Restless in Carolina (10 page)

His face lightens. “Too long.”

Is he using his dementia to his advantage again? Regardless, his need is real. “Okay. I think we bow our heads, right?”

My attempt at funny bounces off him. “You can. I’m gonna look up.”

Not a bad idea, especially if it keeps onlookers from getting the wrong idea about the state of my faith. Give them an inch, and they’ll be walking the quarter mile up my driveway to talk me into church.
Er, in case You get any ideas, God, this doesn’t change a thing. This time, I really am just the messenger
.

Focusing on the blue overhead, I say softly, “God, You know my uncle’s heart and the hearts of his children. I pray You will give them peace and restore them to one another.”
Of course, knowing You, that’s asking a lot
. “Amen.” I pull my hand from Uncle Obe’s.

He drops his hand from my shoulder. “That was sh-short, kind of sweet.”

“My specialty. Now let’s rejoin the others.”

He steps ahead of me. As I follow him around the statue, I once again have the feeling of being watched and look over my shoulder. That’s when I see him where he sits on a bench in front of the church. He’s here. In Pickwick. The dog!

H
ere’s my chance to tell J. C. Dirk what I think of his big-city manners, his superior attitude, his—

Whoa! Bad manners aside, this could be good. What else would he be doing here if not to take me up on my proposal? Or at least consider it more fully? This means I’ll have to hold on to that piece of mind I was going to give him.

Though I can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, I know from his closed-lipped smile to the palm-out hand he raises in acknowledgment that he’s looking at me.

Suddenly grateful for Maggie dressing me—not that I would have worn
ratty
jeans to the dedication—I turn toward him. And feel a wiggle at my middle. Reggie. In a fanny pack around a silk dress.

I hold up a finger, turn, and loosen the pack’s clasp as I hurry around the statue. Piper is the only one of the family who remains, and a look around reveals the others are heading across the park.

“Axel went to get the Jeep so Uncle Obe won’t have far to walk.” Piper hooks her straight red hair out of her eyes.

“Good.” I extend the fanny pack, out of which Reggie has stuck her pink nose. “I’m sorry about this, and I know you’d rather not, but he’s here.”

“What?” She shakes her head and peers past me. “Where—?”

“J. C. Dirk. The developer. Here.” I snatch up her hand and push the pack into it.

“Oh no!” As she thrusts it back at me, my opossum’s head emerges; however, when my critter gets a gander at who’s holding her, she goes back under.

“I won’t be long.” I head opposite. “Be gentle.”

“I … but … this …” As I turn the corner of the statue, Piper says sharply, “Where’s Uncle Obe?”

That stops me. Surely he’s here, having come around the statue ahead of me. However, when I scan the area, there’s no sign of him. But I was only momentarily distracted by J.C. Or maybe not …

“He was just in front of me.”

The concern on Piper’s face doubles. “He’s wandered off again.”

On my watch. But he can’t have gone far. He has to be near. I look across the street to where J.C. sits, but my uncle is not among those strolling the sidewalk in front of Church on the Square, the boutique, or the ice creamery. I turn to the west side of the square. Not in front of the gift shop, Maggie’s auction house, or the coffee—

Back up! That’s him going into Copper’s Beanery and Lending Library. “I see him!” I show Maggie’s dress no mercy as I cut diagonally across the park. Fortunately, the shoes are flats. Not so fortunately, I’ll bet my little scene doesn’t escape J.C. But at least he won’t witness my opossum-toting side.

I enter Mr. Copper’s shop and am assailed by the scent of ground coffee beans. Though the place is a local favorite, especially since the recent opening of a chain coffee shop forced him to renovate and add the lending library, today it’s busier than usual owing to the dedication.

I stand on tiptoe and spot my uncle in the back corner. All the tables are occupied, but he stands in the middle of the area frowning from one table to the next.

“Uncle Obe!” I call but am drowned out by the buzz of customers and the hiss, grind, and roar of the monstrous espresso machine. Squeezing past those in line, I slowly advance across the shop. As I near, a woman with dark auburn hair, who appears to be about my age, rises from a two-person table. She says something to my uncle and gestures for him to join her.

