Leaving Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  And plump. Her mama said so. I start to cry again.

  “Did you find out what’s wrong with your cousin, Bridget?”

  I peek a-tween my fingers at Uncle Obe comin’ up the hill, his hair orangy red in the sunlight.

  “All’s I know is she’s a litterbug.” Bridget frowns. “And a crybaby.”

  “Did you hurt yourself, Piper?”

  I shake my head, and Bridget says, “Litterbug!” and runs off.

  As Uncle Obe comes near, I see a boy’s with him, about Luc’s age, with hair so short he’s almost got none. He’s starin’ at me—not mean-like, though when he looks to where Luc is, his face gets kinda ugly.

  Uncle Obe puts a hand on his shoulder and says somethin’, and the boy stays put. My uncle comes over, squats down, sets his elbows on his knees, and lets his big hands flop a-tween them. “Did Luc take your eggs?”

  I nod. “And the rainbow egg I was gonna give Mama.”

  His eyes look up the hill. “Your Aunt Adele and Aunt Belinda are makin’ a right spectacle of themselves. Gonna give the town a lot to talk about.”

  “I wanna go home.”

  “All right, but not without your share of eggs.” Uncle Obe gets up. “Come on.”

  I shake my head.

  He puts on a thinkin’ face that makes him seem old, like maybe forty, and then holds out a hand. He never did that a-fore, him not likin’ company. “Let’s go talk to that floppy-eared rodent—the, uh, Easter bunny. He’s in my garden.”

  I wanna go home, but I wanna see the bunny, so I put my hand in his. As he walks me up the hill, I remember the boy. Maybe he wants to meet the Easter bunny too. But when I check over my shoulder, he’s gone. “Who was that boy?”

  “My friend’s son, just here for today.”

  I wanna ask who his friend is, ’cause I don’t know that he has any, but Aunt Adele calls to Uncle Obe. I hook my thumb around his thumb and hold tight so’s she can’t take him away like Bart took Aunt A-linda away.

  But Uncle Obe turns aside like he don’t wanna talk to her. “Was supposed to be a frog strangler today, but the sun came out and not a cloud in the sky.”

  I nod. “Mama prayed the rain away. God listens to my mama.”

  I think he smiles, but I can’t be sure ’cause his mouth don’t ever move much. “I’m sure everyone in Pickwick is grateful to her.”

  “I don’t think they know, ’cause if they did, they’d be nicer, and maybe she could make her some friends. Maybe I could too.”

  Frownin’, Uncle Obe leads me around the house to his garden. It’s so pretty, even if only a few flowers have got back their color.

  “Sit here.” He lets go of my hand. “And cover your eyes while I have a speak with that rodent.”

  I wiggle onto the bench and set my basket on my lap. “I wanna see him.”

  “He won’t allow little ones to see him on Easter day, so don’t look or he won’t leave you any more eggs.”

  I put my hands over my eyes as his feet crunch away. A while later, he’s whisperin’ and the bunny whispers back. I hope they hurry so’s I can find Mama and tell her how much she sounds like the Easter bunny.

  Finally I hear Uncle Obe’s feet again. “More eggs have been delivered for you.”

  I drop my hands, and sure enough, there are colored eggs all over the garden. I run to him and hug his legs. “Thank you!”

  He pats my head. “Go get ’em.”

  When I find the last one, Mama comes out the back door of the kitchen, wipin’ her hands on a towel. I don’t tell her about Luc or what Aunt Adele said ’cause she seems more happy now, and I don’t want her to lose her happy face.

  She holds my hand as we walk to the front lawn, and Uncle Obe follows. The kids are still there with their mamas and daddies, and I’m glad I got my mama. She leads me to a big patch blanket, and we sit on it.

  Mama looks over her shoulder at where Uncle Obe is walkin’ away. “Poor Obadiah,” she says like she don’t know anyone is listenin’. “I don’t think life turned out the way he expected. I know the feelin’.”

  Poor Uncle Obe. Poor Mama. But not poor Piper, ’cause I got a basketful of Jesus eggs and I’m not gonna think about the ugly things Aunt Adele said. I just hope she and Luc don’t bother us over here. “Mama?”

