Leaving Carolina (9 page)

I turn the key in the ignition, but nothing happens. I try again. Nothing. And five minutes later, still nothing.

“Great!” I smack the steering wheel, but the engine isn’t interested in solving our differences by violent means, leaving me with no recourse but to call the rental company. They apologize, but since they won’t be able to send another car until tomorrow, I’ll have to postpone my visit with Uncle Obe. Of course, that could be a good thing as I won’t risk running into Maggie or Mini-Mag.

I brighten. Tomorrow
is
another day.

S
ometimes I think I’d rather be plump. Then I could indulge in double-cheese pizza rather than low-fat-dressing-spritzed salad, heavy-on-the-cream ice cream rather than nonfat frozen yogurt, and lounging as opposed to running. I hate running. But here I am pounding the pavement and clenching my teeth as I strain to triumph over the driveway’s wicked incline.

Yes, had I been born someone other than a Pickwick, I could be happy on the other side of slender. Once I accepted myself, it would be a done deal. No secret yearnings for the forbidden, no drooling over another person’s meal, no torture to burn off excess calories. But God made me a Pickwick, and “plump” is not in the personal vocabulary of the body-conscious Pickwicks. It is, however, in my genes—
and
my jeans when I overindulge. As much as anything else, it sets me apart from the other Pickwicks.

It couldn’t have been easy for my attractive father, especially once Mom started seeking comfort in food, but he was never really cruel. Just absent as he followed his wandering eye. Thus, I remained one sturdy Pickwick until my senior year, when I gained control over my eating, which led to the teenage stunt that has come back to haunt me.

My calves burn deeper as I lengthen my stride, and I return my
thoughts to my father. I have forgiven him for not loving Mom and me, but I’m grateful I won’t be running into him during my stay, since he’s out of the country. Permanently. Jeremiah Pickwick resides in Mexico, where our justice system decided to leave him rather than extradite. That also goes for Uncle Jonah, Luc and Maggie’s father, though I doubt the brothers have much to do with one another in their adopted country, having run dirty campaigns in their joint bid for the job of Pickwick’s mayor.

I remember the headlines that ushered in my second year of high school, the snickers and sly glances that took the long way around Maggie to crash land on me. I shake my head. And pitch forward when my shoe catches on the uneven aggregate. I throw my hands up and follow through with the opposite foot. Close one.

Leaning forward, I grip my thighs and heave breath up my face. “Don’t lose… your focus. Get in… get out.”

“Are you all right?” a twangless voice calls.

I snap my chin up and see Axel twenty feet to the left alongside the commercial mower that was beneath the hundred-and-some-year-old tree when I left for my run. This afternoon, his sandy hair is in a ponytail, eyes are obscured by sunglasses, and jeans and T-shirt are streaked with the soil of his trade. But for all that, he really is nice looking and has a physique to fit.

And your brain is overheated. Note: ponytail, mustache, goatee, outdoorsy, probably tattooed, and is that a wrench he’s holding?

I walk my hands up my thighs. “I’m fine. Is something wrong with the mower?”

He sets the wrench down and heads toward me, his limp less noticeable today. “A cracked hose, but I’ll have it replaced and the
machine running shortly.” He halts at the edge of the lawn. “I didn’t realize you had returned from town.”

“My rental car broke down, so I took a taxi.”

He glances at his watch. “You didn’t make it to Asheville to see your uncle?”

“No, I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Do you need a ride?”

Is he offering? I mean, I hardly know him beyond having aimed a high-heel shoe at him. “No, thank you. The rental company is delivering another car in the morning.”

He nods. “What did you think of Pickwick?”

“A lot has changed.”

“Your uncle told me you’ve been gone twelve years.”

“About that.”

“Considering you spent the better part of your life in the South—”

The
better
part?

“—I’m surprised you don’t have the slightest drawl.”

Thanks to all those voice lessons at the university I attended. For two years, I participated in a study to test a new method for helping those with distinctive accents subdue them. I was one of the success stories, but I was motivated. A Southern drawl, particularly one as pronounced as mine, is not a good way to stand out in the “fast lane” that is L.A. It leaves the wrong impression—as in slow and gullible.

“You don’t have a drawl either,” I point out.

His mouth tilts. “I wasn’t raised in the South.”

“Where are you from?”

“My dad was a marine, so that pretty much covers everywhere.”

“That must have been hard.”

“Mostly it was uncertain, which is why I’m inclined to stay in Pickwick.” He graduates to a smile. “It’s a good place to settle down.”

“I’m sure it’s a fit for some.” I grimace. “Now that it has a Wal-Mart, it can hardly be called small town’ anymore.”

“Most of the changes are for the better.”

Though overall I approve, I can’t help but think of Martha. Yes, she said she’s happier at Cracker Barrel, but I hate that one of the few good things about Pickwick is gone. “Some of the changes aren’t for the better.”

Axel pulls off his sunglasses and crosses his arms over his chest. Someone not trained in body language, who doesn’t know to factor in context and other nonverbal cues (raised eyebrows and lids, curved mouth), might say his stance is defensive, but I’m a professional. He’s simply settling in to the conversation. Not good.

“The way I understand it,” he says, “ten years ago Pickwick’s population was declining and businesses were struggling or closing, including the old mill.”

The textile mill Grandpa Pickwick left to Bart’s father when he passed away and which I understand closed down when Uncle Bartholomew’s get-richer-quicker stab at the stock market failed.

“What turned it around,” Axel continues, “is the new highway exit that provides easier access to Pickwick, as well as the town’s commitment to renewal and preservation of its heritage.”

Heritage? I never stepped inside a Wal-Mart until I shook the Pickwick dust from my feet.

“The population has nearly tripled, and it’s not only newcomers who are responsible, but those who left and have returned to be with their families.”

