Leaving Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  We take the long way around Errol where he’s sprawled on the floor, and Maggie flips the light switch alongside the doorway. “That’s the point.”

  I falter when we enter the dimly lit hallway, but my cousin’s long-legged stride carries her to the staircase and up half a dozen steps before I begin my own ascent. Suddenly, she halts and swings around. “I’m sorry, Piper.”

  I stare at her. What am I supposed to say? That it’s okay? It should be. After all, it has been years since she belittled and snubbed me, and I did forgive her. Or did I? It still hurts. Not terribly, but enough to feel a part of me.

  Maggie drops her hands to her sides. “I don’t know what else to say, except thank you for seeing Devyn as separate from me.”

  How did I get here? I didn’t come to Pickwick for Maggie to make amends. Or to connect with her daughter. Or to be Trinity’s godsend. Or to be rattled by Axel. Or to have doubts about Grant. What happened to Get In, Get Out?

  “And thank you for humoring her. Despite her quest for all things intellectual, she needs to feel a part of something bigger than the two of us.”

  “It was fun. I’m glad we could spend time together.”

  Maggie’s lips strain into a smile. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  Another round of awakenings, after which she and Devyn will go home. Which is what I want, as I have lots to do to prepare for Uncle Obe’s return, not the least of which is to corner Artemis, who has forgotten the importance of our meeting before I talk to Uncle Obe about his will.

  “Good night, Piper.”

  “Goodnight.”

  As Maggie turns, I glimpse the release of her smile, and I know I shouldn’t withhold what she was asking for in not so many words, but—No “buts.” Yes, it still hurts, and it will until you do something about it. So do what God calls you to do!

  “Maggie?”

  She looks around.

  “It’s okay.” I give a nervous laugh. “We’re different people now. All grown up.”

  A vulnerability I don’t recall her possessing softens her face. “Thank you.” She inclines her head and continues up the stairs.

  Shortly, I sit cross-legged on the pilled bedspread in my room, my iPhone beside me in anticipation of Celine’s call, my go-anywhere Bible in my lap, my jaw slack. I did the fan-and-search-for-yellow again, and there was another “dust-shaking” verse: Acts 13:51: “So they shook the dust from their feet in protest against them and went to Iconium.” Coincidence? I think not. More like divine counsel.

  “Dusty,” I whisper just as my iPhone rings.

  Ten minutes later, Celine has brought me current on everything, including Janet Farr. “She hasn’t called again.”

  Should I take that as a good sign? Just because she’s disappeared back down the hole she stuck her head up out of doesn’t mean I’m in the clear. In fact, I’m certain I’m not, which is all the more reason I need to light a fire under Artemis. Surely together we can find some way to convince Uncle Obe to leave his will alone.

  “Are you doing all right?” Celine asks.

  “Yes and no.”

  “What’s the yes part?”

  “My relatives aren’t as bad as I remember. Well, some of them.”

  “That’s good news. And the no part?”

  “That would be my return to L.A. Everything is moving way too slowly here.”

  After a long moment, Celine says, “Maybe God’s trying to tell you something and you’re not listening.”

  Ha! I pick up the go-anywhere. “Actually, I’m hearing Him loud and clear.”

  “Oh?” Her pert nose is probably wrinkling and her eyebrows lowering.

  “I’ve been trying to work in a daily devotional during my stay, and every time I open to the New Testament, I land on a verse about shaking the dust from your feet if a town doesn’t welcome you—as in ‘Get thee out of Pickwick, Piper Wick.’”

  Celine chuckles. “You and your Pickwick dust.”

  I have mentioned it a few times. In fact, when Celine chose the New Testament as our book club pick several years back, I pointed out to the group how many times dust shaking was mentioned.

  “Okay,” Celine says, “so whenever you randomly open the Bible and point, your finger lands on one of those verses.”

  I scowl. “That would be too unbelievable.”

  “Then?”

  “I fan through the pages, and when I see something I’ve highlighted, it’s always Jesus telling His disciples that when a town doesn’t welcome them, they should shake its dust from their feet.”

