Leaving Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “That must have been hard.”

  “Mostly it was uncertain, which is why I’m inclined to stay in Pickwick.” He graduates to a smile. “It’s a good place to settle down.”

  “I’m sure it’s a fit for some.” I grimace. “Now that it has a Wal-Mart, it can hardly be called small town’ anymore.”

  “Most of the changes are for the better.”

  Though overall I approve, I can’t help but think of Martha. Yes, she said she’s happier at Cracker Barrel, but I hate that one of the few good things about Pickwick is gone. “Some of the changes aren’t for the better.”

  Axel pulls off his sunglasses and crosses his arms over his chest. Someone not trained in body language, who doesn’t know to factor in context and other nonverbal cues (raised eyebrows and lids, curved mouth), might say his stance is defensive, but I’m a professional. He’s simply settling in to the conversation. Not good.

  “The way I understand it,” he says, “ten years ago Pickwick’s population was declining and businesses were struggling or closing, including the old mill.”

  The textile mill Grandpa Pickwick left to Bart’s father when he passed away and which I understand closed down when Uncle Bartholomew’s get-richer-quicker stab at the stock market failed.

  “What turned it around,” Axel continues, “is the new highway exit that provides easier access to Pickwick, as well as the town’s commitment to renewal and preservation of its heritage.”

  Heritage? I never stepped inside a Wal-Mart until I shook the Pickwick dust from my feet.

  “The population has nearly tripled, and it’s not only newcomers who are responsible, but those who left and have returned to be with their families.”

  That last tempts me toward “warm and fuzzy,” but I have no interest in Pickwick. Once I convince Uncle Obe to let bygones be bygones, I’m out of here. “I’m happy that Pickwick is thriving.”

  Axel’s Blue eyes narrow. “But it has nothing to do with you.”

  Am I that transparent? Piper Wick who specializes in advising high-profile personalities on the use of body language and the well-chosen word? Of course, I have little to lose by revealing my true feelings to this stranger. “You’re right. It has nothing to do with me.”

  The press of his lips is so fleeting I’m not sure if it’s from disappointment or disapproval. I wish it were neither since it makes me feel like a snob.

  Axel starts to turn away. “I need to fix the mower.”

  On impulse—what has come over me?—I hurry forward and touch his arm. “I’m sorry. That sounded…” The muscles beneath my fingers are warm and firm and the golden hair is ticklish, but I don’t snatch my hand back. That could be read as “bothered,” which I’m not. “I didn’t mean to sound cold.”

  His eyes slide to mine, reengaging me and providing the excuse to return my hand to my side. Not bothered at all.

  “It’s just that I never intended to come back to Pickwick. Yet…here I am.”

  He returns the sunglasses to his face. “Sounds inconvenient.”

  He said it, not me. “Family calls.”

  “You didn’t have to answer.”

  And let Uncle Obe wreak havoc with his tell-all will? I almost say it aloud, but no one outside the family need know about this matter.

  “Unless you’re worried about how the changes to the will could affect you.”

  A gasp sends saliva down the wrong tube. Though I struggle to preserve my dignity, the instinct for survival is stronger, and I bend forward and hack.

  Axel’s soiled boots come into view, and he thumps my back. “Better?”

  My, he’s close. “Yes, thank you.” As I straighten to peer into his darkened lenses, he removes his hand from my back. “You know about my uncle’s will?”

  An eyebrow pops up above his left lens. “I have lived here for two years.”

  “But you’re just the—” You are getting dangerously close to sounding like a snob. “What I mean is that Uncle Obe is a loner and intensely private. I’m surprised he confided in you.”

  Something plays about Axel’s mouth. “I am also something of a companion.”

  “How so?”

  He nods across his shoulder. “Mind if we talk over the mower? There’s a job in town I need to get to.”

  “A job in town?”

  “I have a landscaping business on the side.”

  “Then there isn’t enough work here to keep you busy?”

