by Tamara Leigh
Wishing the five occupants at the table to my left were less boisterous, I go through two cups of coffee before my breakfast of eggs, bacon, and blueberry pancakes arrives. Excusing the overindulgence with the reminder that this is breakfast and lunch, I start in on the meal. Partway through, a man and woman are seated at a table to the left of the fivesome. What makes me look twice is the woman’s hair. It’s fiery red, like mine, but long and wavy.
“Maggie,” I breathe as I push past the Easter memory that was so recently revived, only to be dumped back in high school where my cousin Magdalene was head cheerleader.
It’s the first day of our freshman year, and it feels twice as long as a middle school day. Entering the cafeteria, I wince at the clamor of voices and falter at the sight of the hot-lunch line. By the time I get through it, I’ll be lucky if I have ten minutes to eat. But at least I have something to pass the time. As I hurry forward, I open the battered copy of A Wrinkle in Time I checked out from the school library. I’ve wanted to read it forever—
Something slams into my shoulder, and I stumble back to find Maggie rubbing her own shoulder.
“Sheesh!” She scowls. “Do you need glasses?”
Her three friends, two pretty brunettes and a blonde, snicker, and then the taller of the brunettes says, “Well, that would certainly complete the picture.” They exchange knowing looks.
“Sorry, Maggie,” I say. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” With a shake of red curls, she steps past me, and the others follow.
“There’s no way she’s your cousin,” one of them says as I force my feet forward.
“She is.” Maggie sounds fatalistic. “She has the hair.”
As I bring up the rear of the hot-lunch line, I hear a snort and look around.
The four have claimed a nearby lunch table, and the blonde waves a hand in Maggie’s face. “Hello, red hair isn’t exclusive to the high-and-mighty Pickwicks.”
“Yeah,” says the brunette who is poking around her sack lunch. “Maybe her mom cheated on your uncle—you know, has a thing for red headed guys.”
My feet suddenly feel hot in my shoes, my hands hot on the book, my neck hot all the way up to my scalp.
Maggie in profile looks at the girl and then shrugs. Just shrugs.
And I hurt. Just hurt.
“Well…” The brunette wrinkles her nose as she carries a shiny red apple to her mouth. “That’s what your mom said to my mom.”
Aunt Adele said that?
Maggie peers into her sack lunch. “Then it must be true.”
I’m not hungry anymore. And maybe I do need glasses, because my vision is blurry as I turn toward the cafeteria doors.
“Whoa! You okay, Piper?”
It’s Trinity, and her voice carries.
“Yeah.” I hurry past her and out the doors.
Though I didn’t have much of a relationship with my Pickwick kin, from then on I made a concerted effort to dissociate myself from them. And the dissociation became more important when Maggie started hosting a different kind of popularity exclusive to boys. By her junior year, she was dating one guy after another, and word was that the relationships went beyond kissing. By her senior year, she was pregnant.
The last time I saw her was the day we graduated from high school. In alphabetical order, we sat side by side during the commencement, cousins who shared only a surname. And I was grateful, because the last thing I wanted was to be the one whose graduation gown was stretched over a basketball-sized bump. No matter how high Maggie held her head, she had further besmirched the family name.
“At least she didn’t have an abortion,” Mom said in her defense. This was to be expected, not only because of my mother’s faith, but also because of the circumstances of my own conception.
I blink and am returned to Cracker Barrel just in time to see my cousin’s head turn toward me. Quickly, I hunch over my plate.
Come on, Piper, you’re oozing guilt. Sit up straight and pick up that fork!
I comply, and as I cut through the pancakes I turn off the self-talk and turn on the God-talk Lord, don’t let me blow my cover. Give me a little more time before it starts raining Pickwicks.
Chewing the pancakes with faux pleasure, I turn my chin and am relieved that Maggie’s attention is once more on her companion.
Glad I wore the baseball cap, I allow myself to relax. This lasts until the table between us is vacated. I miss the human barrier and the noise that overrode the conversation at Maggie’s table.