  “Oh.” This is the kind of “oh” without wrinkled nose and lowered eyebrows—drawn out with lips forming an O.

  “What?” I wince at how defensive I sound.

  “Do you have your Bible handy?”

  “I do.” What’s this about?

  “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks those are the only verses you’ve ever highlighted.”

  Are they? No, I’m certain scores of Scripture have impacted me enough to warrant highlighting. “You’re on.” I turn to the New Testament portion. “Ah! Matthew 10:14—dust.” Further proof God wants me out of Pickwick. “Mark 6:11—dust.” Last night’s selection. “Luke 9:5—dust.” The night before. “Luke 10:11—uh, dust.” Maybe I need to fan slower. “Acts 13:51—um… dust.” Slower yet. But no matter how slowly I fan through the twenty-some books, that’s it. And no highlighting in the Old Testament. Meaning it wasn’t divine counsel that led me to those scriptures. Not even coincidence.

  I sink back on the bed. “Okay, so ‘dust’ Scripture is all I’ve highlighted in this little Bible—which by the way I probably haven’t used since book club—but I’m sure that isn’t the case with my big Bible.”

  “Uh-huh. Face it, Piper, you’re stuck on shaking the Pickwick dust from your feet.”

  There are worse things. “Still, it applies.”

  “Only if you’re out there spreading Jesus’s message and being received with contempt—that’s when you shake the dust from your feet.”

  I sigh. “So what would you do if you were in my dusty feet?” There, I asked it, meaning I have only myself to blame if I don’t like what she has to say.

  “I would try to make peace with my relatives,” she says softly. “And I’d pray that when I did leave, it would be in such a way that I didn’t mind taking some of that dust with me.”

  She would let herself get close to those who hurt her… make herself vulnerable. That’s Celine for you. “You’re a bigger woman than I.”

  “Yeah, by a couple sizes, but I am starting that new yogurt diet tomorrow.”

  I come up off the bed coughing and spluttering. “That’s not what I meant,” I finally spit out, then hold my breath in hopes of laughter.

  And she rolls it out—the real stuff, not the shallow laugh when her day is rough and she’s just being nice. “Sorry. It was too good to pass up.”

  We talk a few more minutes. At the end she suggests that I take a more positive approach to my daily devotionals. I’ll probably regret it, but I bite again, and she tells me to look up Matthew 5:9 and Romans 8:28.

  “Thanks, Celine. Have a nice evening.”

  “Oh, I plan on it—a little online shopping to see what your hundred bucks will buy me.”

  I groan. “Must you rub it in?”

  “Just a reminder for you to stop with the dust.”

  “Good night.” I set my iPhone on the nightstand and reach to do the same with the little Bible, but curiosity stops me. “Matthew 5:9…” I crack the go-anywhere just enough to locate the verse: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.”

  “I’m trying, Lord.” And succeeding, even if only with Maggie.

  Curiosity calls again, but I don’t take the call. Romans 8:28 will have to wait.

  I turn out the light and burrow into my pillow. But sleep is long in coming as my mind mulls over Matthew 5:9, Celine’s advice, the curious case of Janet Farr, and the conscience-batter
ing matter of Trinity. When I finally do sink into the deep, Maggie appears to awaken me, and I have to start all over again.

  15

  Does your uncle know ya hired Trinity Templeton?” are the first words out of Artemis’s mouth as he bustles past me.

  Relieved that Trinity is out of earshot, I close the mansion’s front door. “I mentioned it when Maggie and I visited him yesterday.”

  Brow beaded with the effort of climbing the steps, he turns his great bulk to me with a wobble worthy of the Weebles I played with as a little girl. “And did ya notice the terror on his face when ya mentioned it?”

  “No.”

  “No startle? No widenin’ of the eyes?” He wiggles his stubby fingers before his face. “No jaw droppin’?”

  “I know what terror looks like, Artemis, and Uncle Obe was not terrified.”

  He glares at me. “Then he was out of it—probably off visitin’ la-la land again.”

  “La-la land?”

