by Tamara Leigh
He did. But I miss his hand on mine. I close my right hand over my left in an attempt to retain the warmth of his touch. The gesture is telling, but before I can correct it, Axel’s gaze flicks to my hands, and I force myself to leave them, though all of me longs to guiltily snatch them apart.
“I’m sorry for what you and your mother went through. It was wrong, but the point is that you went through it. You’re on the other side now, Piper, and you’re not the only one there.”
Is he saying Maggie and Bridget are on the other side with me? That doesn’t seem possible, but I’m too tired to argue. “I’ll have to take your word for that.”
“I wish you would.”
His sincerity baffles me. “You know I’m damage control, so why are you being so nice to me?”
His mouth crooks. “While I disagree with what you’re here to do, it’s obvious you care about your uncle.”
It is? For some reason, his observation chokes me up.
“Also, I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.”
I swallow. “Thank you.”
“But also a warning.” He looks directly at me. “I don’t like being made a fool of.”
Okay, not choked up anymore. Gritting my teeth, I turn my head and stare out the window.
A half hour later, my cell phone alerts me to a message. Guessing I was out of range when the call came in, I listen to Artemis explain that he can’t meet with me today—he wants to take his new tractor for a spin. I grunt as I flip the phone closed.
“Bad news?” Axel asks.
“Could be better.”
As I look away, a staccato ring rises between us, this time from Axel’s phone. With a glance at the screen, he flips it open. “Hi, Maggie.”
Why is she calling him?
“Can you do it?” A pause. “No.” Another pause. “Bridget’s busy, so that leaves you.” He chuckles. “Me? That would look bad, and I don’t think she’d go for it.”
Are they talking about me?
“You’re the better choice.” He slides his gaze over me. “Don’t worry; she’ll behave.”
They are talking about me!
He closes the phone. “Maggie has agreed to spend a couple of nights with you.”
I catch my breath. “Why?”
“Doctor’s orders. I asked Bridget, but she has other plans.”
This is what the two discussed when he pulled her aside?
“Devyn was rather enthusiastic about getting to know you, so Maggie didn’t stand a chance.” His mouth curves. “Her daughter is persistent.”
As is Axel. Though tempted to argue over the choice of babysitter, I resist. If a reluctant Maggie is willing to awaken me every couple of hours, the least I can do is be awakened. Besides, it’s not as if there will be any chumming, late-night talks, or bonding. And Devyn will be there, and she’s likable enough.
I shrug. “All right.” And? “Thank you for making the arrangements.” A while later, I thank him again as I climb out of his Jeep in front of the mansion.
“Maggie and Devyn will be over around seven.”
“I’ll be here.” I turn to ascend the steps, but as he accelerates up the driveway, I look around and catch him watching me in the rearview mirror as I’m watching him.
“Not my type.” But whosever type he is… Well, good for her.
12
You’re early.” I stare at my cousin, who looks gorgeous, from her tousled red hair to her pink toenails visible in one-inch sandals that elevate her that extra inch to six feet. I suddenly feel insignificant, especially in bare feet and toenails in need of a repaint.
She smiles halfheartedly, obviously as uncomfortable with the arrangement as I am. As for Devyn, the soon-to-be-twelve-year-old steps forward and beams with all the teeth to which her bowed mouth has access. “The cavalry has arrived.”
They have—complete with briefcase, suitcase, and a bulging backpack that makes the girl lean hard to one side, where it hangs from a thin shoulder.
I open the door wider. “Come in.”
Devyn bounds forward, followed by her mother, who carries the suitcase and briefcase across the threshold with less enthusiasm.
I close the door. “It was nice of you to come.”
Devyn loops an arm through Maggie’s. “If you can’t count on family, who can you count on?”
Too bad her mother didn’t feel that way when I was growing up.
Something glances across Maggie’s face, but she looks away and pats her daughter’s arm. “This is going to be fun, hmm?”