He stares at her for a long, socially inappropriate moment before nodding.

I’m grateful for her compassion, though it’s almost unnecessary. No sooner are they seated than I reach them. I claim my uncle with a peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry we were separated, Uncle Obe.”

“Were we?”

“Just for a moment.” I look at the woman. “Thank you for offering my uncle a seat. It’s been a long day, and he’s tired.”

Her smile is tentative, gaze faulty. Still, she’s pretty in a Catherine Zeta-Jones way. Of course, that’s an understatement, since anyone in a Catherine Zeta-Jones way is beyond pretty.

“I imagine he is.” There isn’t an ounce of the South in her voice. “I attended the d-d-”—cheeks coloring, she swallows—“I attended the dedica-cation.”

Either she’s terribly shy or it’s me. Though I’m used to bringing out the nervous in people (that Wesley woman was an exception), it doesn’t happen as frequently since the shedding of the dreads. Too, today I’m dressed “civilly.” Terribly shy, then.

“It”—her smile is apologetic—“ran a bit long.”

Not my uncle’s fault. That honor goes to our yackety mayor. “Well, I’m glad you could attend. It was a special day for our family.”

Her gaze becomes more certain, and I wonder if the glimmer in her eyes is silent laughter. “The Pickwicks.”

Our reputation for dysfunction precedes us again. “That’s right.” I touch my uncle’s arm. “Time to head home, Uncle Obe. Piper’s waiting.”

“Oh, Piper,” the woman says. “I have an appointment with her—your cousin, I believe—on Monday.”

I look more closely at her. “For?”

She glances at Uncle Obe, presses her lips together, and raises her dark, thinly shaped eyebrows.

Oh.
That
. I forgot Piper is seeking a live-in caregiver. Maybe compassion wasn’t what made this woman rescue Uncle Obe. Maybe she wanted to see what she was getting herself into.

She stands and sticks out a hand. “M-Mary Folsom.”

Hopefully her caregiving skills are more certain than her speech. Uncle Obe may be the best in the line of Pickwick men, but when his streak of stubborn meets the disease of dementia, he’s difficult to handle.

I shake Mary’s hand and am surprised by her firm grip. “Bridget Buchanan.”

As we part hands, her eyes shift to my ring finger, and my heart goes bump. What if she thinks I’m divorced? That Easton left me?
Since when do you care what people think?

Since I took off my ring. It wasn’t hard to go from being Bridget Pickwick to Bridget Buchanan, wife of Easton. Hard was going from wife to widow, and now widow without a ring that might make some
think I’ve shed my husband and his memory as easily as my dreads. That fear visits me when someone who doesn’t know about Easton glances at my left hand, and I long to pull the ring from my shirt and say, “See, not divorced! Happily married. Unhappily widowed.” But I don’t. And I won’t. If Mary Folsom is hired, she’ll learn more about our family than she cares to.

“It was nice m-meeting you,” she says.

Maybe that’s not shyness but a stutter. “And you, Mary.” I turn again and cup Uncle Obe’s elbow to urge him to his feet.

Frowning at the woman, he says, “It was good to meet you, Marie.”

She appears taken aback, but while I expect her to correct him to “Mary,” her slightly gaped mouth turns into a smile. “I hope to see you again, Mr. Pickwick.”

“That would be n-nice.”

They share a speech impediment, though his is dementia based. I give Mary a parting smile and step aside to allow my uncle to precede me across the coffee shop. It takes some zigging and zagging to get past the press of customers, but finally we exit onto the sidewalk.

“Pretty woman,” Uncle Obe says.

“She is.” I peer across the square at the church where J.C.—

He’s gone, and I’m part disappointment that I missed an opportunity to connect, part relief that I won’t have to hide Reggie after all.

“Over here, Bridget!”

Piper stands in front of the old theater Maggie recently purchased from the Pickwick estate to serve as her auction house. On the other side of her is the Jeep that Axel has pulled to the curb. Her face is anxious, and for good reason.

J.C. is with her.