  “Yes?” She smiles, and I want to kiss her smile, it’s so pretty. So I do. And she laughs. I like it when she laughs.

  “Would you say me a prayer?”

  “What kind of prayer?”

  “That everyone is nice, and anyone mean will go away so we can be happy.”

  Her eyes get wet like when she waits supper for Daddy and he don’t come, and then she closes them and prays. Not more ‘n a minute later, Aunt Adele is draggin’ that Easter egg-thievin’ cousin of mine after her, and he’s got a hand over his face and is bellerin’ like someone hit him. And Maggie is followin’. Then they’re in their car and drivin’ down the long driveway.

  See, God does listen to my mama. Though I still got a hurt in me, I’m gonna try hard like her to be happy. “Happy…”

  4

  As the little girl’s voice drifts away, I hear the woman she became whisper, “Happy…”

  For fear of slipping into another memory, I squeeze the steering wheel hard and accelerate into the cobblestone parking area across from the entryway. I reach to cut the headlights but draw my hand back. They are the only lights on the estate, and I don’t want Uncle Obe’s gardener stumbling around in the dark, which could happen if, say, his flashlight dies.

  The minutes tick by without a sign of Axel. Did something happen? He did say the outage could be intentional…

  I pull my purse onto my lap. As I once more grip the pistol alongside the little Bible (I have got to rectify that), I scan the driveway. Where are you?

  He likely has me worried for nothing. It probably is just an outage. I don’t recall seeing any other house lights when I came down that winding mess of a road, better known as Pickwick Pike.

  Correction. Bronson and Earla Biggs’s lights were on—notable because some of the lights were of the Christmas variety. “Why take ’em down?” Bronson used to defend his right to leave them up year-round. “I’ll just have to put ’em up again next year.” So if the Biggs’s lights were on… Of course, they are a mile away, and the outage may not have extended that far. In fact, I’m certain nothing sinister is happening. It’s just fear talking. I release the pistol, cut the lights, and open the door.

  As if on cue, a half-dozen darkened windows light up. “Power outage.” I sling my purse onto my shoulder and slam the door. A few moments later, I ascend the mountain of steps.

  In spite of Artemis’s forgetfulness, the key is under the welcome mat. I open the door, and the soft light within sweeps away the shadows surrounding me. At first look, the entryway appears as grand as ever with its far-flung walls and soaring ceiling. But at second look, it’s tired like an old woman dressed in all her finery that, on closer inspection, reveals her shawl is pulled and yellowed, the folds of her skirt are rimmed with dust, and her slippers are worn. The twelve-foot ceiling is discolored, the iron-and-crystal chandelier is strung with cobwebs, the mirrors and marble-topped tables on either side are thick with dust, and the rug that stretches across the entryway is threadbare.

  Disturbed by the disparity between the past and the present, I enter, close the door, then peer beyond the pillars that mark the end of the entryway and the beginning of the great hallway. Various rooms are set left and right, and at the farthest reach is the grand staircase. It appears to be in no better shape, and yet Artemis assured me Uncle Obe had enough money to keep up the estate in an acceptable manner. Obviously, our definitions of acceptable don’t match.

  So now I’m inside the Pickwick mansion and soon to be at the center of a Pickwick mess. I almost wish I had accepted Mom’s offer to accompany me, which she made after I confronted her about her conversation with Artemis. She admitted to filling him in on our lives, which
would be fine had she left out the reason I started carrying a pistol. None of his—or anyone’s—business.

  And that’s why I turned down Mom’s offer. She’s not anyone’s business either. L.A. may be big and scary at times, but it’s more diverse and accepting than Pickwick. Mom has friends there, a well-paying job at an insurance company, and a good church. She’s happy, not just trying to be happy. Thus, the town of Pickwick is going to stay in her past, and as soon as I’m done here, it will return to mine.

  I venture deeper into the house, the only sound that of my heels as I transition from the rug to the wood floor—until I hear a creak from the direction of the library.

  Probably the house settling. Still, I squeeze the pistol through my purse. Or it could be Axel. “Hello?”

