by Tamara Leigh
“You have changed.” He shakes his head. “And here I thought my boy, Bart, was simply in a generous mood.”
This is not going to work. “Uncle Obe, I think I should—”
“Do you know what I think?” says the girl in a honeyed drawl.
I wonder at the sparkle in eyes magnified by glasses. Who is she?
Her smile has Maggie written all over it despite a small gap between her front teeth. Is this her daughter? It follows, and yet other than the smile, she bears little resemblance to my cousin. Still, Maggie’s daughter is nearly a teenager, and this girl can’t be more than ten.
She lifts her chin. “I think you’re lovely, that’s what.”
Nice kid, meaning it would be hard for her to be a close relation of Maggie’s.
“And potentially inspiring,” she adds.
Inspiring? Potentially?
Aunt Adele looks around Luc. “Now, Devyn—”
Devyn? This is Maggie’s daughter. And that was her heading into church yesterday. And she is twelve—or soon to be.
“—it’s kind of you to make Piper feel welcome, but remember what I told you about talking out of turn?”
“Sorry, Grandma. It’s just nice to finally meet my long-lost relative.”
“Piper, are you coming in or not?” Impatience battles fatigue in Uncle Obe’s voice.
Axel nudges me, and as he follows me to the bed, Uncle Obe says, “Well, aren’t you a nice-looking couple. And both of you single.”
Axel stiffens, and while I read it as a sign that he doesn’t like Uncle Obe’s intimation either, I’m irked. Did he have to accompany me across the room as if we are, indeed, a couple?
“You’re reaching, Uncle Obe,” Luc drawls. “I hardly think my big-city cousin is about to fall for your Rambo gardener.”
So much for Uncle Obe’s assurance that Pickwicks get better with age. Of course, he did allude to exceptions. I glance at Axel, who is staring at Luc, who is staring back. No love lost, but then Axel is thought to be behind the changes to Uncle Obe’s will. And there was that altercation at the Easter egg hunt…
Devyn gives a heartfelt sigh. “True. Mom says that kind of stuff only happens in romance novels.”
Uncle Obe smiles slightly. “Wait and see.”
I lean near him. “How are you feeling?”
The tilt goes out of his mouth. “Fine.”
“He’s exhausted,” Devyn says. “He was in surgery for an hour and a half and then moved to recovery for an hour. And though they let him return to his room, he’s still feeling the effects of anesthesia. And he’s hooked up to an IV for medication and a spirometer”—she eyes a machine beside the bed—“to keep his lungs free of postsurgery fluid. Nothing is ‘fine’ about that.”
I stare at the plain little girl who has a remarkable head on her shoulders. Someone needs to tell my cousin that her baby was switched at birth.
Devyn lays a hand on Uncle Obe’s head and pets his hair. “What you need is rest, Unc-Unc.”
Unc-Unc? Of course, he is her great-uncle.
“You know me well, Devyn.”
Does she? But that would mean Maggie has been spending time with him, which is as unbelievable as Bridget coming around. Strange.
Uncle Obe squints at my forehead. “Is that a bandage?”
I slide a hand beneath my bangs and touch the bandage. “I had a little accident, but I’m all right.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I had it checked a short while ago and was given a clean bill of health.”
“What happened?” Bart asks.
Looking past Axel to my cousin and the others, I shrug. “It was a stick.” I give Uncle Obe a grossly exaggerated wink that eases the lines on his brow. “A big one.”
“Someone hit you with a stick?” Aunt Belinda chirps.
My lips twitch. “Sadly true.”
Axel does that stiffening thing again. Making light of the matter at his expense—albeit temporary—may not be a good idea.
“Who would dare?” Uncle Bartholomew blusters, coming to stand over his wife’s shoulder.
“I went up to the cottage to…” Helloooo! What about the warning that you’re always giving your clients—not to feed the vultures? I keep my game face on in spite of the interest in Aunt Adele’s and Luc’s eyes. “I needed to talk to Axel, and when I came around the side of the cottage, he had just thrown a stick for Errol—”
“Errol?” Aunt Adele says.