As I stare at them, he looks up from where Reggie’s head peeks above the fanny pack Piper gingerly holds before her. His eyes no longer hidden by sunglasses, he smiles. He knows, and all because I had to chase after Uncle Obe. Which is my fault—and J.C.’s! What does he think he’s doing, showing up here after weeks of silence and without a word of warning? Come to think of it, this whole thing is more his fault than mine. Maybe I will give him a piece of my mind.

Don’t go burning bridges that may still be passable
.

I force a smile for J.C., who shifts his gaze to Uncle Obe and frowns. Doubtless, he’s drawn a connection between my flight across the park and the man at my side. For fear he’ll identify Uncle Obe’s affliction and use it to his advantage in acquiring the property, I determine to avoid introductions.

“Piper and Axel are over there, Uncle Obe.” I ease him to the right.

“My godson,” he says as Axel exits the driver’s side. “Goodness, that boy’s gotten big.”

Oh dear.

Leaning into me, Uncle Obe allows me to guide him down the sidewalk, which makes me sad. I wish he would grumble and shake me off. But not today. Maybe not ever again.

No, it’s just been a long day. Tomorrow he’ll be more himself. I hope.
Okay, Lord, I give in, but don’t think this means we’re good. Here goes: Please don’t let my hope be in vain
.

As Uncle Obe and I continue forward, Axel moves toward us with a slight hitch that draws one’s eye to his prosthetic leg, a mechanical marvel he is unashamed of. Rightly so.

As sometimes happens, the smile in the middle of his goatee makes me regret I wasn’t ready to reset my life when he came to Pickwick several years ago. He’s a good man, but he and Piper are a better fit than he and I would have been, especially taking into account his faith. How does one go from being a lukewarm Christian to embracing God
after
He allows friendly fire to mince one’s life?

“May I?” J.C. says.

Returning my gaze to him, I catch Piper’s eager nod a moment before she lets J.C. lift Reggie out of the fanny pack. I suppress a cry of dismay.

“Don’t take it personal.” Axel appears before Uncle Obe and me, then nods over his shoulder, allowing a glimpse of his sandy-colored ponytail. “Piper’s just not much of an animal person.”

“Then I hope you’re not planning on having rug rats.” Of course, I know they are. I’m just out of sorts. This is not how my day was meant to shake out. Home is where I ought to be heading, a tomato and mayo sandwich on my mind—
not
J. C. Dirk.

I relinquish Uncle Obe into Axel’s care and step past them. Piper watches my approach. Face guilty as all-get-out, she gives a helpless shrug.

Helpless, my foot, the pickled corn addict! Still, I manage to pop a pleasant expression in place for the benefit of the man who appears at ease holding a wild animal. It helps that Reggie also seems at ease, sniffing at his shirt that probably cost what I spend seasonally on jeans.

Putting on the brakes two feet from J.C. and Piper, I squash the impulse to snatch my baby back. “Mr. Dirk, what a surprise—”

“J.C.” His green eyes are intent. “We did make it to a first-name
basis the last time we met,
Bridget.”
His smile seems to come easily, as if a natural by-product of all that laughing he’s doing at my expense.

“Did we?” My voice rises. “Why, that was so long ago, I hardly recall.”
And you are in no position to scold. Play nice!

He nods. “Longer than anticipated, but I’m here now. And holding an opossum, no less. Interesting choice of pet.”

He’s thinking
redneck
. Unfortunately, with embarrassment rising up my neck, the word fits—colorwise. “Reggie is one of my rescues.”
Did you just deny her? Why, all that’s missing is a rooster’s crow
. No, what’s missing is a filter. I don’t know what the Bible is doing in my head. Was it the prayer Uncle Obe forced on me? The little prayer
I
slipped in?

“Reggie?” J.C. glances down. “So
this
is the friend that doesn’t like to sleep alone.”

It takes me a moment to decipher that, but then I recall standing in his office and voicing my concern that Reggie would have to sleep alone if I missed my plane. J.C. assumed I was talking about a man. Now he knows better, and there goes a piece of the image I suffered for.