“Bunches!” The girl slips free. “I’ll pick out our room.” She lopes off, and I hold my breath for fear the backpack will topple her, but she makes it down the hallway, up the stairs, and out of sight.
“Your daughter is sweet.”
A relaxed smile cranks up Maggie’s beauty rating. “And smart as a whip.” She makes a face that would wreak havoc on anyone else’s looks. “Not at all like me.”
I don’t know how to respond. Maggie was never self-deprecating. Her report card was littered with Cs, Ds, and Fs, but she always said it was because she was bored and had better things to do than study.
“How’s the head?”
I touch the bandage beneath my bangs. “Good. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about, but…”
She nods. “Look, I know you aren’t thrilled about this, but Devyn was excited after meeting you at the hospital, and Axel assured me it’s important, so…”
I’m relieved I’m not the only one at a loss for words. Still, it’s unheard of for Maggie, who always had a lot to say, though usually with more finesse than Bridget, who burned bridges as if there were a glut of them.
“I appreciate that you disrupted your schedule to babysit me.” I nod past her. “I’m going to make myself something to eat. Are you and Devyn hungry?”
“We already ate.” She turns slightly aside, and I envy her long, toned calves beneath the hem of a straight skirt that rests on hips that show no evidence of having birthed a child. “We’ll just settle in, and then I need to get to work.”
I eye her briefcase. Is she a fashion designer? interior decorator?
“I’m an auctioneer.”
I startle.
“I make my living selling other people’s castoffs.”
“So you work for a company like Sotheby’s?”
She chuckles, and her Southern belle accent is present even in the disjointed sound. “Although I do occasionally bring high-end items to auction, most times it’s a house, land, farm equipment, or the miscellaneous contents of a deceased person’s home.”
A memory of the one time I attended an auction rises with all the pain associated with losing our home to pay for delinquent taxes after my father deserted us to avoid imprisonment.
The man standing behind the podium in our front yard wears overalls and has salt-and-pepper whiskers and a yammering mouth that sends saliva flying. I stand frozen until Mom hurries me away. Within a month, we leave the cottage on the Pickwick estate and return home. The new owner, an investor, has rented it back to us, and my world returns to normal. Or as far as normal gets when you’re a Pickwick who doesn’t fit the mold.
I come back to the present to find Maggie staring at me. “Isn’t that a male-dominated profession?”
“It is, especially in these parts, but I’m making headway, much to the frustration of my competition.” She smiles. “I have a knack for getting top dollar.”
More like sex appeal. And she probably isn’t averse to using it to her advantage as she did in high school. “I’m glad you found your niche.”
She shifts the cases. “I’d better see what accommodations Devyn has chosen.” She crosses to the stairs with a stride born of confidence in all things female. Despite years of observation and practice, I can’t quite get my hips to do what hers do—sway, but not so much that it’s obvious.
Resigned to feel frumpy while Maggie is here, I decide to go all the way—two slices of
cheese on my grilled cheese sandwich rather than one. And maybe one of those little pecan pies Uncle Obe must have stocked up on before he landed in the hospital.
Errol lifts his big head from his paws when I enter the library two hours after I holed up in the kitchen to munch through my sandwich and make calls to clients.
“I hope you don’t mind that I let Errol in.” Devyn sets her book aside and leans down to ruffle his neck. “I went for a walk, and he was down at the pond with Axel. Axel said you wouldn’t mind if I brought him in for the night.”
I did agree to it. “That’s fine.” I turn to Maggie where she sits behind the enormous mahogany desk in front of the windows. “I just wanted to let you know—” What is that on her face? Can’t be reading glasses. But they are. Rectangular, faintly blue lenses perch halfway down her nose that pair with my dazzling cousin about as well as ketchup with caviar.
“Yes?” She leaves the glasses in place rather than ashamedly whipping them off.
“I’m getting an early night and wanted to tell you so you can schedule my wake-ups. The doctor said every two hours.”