“No, Seth,” she hisses.
Seth? Seth Peterson who dumped me in eleventh grade when he lost the glasses and braces and got a “hip” haircut that made Maggie take notice? Seth who crawled back to me when my cousin was finished with him (and whom I sent crawling back the way he had come)? It is, and while he once more wears glasses, they’re fashionable on a face that has gotten better looking with age.
Maggie’s shoulders rise with a deep breath—classic body language for “I’m trying to be patient.” “I appreciate your offer,” she says in her husky Southern belle voice, “but I can’t accept.”
“Why?”
I attack a piece of bacon, but it isn’t crunchy enough to muffle my cousin’s voice.
“My feelings haven’t changed.”
“And let me guess: they aren’t going to now that you’re coming into money.”
She is? I look from Maggie’s wide-eyed stare to Seth’s reddening countenance.
Maggie leans across the table. “Who says I’m coming into money?”
“Your uncle’s bad ticker, that’s who. Once people start having problems with their hearts, it’s only a matter of time.”
Considering her chilly gaze, I’m surprised he isn’t quaking. “This conversation is over.”
“Then let’s talk about the time and money I’ve put into our relationship.”
She slaps the table. “That’s enough!”
Assailed by the excitement that runs through the dining room at being witness to a Pickwick scrape, I’m relieved that, when it’s over, I can slip away with none the wiser. But to be certain, I tuck errant strands of red hair beneath my baseball cap.
“I’ve been patient so far,” Seth says, “but I’m getting tired of waiting—”
“Did I ask you to wait? I like you, although not much at the moment, but as I’ve told you repeatedly, I will never feel for you as you feel for me.”
No one’s pretending not to listen anymore. Except me. Where is my waitress? Or any waitress? Zooming in on a lanky woman bearing two plates, I raise a hand and she meets my gaze. My breath stops. It’s Martha from Martha’s Meat and Three Eatery.
I look away. Once more hunched over my plate, though my inner image consultant protests, I attack my breakfast and sigh when Martha passes without pause. All is well, until she sets the plates before my cousin and Seth and talks between them in a voice so hushed all I catch is her smoker’s rasp. Translatable, though, is her nod over her shoulder. At me. Fortunately, my napkin slips to the floor (with a little help).
I duck under the table and make a show of straining to retrieve my napkin. All I wanted was to eat, and now I’m about to be pulled into my cousin’s public display of Pickwickery. Having exhausted my fumbling, I pinch the napkin.
“It is you,” a voice says, and I startle so hard my head knocks the underside of the table.
Wincing as the dishes clatter overhead, I look into Seth’s slightly unfocused face where he’s down on his haunches beside the table.
“Welcome home, Piper.”
I frown a little, transition to surprise, and break into a smile, the intensity of which almost hurts considering the effort required. “Why, if it isn’t—”
Should I forget his name? Petty, Piper.
“—Seth Peterson. How are you?”
“Good. Are you coming out from under there?”
Do I have a choice? I whip my head from beneath the table, a
nd my bangs slide into my eyes. I left my cap behind. I dip down to retrieve it; however, it’s not on the floor but stuck to the underside of the table. Yuck!
I tug it free, and several inches of gum follow before snapping. Looks like another proper burial is in order.
“My mom always told me not to play under tables.” Seth rises. “Nasty stuff down there.”
“Yeah.” I push a hand through my hair and stand. I peer neither left nor right, but I know I’ve become a curiosity. Whatever it takes, I will maintain my dignity. Will never again be cause for gossip and sly asides.
“You know”—he shakes his head—“you got lots better lookin’ with age.”
I stiffen. Though my thoughts earlier ran the same course about him, it’s not something I would have voiced, and I certainly wouldn’t have used the qualifier “lots.” Hmm. This is the perfect opening—
You’re being overly sensitive. It’s not as if he said, “Gosh, what happened to ugly?”
Not in so many words, but he dumped me for Maggie. I hate that it still hurts, a little. “You’re very kind, Seth.”
