Leaving Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  If she wasn’t on the other side of the country, I might shake her.

  Axel lets another Pickwick in. Stopped midstep by the sight of him and Bridget in the garden, I narrow my gaze. Though they are somewhat distorted by the grime on the kitchen windows, I can see from their serious faces, they’re not discussing the weather. Is it Uncle Obe’s will? According to Luc, Bridget sides with Axel in supporting my uncle. That still strikes me as odd, and I have to wonder if Bridget is playing a role written by Luc. She may be an environmentalist/ animal activist, but she’s also a Pickwick. Of course, so is Maggie, and she’s certainly improved.

  “Blessed are the peacemakers…”

  Axel looks past Bridget and points in the direction of the Bradford pear tree I climbed as a child. With a swish of her dreadlocks, she turns and props her hands on hips that are fit with a fanny pack. She says something, and Axel smiles, and then she gives a shout of laughter and pokes him in the ribs.

  What’s that about? Is Bridget romantically involved with Axel as I earlier thought Maggie might be? Not that I care, but if a relationship exists, it could have a bearing on the will and might explain the reason they both support Uncle Obe.

  Axel looks around. As his gaze captures mine through the window, his laughter tapers off, and he raises a hand that causes Bridget to turn.

  You are so stealthy, Piper. If you ever get tired of PR work, you can always become a PI.

  Attempting to downplay any appearance of guilt, I smile, move to the door, and pull it open. “Bridget, I didn’t know you were here.”

  She starts toward me. “Mixing business with pleasure.”

  I don’t understand the “business” part, but I understand the “pleasure” part, and it doesn’t sit well with me. Of course, she and Axel are probably highly compatible, especially in light of her dreadlocks and his ponytail-mustache-goatee thing. “Oh? You have business at the estate?”

  “The usual.” She halts before the step I stand on. “Mulch, weed killer, fertilizer…” She bobs her head. “And I brought a crape myrtle to replace the one that died down by the gate.”

  I’m lost, but she must work for a nursery. While a good fit for her tree-hugging tendencies, where it doesn’t fit is that she’s a Pickwick. Hauling mulch and manure ought to be beneath her. Of course, Maggie is an auctioneer, and Luc is a used-car salesman. I’m the one with the glamorous, high-income job. The tables have turned, and though there was a time I would have secretly welcomed it, guilt is more my speed.

  Axel’s appearance at Bridget’s side snaps me out of my musing. I blink at my cousin, who stares expectantly at me. “I suppose you need to be paid.” I head toward the kitchen to retrieve my checkbook.

  “I put it on Uncle Obe’s account,” Bridget says.

  “Oh.” I turn back. “I guess he would have one with an estate this size.”

  The black nylon of my cousin’s fanny pack undulates, and I remember a family gathering when my older cousin asked if I wanted to see what was in her picnic basket. Being ten or so and having heard that her father was indulging her taste in critters with exotic varieties like the sugar glider and the chameleon, I steeled myself for a four-legged creature. But there were no legs on the glistening baby boa. My scream was met by laughter and a new name—Scaredy-cat. No amount of coaxing by my mother could convince me to come out of the car, where I huddled on the floorboard.

  The fanny pack stills, rustles, and stills again.

  I point. “What’s in there?”

  Bridget pats it. “My pet. Wanna see?”

  I’ve heard that before. I cross my arms over my chest. (There is a time and a place to appear defensive.) “Is it a snake?”

  “Oh no, a fanny pack would be all wrong for a snake. Let me show you.”

  I don’t care to see it, but a glance at Axel roots me. He’s amused, but I am not going to run screaming for cover. Not this time.

  She rubs the creature through the nylon. “Reggie? Come out and say ‘hi.’”

  More undulating, and then the unzippered flap rises and a pink, ratlike nose pops out. Four-legged, then. I can handle four-legged—as long as it stays outside where it belongs.

  After a round of sniffing, the whole head appears, but it doesn’t belong to an exotic animal. It belongs to one I haven’t seen in ages. With beady little black eyes, it stares at me.

  “You keep a rodent for a pet?”

