Leaving Carolina (38 page)

1. Growing up in Pickwick, Piper was treated like an outsider by her extended family. Have you ever felt like an outsider in your family? Have you treated other family members as outsiders?
   

2. To justify her attitude toward and speedy exodus from Pickwick, Piper perseverates on Luke 9:5: “If people do not welcome you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave their town, as a testimony against them.” However, Jesus was referring to those who refuse to receive His message. Have you ever misinterpreted or molded Scripture to fit your circumstances?
   

3. As Piper’s life improved and her successful career demanded more of her time, her relationship with God slipped. In contrast, as Maggie’s “charmed” life gave way to struggle, she drew nearer to God. How can you guard against being a “foul weather” follower?
   

4. Although Axel’s faith is relatively new, it positively impacts Uncle Obe, a much older believer. What things can we learn from those whose faith has less mileage than our own?
   

5. Piper attempts to go beyond forgiving her relatives to making peace with them. Are there members of your family with whom you need to make peace? Are you willing to make the first move?
   

6. Despite her peacemaking efforts, Piper must set boundaries with the “toxic” members of her family. Do you have relatives
   you consider “toxic”? What boundaries do you need to set? Is it possible to set boundaries that allow for full reconciliation in the future?
   

7. As a young man, Uncle Obe sacrificed love for monetary gain, and the consequences were far-reaching and heartbreaking. When have you taken the wrong path? What were the consequences?
   

8. In the end, Piper and her uncle are set free when they act on Proverbs 28:13: “He who conceals his sins does not prosper, but whoever confesses and renounces them finds mercy.” Are mistakes in your past holding you captive? What would it take to apply this Scripture to your life?
   

Don’t miss Maggie and Devyn’s story
—
Available summer 2010!

O
ne thing that should have been established at the outset, and which will doubtless become apparent in short order, is that my mouth is my best asset. Unfortunately, sometimes it lands me in the debit column, which is why I find myself flattened against the outside wall of Fate and Connie’s Metalworks, one hand to my mouth for fear of emitting another screech, the other to my heart in an attempt to settle it. But it wants out—bad. And once again, the dreadful feeling that I might swoon can’t be blamed on a gut-squeezing contraption. That blame lies with Reece Thorpe. In the flesh.

As I came around the corner, one glimpse of his profile was all it took to take me back thirteen years—and let rip a screech as I reversed and slammed back against the wall of the building. But that’s not the worst of it. No, that would be too merciful.

Praying my screech wasn’t heard over the racket coming from the tin-and-cinderblock building—
You can at least do this for me, can’t You, Lord?—I
draw a stiff breath and inch forward to peek around the corner.

That’s
the worst of it. With his hands in his jacket pockets and face to the sky, Reece stands over my daughter. God and I are definitely not on the same page… chapter… maybe even book.

Lying on her back on the scrubby grass where I left her to make snow angels while I met with Fate to discuss my new signs, she shades her eyes against the sun and swings her pointing hand to the right where the clouds have retreated. “Those are stratocumulus. You see the way they’re formed, like pillows stacked on each other?”

“Yes.”

With a strangled gasp, I once more apply myself to the wall-not because of the deep, spine-tingling inflection on that single word, but because the voice is as familiar now as it was thirteen years ago. As if I never stopped hearing it—

Ridiculous! Fanciful! You are no Disney princess, and Reece Thorpe is no tights-wearing prince
.

You can say that again. He may have been more interested in art than chest-pounding, bone-crunching football, but he was all guy in a quietly assured way that made a girl take a second look, and a third, and a fourth—

Oh, stop!
He’s just someone I knew, dated, and… may have conceived a child with.
Lord, what have You done? Piper assured me she had convinced Uncle Obe to go with a female sculptor out of Florida, so what is Reece doing in Pickwick?

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.
Un
fortunately, 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.”

She 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—