  “Why, I’m talkin’ about—” His eyes bulge. “Ahem! A-hem!” He jerks a handkerchief from his breast pocket and pats his mouth. “It’s just that your uncle is a strange one.” He wipes the moisture from his brow. “But that ain’t no call for puttin’ a body away or makin’ like they’re mentally incompetent.”

  So there is something beyond strange about Uncle Obe. He was definitely “out of it” yesterday, but I assumed it was due to his intense physical therapy session prior to our arrival. Now, it seems, la-la land may be responsible, at least in part.

  “All of us are strange to one degree or another.” Artemis puffs along. “Even you, Piper Pickwick—pardon me, Wick—with all your education and big-city job. A lot of people would say ya was strange.”

  I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Artemis, what’s going on with Uncle Obe?”

  “I told ya, he’s strange.” He gestures for me to follow him. “Now let’s strategize about how you’re gonna convince him to let bygones be bygones.”

  An hour later, my time with Artemis interspersed with breaks to check on Trinity to get her back on task, I’m no nearer to the truth about Uncle Obe and my ears are ringing with Artemis’s arguments against changes to the will. Most are legitimate, but he admits to having presented them to Uncle Obe to no effect. As his “favorite” niece, I’m expected to make him see reason.

  “You know,” I say as Artemis heaves up from the library desk, “if you tell me about my uncle’s ventures into la-la land, it would make what you’re asking of me easier. Does he have a psychological disorder?”

  He snaps his briefcase closed and comes around the desk. “He’s just strange.”

  “Is it dementia?”

  His fleshy neck quivers. “Ya do what ya came home to do, young lady, and it won’t matter, will it?”

  “Proof is what Luc and Bart were after when they broke in here, isn’t it? Something that shows Uncle Obe isn’t in a state of mind to legally change his will.”

  His mouth pinches, making it appear cartoonish in such a large face. “Attorney-client privilege. And now I’m off to defend the rights of another client whose family is tryin’ to stick him in a nursing home though he can take care of himself. Good day, Miss Pickwick—pardon me, Wick.“

  He walks out of the library. Not until he’s outside on the front steps does he say another word, and only when his gaze lands on Trinity’s pumpkin coach. “I don’t know why ya hired that woman, especially knowin’ she’s one of the wrongs your uncle wants to right.”

  Considering how he frowns on the influence he believes Axel has over Uncle Obe, I decide not to mention how I came by Trinity. “She needed a job, and Uncle Obe needed a housekeeper.”

  He scowls. “Well, don’t think he hasn’t tried to find one. He advertises weekly.”

  “And no one answers his ad?”

  “Of course they do, but Victoria spoiled your uncle for anyone else, her being deaf and all.”

  And Uncle Obe being intensely private.

  He glowers. “Just don’t let Trinity go botherin’ him with all her yackin’. He’s gonna need peace and quiet when he comes home tomorrow, and I’m countin’ on ya to make sure he gets it.” He wags a finger. “And to make him see sense about the will.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good day.”

  As he drives away, I turn my eyes up. Okay, Lord, so maybe Uncle Obe does have dementia or something equally devastating. What am I supposed to do? It would be the easiest way to put the will to rest and get back to L.A., but it feels like betrayal. Is it? If he isn’t competent, he shouldn’t be making further decisions about his will. The whole idea of righting Pickwick wrongs is probably just the dementia talking—or whatever sends him to la-la land. And yet, after his surgery, he seemed so lucid and present and in high spirits.

  I groan. Until I can substantiate what Artemis let drop, it’s neither here nor there, as my mother would say. Where should I start looking for proof of Uncle Obe’s mental state? I step back inside and am struck by the mansion’s emptiness despite the singing that travels down the hallway. At least Trinity is happy.

  “So am I,” I remind myself. After all, Maggie and Devyn left after breakfast, bringing an end to board games and middle-of-the-night awakenings. “Happy,” I singsong and cross to the study where I consider the desk in the far corner.

  It’s smaller than the one in the library and has the look of use about it. As it seems the best place to begin the search for Uncle Obe’s personal papers, I step forward. Of course, Luc and Bart might have thought the same and already combed through—

  I halt. I have joined forces with those Easter egg-thievin’, breaking-and-entering, night-vision-wearing scoundrels. Me! Piper Pick—

  Ah! Wick! Wick! Wick!