She glances at her watch. “See you around eleven, then.”
“Miss Piper, can I ask you something?”
“She needs to go to bed, Dev.”
“Just one question, Mom.” Devyn beckons me forward, and I cross to the sofa as she retrieves the book from beside her. “I looked at your senior picture in Mom’s yearbook—”
Oh no. My graduating yearbook, which I had no reason to purchase for the memories it held of a life I was leaving behind.
“—and I felt a connection with you.” She studies a page I don’t dare look at too closely. “Well, with who you were. Not that I’m close to being a senior, but there’s definitely a connection.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maggie rise. “Let’s not bother Piper with—”
“Please, Mom.” Devyn peers at her over the back of the sofa. “It’s not a question you can answer.”
At Maggie’s hesitation, Devyn pats the sofa cushion. “I won’t keep you long, Miss Piper.”
Aware that I’m wearing my discomfort on my sleeve, I lower to the edge.
“You were a late bloomer.” Devyn taps the picture of an eighteen-year-old Piper Pickwick whose smile is forced and face is framed by an ill-fated attempt to give body to her flat red hair. Compare that to the previous picture of Maggie whose easy beauty shines off the page, and you have a study in opposites.
“But bloom you did,” Devyn says, “which is inspiring. You see, I think I’m a late bloomer, partly by choice, because I view hair and makeup as a waste of time better spent pursuing things like astronomy, books, and environmental awareness.” She sighs. “Anyway, my question is: How did you handle the ‘it’ girls? Some can be quite mean, as I’m sure you know.”
It’s all I can do to keep from turning to Maggie where she stands behind the sofa. Has anyone told Devyn that her mother was not only one of the original “it” girls but commanded a legion of “mean” girls? Now her daughter is one of those ostracized for not being pretty or fashionable or rich enough. How ironic—
Not ironic. Sad. Regardless of who you are, a childhood is far too long a time to be made to feel like an outsider. And it’s not really the scars that are the problem, as they imply healing. No, the problem lies with those hurts that simply scab over.
I look into Devyn’s eyes. “Mostly, I stayed out of their way, tried to develop relationships with others outside the privileged circle, comforted myself with the knowledge there was life beyond middle and high school, and prayed.” Which I was much better at when life was painfully uncertain.
“But I can’t seem to stay out of their way. It goes against my nature. If I’m walking down a hallway and they’re coming four abreast, why should I flatten myself against the lockers to let them pass? One of them can step aside. After all, I have as much right to the hallway as they do.”
In principle, yes. In middle and high school, no. “What happens when you don’t give right of way?”
“Standoff, which can be uncomfortable, but unless I’m running late for class, they fold every time.” Devyn’s mouth momentarily curves. “Of course, there are always the snide comments, the eye rolling—”
I remember, though I did my best not to provoke it. Ask Maggie.
She lays a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You can visit with Piper more tomorrow.”
Devyn wrinkles her nose, too long and sharp to have come from Maggie. “All right.” But as I rise, she jumps up and steps over Errol to avoid disturbing him. “Can I walk you to your room, Miss Piper?”
“De-vyn,” her mother drawls.
I look to my cousin, whose glasses are hooked on the neck of her blouse in line with the bit of cleavage that makes me feel flat. “I don’t mind, Maggie.”
She shrugs. “All right, but no late-night”—a secretive smile appears—“tête-à-têtes.”
“Ah!” Devyn bounces onto her toes. “You used it.”
What is she talking about? And what’s with “tête-à-têtes”?
“Told you I would.” Maggie checks her watch. “Now go, and be back in five minutes or I’m coming after you.”
Devyn hurries me away, and as we start up the stairs, I have to ask, “What was that about—your mother using something?”
“The word tête-à-tête. She has one of those Daily Word calendars to help her improve her vocabulary. I think most of the words are useless since people don’t talk like that, so she likes to prove me wrong by finding a use for one.”
