Restless in Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “I thought you were a real estate agent.”

  “Right. Anyway, out of the blue and dressed down to her formerly bare feet, Bridget Pickwick Buchanan shows up at your office beggin’ to sell you on something you were already sold on—something I’ll bet you had a firsthand look at that day.” I sigh. “Yeah, funny.”

  He glances at me. “I didn’t recognize you until you said you were a Pickwick.”

  Then I guessed right. Wesley told him who the barefooted, truck-driving woman was. “Don’t you think it all a bit of a coincidence? No.” I hold up a hand. “Too much of a coincidence.” I swing my body toward him. “Caleb may have a secret agenda, but so do you. What else aren’t you telling me?”

  He stares at the road, and his tension rubs so hard against mine it’s all I can do not to raise a hand to it. “That bad, hmm?”

  “Could be.”

  As much as I long for him to be straight with me, I almost wish for a lie. Because if it is that bad, I shouldn’t have liked his kiss so much. “Tell me.”

  “All right.”

  I steel myself, but then … nothing. As I’m about to press him, he flips the turn signal and takes a nondescript, roughly paved exit.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To talk.”

  “We are talkin’.”

  He slows the car. “What you want to know not only requires your full attention but mine.” He stops the car on the shoulder of the exit and turns to me. “I should have told you sooner.”

  “What?”

  He pulls out his wallet and opens it to his Georgia driver’s license. “This.”

  I stare at the small picture that can’t have been taken long ago, the resemblance is so strong, then read through the personal data of Jesse E. Dirk. Jesse? I wouldn’t have guessed, but then I’m accustomed to J.C.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what—” I return to the license. Jesse E., not Jesse C. “What does E stand for?”

  “Emerson. My mother’s maiden name.”

  I turn up my hands. “Why J.C.?”

  “That’s what I started going by when my brothers and I took our stepfather’s name. It was my way of staying connected to my father and not forgetting what I’d promised him—to get back what was lost.” He tosses the wallet on the dashboard. When he faces me again, I see something in his eyes I’m not going to like.

  “The C is for Calhoun, Bridget.”

  But that’s the name of the family Uncle Obe believes was cheated—

  I think I must stop breathing, I get so tight in the throat and full in the chest, but air rushes in when the name drops neatly into the hole left by the missing piece. J.C.’s interest in the estate isn’t an outlandish coincidence. The only coincidence is he’s the eco-friendly developer I landed on when he stared out at me from the magazine cover. So much explained. There was the drive to the Atlanta airport—

  “Bridget?”

  —when J.C. cornered me about the center piece of the property, and I’d had to acknowledge the quarry. At the statue dedication, I’d seen Wesley wave at someone and minutes later discovered J.C. was in town. When I’d taken him on a tour of the estate, he’d insisted on seeing the chewed-up piece of land, asked about the old Calhoun homestead, and broodingly walked around the huge hole in the ground. He knew the way to my folks’ home and stiffened up when Mama talked about the dogs that had chased some boys and bitten one of them on the face …

  “You were the boys our bull mastiffs went after.” The reason he’s wary of big dogs. “It was you and …” I recall the scarred man who walked me into the conference room. “Parker.”

  “Yes. That day at your parents’ house when you accused me of relying on gossip rather than firsthand knowledge of your family, I was going to tell you I was a Calhoun, but Birdie came downstairs.”

  I return to that day. As we sat at the kitchen table, he admitted to being guilty of “some sniffing” due to Caleb’s “sniffing,” told me his past tended to bring out the worst in him, said he let seemingly unfinished business get in the way of the present. Was he trying to tell me? Or was it just part of his plan—reel me in with personal confidences to make me think he was interested in me beyond his acquisition of the estate, thereby forcing Caleb out of the picture?

  I don’t want to believe it, but that would be like playing dead, which I do not care to be better at than Reggie. If J.C. wasn’t laughing at me before, my acceptance that he had no other chance to come clean would give him cause for a laughfest.

