Leaving Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “Right, though there’s some fancy medical name for it. It mimics a heart attack and is usually brought on by a stressful event.”

  “Like your accident.”

  “Or the death of a loved one.”

  I lean forward. “How did you feel about Roy?”

  His brow ripples. “I was partial to that old dog—always coming around beggin’ for food—but I can’t say as I loved him. Still, it wasn’t easy lying there on the driveway and watching him struggle for his last breaths.” He puts up a hand. “However, for all that, it wasn’t broken heart syndrome that made my chest buck and burn. It was a good old-fashioned heart attack, and God healed me.”

  So knee surgery it is, which makes sense—now. After all, if heart surgery were in Uncle Obe’s future, it’s not likely Artemis could have convinced him to postpone the changes to his will. Had I known, I wouldn’t have returned—

  Actually, you would have. It was that stupid stunt of yours that brought you back to Pickwick, and heart surgery or not, your relationship with Grant is at stake.

  “Now I understand why you looked so worried.” Uncle Obe pats my shoulder. “I appreciate your concern.”

  I was concerned, even if that’s not what brought me back.

  “Regardless of the reason you came home—”

  My body language must be telling on me.

  “—I’m glad you did. Now I’d best rest up before the physical therapist puts me through my presurgery paces.

  Dismissed. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “My surgery is scheduled for the morning, so make it late afternoon or I might sleep through your visit.”

  I lean forward and kiss his forehead. “I’ll be praying for you.” I will make the time.

  “Drive carefully. Oh! And give some thought to Axel.” He smiles sheepishly. “I know it’s presumptive to match you with someone you met only once when you were a little bitty girl, but—”

  “I met Axel? You’re confusing me again. Until two days ago, I’d never met him.”

  “You don’t remember the Easter egg hunt at the big house, when your eggs were stolen?”

  “Yes, but Luc stole them, not some miniature version of Axel.”

  “That’s right, but Axel is the one who nearly busted Luc’s jaw for taking them.”

  He was there? And he defended me? I search my memory, and the first time through I come up empty. But the second time…

  Uncle Obe is walking up the hill, and there’s a boy with him whose hair is so short, he’s almost bald. He’s staring at me, but not in a mean way. It’s like he’s sorry for me. Then he looks up and sees Luc laughing, and that’s when the boy starts to look mean.

  It was Axel. He’s the one who made Luc and Aunt Adele and Maggie leave the egg hunt in such a hurry. He defended me, though I don’t remember hearing about it.

  Uncle Obe chuckles. “And Axel younger than Luc. But, then, he was big for his age, and with his daddy in the military, he knew how to take care of himself. And had a keen sense of justice.”

  Obviously.

  “Well, give him some thought.”

  Maybe I will—No, I won’t! He may have defended me, but he probably doesn’t remember it. Too, it surely had more to do with him being bored and looking for trouble.

  “I should tell you that I’m seeing someone, Uncle Obe.” Who has yet to return one of your three calls. It’s reelection year and his campaign has to take precedence. Oh, right, you’re just the woman he asked to research how his engagement to you might impact his political career. It is my job. How romantic.

  “Are the two of you serious?”

  “Uh…pretty serious.”

  “Engaged?”

  Why did I mention it? “Possibly. I mean, eventually. When the timing is right. For him. And me. Careerwise. And otherwise.” What has come over me?

  Uncle Obe sighs. “I know all about waiting for the right time. And lettin’ it pass by. Be careful you don’t do the same.”

  The regret in his words is deep, and I’m twinged by his pain.

  “I’ll see you soon.” He settles back against his pillow.

  Five minutes later, I point my car east toward Pickwick and dial Grant. And leave another message.

  “I miss you, Piper.”

  “I miss you too.”

  “You’ll be happy to know that I went on another date.”

  One hand pressing the cell phone to my ear, the other on the doorframe Axel repaired while I was in Asheville, I freeze. “How did it go?”

  “Better than good.”