Maggie trying to improve her vocabulary… Not the Maggie I knew, which leads to the question of how she must feel when her daughter talks about the “it” and “mean” girls. Some people can’t see themselves for what they are—or were—even when a mirror is held up, but something tells me Maggie isn’t one of them. Something about the way the air stirred as she stood over us.
When we top the stairs and start along the second-story hallway, Devyn says, “My mom’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is.”
She nods. “I’m sure I’ll come into my own after a few awkward teenage years, and once I allocate time for hair and makeup, but I don’t harbor illusions that I’ll be as pretty as her. That’s probably my father in me.”
Intrigued by this odd little girl who only looks little, I stare at her as we near my bedroom.
She frowns. “I don’t know who he is, but sometimes I miss him. If that makes sense.”
Sometimes I missed my father, even when I was older and told myself I shouldn’t. “I understand.”
“Really?”
I halt before my bedroom. “Really.”
She beams, and I long to point out that she has her mother’s smile. “Well, I’d better let you get to bed.”
I nod, but as I start to turn into the room, her thin arms wrap around my waist and she hugs me. “I know I’ll enjoy getting to know you. And I hope you’ll feel the same about me.”
While the last thing I want is to have any emotional ties to Pickwick, I like her. “I’m sure I will.” I stare at the mousey brown hair at the top of her head as I fight the impulse to hug her back-to give her what I longed for someone other than my mother to give me. Then do it. I close my eyes and put my arms around her little shoulders.
A contented sigh goes out of her, and then she releases me. “I’ll remind Mom to wake you in a couple of hours. Probably after we come down off the roof.”
“The roof?”
“Unc-Unc has a telescope up there. Mom promised we’d do some stargazing.”
I almost wish they would invite me along.
“’Night, Miss Piper.”
“Good night.” I step into the bedroom and flick the light switch, only to wish I hadn’t. The overhead light is not supposed to play favorites, but it’s spotlighting my go-anywhere Bible, which hasn’t moved an inch since I fulfilled my daily devotional time with the Scripture about shaking off the dust of
a town that doesn’t welcome a person.
“Okay okay.” I trudge forward and swipe the little book from the dresser. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I fan through the New Testament section in search of yellow. Whatever I took the time to highlight must have impacted me—and therefore is something I can easily sink my teeth into.
Ah! Mark 6:11: “And if any place will not welcome you or listen to you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave, as a testimony against them.”
I blink. “Hmm. Another one of those ‘dust-shaking’ verses.” Coincidence or divine counsel? I blow a breath up my face. Regardless, it’s a swift reminder of my Get In, Get Out strategy. No matter how likable Devyn is, no matter how changed her mother seems to be, no matter how Blue Axel’s eyes are, Pickwick is still one dusty place.
“Dusty!” And with that and a promise to make more of an effort the next time I tackle a daily devotional, I close the go-anywhere and get ready for bed.
Unfortunately, my sleep and dreams are interrupted every two hours by suddenly dependable Maggie, who makes me open my eyes and respond before returning to her own bed. Very aggravating, especially as my cousin is nearly as beautiful groggy and out of makeup as she is on full alert and not a pore out of place.
Now if she really has changed as Axel wants me to believe, what a combination…
13
It’s one thing to know the Pickwicks are out there, quite another to have them breach the walls. As I stand frozen in the kitchen doorway, an irritated-looking Maggie stares at her brother, Luc, and her mother, Adele, where they sit on the opposite side of the island in the light slanting through the windows.
“I appreciate that,” Maggie says, “and in some ways I feel the same, but—”
“Miss Piper, you’re up!”
Feeling the eyes of my cousins and aunt, I look down at the girl who has appeared alongside me in the doorway. “Good morning, Devyn.”
She studies my face. “Rough night?”
“Too much interrupted sleep.” I don’t mean that accusingly, but that’s how it comes out, spurred on by the invasion in Uncle Obe’s kitchen.