  Bridget’s eyes flash. “She is not a rodent. She’s an opossum, a marsupial.”

  A rodent to me, but why argue over our definitions of what constitutes vermin. “I don’t know much about wildlife. Speaking of which, doesn’t it belong in the wild?”

  Bridget’s face turns grim. “She’s my baby now.” She strokes its head. “Her mother was hit by a car. I pulled her and her siblings off their mama’s back, but only Reggie survived, less a tail.” She lifts the rodent and turns its backside to me.

  Sure enough, there’s something more than a stub, less than a tail. “So no napping upside down,” I say, hoping to end the conversation on a light note.

  Bridget scowls. “You don’t know much about wildlife. Opossums’ tails are prehensile and help them stabilize while climbing. They can only hang by them for very short periods of time.”

  I’m glad we cleared that up. “I didn’t know.”

  “Most people don’t.” She returns Reggie to her fanny pack. “And now for the pleasure’ part of my visit.” Bridget sticks out a hand. “I’m here for my corn.”

  Pickled corn is the “pleasure” part? I glance at Axel who smiles. I was so hoping she would forget and that her jar would replace the one I broke. “I’ll grab it for you.”

  I slip inside and am halfway to the pantry when the screen door whines. I look over my shoulder.

  My cousin steps forward, seeing nothing wrong with bringing a rodent into someone else’s home. “Axel said he would unload the rest of my delivery so we can visit.”

  I eye the rodent peering out of her fanny pack. Peacemaker… “Uh, do you think it’s a good idea to bring Reggie inside?”

  She tickles it under the chin. “She’s not going anywhere. Are you, sweetums?”

  And it’s not my home. “Be right back.”

  When I return from the pantry, salivating at the juicy kernels of corn pressed against the sides of the glass jar, Bridget sits on a stool at the island. Thankfully, Reggie remains in the pouch Bridget has substituted for its mother’s. Not that her “pet” could still fit in an opossum’s pouch at ten or so inches and a couple of pounds.

  “It could be a while,” Bridget says. “That was a lot of mulch.”

  And something tells me that Axel is in no hurry. I need to have a talk with him.

  “Hungry?” Bridget asks.

  “A little.”

  “Then why don’t you fry us some corn?”

  The jar nearly slips from my fingers. She’s offering to share her pickled corn with me? Surely this is a cruel joke.

  Now is the time to embrace the wisdom of “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” “Sure.” Before she realizes what she’s done, I’m around the island and pulling a cast-iron pan from the cabinet below. Pickled corn at last! Five minutes later, it’s sizzling in butter—the entire jar.

  “That’s a lot of corn,” Bridget says.

  I look down at the beautiful kernels that waft their distinctive scent, tempting me to shovel a spoonful in my mouth. “We’ll just have to make it an early dinner.”

  She shakes her head. “That stuff is better than good, but if you don’t go easy, you’ll end up with a tummy ache. Of course, we could invite Axel to join us. A guy his size can probably polish off half of that without any serious repercussions.”

  Half?! I was counting on that half, or at least a good portion of it.

  She slides off the stool and crosses to the refrigerator. A moment later, her face is stuck in it, which means the rodent’s is too. Yuck!

  “Slim pickin’s,” she says, “but I think we can ma
ke a meal of it.” She looks over her shoulder. “If you’d like, I’ll pick up some groceries and drop them by in the morning so Uncle Obe will have healthy meals to get him back on his feet.”

  I’m surprised by the offer and sheepish, since I had every intention of restocking the refrigerator. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  She glances at the stovetop. “Don’t let that burn. Uncle Obe keeps a close eye on his inventory, so that’s our only shot at enjoying my winnings.”

  I apply myself to the corn. Just in time.

  “Eggs and country ham it is,” Bridget announces.

  She’s no longer a vegetarian?

  “Toss two pans on the stove, will you?”

  As she turns from the refrigerator, I groan to see Reggie snuffling at the packages six inches from its pointed nose.

  Bridget follows my gaze. “Gotcha.” She places the food on the island and turns away. “Wouldn’t want my baby getting popped by hot grease,” she coos as she unfastens the fanny pack.