  While part of me thrills, the other flinches. The date may have been at my urging, but what if it proves a mistake? “Define ‘better than good.’”

  “Four times is a charm. This time we hit it off. In fact, we—I probably shouldn’t tell you, but we kissed.”

  I suck air. “Come again?”

  “Now, Piper, it was just a little one.” My mother giggles. “And chaste. Or nearly so. Lasted maybe five seconds… or ten.”

  I close the back door and lean against it. “So the two of you are going out again?”

  “Oh yes.”

  I rub a hand down my face. “That’s good. You need this.”

  “I certainly do. Not to say that it will lead to marriage, but it’s nice to feel attractive and wanted.”

  Which she never felt in Pickwick.

  “So how about you? Have you met anyone nice there?”

  Axel has no business popping to mind! “Mom, not only is this Pickwick, but I’m taken.”

  Silence stretches that doesn’t portend well. “I suppose you are. And Grant is a good, upstanding man…”

  Here she goes again.

  “… but it seems to me his career takes precedence over everything. And though I know you’re fond of each other, neither of you is in love.”

  “Mom!”

  “Don’t take this wrong, but I think your lack of experience with men is why you’re so eager to hitch your cart to Grant Spangler.”

  I’m grateful no one’s here to see me blush. Not that I should be embarrassed at having never been with a man in the “being with a man” sense of the words, but in my world, most people think something is wrong with a mature woman who hasn’t had sexual experience. There isn’t. Still, it can be uncomfortable in the workplace, especially if one lets it slip that her virtue is virtually intact. (I kiss and have even succumbed to inappropriate touching a time or two.)

  But one good thing came of my mistake in confiding to one of the partners who took me under her wing years ago—Grant, a politician who is cautious about who he works with, and who is as different from my father as anyone I’ve been able to find. Responsible, goal oriented, and ultraconservative.

  “Besides,” Mom continues, “if you were in love with Grant, you wouldn’t encourage him to wait until after the election to seriously consider marriage.”

  “It’s my job to advise him on what’s best for his career.”

  “And if he were in love with you, he wouldn’t listen. He would pop the question, and in a couple of years, I’d have grandchildren.”

  Puffing out my cheeks, I peer out into the dusky garden where, years ago, the Easter bunny delivered eggs to a little girl whose stash was stolen. “Mom, did you ever meet Uncle Obe’s godson?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Uncle Obe says he was here the day Luc stole my Easter eggs—that Axel hit him in the jaw for taking them.”

  “I don’t remember your uncle pointing him out, but Luc and another boy did tussle, and Luc got popped in the face. That was Axel Smith?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “He can’t be all bad, then.”

  I smile. “Well, it’s getting dark, and I want to explore the mansion like I keep promising myself.” Too, there’s the devotional I have yet to make time for, unless I count the prayer time with Uncle Obe. Hmm. That was pretty intense. “Tell Rufus hi for me when you go out again.”

  “Of course.
Goodnight, dear.”

  I disconnect and dial my voice mail. Still nothing from Grant, but that doesn’t mean Mom is right about him. He’s just busy.

  Pushing thoughts of him aside, I embark on an exploration of the mansion. It’s an adventure in dust and cobwebs and neglect and unexpectedly gives rise to a memory of when I was seven or so and Uncle Obe invited Mom and me to join him for Christmas Eve dinner. Every goose bump raised by the chill walk from the cottage melted when I saw who was waiting for me—Uncle Obe in Santa’s clothing. Of course, at the time I was certain it was Santa, and I had further proof the next morning when I found Daddy under the Christmas tree. He took us home to be a family again, and I was so happy.

  It didn’t last long.

  10

  Errol stands guard at the foot of the stairs again—the last place I expected to see him, since Axel didn’t come knocking last night. Convinced that Artemis must have collected Mrs. Bleeker’s “big boy,” I went to bed happy to be rid of the dog. Obviously, Axel let him in. I want that key!