  “Well, seein’ as that was your only opportunity to let me in on your little secret, I suppose I’ll have to pardon you for the deception.”

  His nostrils flare at my sarcasm. “The time was never right after that; then it seemed too late—that I’d waited too long and it would be best if my Calhoun roots were revealed when the sale of the estate was finalized so you and I wouldn’t go where we are now.”

  Now being this moment when the evidence points to him being a widow sniffer all along. And of the worst sort—after monetary gain.

  “The way your father reacted yesterday to the news your uncle’s caregiver is Obadiah’s daughter was further confirmation I’d made the right decision.”

  Another scene to replay, this one with Daddy up in arms as he accused Daisy of being underhanded, spying on our family, and seeking vengeance. J.C. left soon thereafter, looking as uncomfortable as if he were under attack. He was.

  “If he knew I was a Calhoun, he wouldn’t view the revelation in any better light than he did when he learned the woman who has been calling herself Mary is his niece.”

  “And it would provide ammunition in his push for Caleb to acquire the property. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  If only I’d known this before his kiss. “That sounds like a bad thing for Jesse Calhoun, who is carrying the torch his father passed to him—to not only take back his family’s land but repay the Pickwicks in kind by taking their land.”

  “Buying, not taking, Bridget.” His mouth is flat. “Though I do admit to feeling satisfaction at the prospect—in the beginning.”

  “Only the beginning? What about now?” Before he can answer, I laugh, a creaky bitter thing. “I suppose you can’t really answer that since you’ve been found out and the prospect is”—I shrug—“not much of a prospect.”

  He stares at me. “You’re saying you’ll oppose our offer on the estate even if we are the only ecologically responsible choice?”

  “You’re saying after all this I should believe Caleb’s the con? No.” I shake my head, hating the rising ache I feel at allowing myself to believe his kiss was real. “You used me when you learned the property wouldn’t necessarily go to the highest bidder.”

  “That’s how it started, I’ve already admitted it, but that’s not how it ended. And you have to know that after you opened up about Easton, I was prepared to chance answering your question about what was taken from my family.”

  That was the direction he was heading before he got the call about his brother. Or was it? Maybe it would have been a lie had there been time to speak it. “I don’t know that. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get home.” I look out the passenger window at the kudzu strangling the trees. If deception were a plant, it would surely be that tangle of life-sucking ivy that relentlessly grows with leaps and bounds.

  When J.C. finally returns the car to the highway, I settle in to watch the mile markers pass.

  “Let’s discuss your concerns about the golf resort.”

  I look around. “At the moment, they’re hardly relevant.”

  “They might seem more relevant if you pull out the folder that’s in the top of my briefcase.” He nods over his shoulder. “Proof that Merriman is in partnership with investors looking to build an industrial park.”

  Call me stubborn, but I don’t care. After all, it’s probably just more kudzu. “No, thank you.”

  A muscle in J.C.’s jaw ticks, and I wonder how men do that. Easton’s
jaw did the same when he was tightly wound, but that little spasm was always telling—as in, “Lord, give me patience.”

  “All right,” J.C. says, “but it’s a long drive, so let’s discuss the resort.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t like it.” And don’t you sound like little girl Bridget when Mama tried to get you into a ruffled, poppy-bedecked dress?

  “I know you’d prefer that the estate remain in its natural state, which would be possible with private ownership if the land wasn’t so commercially desirable that it commands an exorbitant price. However, whoever buys it either has to be incredibly wealthy with a desire to root himself in Pickwick—”

  Of which he does not believe Caleb capable.

  “—or have the ability to develop the estate so it promises the kind of profit that attracts investors.”

  I feel his gaze but don’t give it back.

  “Well-designed golf courses draw locals and tourists. In this case, a golf course will anchor the development, serving as a hedge against what could be a passing fad if the property were developed strictly as a nature retreat or wilderness resort.”

  I believe the surge of environmental consciousness and the desire to get back to nature won’t fade, and yet my beliefs—happily ever after, for instance—have been toppled before.

