Leaving Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “Not a matter of ingratiation.” Axel reminds me of my inappropriate remark.

  “Sorry about that.”

  He nods. “Obadiah saved my fathers life when they were roommates in college.”

  I sit straighter.

  “My father was drawn to the military but his family threatened to disown him if he enlisted. So he went to college to become something they approved of—a doctor. He hated it.” Axel’s face tightens. “One night he had too much to drink and got hold of a gun. Your uncle talked him out of suicide and convinced him to pursue a military career.”

  And yet, years later, Uncle Obe fell victim to his own family’s demands.

  I smile. “That’s worth honoring a person for. So why Axel instead of Obadiah?”

  He chuckles. “‘Obadiah’ brings out the bully in boys. My father made me tough it out until I consistently came out on top, then he gave me a choice. I had earned ‘Obadiah,’ so I decided to stay with it. But then my mother passed away.” His jaw shifts. “She always called me Axel.”

  As I seek to express the tugging of my heart, a streak of blue lights the heavens.

  “It’s going to rain,” Axel says.

  Though I sense this is his way of ending the discussion, I don’t want it to end. “You said it was just your father and you after your mother passed away. What about relatives?”

  He frowns, as if questioning my interest. “My mother was an only child, but her parents were active in our lives—at least, as active as they could be considering how often we moved. They’ve since passed away. As for my father’s family, they disowned him as they said they would.” Regret fills his voice but not bitterness.

  “Where does your father live?”

  “Phoenix.”

  “Do you get to see him much?”

  “Not as often as I’d like since he’s partial to the desert.” He smiles wryly. “I think North Carolina with all its greenery reminds him too much of Vietnam.”

  “Then does Phoenix remind you too much of Iraq?” Oh! I can’t believe I said that. Way too personal.

  “There is that, but I’ve always been drawn to the mountains, and there’s a lot to be said for four seasons.”

  I have missed them myself. “So you see yourself growing old here.”

  “I do—and growing my landscaping business and eventually having a family.”

  Nothing lofty like my goals, and yet somehow his sound more appealing.

  A drop of rain snuffs out the citron candle, causing it to sizzle and smoke and Axel to stand. “I’ll bag the pickled corn and walk you home.”

  As I watch him cross the yard, I hear the rumble and am unsettled at the thought of walking alongside him in the dark. Not because I didn’t bring my gun, but because of Grant. If he can’t reconcile that the woman he may one day ask to marry him is a Pickwick, this thing between Axel and me could lead to rebound.

  When the screen door bangs behind Axel, I put my elbows on the table and cup my face in my hands. That’s when the pickled corn returns to notice. Fortunately it’s good cold, and I slide in the last mouthful just as several drops of rain hit my cheek.

  “Ready?” Axel steps from the cottage with a large brown bag in one arm.

  I jump up. When I near him, the light filtering through the cottage windows tempts my gaze to his prosthetic leg. And I nearly offer to carry the bag, which wouldn’t have crossed my mind to do when the hitch in his stride was only that.

  “Errol!” Axel commands.

  Since this is the last night I have to put up with that piddling beast, I don’t protest when he bounds past us. We descend the hill toward the tentatively moonlit garden, and the rain picks up, happily dotting me.

  “Is there anything you need for your uncle’s return home tomorrow?”

  I shake my head. “Bridget said she would drop off groceries in the morning, so we should be covered.” The paper bag crackles with his forward movement, and I chuckle. “Especially now that our supply of pickled corn is up.”

  “I’m glad I could help out.”

  I glance at him and catch his smile. Ooh, frisson, frisson. Which I have no business feeling. Why am I? Is it the night, all warm and moist among the wafting scents of the garden below? Or Axel’s smile, that broad stretch of white that is just the other side of secretive? Maybe it’s his deeply masculine voice. Could be his Blue eyes that, despite the dark, summon the increasingly familiar color from my memory—

  My left foot slides on the moist grass, and I try to catch myself with my right, but it also goes out from under me. With a yelp I fall back, wincing in anticipation of hitting hard. And forgetting that Axel is at my side.

