imagined his satisfaction over my husband’s death … his relief that Easton was finally out of the way. And he made no attempt to convince me otherwise. Not that I would have let him.

  So you don’t know. Open your fists and let it go, Bridget. I have an overwhelming urge to listen to that voice, but—Or you’ll take it to the grave. And so will he.

  I ease back and wait for him to raise his head. When he looks up, his eyes are veined and wet. “You remember, Daddy? I wouldn’t let anyone in. Not even Mama for the longest time.”

  “Still, I should have tried.”

  I wish he had. “It probably wouldn’t have changed much. I was hurt and mad at everyone, especially God.”

  “Humph!” He feigns a nose scratch so he can drag a hand beneath his right eye; another nose scratch so he can clear his left eye. “I’ll be mad at Him too if He takes your mother from me.”

  I’m a little surprised, since you have to believe in someone to be mad at them, don’t you? If I had to guess where Daddy stands with God, I’d say he doesn’t. The only times he attends church are when Mama drags him along for Christmas Eve and Easter services, and he makes it clear it is not where he wants to be. Of course, as Easton once pointed out, a person’s faith cannot be measured by church attendance.

  �
��Well,” my father says, “hopefully all those prayers she’s asking me to pray for her are reaching His ears.”

  “You’ve been praying?” My disbelief pops out before I can think better of it.

  He pulls away and clears his throat. “Part of the marriage vows.” He reaches for the doorknob. “I’d best get back to your mother. Have a good day.”

  And I’m dismissed. I check my watch. Unless I hear from J.C., it could be a couple more hours before I leave Asheville.

  Daddy starts to close the door behind him, then sticks his head through the gap. “Did you listen to Caleb’s message?”

  “I did.”

  “And you’ll take him up on his offer of dinner and a drive home?”

  Trying to recapture the compassion I felt minutes ago, I set my teeth. “I’m still thinkin’ about it.”

  His brow trenches. “Better think quick. He won’t keep asking.”

  “I wish he wouldn’t.”

  His face tightens and I steel myself, but in the next instant, he nearly hangs his head. “Please, Bridget, call him. If not for me, then for your mama.”

  I don’t see what Caleb Merriman has to do with her, but I suppose it can’t hurt. “All right, I’ll call, but that’s all I’m promising.”

  “Thank you.” He closes the door.

  I return the looks of hospital personnel and visitors who stroll past as I debate what to do with the time. What decides me is the cart pushed past that is stacked with picked-over meal trays. The foodstuffs are unappetizing, and yet that doesn’t stop my appetite from kicking in—an appetite that would have been satisfied had I eaten my burger. Time dilemma solved.

  I consider the hospital cafeteria, but the possibility of cancer hangs heavy in the air here, and I long to shed its weight. With the beauty of Asheville outside and Mellow Mushroom within a mile or so, I opt for a walk. As the autumn sunshine warms away my worry, I point myself down Biltmore Avenue and salivate at the prospect of a Brutus salad—kalamata olives, roasted red peppers, feta cheese. Or maybe their Greek salad. Of course, the portabella mushrooms are something else, stuffed with artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella, garlic butter—

  Garlic. No, wouldn’t want to leave J.C. gasping for fresh air on the drive back, especially if he’s of a mind to kiss me again. I shouldn’t want it, especially if I’m not ready for it, but maybe I am. Maybe it’s time to take a chance—with J.C., of all people. Daddy will be so disappointed.

  As my worn sneakers eat up the sidewalk and cars zip past, their exhaust fumes make me scrunch my nose, and I pull up the missed call and let my phone do the dialing. Three rings later, I’m sent to Caleb’s voice mail. I tell him I’m returning his call and end the call. “I tried. Mellow Mushroom, here I come.”

  I nearly make it there, but when I come to that awful sign again: Trousdale and Associates, a Premier Real Estate Agency, I recall that’s where Caleb is—or was. Might he still be?

  My stomach growls, and I keep walking. After all, Daddy can’t fault me that all I got for my effort to return Caleb’s call was his voice mail. You could try a little harder. I consider the real estate office across the street but veto my conscience. You could invite him to join you for a bite to eat—get it out of the way and Daddy off your back. Yeah, and have to deal with that Wesley woman again. You could ask about his connection with industrial park developers. Right.

  I jaywalk between cars heading in opposite directions—both of which honk—and hop onto the sidewalk in front of the real estate office. As I approach the door with its fancy lettering, I scope out Wesley’s little empire through the big windows. The place is impressive, the dark brown couches and armchairs at the front endowed with the plush look of money that contrasts nicely with taupe and tan walls.

  A young woman, whose willowy figure is topped by a graceful neck and angled head that causes her dark hair to drape her face, staffs the receptionist’s desk, which looks more like a table with spindly legs. I’ll bet she pulls in the men, even if they don’t think they’re in the market for real estate.