He hitches his chin over his shoulder. “Come over and say hi to Maggie.”
“Sure. I haven’t seen her in ages.” To ensure that my cousin is my final stop on the way out, I remove my wallet and drop two fives on the table.
Most of the other diners have returned to their food, but it’s a front for those who are longtime residents of Pickwick. So I make sure I’m in top form when I cross to the table where Martha stands alongside Maggie.
The older woman’s mouth bows as she steps forward and lifts my left hand from my side. “Piper, darlin’, look at you—all sophisticated and prettier than ever.”
I’d forgotten how much I liked her. I peck her cheek. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Her smile turns rueful as I pull back. “Bet you didn’t expect to find me waitin’ tables at a Cracker Barrel.”
I can guess what happened, and had I paid closer attention, I would have noticed the absence of cars at her eatery.
She glances around the dining room. “Atmosphere, good food, and value for the money. Who can compete with that?”
It’s said matter-of-factly, but it can’t have been easy to accept the progress that flattened her business. “I’m sorry.”
She chuckles. “Actually, I’m happier—makin a better livin’, and when I clock out for the day, what’s left of it is mine.”
I search her face to see if she’s downplaying her loss, but she appears sincere.
“Hello, Piper,” Maggie drawls as she unfolds her nearly six-foot frame. As when I was younger, I wonder why God gave her the tall gene and me the short, her the svelte gene and me the not-so-svelte. Not that I want all of the eight inches she has over me. I’d be happy with an equal distribution that would raise me and lower her to five foot seven.
Maggie doesn’t embrace me when Martha steps back, but she smiles, and what surprises me is that her mouth doesn’t tighten as it did years ago when she was forced into my company. If anything, there’s discomfort in her smile. Because she knows I overheard her argument with Seth?
She raises her eyebrows, and I realize I’m staring. “Lovely to see you again, Maggie.”
“Hardly ideal circumstances, though Uncle Obe appears to be doing fine.”
That can’t be genuine concern. After all, her father went through his inheritance at about the same rate as mine, but he was able to supplement his dwindling assets with successful scams. Thus, Maggie’s father had less reason to “make nice” with his brother Obadiah than my father and Bart’s father. No, not genuine concern. Her inheritance is surely the issue—that Uncle Obe wants to spread the wealth around a bit more.
I consult my watch. “I meant to leave earlier for Asheville, and here I am jabbering.”
“You’re driving in to see Uncle Obe?”
“Yes.”
Maggie’s eyes brighten. “Maybe I’ll see you there. I’m taking my daughter, Devyn, to visit after Seth and I finish our meal.”
Lovely. Becoming reacquainted with my uncle is going to be uncomfortable enough without adding Maggie and Mini-Mag to the mix. Think something happy…
Grant. Once everything lines up, we’ll be happy indeed. So why does my smile feel taut? “Well, if we miss each other, perhaps I can meet your daughter another time.”
“Certainly. I know she’d like to meet you.”
Oh, the pleasantries—people saying the opposite of what they feel. And Maggie has gotten better at it. I turn to Martha. “It was nice to see you again.”
She nods. “Don’t leave town this time without saying good-bye, hear?”
“I hear.” With a wave at Maggie and Seth, I head opposite. When the grouchy old neighbor lady catches my eye, I smile. When the lazy-eyed barber beams at me, I beam back.
“You did it,” I congratulate myself as I slide into my car. “Made it through the fire.” Okay, I’m exaggerating, but there are bound to be fires to contend with in the days ahead. Where money is involved, the ugly side of humanity comes out to play. And since we’re talking Pickwicks, it could get exceedingly ugly. Or ridiculous.
I turn the key in the ignition, but nothing happens. I try again. Nothing. And five minutes later, still nothing.
“Great!” I smack the steering wheel, but the engine isn’t interested in solving our differences by violent means, leaving me with no recourse but to call the rental company. They apologize, but since they won’t be able to send another car until tomorrow, I’ll have to postpone my visit with Uncle Obe. Of course, that could be a good thing as I won’t risk running into Maggie or Mini-Mag.