  His hand clamps around my arm, pulling me up against him, like that first night when I fell from the gate. But this time I’m facing him, and there is nothing remotely Neanderthal about his face above mine. Or his mouth only a tiptoe away.

  “Are you all right?”

  That’s what he asked the first time. Warmed by his breath, I nod.

  He doesn’t set me away, and I feel his gaze more than I see it. “Déjà vu, hmm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All that’s missing is your gun.”

  And fear. What’s trembling through me now is something very different. Hoping he doesn’t feel it, I take a step back. “It’s a good thing I don’t need it.”

  He releases me. “And a good feeling, I imagine.”

  Too good. Pickwick may be uncomfortable, but it isn’t frightening. Axel may be big and a far cry from sophisticated, but I’m safe with him. And it’s time to change the subject. “Oh, look! You didn’t drop the pickled corn.”

  The paper bag protests as he tightens his arm around it. “It’s safe.”

  Of course it is. I turn and step forward, more gingerly this time. “We’d better hurry, or we’ll get soaked.” I expect Axel to offer his arm, but thankfully, he doesn’t. Not that he needs to because he remains close enough to catch me should I fall again. Another good feeling…

  When the ground levels off, we enter the garden to the sound of softly pattering rain and the crunch of the pebbled path underfoot. Almost home free.

  “Why the gun, Piper?”

  Almost. Of all the trips down memory lane I don’t care to take, that night tops the list. But as I open my mouth to politely tell him I don’t care to talk about it, he says, “What happened in L.A.? Were you attacked?”

  The concern in his voice is my undoing. I stare at the illuminated path. “Two years ago I was working late, and when I entered the parking garage, it was practically deserted. I was so absorbed in the day’s events that I wasn’t paying attention.” I shiver hard. “But suddenly I knew someone was behind me, as if God Himself whispered it in my ear. When I turned, a man was facing me, and all I could think was to bring my knee up when he grabbed me. I hit him hard, but he fell on me. I fought him, and finally he snatched my purse and ran off.”

  “How badly were you hurt?”

  I know what he’s asking. It’s the same thing the police wanted to know. I stop, and Axel halts just past me and turns.

  “It wasn’t only my purse he was after.” I look up into his moist face. “But that’s all he got—and bites and bruises and scratches. And possibly a broken thumb. At least, that’s what it sounded like.”

  I hear relief in the breath that goes out of him. “Was he caught?”

  “No.” Meaning I may not have been his last victim. Trying to override my dark feelings, I make a conscious effort to brighten my voice. “But God was watching over me. I walked away with only a black eye, a bloodied nose, and bruised ribs.”

  His smile is slight. “And a whole new appreciation for guns.”

  “The working-late woman’s best friend.”

  “And yet you stayed in L.A.”

  “My mother and I discussed moving to a smaller city, but shortly after the incident, I made partner at the PR firm. It was what I had been working so hard for.”

  “And you couldn’t walk a
way,” Axel says with understanding that surprises me.

  “No. Also, my mother is happy in L.A. She has friends like she never had here, a job she enjoys, a church that makes her feel loved and needed, and most recently, a gentleman friend with whom she has a kissing acquaintance.”

  “That’s important,” Axel says softly.

  What? All of it? Or just the kissing part? As I peer up at him, catching the slight rise and fall of his shoulders, I imagine what it would be like to—

  “Let’s get you out of the rain.” He resumes his trek down the path.

  I’m grateful for his sharp right turn, but as we walk past the berry and herb patches and rosebushes, the strength of his presence expands, as if we’re touching. By the time we reach the back door, I’m afraid of Axel Smith. Not because he would ever hurt me, but because he’s more dangerous to my virtue than any man I’ve ever been so near. Because I want to be nearer.

  Errol ascends the steps and puts his nose to the screen door, and Axel passes the bag to me. “Enjoy.” His fingers brush mine.

  Nerve endings jangling, I hug my windfall. “Thank you for coming to my aid again.”

  “You’re welcome.” He starts to turn away… to go back to his cottage…to leave me alone…

  “Axel?”

  “Yes?”