  Another creak, followed by a growl. Was that a dog? Some wild creature stalking the hallways, waiting for its next meal to show up? Might that be me?

  I pull out the pistol and back away.

  “Hey,” a voice calls from the library, “is that you?”

  That wasn’t Axel.

  The growl sounds again.

  “Uh…” The one in the library clears his throat. “I could use a little help in here, cuz.”

  Surprise, surprise. I step forward, slide a hand around the doorway, and flip the light switch.

  My “cuz” doesn’t seem well, but the beast at the foot of the rolling ladder probably has something to do with that. If not for my pistol, I’d be scared sick too.

  I move through the doorway and look from the blond man on the angled twelve-foot ladder to the dog, whose head is turned in an almost-casual manner toward me. As big and mangy as he is, he’s kind of cute in a Benji-on-steroids way—until his eyes lock on my pistol. Then he whips around and growls. Not so cute.

  “Hey,” says my twang-infected cousin, “long time, no see.”

  Not long enough. “What are you doing up there, Bart?”

  “Cowerin’. Have you seen the points on those teeth?”

  “Let me rephrase that. What are you doing sneaking around Uncle Obe’s home?”

  The dog takes a predatory step toward me, and I catch my breath.

  “He doesn’t like the gun. Put it away.”

  Right. When all that stands between me and death or dismemberment is a bullet?

  The dog shows more teeth, causing my trigger finger to tremble. He’s going to force my hand. I don’t have to shoot to kill, though, just to disable. “Don’t make me do it.” My final warning. “Back off!”

  “Ah, Piper, you aren’t gonna shoot the dog, are you? He’s just doing his job.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me. Does he belong to Uncle Obe? Did the gardener leave him inside to discourage intruders?

  “And he’s good at it.” Bart chuckles. “Got me up a ladder.”

  My cousin, the intruder. “Speaking of which—”

  The dog makes its move. I yelp and seek him in my sights. Aim low.

  “Errol! Halt!” A hand reaches from behind me, closes over my gun arm, and swings it to the right.

  Despite my thundering fear, I don’t squeeze the trigger, and I don’t know why. Unless I’m just a pistol-toting wannabe who doesn’t have the guts to pull the trigger on anything beyond a paper target. But in this case that might be a good thing. The growling, fang-bearing beast has transformed into a tail-wagging mutt.

  “Sit!” Axel continues to hold my arm with the pistol pointed at the floor.

  The dog obeys, ears perked and tongue lolling as it looks at the man over my shoulder.

  Warm air sweeps my ear, causing strange sensations to zip through me. “I told you to wait in the car,” Axel says with the studied patience of one speaking to a naughty child.

  That does it—no more sensation. Just me and a man who has no business touching me, especially since I’m practically spoken for. I pop my head around to tell him to remove his paw, but when we come face to face, he looks even better indoors, despite a clenched jaw. It must be the eyes. None of that gray stuff people pass off as blue—myself included. They’re… well… capital-B Blue.

  He continues to glare at me, and when I don’t respond, his eyes soften with questioning, but only for a moment. Then he steps from behind and pulls the pistol from my hand. “You could have killed Artemis’s dog.”

  “Or your cousin,” Bart says. “I told her to put down the gun, Axel, but did she listen? No, just as unreasonable as ever.”

  Yanked back to my unreasonable self who, for one crazy moment, was attracted to Uncle Obe’s gardener, I reach for my pistol. “Give me that.”

  He flicks on the safety, then slides my pistol into his waistband as he walks farther into the library.

  “That’s mine!” I hurry after him.

  At the base of the rolling ladder that juts out from rows of cloth-and leather-bound tomes, Axel halts. And though I’m tempted to snatch the pistol from his pants, reason prevails. Curling sore fingers into sore palms, I follow his gaze up the ladder.

  My cousin, his back to a jumbled shelf, smiles.

  “Artemis told you what would happen if you were caught sneaking around the property again,” Axel says.

  Bart does surprise well—unless you know him. Then it’s akin to crying wolf. His quirkily appealing face, which has gotten him out of trouble more times than he deserves, opens wide and innocent. “Why, I just dropped by to welcome my long-lost cousin home.” He nods at me, as if seeking agreement.