  Now that that’s straightened out—no thanks to Artemis—what should I do about proof of Uncle Obe’s mental state? If Artemis isn’t going to tell me, what choice do I have but to search it out for myself?

  Probably the same line of reasoning shared by Luc and Bart.

  I’m not like them. Uncle Obe asked me to stay at the mansion, and I was given a key.

  And permission to go through his papers?

  “But if he has only one foot in reality,” I address the ceiling, “then surely he—”

  “Who ya talkin’ to?”

  I swing around. Trinity stands in the doorway, a wad of sheets under one arm, a duster in the opposite hand. I relax my splayed hands and shoulders. “Talking to myself. You know, working through a problem. Lots of people do it.” Just in case she doesn’t realize it’s normal—to an extent.

  She brightens. “I was doin’ that myself, sayin’, ‘Trinity, you are so blessed to be making decent money workin’ for yourself, settin’ your own hours, doin’ work that helps others. You ought to find a way to repay Piper for the opportunity.’”

  While she’s working behind the scenes to make certain Uncle Obe doesn’t name you as a beneficiary. And keeping to the shadows so you can shoulder responsibility for her wrong.

  “How is Uncle Obe’s room shaping up?” I ask.

  “Good, though every time I walk past the kitchen, it’s a struggle not to throw myself into that mess. But I look away, and when that doesn’t work, I count to ten.”

  “Great.”

  “It’s smart of you to put your uncle downstairs, what with his knee surgery.”

  Actually, Uncle Obe’s doctor called attention to the necessity of altering the sleeping arrangements. Thus, we appropriated the downstairs bedroom used by the live-in cook during the mansion’s early years.

  “Do you need help bringing down Uncle Obe’s clothes and personal items?”

  She shakes her head. “You just get on with whatever you were doin’.”

  I don’t think I will. Before I stick my nose further into this mess, I need to think it through. And spend more time with Uncle Obe to get an idea of this la-la land. And pray it through. Yes, I need to do that. And my daily devotional, featuring Romans 8:28.


  “I just wanted to let you know…” Trinity frowns. “Well, butter my brain, I’ve forgotten what I wanted to tell you.”

  I fight a smile. “If you remember what it was, I’ll be in the library.” Lots of clients to call—top of the list: my young Hollywood couple. According to the entertainment news show Celebs Misbehaving Badly, last night Cootchie pinned a restaurant hostess to the floor and wrote a bad word on her forehead with red lipstick.

  “I’m off to the laundry room.” Trinity turns. “See ya.”

  As I veer toward the library, I pull out my phone.

  “It was pink lipstick!” Cootchie screeches. “And I didn’t write it on her makeup-caked face. I wrote it across her skimpy top, like a scarlet letter. And, no, I couldn’t have handled it differently. I did what any woman would do when another woman rubs up against her man. I took her down.”

  “All right, Cootchie, take a deep breath—”

  “Do you know the difference between right and wrong, Piper?”

  As in going through Uncle Obe’s personal papers? Apparently, I do.

  “I know the difference, so don’t play devil’s advocate for a woman who would have dragged my husband into the nearest closet if I hadn’t been there. It was dead wrong, and I won’t stand for it.”

  “I understand. So let’s discuss how we can get your story in front of the public so they can decide for themselves.” Even if she has to settle with the woman, the public needs to know what was behind the attack—and sympathize with her.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Piper, I’m disappointed that we have to do this by phone, but it’s a relief to know you’re in my corner.” She sighs. “You are so lucky to be on that side of the spotlight. No one watching your every move, no one telling you to do this or that, no one wanting you to be anything other than what you are, no worry about how the choices you make will affect your loved ones. Really, you have no idea what it’s like.”

  Don’t I? “Let’s talk about how to put your best face forward, Cootchie.”

  She gasps with delight. “You just tell me what you want me to do, who you want me to be, and where you want me to go, and I’m there.”