  Amid the falling rain, I pick out the puzzlement on his brow. “I…” I don’t mean to look at the moisture on his upper lip. It just happens as I avert my eyes—a detour so to speak, complete with a rest stop that boasts a lookout point. And a scenic view.

  “Piper?” Now he’s looking at my mouth.

  Dangerous.

  His brow smoothes.

  Very dangerous.

  His head lowers.

  Alert! Alert!

  His breath is between us.

  Dive! Dive!

  His moist lips touch mine.

  Stop, drop, and roll!

  His mustache and goatee lightly chafe my skin.

  Too late.

  I’ve never been kissed in the rain, but Axel Smith is kissing me. Really kissing me. None of that quick corner-of-the-mouth stuff that Grant—

  “No!” I jump back and nearly drop the bag of pickled corn when my calves connect with the lower step.

  “No?” He fixes those memory-enhanced Blue eyes on mine.

  “I’m taken.” I hug the bag with all my might. “Sort of. I mean, yes. You know…”

  He slides his hand down my rain-moistened upper arm, over the goose bumps, and across the palm of my left hand that he raises between us. “You’re not married.”

  No wedding band. “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  No engagement ring. “No. I mean… well, I am engaged… just not yet.”

  His mouth quivers. “You’re engaged to be engaged?”

  That sounds pitiful. I pull my hand free. “I’m in a relationship.”

  “A serious one?”

  “Yes.” It is, isn’t it? Grant’s constituents have certainly been positive about our dating, and Grant has been enthusiastic about their response. Too, he’s the one who introduced the words marriage and children, albeit couched in if. Of course, that was before I confessed to being “one of them” and he ended our conversation, as if afraid he might catch “Pickwick” through the phone line.

  “I apologize,” Axel says. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  No, it shouldn’t have. And wouldn’t have if you hadn’t invited it.

  A damp Errol whines where he sits on his haunches looking from me to Axel.

  “I anticipate having your uncle home from the hospital by noon tomorrow.”

  “You? But Uncle Obe made arrangements with Uncle Bartholomew.”

  “Apparently something came up.”

  Hardly surprising. “I can drive in and get him.”

  “I’m happy to do it. And I’ll have an easier time getting him in and out of a vehicle.”

  True. “You really seem to care about my uncle.”

  “I do. See you tomorrow.” He turns, and a flash of lightning illuminates his sandy hair from his crown to the rubber band at his nape.

  I whip around and hurry up the stairs. Errol dances at the screen door, and I barely get it open before he shoves his big head between it and the doorframe and squeezes his wet body in ahead of me. “Some gentleman,” I grumble as I bump the door wide enough to make it through with the pickled corn.

  I deposit my armful on the island and peer at the jars. “Well, at least there’s one bright spot to my day.” A memory of dissent steps forward—Axel’s kiss. I try to send it back, but it plays out. At half speed. Once more, I feel his breath against my mouth. His lips touch mine, lightly at first but with increasing pressure. My heart pounds against my ribs, and it’s all I can do to keep my arms around the pickled corn when I want to wind them around his neck—

  “Oh, stop!” I flap my hands, as if to shake the memory from my fingertips. But it’s in my head, and all the squawking in the world is not going to dislodge it. Time to try a different tack.

  “Grant,” I say to the kitchen. “U.S. Congressman Grant Spangler. Smart, sophisticated, well-connected, not down-to-earth—”

  Actually, down-to-earth is kind of nice. In an Axel Smith way…

  18

  This is some welcome home.” Uncle Obe smoothes the covers I pulled up over him after Axel helped him out of the wheelchair and into bed.

  “It’s good to have ya back where ya belong.” Artemis pats his paunch.

  “It sure is!” Trinity waves a duster, dispersing a cloud that causes Bridget to scowl. “I’ve cleaned and cleaned and—goodness!—this place needed it. Why, it’s a full-time job. And let me tell you, it wasn’t easy fittin’ you in, Mr. Pickwick, but I did. Day in, day out, I’ve worked my fingers to the nubs, and only now am I glimpsing light at the end of the tunnel. But it’s worth it. Yes sir. I can’t thank you enough for allowin’ me to shine as your new housekeeper.” She waves the duster again. “Shine, shine!”