“Artemis’s dog,” Bart supplies. “Real unfriendly.”
Toward those who break into houses. “Anyway, I was in the line of fire.” I touch the bandage.
“Is that right?” Luc runs a hand along his jaw. “I recall quite clearly that Axel has a good right hook.”
“Still do,” Axel says with a thrum in his voice, and suddenly I feel strangely safe beside the defender of little Piper Pickwick—certain that his big, capable hands would defend me again.
“Why, Axel Smith, are you threatening my boy?” Aunt Adele demands.
Uncle Bartholomew grunts. “Sounded like a threat to me.”
“My godson would not strike a woman,” Uncle Obe says. “And as long as your Easter egg–stealing days are behind you, Luc, there’s no reason Axel should have to teach you another lesson.”
Devyn’s head swivels around. “You stole someone’s Easter eggs, Uncle Luc?”
He has the grace to color—a little. “That’s a matter of interpretation. Besides, I was just a kid.”
Devyn sighs. “Kids can be unkind.”
That didn’t sound like an offhanded comment. It sounded like someone who has firsthand experience with “unkind” kids. But the daughter of Maggie the cheerleader?
“Fortunately, kids grow up.” Uncle Obe lowers his lids, and when he lifts them again, it’s only halfway. “For the most part.”
Axel steps back from the bed. “Devyn is right; Obadiah needs to rest.”
We murmur our good-byes and file out of the room. As the door closes behind us, one of two nurses heading past mutters to the other, “Those Pickwicks.”
I’m surprised when, rather than cringing at being lumped with the Pickwicks, my defenses rise.
“Well, don’t you look like a bunch of vultures?” Bridget says as she comes around a corner. “Well, not you, Axel.” Her eyes light amid the dreadlocks on her brow. “Or you, Devyn Divine.”
The girl runs to her, and Bridget throws her arms wide.
Strange. Though Bridget and Maggie were more accepting of each other than they were of me, they were hardly close. “We Pickwicks get better with age,” Uncle Obe said.
“Where’s Mom?” Keeping an arm around her aunt’s waist, Devyn steps alongside Bridget, and they advance on us.
“She said to tell you she’s sorry, but her auction is running overtime.”
Auction? Does she have to sell off something to pay her bills?
“She’ll meet us here later and asked me to keep you occupied until then.” Bridget glances at us. “I’m assuming I’m too late to visit Uncle Obe.”
As the two halt before us, Devyn says, “For now—too many visitors. The nurses really need to enforce the rules.”
“Obviously.” Bridget considers me briefly before turning to her parents. “Mom… Dad.” Then to her brother. “Staying out of trouble, Bart?”
“You know me.”
She grimaces. “That’s reassuring.”
Luc sidesteps the group. “I have cars to sell. Let’s go, Mom.”
As he takes Aunt Adele’s arm and heads down the corridor, I look around. “I should go too. It was nice”—this is what lies are made of—“to see all of you.” Well, I did enjoying meeting Devyn.
They murmur similar lies and murmur more when Axel walks from the group to follow me.
“You two drove in together?” Bridget says.
I am surprised by a glint that quickly fades from her eyes. Jealousy?
“Your cousin was in no condition to drive h
erself.”
Axel makes it sound as if I were intoxicated! I open my mouth to object, but Devyn says, “She sustained a head injury, Aunt Bridge.”
I raise a hand in parting, but Axel says, “Bridget, can I talk to you?”
There’s that brilliant smile of hers again, and something trembles through me. Maybe it’s just Pickwick, but that felt like jealousy.
With a swish of dreadlocks, my cousin, trailed by Devyn, follows him down the corridor where their exchange takes place in hushed voices.
“What’s that about?” Uncle Bartholomew demands.
“Oh, stop,” Belinda says. “Bridget’s a grown woman.”
“And that’s a grown man. A highly objectionable grown man, even if Obadiah believes he’s worthy of an inheritance.”