  I descend the last steps and, as Errol dances around me, head for the front door. Sure enough, once I coax him outside, there are more dribbles to mop up. And I do, all the while promising myself that a housekeeper is in Uncle Obe’s near future, especially considering what I found last night. Though most of the rooms are no longer in use, that’s no reason not to take a vacuum and furniture polish to them from time to time.

  I go the bagel route again, this time smearing it with peanut butter. Chewing thoroughly to give my pituitary gland time to alert me to the feeling of fullness, I open the back door. I walk out into the morning air, and I’m struck by the beauty of Uncle Obe’s garden and the scents that wend toward me as if by way of a calligrapher’s pen—the extravagant sweep of sweet lilac and spicy viburnum, the bold stroke of spring roses and glorious magnolias, and the subtle curlicues of spearmint and basil.

  Guessing my heightened reaction has something to do with the twelve years I’ve put on since I was last here, I step to the path that lazily winds among clusters of blues and reds and yellows and oranges.

  When I pause beneath a Bradford pear tree at the center of the garden, all that’s left of my bagel is crumbs. I peer into the leafy branches and sweep back to an eight-year-old Piper clinging to limbs of smaller diameter. I shouldn’t have been in Uncle Obe’s garden, as Mom said the best way to show him gratitude for opening up the cottage to us was to honor his privacy. But I was bored and certain that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, as my father was fond of saying. If I hadn’t panicked when a limb snapped underfoot, I could have been out of the tree and halfway back to the cottage before Uncle Obe made it down the path, but I froze.

  “Piper Pickwick.” He sighs. “I am particularly fond of that tree, and you’re busting it up. Come down here.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll fall.”

  “Not if you come down the way you went up.”

  “I don’t remember the way I came up.”

  “So you’ll be sleeping up there tonight?”

  Wishing he were normal like other kids’ uncles who would have scaled the tree to bring their poor little niece down, I say, “No, I want to sleep in my own bed.”

  “Then you’ll have to work out a way to get down.” He turns and tosses over his shoulder, “Don’t be breakin’ any more branches.”

  I pray for my courage to return. It doesn’t, but Uncle Obe does— with a ladder. I scramble down, mumble my thanks, and run as fast as my sturdy legs will carry me back to the cottage.

  So long ago… I lay a hand on the trunk that is far rougher than it was then. Even trees get wrinkles, deeply craggy wrinkles. Considering it’s not much older than me, I should be grateful mine can still be classified as “fine lines.”

  “I am not chasing you!” Axel’s voice sounds from a distance.

  Squinting against the rising sun, I scan the cottage, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  So who is he not chasing so early in the morning? Might he be entertaining someone who spent the night? I hurry back onto the garden path and shoo away any attempt by the beauty I pass to impinge on my senses. Opening Uncle Obe’s eyes to the kind of person he’s allowing to influence him might not be so hard after all.

  “I mean it,” Axel calls. “You’ve worn me out.”

  I break into a run. If what’s happening up there is what I think it is, I could be winging back to L.A. before long.

  “That’s it, bring it here.”

  Bring what where?

  As I hurry up the grassy rise, I mentally steel myself for the debauchery to which I may be an unwitting—sort of—witness.

  At the top of the hill sits the cottage. Seeing it up close makes my heart tug, but I shake the sentiment. It’s Axel and his shenanigans I need to focus on.

  “Good boy!” he calls as I head around the side of the cottage.

  Boy?

  “Go get it!”

  Rounding the corner, I glimpse Axel with his arm flung out and a blur of fur hurtling toward me. Then something knocks me backward.

  Black is my new favorite color…

  “Piper?”

  “Umm?”

  “Open your eyes.”

  Why? I’m content, except for a pulsing above my right eye. Actually, it’s more like a throb. And it stings.

  I startle at two sharp pats to my cheek. “Open your eyes.”

  I let in just enough light to confirm the identity of the one whose face is directly above mine. “Did you just slap me?” And is that slurred voice mine?

  Axel nods. “A necessary evil.”