I brighten. Tomorrow is another day.
6
Sometimes I think I’d rather be plump. Then I could indulge in double-cheese pizza rather than low-fat-dressing-spritzed salad, heavy-on-the-cream ice cream rather than nonfat frozen yogurt, and lounging as opposed to running. I hate running. But here I am pounding the pavement and clenching my teeth as I strain to triumph over the driveway’s wicked incline.
Yes, had I been born someone other than a Pickwick, I could be happy on the other side of slender. Once I accepted myself, it would be a done deal. No secret yearnings for the forbidden, no drooling over another person’s meal, no torture to burn off excess calories. But God made me a Pickwick, and “plump” is not in the personal vocabulary of the body-conscious Pickwicks. It is, however, in my genes—and my jeans when I overindulge. As much as anything else, it sets me apart from the other Pickwicks.
It couldn’t have been easy for my attractive father, especially once Mom started seeking comfort in food, but he was never really cruel. Just absent as he followed his wandering eye. Thus, I remained one sturdy Pickwick until my senior year, when I gained control over my eating, which led to the teenage stunt that has come back to haunt me.
My calves burn deeper as I lengthen my stride, and I return my thoughts to my father. I have forgiven him for not loving Mom and me, but I’m grateful I won’t be running into him during my stay, since he’s out of the country. Permanently. Jeremiah Pickwick resides in Mexico, where our justice system decided to leave him rather than extradite. That also goes for Uncle Jonah, Luc and Maggie’s father, though I doubt the brothers have much to do with one another in their adopted country, having run dirty campaigns in their joint bid for the job of Pickwick’s mayor.
I remember the headlines that ushered in my second year of high school, the snickers and sly glances that took the long way around Maggie to crash land on me. I shake my head. And pitch forward when my shoe catches on the uneven aggregate. I throw my hands up and follow through with the opposite foot. Close one.
Leaning forward, I grip my thighs and heave breath up my face. “Don’t lose… your focus. Get in… get out.”
“Are you all right?” a twangless voice calls.
I snap my chin up and see Axel twenty feet to the left alongside the commercial mower that was beneath the hundred-and-some-year-old
tree when I left for my run. This afternoon, his sandy hair is in a ponytail, eyes are obscured by sunglasses, and jeans and T-shirt are streaked with the soil of his trade. But for all that, he really is nice looking and has a physique to fit.
And your brain is overheated. Note: ponytail, mustache, goatee, outdoorsy, probably tattooed, and is that a wrench he’s holding?
I walk my hands up my thighs. “I’m fine. Is something wrong with the mower?”
He sets the wrench down and heads toward me, his limp less noticeable today. “A cracked hose, but I’ll have it replaced and the machine running shortly.” He halts at the edge of the lawn. “I didn’t realize you had returned from town.”
“My rental car broke down, so I took a taxi.”
He glances at his watch. “You didn’t make it to Asheville to see your uncle?”
“No, I’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Do you need a ride?”
Is he offering? I mean, I hardly know him beyond having aimed a high-heel shoe at him. “No, thank you. The rental company is delivering another car in the morning.”
He nods. “What did you think of Pickwick?”
“A lot has changed.”
“Your uncle told me you’ve been gone twelve years.”
“About that.”
“Considering you spent the better part of your life in the South—”
The better part?
“—I’m surprised you don’t have the slightest drawl.”
Thanks to all those voice lessons at the university I attended. For two years, I participated in a study to test a new method for helping those with distinctive accents subdue them. I was one of the success stories, but I was motivated. A Southern drawl, particularly one as pronounced as mine, is not a good way to stand out in the “fast lane” that is L.A. It leaves the wrong impression—as in slow and gullible.
“You don’t have a drawl either,” I point out.
His mouth tilts. “I wasn’t raised in the South.”
“Where are you from?”
“My dad was a marine, so that pretty much covers everywhere.”