  His brow bunches at the disbelief I should have kept from my voice. “It’s a big estate and could easily employ several gardeners, but it’s too expensive to maintain all of it. My job is to keep up the immediate surroundings. Beyond that, it’s my time, and I use it to build my business.”

  I make a face. “I didn’t mean that to sound…” You’re doing it again. “I’m sorry.”

  He nods and starts back across the lawn.

  I’m tempted to return to the mansion and call various clients, but Axel’s relationship with my uncle is still in question. As I follow Axel to the mower, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen the dog since I returned from town. “Is Errol tied up?”

  “No, I took him to town for grooming so he won’t offend you when he’s inside.”

  I’m equal parts surprise and dismay. “That’s considerate, but it isn’t necessary for him to patrol the house.” I halt beneath the massive tree that shades the machine and an iron bench and wait for him to speak. But he starts poking around the mower. “So about your relationship with my uncle…?”

  He glances at me. “Obe often comes by the cottage to talk, and sometimes we have dinner together. Maggie and Bridget drop by occasionally, but he’s still lonely.”

  Maggie and Bridget who?

  Ugly, Piper. Some people change.

  But Pickwicks?

  You’re a Pickwick.

  In name only—and not even that now.

  Like I said—UGLY.

  But I’m not the one who stole other girls’ boyfriends—including her cousins—snubbed those deemed beneath her, and became pregnant at seventeen. As for Bridget, I’m not the one who pulled the great crop circle hoax—

  No, you pulled the Fourth of July stunt.

  “Luc and Bart are scarcer,” Axel continues, “but they do come around.”

  “You mean other than when they break locks and slip in through windows?”

  A smile appears in the middle of his mustache and goatee. Whatever made me think he looked like a Neanderthal? Of course, a Neanderthal is on the extreme end of masculinity, and Axel is very masculine. Nothing soft or faintly pretty about him.

  As he continues to train his dark lenses on me, his smile slips. Surely he isn’t reading something in my stare that isn’t there? “Er, anyone else stop by to visit Uncle Obe?”

  “Bonnie came by once when she was in town. And Miss Adele.”

  Maggie and Luc’s mother remained in Pickwick when her husband fled to Mexico. Though she and my mother finally had something in common, it gave Adele another reason to disdain Dory Pickwick. According to my aunt, if my father hadn’t run a dirty campaign, her husband wouldn’t have felt compelled to retaliate in kind.

  Jolted by Axel’s voice, I look to where he has come around the mower. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  The sunglasses come off again. “You look upset.”

  Oh, Piper, take your own advice: be in the here, be in the now. I shrug. “My uncle is ill. If not for that, I wouldn’t have returned to Pickwick.”

  “Then you can’t wait to get back to Los Angeles.”

  “I’m a busy woman.”

  “I’m sure.” His smile reappears.

  Hmm. Kissing a man with facial hair must be a different experience altogether, and not without a hazard or two. Yes, Axel’s is closely trimmed, but those coarse hairs could cause a rash on sensitive skin like mine—

  I did not think that! “I’ll let you get back to your hose problem.”

  “It’s fixed.”

 
That was quick. “Well, I—”

  “Miss Wick.”

  This is where I should invite him to use my first name, but his drop in pitch bothers me. “Yes?”

  He gestures to the bench. “Have a seat.”

  “Is there something we need to discuss?”

  “Yes.”

  I lower to the bench, and when he settles on the opposite end, I kick myself for not sitting in the middle, which would have sent the message that I don’t care to share.

  “You’re damage control, aren’t you?”

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  “You didn’t return to Pickwick out of concern for your uncle. You’re here to convince him to leave the family skeletons in the closet.”

  I stare at him as I struggle to contain the knee-jerk response common to many of my clients—telling the person to mind his own business and stomping off.

  “I understand there is little love lost between you and the other Pickwicks, so my guess is that one or more of those skeletons belong to you.”