  “I’m sorry you don’t like the plan, and I understand your objections, spoken and unspoken, but I have a responsibility to be straight with my investors. They aren’t coming on board without the golf course.”

  Wishing the day away—Mama’s sickness that may or may not be cancer and Jesse Emerson Calhoun Dirk’s revelation that seems like a cancer—I close my eyes. I feel like a baggy old balloon blown nearly to breaking point. I feel betrayed, used, resentful. And oh so hurt. If only I hadn’t let myself be ready …

  I look at J.C. “I imagine it did your sense of justice good to see the family you believe stole from yours forced to sell their heritage.”

  His nod surprises me, and that it’s the kind of nod a person on death row might give when told it’s time to go to the chair. “Yes, there was a sense of triumph. In the beginning.”

  Then he’s no longer gloating? Why? Because he’s come to know us? To know me? To care? Remembering his kiss that felt so good and seemed so real, my insides soften; however, that way lies vulnerability, all the more terrible and painful if J.C. is playing me. And he probably is. More than likely, this is simply Plan B.

  “Well,” I say, “now we know why you’re having as much trouble getting back to God as I am, don’t we?”

  He doesn’t answer, and this time the silence that settles stays settled, during which I pick apart and regret every encounter we’ve had. He was laughing at us. At me. But at least I can be grateful my discovery saved my family from giving him the last laugh.

  J.C. won’t be buying the Pickwick estate—not if I can help it.

  Finally he pulls into the nursery; the parking lot is empty save for Daddy’s car and Allen’s truck.

  The second J.C. brakes in front of the trailer, I’m out of the car. I start to slam the door but pull it back open. Neither will I have the last laugh, but I will have the very last word. I bend down and meet his gaze.

  “I have news for you, Jesse Emerson Calhoun. Though my family is far from perfect, we’re only related to Gentry Pickwick. In fact, had you been honest about your interest in the estate, you would have been told that upon the sale of the property, my uncle intends to compensate the Calhoun heirs for what he also believes was stolen from them—to do it while he can still savor the peace of righting the wrong.”

  My satisfaction multiplies when something like alarm jumps in his eyes.

  “You said revenge ruined your father. Maybe it ruined you too.” I raise my eyebrows. “Jesse Calhoun.” I pull back, toss the door closed, and bound up the steps.

  Without a backward glance, I step into the trailer and turn my attention to my beady-eyed critter perched on the corner of my desk. As I tuck her beneath my chin, I hear the crunch of J.C.’s tires.

  “Hey, Reggie.” I stroke her from head to little bit of tail. “Your mama’s had a rough day.” But surely not as rough as my mama’s day. Tears tingle my nose. “How about we go home and snuggle down, just you and me—” I sigh. “And Birdie and Miles.”

  “She’s dead.”

  In light of my phone conversation with Piper about Mama’s condition, the little-voice-trying-to-be-a-big-voice takes my breath, but one look at my nephew who has come to stand in front of me, and I know exactly who “she” is. Great.

  “Yep.” He shakes his head. “Dead again.”

  I cover the mouthpiece. “I’ll be right there.” And I’d better be or Birdie will take full advantage of Reggie’s attempt to escape the unthinkable.

  “Birdie has the bonnet on her,” Miles warns, then turns away.

  Poor Reggie. “I need to go, Piper. Do you mind letting Maggie know what’s goin’ on?”

  “I’ll call her. Just know I’ll be praying for the situation with J. C. Dirk.”

  “Jesse Calhoun.”

  She sighs across the phone line. “I’ll be praying for Aunt Belinda too.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Talk to you later, Bridget.”

  As I hurry past Miles into the room I once shared with Easton, I shove J.C. to the back of my thoughts. And there lies Reggie, as still as stone in the middle of the bed, outfitted in a ruffled bonnet too big for her head and bloomers that wouldn’t stand a chance if she hadn’t lost most of her tail.

  Birdie looks up from where she’s trying to fit one of my opossum’s arms into the sleeve of a miniature dress, squeaks, and whips the pink thing behind her back.

