Leaving Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  I peel myself off the wall and put an eye around the corner of the building.

  His head is still back, the soft waves of his black hair brushing the collar of the shirt beneath his jacket, arms crossed over his chest, lids narrowed at the clouds in the distance. “So no more snow, hmm?”

  “This is it.” Devyn pats the pitifully thin layer that started falling two hours ago and which caused the schools to let out early.

  Reece turns his back to me, and I notice that his well-worn jeans fit him even better than they did in high school. He filled out nicely for someone who was already well filled out—just an observation.

  And a waste of time that would be better spent extricating myself and Devyn from what threatens to become a mess. I look over my shoulder at the loading dock, which is the only way to get Fate and Connie’s attention, as they don’t employ office help and have no time for front door etiquette. As it would seem to be Reece’s destination, I can’t go back inside.

  I swing my head around and consider my SUV parked thirty feet away. It sports a magnetic door sign that advertises Serendipity Auction Services—my business, the one that makes such good use of my mouth. Hey, bidder, bidder! Fortunately, the sign is only on the driver’s side, where Reece can’t see it. The passenger side sign recently departed for parts unknown. Unfortunately, I can’t get to the vehicle without being seen. Of course, it’s possible Reece wouldn’t recognize me. Oh, like you didn’t recognize him? Note: You are nearly six feet tall. Further note: You are still an unapologetic redhead.

  “What about those clouds?” He nods at the balls of fluff creeping toward Pickwick.

  Devyn rises onto her elbows, causing her hood to drop to her shoulders and the sunlight to play up the golden hairs among the brown. “Just passing through.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah, it would be nice to have more snow, but…” She frowns and then, horror of horrors, whips her head around.

  I slam back against the wall so hard my head bounces off it. That hurt! But worth the lump if Devyn didn’t see me. Did she? Please, God, this is such an easy prayer to answer the way I want it to be. What have You got to lose, hmm? Surely not as much as I do.

  Above the grind and screech that sounds from the building, I hear Devyn’s voice again… then Reece’s… back to Devyn… more Reece. What can they possibly have to talk about?

  I drop to my haunches behind the straggly hedge that fronts the building and spy between the branches at my daughter who is speaking. Unfortunately, another of Fate and Connie’s machines-high-pitched and whiny—has joined the din, and I can’t hear what she says. Reece says something that makes her laugh, and then his mouth turns slightly up at the corners.

  Is that my daughter’s smile? No, she has my smile. Nothing at all slight about that. Still, I dart my gaze between the two, searching for a resemblance that probably doesn’t exist. Her hair is brown; his is black. No cigar. If memory serves me correctly—and it does—his eyes are green, while hers are brown. Again, no cigar. What about noses? Maybe Devyn’s is on the slightly big side because Reece’s is? No, his has a bit of a bump halfway down the bridge, whereas Devyn’s is smooth—thankfully! As for their chins—

  My daughter extends a hand.

  I clench my fingers around handfuls of snow, grass, and dirt. “Don’t say it,” I whisper. “Do not say it.”

  But she does, just as the whiny machine quiets. “I should introduce myself.”

  You should not! Vaguely aware of the chill snow against my palms, I stare hard at her profile, willing her to be suddenly capable of telepathy. He’s a stranger, and you know what I’m always telling you about strangers—

  “I’m Devyn Pickwick.”

  Obviously, we need to have a little talk, Devyn Pickwick! Were I not looking for the snag between the time Reece’s hand came out of his pocket and the time it closed around my daughter’s, I wouldn’t have noticed his hesitation. But it’s there. In a collective Pickwick sense? Or a Maggie Pickwick sense?

  “Reece Thorpe.” He returns his hand to his pocket. “I knew some of the Pickwicks when I lived here years ago.”

  Please, Dev, don’t ask which ones.

  “Oh! So you’ve moved back?”

  Good girl.

  “Actually, I’m here on business.”

  Uncle Obe and I also need to have a little talk, but first I have to get my daughter away from Reece. It’s me again, Dev. Cease and desist! Say you need to…uh… finish reading your psychology journal!

  “What kind of business?” she prompts.

  How about you have to go to the bathroom. Bad!

  “I’ve been commissioned by Obadiah Pickwick, who I would guess is your…great-uncle?”

  She bounces her chin. So much for telepathy.

  “He’s commissioned me to sculpt a statue for the town square.”

  Her smile flip-flops. “I thought he was going to hire a lady sculptor.”

  I press my cold, raw hands together—hands that have grown oddly numb.

  Reece shifts his lower jaw, causing something to appear in the left corner of his mouth. A toothpick? He clamps down on it and shrugs. “Must have changed his mind.”

  Devyn wrinkles her nose. “He does that.”

  He puts his head to the side, as if sizing up my daughter’s face as he once sized up mine before setting it to paper with the deft strokes of a charcoal pencil. “I’m guessing you’re either Luc’s—”

  Help me out here, Lord!

  “—or Bart’s—”

  I can’t say where the snowball came from, all cold and compact and reinforced with scratchy grass and pebbles, but the moment of contact is etched in my mind—a blur of white striking Reece upside the head, his grunt of surprise, and then his chin coming around.

  Finding myself on my feet and wondering why my throwing arm feels strained, I run. Down the side of the building. Around the loading dock. Behind the building. Up the other side of the building with its obstacle course of ankle-breaking debris.

  When I stick my head around the corner, my daughter is alone with her hands on her hips as she stares at the opposite corner that Reece must have gone around in pursuit of the snowball bandit. Time to go.

  “Devyn!”

  She turns and startles at the sight of me.