  Evil, yes, but necessary? The throb above my right eye begins to pound, and I squeeze that lid closed to ease the pain. “What do you mean necessary?”

  “The stick hit you straight on.”

  Peering at his wavering face through my watery left eye, I touch my swollen right temple. “That was a stick?” I would have said it was a lead pipe.

  His mouth turns down. “A big one.”

  I consider my red-tinged fingers. “You threw a stick at me?”

  From where he’s down on his haunches, he leans nearer. And I have half a mind (that is possible under the circumstances) to push him away.

  “Your pupils appear to be the same size.” He draws back.

  I lift my head, but the world tips on its edge. “What do my pupils have to do with you throwing a stick at me?”

  “I didn’t throw it at you. I threw it for Errol. You came around the side of the cottage as I released, and my throw knocked you out.”

  To say the least. I am bleeding and—“It was Errol you were talking to?”

  He inclines his head. “I do live here alone and, besides your uncle, rarely have visitors.”

  I’m too muddled to recall exactly what I heard, but something tells me it should have made perfect sense that his one-sided conversation was with a dog. So relieved that he doesn’t suspect what I suspected.

  “Did you think I had a woman up here?”

  What is with this guy? “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to.” For a moment, he looks alarmingly severe, but then he grins. “And here I thought you dropped by to check on me like a good neighbor.”

  His mock disappointment tempts me to squirm. Or maybe it’s his smile—not! I am merely incapacitated. And the sooner I distance myself, the better. I push up on my elbows, but darkness drags at me again.

  “Easy!” Axel grips my shoulder.

  “If everything would stop moving…”

  “Lie back down.”

  “I’m all right.” I sit up. My head feels like it’s about to bust its seams. I probe the lump. “Do I need stitches?”

  “Not likely. The cut isn’t deep.” Axel looks pointedly at my hand. “But if you keep that up, you might need antibiotics.”

  I pull my hand from my head and consider my dirty fingers. “Oh.”

  He stands, almost fl
uidly despite his bum leg, and reaches to me. “Let’s get it iced and cleaned.”

  His arms are bare. My eyes travel up a thick wrist and forearm, across a defined tricep, and onto the solid deltoid that thrusts out from the armhole of his sleeveless T-shirt. He looks powerful, like a heavyweight boxer—

  “Piper?”

  There’s a frown between his eyes, but in the depths of the Blue shines a glint of…interest.

  Why are you gawking, Piper?! He is not your type. See any resemblance to Grant? None. This is a different breed of man—too broad, too rugged, and from his woodsy smell, he probably doesn’t own a single bottle of cologne. In short, he’s sophistication-challenged.

  Right. Floundering for a way to explain my behavior, I blurt out, “No tattoos.”

  The interest in his eyes flickers. “Is that what you were looking for?”

  “Of course.” I nod, which makes my head hurt more. “I mean, what else? You were in the military, and military guys have tattoos.”

  “Standard issue, hmm?”

  “Apparently not, because you don’t appear to have any.” Am I babbling? “Unless you keep yours hidden, which defeats the point of having a tattoo—you know, symbolic muscle flexing.”

  It’s his mouth that flexes into a smile. “I don’t have any tattoos.” He reaches nearer. “Now let’s take care of your cut.”

  I search his eyes, but the interest that was there is gone. Still, I should decline his offer, and I would if I weren’t so shaky. I thrust a hand in his general direction, and his big, warm fingers close around mine, causing my pulse to speed-It did not! If it’s going to do any speeding because of a man’s touch, it will be for Grant. I teeter as Axel pulls me upright, but he steps closer and slides his other arm around my waist. And there goes my pulse again.

  “Lean on me.”

  And risk a speeding ticket?

  “What’s wrong?” Now his breath is in my ear.

  I look around. Wow, his eyes are really Blue. “Er, what about your injury?”

  His mouth constricts. “I assure you, I’m fully functional.”

  My first thought is to tell him I wasn’t questioning his manhood, but my second is that I can’t tell him the truth—that he’s affecting me.