  “Oh, Birdie,” I say, to which Reggie opens an eye. Not your usual playing possum, but she tries. A moment later, she’s moving fast across the mattress. I scoop her up, bloomers and all. “You know Reggie doesn’t like baby-doll clothes.” I pat her. “I’ve told you that.”

  Birdie sinks onto her bottom and frowns up at me from beneath long lashes. “I want my mama.”

  I want my mother too—out of the hospital and in good health. And not so she can take Birdie and Miles off my hands.

  As I round the bed, Reggie begins to scrabble out of my hands, but I stroke her into semirelaxation as I lower to the mattress beside Birdie. “She’s coming home soon. Remember what she said when you talked with her on the phone awhile ago?”

  “Just four more weeks, Birdie,” Miles says from the doorway. He seems so brave standing there, but consciously brave. I feel for how hard he’s trying to be a big brother to his twin even though he misses his parents just as much, as evidenced by the tremor in his voice when he spoke with my sister awhile ago. “And they’re bringing us presents, one for every week they’re gone.”

  Birdie drops the doll dress, lifts her left hand, and tucks her thumb into her palm. “Four”—she tucks the other thumb—“plus four. That’s eight. Eight presents.”

  “Each.” Miles smiles.

  She considers this, and I remove the bonnet from Reggie and ease off the bloomers.

  “Okay.” Birdie sighs. “But I still want Mama.”

  “It won’t be much longer.” I lower Reggie to the floor. As she scurries away, I look to Birdie. “Ready to tuck in?”

  My niece jabs a finger to the middle of her forehead. “I need a kiss wight here like Mama does.”

  “I can do that.” I lift her finger and put a kiss right … there.

  “Me too,” Miles says.

  I barely disguise my surprise. “All right. I’ll be in shortly to see you down for the night.”

  He starts to turn away but comes back around. “Your bed is really big.”

  Am I reading this right? “It is. Too big for just Birdie and me. In fact, I’m sure we’d sleep better if we had you in here with us.”

  His brow furrows. “I could protect you since Errol had to go home.”

  Unfortunately it’s true.
Well, unfortunately for me since I’m overly fond of that dog. But fortunately for Artemis’s wife, who was having a good enough day to remember her big boy and want to see him. “That would be nice, Miles.”

  He turns. “I’ll get my pillow.”

  “And brush your teeth,” I call over the thump of his bare feet.

  “Tell him to go potty,” Birdie says. “I don’t want him to wee on me.”

  “And go potty!”

  “I will!”

  Still, I’ll slip a doubled towel under the fitted sheet to be on the safe side. I hold out my arms to Birdie. “Let’s get you ready for bed.” When she props up my chin with her curly blond head, I feel myself lighten. I’ll get past J.C. Of course I will.

  “I want Snow White tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  She peers up at me as I carry her toward the bathroom. “You’re getting better at happily ever after.”

  So says a five-year old who has no idea that the crown-wearing prince carrying a torch for a princess and riding around on a horse might really be a sunglass-wearing guy carrying a torch for revenge and riding around in a hybrid. Not that I expected a happily ever after with J.C., did I?

  A half hour later, I stare at the darkly shadowed ceiling from where I lay between my softly snoring niece and nephew. Restless again, though this time for reasons other than Easton’s absence.

  Answering the tug inside me that I suspect is what’s keeping me awake, I close my eyes and whisper, “Lord, I’m asking You again to heal Mama like You didn’t heal Easton. Though it will be hard if You don’t answer as I ache for You to do, I’ll do my best to accept what comes. But I am hopin’ You want Mama’s healing as much as I do. Please, Lord.”

  I feel another tug.

  “And I need to move on. I need Your help, ’cause otherwise Bonnie could be right about me taking my grievin’ to the grave. And after what happened with J.C., I’m tempted to do just that. However, I don’t want to be like his daddy, carrying such a burden until the end, or like J.C. takin’ joy in others’ misery. I want … I need to heal.” I sigh. “Help me.”

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