  I don’t look that bad, do I? Of course, my face feels flushed, there’s moisture on my upper lip, and if my peripheral vision serves me right, there’s something greasy on my pant leg. Great.

  Thinking a happy thought in hopes of passing off my smile as genuine, I say, “See, that didn’t take long.” Though I control the impulse to make a run for the SUV, I feel the impatient jerk in my stride as I close the distance between us. “I’ve okayed the new signs, so we’re good to go.”

  Her lids narrow. “Are you all right?”

  “Whew!” I fan my face. “It was hot in there.” It really was. All that metalworking generates a lot of heat. Now if only I had the feeling back in my hands. Discreetly wiping my wet palms on my pants, I draw even with Devyn. “Let’s go.” I turn her toward the SUV.

  “But you look—” As I hurry her forward, she jerks her head around. “Why did you come around that side of the building?”

  “You know that article you were reading about the differences between the brains of happy people and depressed people—”

  She gasps. “You haven’t been throwing snowballs, have you?”

  “Doing what?” I open my eyes wide and innocent, the art of which I perfected during my elementary years.

  Devyn scrunches her nose and shrugs. “This really weird thing happened.”

  “Oh?” I give her a little push toward the passenger door and flap my hand for her to get in.

  “I was standing over there talking to this man,” she says as I hurry around the grille of my SUV, “who, by the way, has been hired by—”

  “Get in, Dev.” I meet her gaze across the hood of the SUV. “You can tell me on the way home.”

  Sh
e frowns. “O…kay.”

  As I jerk open the door, I imagine a hot breath on the back of my neck and glance around. No Reece. Hopefully, he’s caught up in a conversation with Fate and Connie, allowing me to make a clean getaway.

  “Hurry,” I say as Devyn slowly slides in beside me.

  “Why?”

  I shove the keys in the ignition. “We have lots to do.”

  “But I thought we were going home.”

  “We are.” No sooner does she close the door then I reverse, crank the wheel, and accelerate out of the parking lot.

  “Mom!” She clicks the seat belt in place. “What’s the hurry?”

  I check the rearview mirror. Still no Reece. “Well, there are your chores…” I turn onto High Holler Road. If I can just make it around the curve ahead, we’ll be out of sight. “And while you’re at them, I need to run over to Uncle Obe’s.” I take the curve, and though all four wheels stick, it’s a close one.

  Devyn grips the door handle. “You’re acting strange.”

  Yeah, well, you may have just met your father for the first time-not likely, but possible—so I’m a little freaked out here. Thank goodness she isn’t telepathic!

  “Sorry.” This smile feels almost natural. “It’s just that this early school dismissal has thrown my day a little.” I ease up on the gas. “So tell me about the man you were talking to.” I slide her a stern look. “You know I don’t like you talking to strangers.”

  She sits back. “His name is Reece Thorpe, and he’s the sculptor that Unc-Unc hired to make the new statue. Anyway, we were standing there talking when a snowball came from out of nowhere and hit him in the head.”

  I shift my hands on the steering wheel, noting that feeling has returned to them. “I suppose someone was having fun with him.” I chuckle. “It’s not as if he was hurt, right? It was just a little snowball.” Even if a bit hard and scratchy and pebbly…

  Devyn nods. “He seemed fine, though annoyed. I told him it was probably Mr. Fate and Mr. Connie messing around. You know how they are.”

  Fortunately for me, they are. “So he went in search of the perpetrator?”

  “Yep.”

  I shrug. “I’m sure they’ll work it out.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Is that it, then? Did I pull it off? I look sidelong at her, and my tension eases when I see her open the psychology journal she was earlier poring over. I did pull it off. Thank You, Lord-Do you honestly think He had anything to do with you worming your way out of that one? It’s called deception, Maggie. God does not do deception.

  The tension returns. Though I’m not perfect and have to ask for forgiveness on a fairly regular basis, I pretty much broke myself of the everyday habit of deceit years ago, but I have the feeling it’s back. And, under the circumstances, I have no idea how to make do without it. I can’t tell Devyn the truth, not at her age. And, in my defense, it’s not as if I came right out and lied. I skirted the issue, cut out the objectionable matter—

  Ah! I bowdlerized. I sit straighter. Though my Daily Word calendar defines the word in terms of written work, with a little bending, it fits. And with its high-flying pronunciation—long o and all that—it lends an air of legitimacy to my attempt to spare my daughter the truth.

  “Here’s the article,” she says.

  “Hmm?”

  She nods at the picture that features colorful brain scans. I should have known my earlier attempt to change the subject would come back to bite me. Boring, boring, boring.

  “It says here that there are decided differences between the brain of a person who is not experiencing major strife and the brain of a person who is under great stress—”

  That would be me.

  “—and has been diagnosed as depressed.”

  No diagnosis yet. Hopefully it won’t come to that. I point to the scan on the right. “That one’s kind of pretty.”

  “It’s also kind of depressed.”

  Figures.

  “You want yours to look like this.” She taps the left scan.

  Does my brain look like that? If so, for how much longer? Be proactive. Right, as in find a way to get Reece Thorpe out of town. And out of my life. Again.

  LEAVING CAROLINA

  PUBLISHED BY MULTNOMAH BOOKS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  All Scripture quotations and paraphrases are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Tammy Schmanski

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.

  MULTNOMAH and its mountain colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Leigh, Tamara.

  Leaving Carolina : a novel / Tamara Leigh. — 1st ed.

  p. cm. — (The Southern discomfort series ; bk. 1)

  eISBN: 978-1-60142-236-1

  1. Women public relations personnel—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. North Carolina—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.E3575L43 2009

  813′.6—dc22

  2009014681

  v3.0