  Which he doesn’t get.

  “And, I suppose, that required turning off the power while I was in town?”

  Bart’s eyebrows shoot up. “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of something so underhanded.”

  “The switch was thrown on the main power box.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  Axel lowers his gaze, then pointedly trails it up the ladder to where Bart perches near the ceiling. “You came in through a window.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.” My cousin considers the big dog in the doorway. “Is it safe to come down? I’m getting a cramp.”

  “That depends on whether someone wants to press charges for breaking and entering.”

  Bart chuckles. “You know my uncle won’t do that.”

  “Your cousin might.”

  The eyes Bart turns on me are puppy-dog big. “You wouldn’t, would you, cuz?”

  I wish he wouldn’t call me that. It tempts me to do a thing like that. But he is my cousin. “Far be it from me to fault you for welcoming me back in such a creative manner… cuz.”

  Bart gives Axel a “ha!” look.

  “However, in future, you’ll need to present yourself at the front door when you come to call.” Another Southern moment…

  “Now that the element of surprise is no longer a consideration, it would be my pleasure.” Bart descends and, to my dismay, falls on my neck. “Welcome home, Piper.”

  Home.

  He pulls back. “You’ve changed—for the better.”

  Some compliments are best left unspoken. And comebacks.

  “If Artemis hadn’t said you were coming home, I wouldn’t have recognized you.” He takes a step back. “Well, I did what I came to do—”

  Did he?

  “—so I’ll get going and let you settle in.”

  As Bart starts to turn away, I find my social skills. “How are Bridget and Bonnie?”

  “Uh…still my sisters.”

  I bite back sarcasm. “I mean, what are they up to?”

  “Oh.” He frowns. “Bonbon got her degree, married her professor, and has twins. She doesn’t visit often, what with all the research she and her husband are involved in. As for Bridge, she’s still into her silly environmental causes—in seventh heaven with all this go green’ movement. Oh, and she’s widowed.”

  News to me, since the filter between L.A. and Pickwick became increasingly clogged with each passing year.

  Bart shrugs again. “That’s it in a nutshell.”

  I’ll say. “I�
�m sorry Bridget lost her husband.”

  His face falls a degree. “Yeah, freak accident. Happens to the best of us.”

  O… kay. I glance at Axel, but his chin is down, and I’m certain that his interest in his shoes is a front. Back to Bart. “And I’m happy for Bonnie.”

  “Thanks.” He tosses his hands up. “I’d better get going.”

  At Bart’s approach, the dog stops thumping his tail, and when my cousin reaches a hand to him, he growls.

  “I don’t get it.” Bart snatches his arm back. “I’m one of the most dog-savvy people I know, but I can’t seem to connect with Errol.”

  “It’s probably the Great Pyrenees in him.” Axel smiles. “They’re intelligent dogs.”

  Bart drops his jaw. “You wound me.” He waits for a retraction, and when it isn’t forthcoming, he skirts the dog. “Later, Piper.”

  “Just a warning,” Axel says. “Artemis has placed Errol at Ms. Wick’s disposal.”

  What? I am not having a big, stinky dog—

  “Wick?” Bart’s eyes pin me. “It’s true. You did change your name.”

  I have nothing to be ashamed of, especially relative to the antics of my Pickwick relations, but I make an effort to soften what is perceived as an insult. “I abbreviated it.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, Wick is short; for another, it’s somewhat unique.” Although not as unique as Pickwick, which, in these parts, is associated with dysfunction. “Thus, it’s easy to remember and is a better fit with my first name.” No more “Piper Pickwick picked a peck of pickled peppers,” thank you very much.

  “That’s lame.”

  “It works for me.”

  Bart snorts. “Even if you threw out the ‘Wick’ with the ‘Pick,’ you’d still be a Pickwick.” He thrusts his chest out. “It may make you feel better to pretend you’re not someone you are, but I’m proud of who I am. Sure, I’ve done things I regret, but I’m working to better myself and restore integrity to our family name.”

  By cutting the power, breaking in, and sneaking around like a criminal? I glance at Axel, whose eyebrows are up, confirming we’re on the same wavelength.