  As I set a hand to the door, I look to the glass-partitioned offices that allow one to view the agents and clients within. I pause. No need to go in unless Caleb is here. One after another, I dismiss the occupants of each office, and then my gaze falls on Wesley’s office, obvious not only because of the size but her presence. She nods and smiles across the desk at a man whose back is to me, whose light brown hair—not dark—is lightened further by the overhead lights.

  It can’t be. I put my face nearer the door. After all, there’s no reason I should know him from the back. Wesley’s client just reminds me of him.

  I sip air as I continue to stare at the man’s back. And then he raises an arm and gestures in that expressive, excessive-energy way that first caught my attention when I crashed his Atlanta meeting.

  23

  The receptionist rises from her desk, a question furrowing her brow as she stares my way.

  I force an apologetic smile, shake my head, and hurry past the windows. At the short brick wall between the real estate office and a stationery store, I press my back against it. I have to think this through, whatever “this” is. Unless I am imagining things. After all, J.C. can’t be the only man with light brown hair who gestures like that. However, the car parked at the curb is identical to his rental car.

  What does this mean? That Caleb and J.C. have the same real estate agent? Is that ethical? It couldn’t be. So the day the gum landed on my windshield, Caleb wasn’t the “very important person” in the car looking to maintain his anonymity. It was J.C. He’s the one who saw my indignation through those impenetrable sunglasses. And yet, what are the chances that of all the developers in the country, the man I hand-picked to buy the estate was already looking to acquire it? That’s pretty unbelievable.

  What’s going on? Why didn’t J.C. tell me he was already interested? Why didn’t he mention it that day on Pickwick Pike? He had to have recognized me although I still had my dreads. Or maybe not. No, he did, though not at first. I recall standing in his conference room and correcting his assumption that I was a real estate agent. When I told him my full name, Bridget Pickwick Buchanan, surprise widened his eyes, and he looked from my empty left ring finger to each side of my face. I’d thought my undreaded hair had been victimized by the Atlanta humidity, but that wasn’t it. That was when he realized I was the one who forced Wesley Trousdale to stop her car. She must have told him who I was.

  A groan slips from me, causing a middle-aged, dual-ponytailed man to look around as he treks past.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and he continues to the curb.

  So J.C. knew from that moment on … amused himself with the glaring contrast between the barefooted woman who hopped out of a pickup truck and the one who crashed his meeting wearing high heels and bearing a briefcase. And he’s been laughing ever since, probably straight through our kiss.

  I pull a hand down my face. Despite the looks I receive from a hand-holding couple, I start to scoot down the brick wall. I don’t care what they think. I need to think, to figure out what’s missing.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” says a voice that drips sickly sweet honey.

  I look to where Wesley Trousdale exits the real estate office with J.C., who is carrying a briefcase.

  I should have kept walking, but it’s too late. I have only enough time to straighten from the wall and clear my face of confusion before J.C.’s jangling ceases.

  “Bridget,” he says.

  “Bridget Pickwick?” Wesley puts her hands on her hips. “Goodness, it is you. And don’t you look different from the last time we met? In fact, if J.C. hadn’t said anything, I don’t know I would have recognized you without that poufy dress, not to mention … uh, what are they called? Dreadlocks?”

  I square my shoulders. “I clean up well, as I’m sure Mr. Dirk can attest.”

  She presses her lips inward as if to contain laughter. “Well, you are wearing
shoes today. That’s something. So, what brings you to Asheville?”

  I look at J.C. “Mr. Dirk gave me a ride in so I could visit my mother in the hospital.”

  Wesley tut-tuts. “Why didn’t you say, J.C.? I had no idea you and Bridget had gotten friendly and all.”

  He shifts his regard to his rental car. “Are you ready to head back, Bridget?”

  Wesley’s presence saves me from acting juvenile and being forced to call on Daddy, who would call on Caleb to take me home. Considering J.C.’s deception, that might not be so bad, but there are a few things I need to say to this man. Too, he has the missing piece of the puzzle.

  “I’m more than ready.” I cross to the car, Mellow Mushroom reduced to a distant stomach rumble.

  “I’ll be in touch,” J.C. tells Wesley; then the car twitters as the locks are released. I reach for the handle, but he gets there ahead of me, and I jerk back when his hand brushes mine.

  I glare at him as he holds the door for me, continue to glare as he walks around the car, lowers into the driver’s seat, and sets his briefcase onto the backseat. And I keep it up as we head out of Asheville.

  “How’s your mother?”

  Oh no, if we’re going to talk, it will not be touchy-feely stuff, especially about my mother. And cancer. “How is your conscience?”

  His jaw shifts, and I can’t help but be satisfied with his discomfort.

  I pick his sunglasses from the console. “All this time, I thought it was Caleb with Wesley that day on the pike, but it was you.” I hold out the sunglasses. “Need these? It’s not as bright as it was last July, but they’re still good for hidin’ behind.”

  He gives me a sidelong glance. “No, thank you.”

  As he accelerates on the on ramp to merge with highway traffic, I return the glasses to the console. “You must have thought it funny when the woman whose phone calls you refused to return—”