“Why?” Yes, I awoke yesterday morning with egg—er, snobbery—all over my face, reluctant though it was, but nothing is reluctant about Uncle Bartholomew’s “highly objectionable” or Luc’s “Rambo gardener” comments.
As I hold my uncle’s glowering gaze, Bart leans in. “Dad’s concerned that Bridget will end up giving him another son-in-law who can’t support his daughter in the manner to which he wants her to become accustomed.”
“Of course I want the best for her,” my uncle snaps.
“And since Uncle Obe’s heart is no longer an issue,” Bart continues, “it could be a long while before Axel comes into money.”
“Or any of you.” Bartholomew’s heavy brow takes on extra weight. “And don’t forget my fool of a brother is set on rightin’ wrongs that have no business being righted.” He takes a step toward me and in a raspy whisper says, “We’re counting on you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
I resent being the cure-all, but I set my face to keep my emotions in check. “All I can do is reason with him.”
The baby of the four brothers stares hard at me, then sighs and glances at the door to Uncle Obe’s room. “The alternative is…distressin’.”
I can’t be sure, but Bartholomew appears genuinely upset at the possibility of having his brother declared mentally incompetent.
He shakes his head. “But Luc is right. Better that than a bunch of no-goods cutting into the Pickwick inheritance.”
No-goods. “Is that your only concern? The inheritance?”
He looks at me as if I’ve taken on the odor of ripe cheese. “What else is there?”
Aunt Belinda lays a hand on his arm. “I believe she’s talking about the media—what happens if they find out about the changes to the will and the reason for them.”
Bart nods. “Yeah, bad publicity.”
My uncle rolls his big eyes. “So what’s new?”
“Actually,” his wife says, “it’s been nice not to have our name blasted across the papers for a while. And I can’t tell you how much more relaxing my salon experience is when gossips aren’t stealing peeks at me while I’m under the dryer.”
“Nothing to worry about, dear.” Uncle Bartholomew’s eyes pierce mine. “Providing our niece does her job.”
Job? I don’t recall the Pickwicks offering a retainer for my services.
“Ready to go?” Axel asks.
“Yes.” I turn and look between him and Bridget, who can’t possibly be that pretty in the midst of those ratty ropes of hair. What were they talking about?
Axel steps to the side, and as I pass between the two, Devyn crouches to tie her shoe.
She gives me another gapped smile. “It was nice to meet you.” She tilts her head to the side. “Do you mind if I call you Miss Piper? Or do you prefer Miss Wick?”
She knows about my name change. Of course, it’s probably been a topic of discussion since my return. “Miss Piper’s good, and I enjoyed meeting you too.”
She rises. “If everything works out, I’ll see you tonight.”
Tonight? If what works out? Ugh. Not a family get-together. If so, I have a Pickwick-proof excuse—work.
Five minutes later, Axel hands me into his Jeep. “So,” I say as he slides in beside me, “Luc doesn’t much like you.”
“No.”
“Beginning with the Easter egg hunt.”
He backs out of the parking space and, as we head for the garage exit, says, “He can’t put the incident behind him.”
It was probably the first time someone bettered him. “Until recently, I didn’t know what happened between you and Luc. I remembered there was a boy with Uncle Obe, but I didn’t know it was you. I mean, you were almost bald.”
“Buzz cut.”
“Right. And now look at you. You have a ponytail, for goodness’ sake.”
He smiles. “After a lifetime in the military—between my father’s service and mine—I needed a change.”
“I guess so. Anyway, thank you for defending me that day.”
“You’re welcome.” He brakes at the parking booth, then hands the attendant the ticket and a five-dollar bill. “Of course, nowadays I try to be more reasonable in dealing with injustice.”
“No more punching a person’s lights out?”
His smile broadens. “Only when absolutely necessary.”
I smile back as we accelerate out of the parking garage.
“Unfortunately”—Axel raises his voice over the air rushing into the Jeep—“now the problem between your cousin and me is that he believes I have too much influence over your uncle.”
“Do you?”
“Not in any premeditated way.”
“In what way?”