  I surge upright. “I have no idea what possessed my uncle to take you into his confidence, Mr…” What is his last name? “My reason for returning to Pickwick is no one’s business, so I am not going to discuss it with you, Mr.…” And you call yourself an image consultant.

  Axel rises from the bench. And smiles. “Smith. Mr. Smith.”

  Whatever he finds amusing, he can keep to himself. I have other things to ponder. Like what just happened here? Thank goodness he has no idea what I do for a living. Or maybe he does.

  “I apologize for overstepping the bounds, Miss Wick.”

  As well he should. “I have work to do.” I head toward the mansion and the phone calls I need to make, among them one to the agency that’s investigating—

  I whip around. “Since you seem to know everyone’s business, perhaps you can tell me where to find my uncle’s godson.”

  His eyes widen. “Obadiah Smith?”

  A.k.a. Obadiah Number Two. “Yeah, named after my uncle—a matter of ingratiation, I’m sure.”

  His brow lowers. “Actually, it had nothing to do with ingratiation and everything to do with honoring a friend.”

  Is there anything my uncle didn’t tell him? “Where can I find him?”

  He strides forward with that increasingly familiar hitch. “This is probably the wrong time for a formal introduction”—he extends a hand—“but I’m Obadiah Smith. Obadiah Axel Smith.”

  7

  I stare at the hand, taking in the sturdy, grease-streaked fingers and wide, calloused palm of one Obadiah Axel Smith. How could I not have—?

  Common name. And, honestly, who expects Obadiah of the Old Testament to be paired with a name usually associated with Axl of Guns N’ Roses bad-boy fame?

  Still, I feel stupid. And more so when the other pieces fit. Last night, after the incident with Bart and the night-vision goggles, it occurred to me that Axel might have a military background. Then the message from the investigative agency mentioned Obadiah Smith was in the army…

  Actually, I feel really stupid. And “meanspirited,” as my mother would call someone who said what I did about Axel’s name being a matter of ingratiation.

  Continuing to stare at his hand, vastly different from Grant’s smooth and well-manicured version, I draw a slow breath. Yes, your comment reflects poorly on you. Yes, it was ugly. But simply apologize and—

  Hold it! This is the man responsible for my return to Pickwick. If not for him, Uncle Obe wouldn’t be wanting to change his will. Obadiah Number Two is a meddler—and quite possibly a con man.

  “I suspected you didn’t know.” He lowers his hand. “I should have said something sooner.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “It was one of those rare opportunities you know you should pass on—”

  “What opportunity?”

  “To better understand the big-city woman who bears little resemblance to the girl her uncle talks about.”

  As if I want to be understood! And what did Uncle Obe tell him about me? That Axel would know me by my obscure appearance? sturdy build? lack of fashion sense?

  Now, now, what would Piper advise? No huffing and puffing and big, bad wolfing, as I advised Cootchie Lear after she slammed her purse upside the head of a reporter who asked her the odds of her husband cheating on her again.

  I take a step back. “Who knows that you’re my uncle’s godson?”

  “Most everyone.”

  “Including my relatives?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you didn’t attempt to hide your identity from them as you did from me?”

  His eyebrows lower, casting a shadow over his eyes. “Until a short while ago, I thought Artemis had filled you in.”

  “Well, he didn’t. And neither did Bart last night or Maggie when I ran into her this morning.”

  “They must have assumed you knew.”

  I tilt my chin up. “Thanks to Artemis, there seems to be a lot of that going on. He should have told me that my uncle’s godson is also his gardener.”

  “I’m sure he just forgot.”

  “I’d call it selective memory—the better to manipulate me.”

  “The man’s almost eighty.” The serious set of Axel’s face lightens slightly. “Recently, your uncle told me Artemis has started keeping extra pairs of shoes at the office for when he shows up in socks.”

  That is forgetful. I shake my head. “That may be some of it, but not all.”

  Axel looks away a moment, then says, “I’d hang most of the blame on forgetfulness, but it’s true that he has an ornery streak.”