  She’s not going to break into song, is she?

  Uncle Obe clears his throat. “Thank you, Trinity. I appreciate all you’ve done. I don’t recall the hardwood…” He frowns hard. “… er, floors in the entryway shining so bright.”

  “That’s a trade secret.” She puts a hand alongside her mouth and whispers, “Furniture polish.”

  I gasp.

  “Furniture polish?” Bridget’s jaw drops.

  “The floors do look mighty nice, Trin.” Bart nods his approval. “Good job.”

  Trin? It sounds as if he knows her, rather than of her. And she was in my graduating class—three years of ahead of him. Hmm.

  Bridget punches his shoulder. “You do not use furniture polish on hardwood floors. It’s slick as spit.”

  “Ow.” Bart rubs his arm. “I didn’t know.”

  Trinity’s face turns thoughtful. “So that’s why I went down quicker ’an a duck on a June bug when I had to run to the bathroom. Whoosh! Right on my seater.”

  I wince. I should have done a better job supervising her, but there were so many calls to deal with this morning, not the least of which was one from a senior partner at the firm who wanted to know when I’m returning to L.A. And, more specifically, how I intend to handle the rumors about Grant’s sexuality. He was not pleased with my response. Just like Grant, he couldn’t get his mind around my refusal to fly to his aid, but unlike Grant, he has no idea of my connection to the Pickwicks.

  “It’s got to come off,” Bridget says.

  “Don’t want Obe’s feet flyin’ out from under him,” Artemis says, “especially in his delicate condition.”

  Bart shrugs. “Bummer.”

  “I’ll help you, Trinity.” Axel’s voice causes my nerves to do the shimmy. For the first time since his return from Asheville, I look him full in the face. His Blue eyes shift to mine, and the kiss I’ve been trying to forget returns in 3-D.

  “Thank you, Axel,” I say.

  Uncle Obe turns hi
s head to gaze out the window. “I like the…” He points at the panes. “… view. I might have to move here permanently.”

  “Oh!” Trinity trills. “I can help. I’ll move the rest of your stuff down here—clothes, shoes, books, pictures, that big box of papers under your bed.”

  Uncle Obe goes a little gray. “Thank you, but it was only a thought. Once I’m able to negotiate the stairs, I’ll return to my own bedroom.”

  She shrugs. “Just let me know if you change your mind, hear?”

  He slides his gaze over the rest of us. “I thank you all for the welcome home. Now I need to rest up.”

  We file out of the room. As I bring up the rear, I pull the door closed and follow the others to the front of the house.

  “It does look kind of slick.” Bart stands on the edge of the rug that runs down the hallway as he stares at the hardwood floor.

  Bridget grunts. “It is.” She continues past him, following Artemis and Axel toward the front door.

  “But it’s so pretty.” Trinity halts alongside Bart.

  He smiles sympathetically. “It’s a pity to have to remove the polish. Sure you aren’t overreacting, Bridge?”

  “I’m sure.”

  As I sidestep Bart and Trinity, I mentally steel myself for when it will be just Axel, Trinity, and me. Though I’m grateful for Axel’s offer to help with the polish removal, it will make it harder to avoid him. And forget about that kiss.

  “Whoa!” Bart yells, and we all turn as his rear hits the hardwood floor, and he slides into the baseboard. “I’m okay!”

  Bridget growls. “I told you it was slick.”

  With the help of Trinity, who nearly goes down herself, he gets to his feet.

  “What a ding-dong,” Bridget mutters.

  Ten minutes later, having thanked Bridget for the groceries and Artemis for the use of Errol (more, for taking Mrs. Bleeker’s “big boy” home, which he didn’t seem too happy about), I suppress a smile when Bart rubs his backside as he slides into the passenger seat of his sister’s truck. Artemis and Errol in the sporty red Lexus follow Bridget and Bart down the driveway.

  “Let’s get that furniture polish up, Trinity.” Axel turns back into the entryway.