  The only consideration is that her rodent could get burned? Gritting my teeth, I lower the heat on the corn and retrieve two more pans.

  Bridget arranges the fanny pack on a chair near the back door and rubs Reggie between the ears. Prepared to remind her to scrub her hands, I’m relieved when she turns her flip-flops toward the sink and steam rises from the water as she washes.

  Fifteen minutes later, with domestic efficiency that belies a Pickwick—myself included—Bridget slides over-easy eggs and country ham onto a platter. “Plate the corn and I’ll call Axel in.” She carries the platter to the eat-in side of the island.

  I quell the temptation to sample the pickled corn while her back is turned, and when Axel tramps in a minute later, I’m salivating where I sit beside Bridget.

  “Thank you for the invitation.” He wipes his feet on the rug.

  “Hurry up—it’s getting cold.” Bridget pats the seat beside her. As Axel settles on it, she wags a finger at him. “If you want to pray, keep it to yourself.”

  He grins at her and then lowers his head.

  “Same goes for you.” Bridget turns to me. “Of course, I’m assuming you’re still the churchgoing type.”

  To prove it, I close my eyes and drop my chin. Silently, I thank God for the meal, especially the pickled corn, and ask Him to heal Uncle Obe, and help me with the matter of the will. When I open my eyes, I’m disappointed to find I did so a moment before Axel. Now he has no idea I was praying. He probably thinks I was impatiently tapping my foot like Bridget. Well, at least I proved to her I’m churchgoing.

  Is that what you were doing? Silly me, I thought you were talking to God.

  “Something wrong?” Axel asks.

  God knows. Sorry, God. “Uh, could you pass the pickled corn?”

  Axel raises an eyebrow and looks to the bowl in front of me. Right where I put it. “Oh, sorry.” I scoop up three spoonfuls and pass the bowl to Bridget.

  She takes one spoonful—a good sign—before offering it to Axel, who will surely undo all the good she did.

  He shakes his head. “I’ll stick with eggs and ham.”

  A very good sign.

  “Your uncle’s corn is good, but I only like it occasionally.” He forks two slices of ham onto his plate and three eggs. “In fact, I had to toss out half of one of the jars he gave me when it went bad before I could work up an appetite to finish it.”

  He tossed out pickled corn? One of the jars given to him? Might there be others? One is all I need to get Uncle Obe’s inventory back up to where it belongs. Of course, two would be nice, as I could take one to Mom.

  “I agree.” Bridget passes the ham and eggs to me. “Love the stuff, but it can get old, and as I warned Piper, there’s a price to pay if you overdo it.”

  After taking an egg and a small piece of ham, I plow the tines of my fork through the golden kernels. Coming out the other side fully loaded, I raise the fork.

  My cell phone bleepity-bleeps. I nearly stuff the corn in my mouth, but it’s probably a media contact returning one of the calls I sent out to secure air and print time for Cootchie. With staggering restraint, I lower the fork to my plate and pull the phone from my pocket.

  Grant’s number is on the screen, and I haven’t even called him recently. So why the struggle between answering and letting him go to voice mail so I can eat my pickled corn?

  “Are you going to answer that?” Bridget asks as the bleepity-bleeping continues.

  With an apologetic smile, I hit the answer button as I hustle from the kitchen. “Hello?” I infuse my voice with questioning so I don’t sound eager.

  “We have a situation, Piper.”

  Well, “hello” to you too. As I step into the corridor, a thought strikes me, and I look around to find Bridget angled toward Axel, punctuating what she says with fork jabs in the space between them.

  “Hold on,” I tell Grant. “Uh, Bridget?”

  She looks around.

  “Just leave my plate. I’ll be back.”

  “Sure.”

  “And don’t throw away any leftovers.” Namely, the corn.

  Axel’s knowing glance makes me blush.

  I do an about-face and head for the privacy of the library. This is the business side of my relationship with Grant. I have no reason to take offense at the first words out of his mouth, no reason for him to treat me different from the way other clients treat me. Though some of them do treat me like family.