  A vision of next month’s credit card statement flashes before my eyes. “One that’s going to cost me a bundle to track down the very person who’s been right under my nose.”

  Axel’s jaw hardens. “Are you investigating me?”

  I startle as my words play back, too clearly to have been mere thought.

  “Are you?”

  I sigh. “Yes, I hired an agency, but it was the responsible thing to do considering I’d never heard of you until Artemis called me in L.A.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “What did you find out?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, intentionally mirroring him. “Only that you were honorably discharged from the army.” In the next instant, another piece fits, and I lower my gaze to his right leg. “Because of your injury.” An assumption, but I know it’s right.

  He frowns. “That’s what you paid a bundle for?”

  “It’s just the initial findings.”

  He stares at me and then in a cool voice says, “Save your money Ms. Wick. If there’s anything you want to know about me, you only have to ask.”

  But will he be honest? “All right… So you’re Obadiah Smith.”

  “I prefer Axel, though I doubt for the same reason you prefer Wick.”

  That arrow has my name on it. “Tell me this, Axel. How did you convince my uncle to change his will, and in such a way the Pickwicks will suffer further ridicule?”

  He’s so still that with a few smears of camouflage he might disappear into the landscape. “Despite what you think, your uncle isn’t easily influenced. He’s burdened, and if making amends to those hurt by your family relieves him, he has my support.”

  I feel a sarcastic “How noble of you” coming on but resist. I am not in a good place. As I advise my clients to do in difficult situations, it’s time to extricate (live to fight another day). I drop my arms to my sides. “It’s good to know where you stand, and now I need to get to work.” Lots to do, and providing I don’t have another Bart-in-the-library-with-night-vision-goggles encounter, it should be a productive day. Of course, there’s no accounting for Pickwicks…

  “Mr. Smith, I’d appreciate it if you would continue to keep unannounced visitors away. Guard the estate, if you will.”

  His lids lower, reducing his eyes to simply blue—nothing at all capital-B about them. “And, thereby, Piper Wic
k.”

  I resist the urge to put my hands on my hips. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Yes, I forgot about those lethal heels of yours.”

  Ack! He’s not going to let me forget that, is he? I draw myself up. “I just want to avoid a repeat performance of Bart’s welcome home.”

  “Between Errol and me, I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

  I grit my teeth. “Thank you. I’ll see you later.” I pivot.

  “At Church on the Square tomorrow?”

  That nearly stops me, not because of the sardonic edge to his voice, but because I can’t imagine stepping foot inside the church of my youth. While Mom and I were more welcome there than most places, some of those who “amened” the loudest at Jesus’s command to love one another were the quickest to shun us the following Monday.

  “No, thank you,” I call back. And he can take that however he likes.

  My clients are happy, my partners at Budge, Biddle, Wells, and Wick are happy, and I’m happy. Well, trying to be, but as I haven’t had an interruption since I returned from jogging hours ago, I’m definitely on the happy end of the spectrum.

  I lower my iPhone to the counter and stretch my arms above my head. Long day, but before I go to bed, I plan on exploring the mansion, though not in any way that intrudes on Uncle Obe’s privacy. Just a peek behind doors closed to me when I was growing up.

  I turn on the stool to survey the kitchen—a room three times larger than any family needs to prepare meals. Of course, my great-grandparents entertained on a grand scale, so there was a time when the kitchen fit the need. Now it’s just cavernously outdated.

  “But functional,” I murmur as my stomach groans. Earlier I was surprised when a look in the refrigerator and pantry revealed both were stocked. More surprising was that the contents weren’t exclusively “Southern”—no chitlins, biscuits, or bacon drippings. I did notice a half-dozen jars of pickled corn on the uppermost shelf of the pantry…in the back corner…beyond a row of baked beans… behind the applesauce. Not that I went looking for them. Well, actually I did. While I dropped most Southern foods from my stomachs vocabulary due to their effect on my waistline, there is one I’ve missed—Uncle Obe’s pickled corn that took Best in County every year.