That last tempts me toward “warm and fuzzy,” but I have no interest in Pickwick. Once I convince Uncle Obe to let bygones be bygones, I’m out of here. “I’m happy that Pickwick is thriving.”

Axel’s Blue eyes narrow. “But it has nothing to do with you.”

Am I that transparent? Piper Wick who specializes in advising high-profile personalities on the use of body language and the well-chosen word? Of course, I have little to lose by revealing my true feelings to this stranger. “You’re right. It has nothing to do with me.”

The press of his lips is so fleeting I’m not sure if it’s from disappointment or disapproval. I wish it were neither since it makes me feel like a snob.

Axel starts to turn away. “I need to fix the mower.”

On impulse—what has come over me?—I hurry forward and touch his arm. “I’m sorry. That sounded…” The muscles beneath my fingers are warm and firm and the golden hair is ticklish, but I don’t snatch my hand back. That could be read as “bothered,” which I’m not. “I didn’t mean to sound cold.”

His eyes slide to mine, reengaging me and providing the excuse to return my hand to my side. Not bothered at all.

“It’s just that I never intended to come back to Pickwick. Yet…here I am.”

He returns the sunglasses to his face. “Sounds inconvenient.”

He said it, not me. “Family calls.”

“You didn’t have to answer.”

And let Uncle Obe wreak havoc with his tell-all will? I almost
say it aloud, but no one outside the family need know about this matter.

“Unless you’re worried about how the changes to the will could affect you.”

A gasp sends saliva down the wrong tube. Though I struggle to preserve my dignity, the instinct for survival is stronger, and I bend forward and hack.

Axel’s soiled boots come into view, and he thumps my back. “Better?”

My, he’s close. “Yes, thank you.” As I straighten to peer into his darkened lenses, he removes his hand from my back. “You know about my uncle’s will?”

An eyebrow pops up above his left lens. “I have lived here for two years.”

“But you’re just the—”
You are getting dangerously close to sounding like a snob
. “What I mean is that Uncle Obe is a loner and intensely private. I’m surprised he confided in you.”

Something plays about Axel’s mouth. “I am also something of a companion.”

“How so?”

He nods across his shoulder. “Mind if we talk over the mower? There’s a job in town I need to get to.”

“A job in town?”

“I have a landscaping business on the side.”

“Then there isn’t enough work here to keep you busy?”

His brow bunches at the disbelief I should have kept from my voice. “It’s a big estate and could easily employ several gardeners,
but it’s too expensive to maintain all of it. My job is to keep up the immediate surroundings. Beyond that, it’s my time, and I use it to build my business.”

I make a face. “I didn’t mean that to sound…”
You’re doing it again
. “I’m sorry.”

He nods and starts back across the lawn.

I’m tempted to return to the mansion and call various clients, but Axel’s relationship with my uncle is still in question. As I follow Axel to the mower, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen the dog since I returned from town. “Is Errol tied up?”

“No, I took him to town for grooming so he won’t offend you when he’s inside.”

I’m equal parts surprise and dismay. “That’s considerate, but it isn’t necessary for him to patrol the house.” I halt beneath the massive tree that shades the machine and an iron bench and wait for him to speak. But he starts poking around the mower. “So about your relationship with my uncle…?”

He glances at me. “Obe often comes by the cottage to talk, and sometimes we have dinner together. Maggie and Bridget drop by occasionally, but he’s still lonely.”

Maggie and Bridget who?

Ugly, Piper. Some people change
.

But Pickwicks?

You’re a Pickwick
.

In name only—and not even that now.

Like I said—UGLY
.

But I’m not the one who stole other girls’ boyfriends—including
her cousins—snubbed those deemed beneath her, and became pregnant at seventeen. As for Bridget, I’m not the one who pulled the great crop circle hoax—

No
, you
pulled the Fourth of July stunt
.

“Luc and Bart are scarcer,” Axel continues, “but they do come around.”

“You mean other than when they break locks and slip in through windows?”

A smile appears in the middle of his mustache and goatee. Whatever made me think he looked like a Neanderthal? Of course, a Neanderthal is on the extreme end of masculinity, and Axel is
very
masculine. Nothing soft or faintly pretty about him.

As he continues to train his dark lenses on me, his smile slips. Surely he isn’t reading something in my stare that isn’t there? “Er, anyone else stop by to visit Uncle Obe?”

“Bonnie came by once when she was in town. And Miss Adele.”

Maggie and Luc’s mother remained in Pickwick when her husband fled to Mexico. Though she and my mother finally had something in common, it gave Adele another reason to disdain Dory Pickwick. According to my aunt, if my father hadn’t run a dirty campaign, her husband wouldn’t have felt compelled to retaliate in kind.

Jolted by Axel’s voice, I look to where he has come around the mower. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

The sunglasses come off again. “You look upset.”

Oh, Piper, take your own advice: be in the here, be in the now
. I shrug. “My uncle
is
ill. If not for that, I wouldn’t have returned to Pickwick.”

“Then you can’t wait to get back to Los Angeles.”

“I’m a busy woman.”

“I’m sure.” His smile reappears.

Hmm. Kissing a man with facial hair must be a different experience altogether, and not without a hazard or two. Yes, Axel’s is closely trimmed, but those coarse hairs could cause a rash on sensitive skin like mine—

I did
not
think that! “I’ll let you get back to your hose problem.”

“It’s fixed.”

That was quick. “Well, I—”

“Miss Wick.”

This is where I should invite him to use my first name, but his drop in pitch bothers me. “Yes?”

He gestures to the bench. “Have a seat.”

“Is there something we need to discuss?”

“Yes.”

I lower to the bench, and when he settles on the opposite end, I kick myself for not sitting in the middle, which would have sent the message that I don’t care to share.