“Being there when Obadiah needs to talk and unburden himself. Someone to pray with.” Axel glances at me. “He has a lot of regrets, and not only his own.”
Exactly how much does Axel know about the changes Uncle Obe wants to make to his will? More specifically, is he aware of the reasons behind the new bequests—such as Trinity Templeton taking the fall for me?
I start to pick at my cuticles, but the movement draws Axel’s attention and makes me cringe at the return of a bad habit I overcame years ago. “I, uh, understand that you’ve influenced my uncle’s faith.”
He doesn’t answer until he brakes at a red light, and then he turns the full force of his gaze on me. “That’s a bad thing?”
“No! That is, providing you don’t have your own agenda.” And maybe you should have put that more delicately? Concrete proof that the hands-on practice sessions with my clients is where they get their money’s worth.
Axel’s pupils expand, shoving all that incredible Blue to the outer edges. “I’m not the one with the agenda.”
Nice comeback. Blessedly, I’m saved from responding by three bursts of a horn. The light has turned green.
Axel accelerates, and soon we enter the highway. “You’re one of your uncle’s regrets,” he says, raising his voice over the wind and road noise.
“Did he tell you that?”
“He did. He’s bothered by how you and your mother were treated by his family and that he didn’t take more of a stand.”
How much does this man know about me?
“He believes that had he intervened, you and your mother wouldn’t have run away from Pickwick.”
My back snaps straight. “We didn’t run away.” We… shook the dust from our feet. “We had our reasons for leaving, and it was the right decision.”
His eyes shift to my hands, making me aware that I’m picking my cuticles again. “So you like the big city?”
“It’s where I work and live.”
“In that order?”
That was a Freudian slip. If—rather, when—Grant and I marry, I’ll leave L.A. and my partnership in the firm as happily as I left Pickwick. I set my jaw and focus on the rusted bumper that hangs askew on the beater truck ahead.
Axel shifts lanes, passes the truck, then shifts back. “Right or wrong, Obadiah believes that Pickwick is where you belong.”
“There’s nothing here for me.”
“There’s Maggie and Bridget.”
“Excuse me?”
He inte
rcepts my wide-eyed gaze. “People change, as you can attest to yourself.”
Yes, I’ve changed, but Maggie and Bridget? More likely, they’ve simply become more sophisticated in their dealings with those who don’t meet their standards. “Some do, but I have a hard time believing it of my cousins.”
Axel looks back at the road. “Then forgiveness isn’t in your nature.”
I startle. “I’ve forgiven them. It’s what I’m called to do as a Christian. But that doesn’t mean boundaries shouldn’t be put in place to protect myself from further harm.” As I counsel many of my clients to do.
“I agree that you have to watch out for Luc and Bart, that that’s where those boundaries come in handy, but Maggie and—”
“I appreciate your concern, Axel, but I’m not just a once-bitten, twice-shy kind of person. With the Pickwicks, it’s more like ten times bitten, twenty times shy. When I was growing up, Pickwick was much smaller, and despite the soiled reputations my relatives wracked up—my father included—they pulled a lot of weight and people followed their lead, even while they talked about them behind their backs.”
Axel is focused on the road, but I sense he’s listening in an unhurried way I’m unaccustomed to. He isn’t waiting for his turn to speak. He wants to hear from me. And for some reason, I want to share what I don’t normally talk about.
“It wasn’t just the rejection and unkind words that my mother and I had to endure. It was all the seeds the Pickwicks planted and watered.” A sharp pain alerts me that I’ve picked a cuticle to the point of blood, and I curl my fingers into my palms. “That’s a big chunk of a person’s life, and until someone takes something that precious from you, you can’t possibly understand where I’m coming from.”
I see him release one hand from the steering wheel, but I don’t follow it and am surprised when it closes over my fist. His hand is work hardened and strangely comforting. “I do understand.”
He does? I stare into eyes that would be markedly different from Grant’s even if they were the same color, but the sincerity in Axel’s eyes is taken from me when he returns his attention to the road and his hand to the wheel, as if realizing he’s overstepped the bounds.