  I lower to the sofa where Devyn crashed last night and raise the phone to my ear. “What’s the situation?”

  “An article in today’s local paper suggests there could be more to my bachelor status than a desire to serve my constituents without hindrance.”

  Hindrance. Each time he applies the word to wife and children, I’m twinged. But one has to admire that he places his work above personal happiness. “The one who wrote the article, does he carry any weight?”

  “It’s a she, and I’ve never heard of her—name’s Jane Farredy.”

  Did that just ring a bell? I’m sure I heard a tinkle.

  “We have to cut this off at the jugular, Piper. If my constituents start questioning my sexuality, the election could get away from me.”

  “Of course.” If only I were clearheaded enough to whip out a plan of action. Must figure out where I laid my PR hat.

  “So here’s what we’ll do…”

  Despite a spurt of indignation that Grant presumes to do my job, I’m relieved. Doubtless, his plan will need tweaking, but he’s intelligent and levelheaded.

  “Which means,” Grant says, “you’ll fly to Denver first thing in the morning.”

  What?!

  “Great idea, don’t you think?”

  16

  I draw a deep breath. “You want me to fly to Denver?” “I need you here for photo ops. Handholding in the park, cuddling at the symphony whispering over candlelit dinners. The kind of things respectable, highly heterosexual bachelors do.”

  If I weren’t so shocked, I would laugh. The strategy, though, is good, even if it turns me into a prop. “I agree that something needs to be done, but I can’t—”

  “If that doesn’t do the trick, we can always slip into a jewelry store, if you know what I mean.”

  I do, and it isn’t remotely close to a marriage proposal. “I’m sorry, but I can’t come to Denver. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “More important than me?”

  Is it? It wasn’t before I left L.A., but something more than my Fourth of July stunt holds me here.

  “Piper…”

  I’m not taken in by his cajoling tone. After all, I helped to perfect it when several journalists noted it had shades of condescension.

  “Not only am I a well-paying client, but we have a personal relationship—one that has the potential to be more. Once the timing is right, of course.”

  I know that’s what we have, and yet it suddenly seems clinical. “We’ll work this out, but I can’t leave Pickwic
k now.”

  Silence… and then, “That’s it!”

  “What?”

  “I’ll fly out to you.”

  Whoa! Grant in Pickwick?

  “I’ll have to rework my schedule and cancel engagements, but doing so at this crucial time in the campaign ought to satisfy the press that this talk of my sexual orientation is a bunch of hot air.”

  I grip the sofa arm. “Let’s think this through.”

  “I have. It shouldn’t take more than a day, two at the outside, and then you can get back to whatever you’re doing there.”

  And abandon Uncle Obe? Based on my assurance that I would be here for him, his doctor agreed to release him to home rather than to a rehab facility. “I can’t, Grant.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “No.”

  “Piper…”

  “I’m sorry. I have to keep my commitment, and I can’t do it if you’re here.”

  “What commitment?”

  I don’t have an answer for him. There’s always the truth. And eventually I will have to tell him—when the timing is right and before he slips a ring on my finger. I touch my left hand and imagine a wedding ring there, as I’ve often done since the day he wondered about the IQ of our children.

  Piper Spangler, wife of U.S. Congressman Grant Spangler. For some reason, it lacks its previous luster. Piper Spangler, U.S. Congressman Spangler’s wife. Still on the dull side. U.S. Congressman Spangler’s lovely wife, Piper.

  “Piper? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  As much as I long to deny it, it would take my lies of omission to a new level.

  “Are you really there on business?”

  “No.” At his sharp breath, I say, “Actually I am, but not company business. Family business.”

  “Family?”

  I brace myself. “I should have told you, and I’m sorry I didn’t, but”—I moisten my lips—“Pickwick is my hometown. And my last name.”

  “What?”

  “Wick is derived from Pickwick.”

  Empty air. But I know he’s there, meaning he’s gone into politician mode—carefully thinking through a response so he doesn’t say something he’ll regret, mentally checking his jaw and throat muscles so when he speaks he’ll sound in control.