Restless in Carolina (18 page)

Birdie pulls her hand from mine, jumps in front of me, and raises her arms. “Carry me.”

“Now, Birdie, I was carryin’ you five minutes ago.” And my back aches for it. “You can walk.”

She shakes her curly blond head. “Carry me.”

I nearly give in, but considering how demanding she and her brother were of my mother when I picked them up, I’m determined to work on their manners. I prop my hands on my hips. “What’s the magic word?”

I may not know the exact color of her eyes, but there’s no mistaking the spark in them. “Carry me.”

“Birdie—”

“Carry me!”

I park my arms over my chest. “I didn’t hear the magic word.”

“Wrong way!” my nephew declares.

I peer over my shoulder. Yep, he doubled back and then some. “Would you like me to show you the way out?”

“No, I know where I’m going now.”

Hmm. “The big kids are coming through soon. We’d better hurry.” In that instant, the pole lights flicker on in the areas beyond the maze, lighting Miles just enough to put a face on his determination.

I turn back to Birdie. “Miles knows the way out. Let’s follow him.”

She takes a step toward him only to grab my sweater. “Carry me!”

“Say the magic word.”

She drags on my sweater, and I brace my feet to keep my balance. She’s stronger than she looks.

“Say ‘please’ and I’ll pick you up.”

“No!”

Miles hurries forward. “Come on, Birdie, I know the way to the slide.”

She shakes her head.

“Oh, brother!” Miles whispers something in her ear.

I sense her hesitation, and then she releases me. “I’ll say the magic word if
you
say the magic words. And they lived …”

Been here, done this—several times since their return to Pickwick. I clear my throat. “And they lived happily ever after.” See, most things become tolerable with practice. I still don’t agree with building up little girl hopes that grow into big girl heartaches, but I’ll concede the battle if it gets us out of the maze before the hoard descends in their spooky finery. And from the sound of excited voices, they’re just around the corner.

“Your turn, Birdie. What’s the magic word?”

“I don’t want up anymore.” She drops her arms and runs around me.

Shouting for her to wait, Miles follows.

I blow breath up my face. Well, I
could
be good at aunting given more time. And patience. And energy. And a halo.

Intent on getting Birdie and Miles home and down for the night, I start to follow but halt when remembrance catches up with me. Caleb is meeting me. In fact, he’s probably waiting beyond the maze. Fortunately, I doubt he’ll want to hang out at the festival, so maybe after a meeting over roasted corn I can excuse the twins and myself.

“Coming!” I call.

There’s no response, and a minute later, I accept I’m a leading contender for the World’s Worst Aunt award. And niece. I also let Uncle Obe get away from me at the dedication ceremony. “Miles! Birdie!”

No answer, and now that the maze is open to the public and the paths are filling, they aren’t likely to hear me over the voices rising from the cornstalks. Did they find their way out? Did they take the hay-chute slide down the hill?

Ahead, I hear a squeal overlapped by another squeal. That was of delight, and I’m sure it came from my niece and nephew.

I run down the path that curves left, then the middle path that ends in the Victorian house’s chimney. I peer down the dimly lit drop constructed of enormous sheets of thick landscaping plastic held in place by hay bales on either side of the six-foot-wide slide. As the visitors have yet to make it to the backside of the maze, I catch no movement other than the gentle sway of shadowy cornstalks.

I cup my hands around my mouth. “Miles! Birdie! Are you down there?”

Was that a giggle? Or the rustle of stalk on stalk?

“Come out now, hear?”

Still no answer. I know I have nothing to fear—that they’re enjoying the chase—but that doesn’t stop worry from prickling my back. They’re only five. It’s dark. And strangers are everywhere. Granted, they’re mostly families, but I’m no fool. “I can find them,” I say aloud. “They’ll be safe. So safe I’ll have a good reason to be mad.”

I hear the giggle-rustle again.

“Not funny!” I shout, then drop to my bottom, push off, and slide down the skittery plastic. It’s a fast ride, one I would normally enjoy, but my heart is pounding so hard it makes me dizzy. When I get my hands on—

If you get your hands on them
.

“They’re all right. They’re just messin’ with me.”

I go sideways at the bottom of the slide, stagger to my feet, and listen for proof of Birdie and Miles. The only sounds are those of cornstalks talking to one another and the voices overhead.

“Birdie! Miles! Answer me right now!” I watch for movement on the path that winds uphill. Nothing. Maybe they are still in the maze. Without me.

I’m running again, all the while trying to speak into existence their safe return. And at some point, I start to pray—what, exactly, I don’t know, but “God” and “Lord” resound around me as I stretch my legs beyond their normal reach. Finally I crest the hill. People are everywhere, moving among stands, chatting, laughing, and tossing back sweet sticky things, blissfully unaware that two children are missing. “Let them be here, Lord,” I whisper as I sprint forward. “I won’t be mad. I’ll be a kinder, gentler aunt. Answer this one prayer. Please!”

Upon entering the throng, I pull breath to sound the alarm.

“I understand these rascals belong to you,” someone says. Not anyone I’m expecting, but I’ll take him.

I
turn and there he stands. Hoping said “rascals” go by the names of Birdie and Miles, I look down. It’s them, eyes bright with mischief, mouths strung with mirth. The bane of my exis—

Mustn’t think like that. Must be grateful they’re safe, that they were only messing with me, that I really didn’t need to call on God.

Hello! You think He had no hand in returning them safe and sound? You merely spoke it into existence?

I don’t want to think about it now. I drop to my knees and pull my niece and nephew into my arms. “You scared me bad. Don’t ever, ever do that again.”

“It was fun,” Miles speaks right into my ear, making me wince. “We could see you, but you couldn’t see us.”

“We spooked you good,” Birdie says into my shoulder.

I draw back. “That kind of spookin’ is not nice. Your mama certainly wouldn’t like it.”

Miles shrugs. “She’s not here.”

“Yeah.” Birdie’s face rumples. “When’s she coming back?”

Why did I mention Bonnie? My mother warned that Birdie has begun falling apart over her parents’ absence, especially when tired.

She blinks, sniffs. “I miss her.”

“Don’t start crying.” Miles furrows his brow. “Be a big girl.”

She snaps her head around. “I’m not big. I’m little. So are you.”

He puffs up. “Am not! Little is for babies, so if you don’t wanna be called a baby, stop being one.”

Now I’m in for it. As long as they’re getting along and, thankfully, they more often do, I can handle them, but when they go at each other—

“How about some hot chocolate?”

J.C.’s suggestion surprises me, mostly because I forgot he was standing there. I look up at a figure fit with cargo pants and a light crew-neck sweater. Our eyes meet briefly before his stray down my crouched sneaker, jean, and T-shirt-clad self. When his gaze returns to my face, he’s smiling as if pleased at having peeled back another layer of my image. But then, who wears a dress to a harvest festival?

Miles ducks out from beneath my arm and turns to J.C. “I want hot chocolate! A big one. With marshmallows.”

I consider Birdie, who seems content to remain pressed against me, which is kind of nice. “Sound good to you?”

She works her bottom lip in and out. “I want whipped cream on mine.”

Hopefully that’s an option. “All right. Should I carry you?”

She snakes an arm around my neck. “Please.”

The magic word! I nearly praise her, but something tells me that if I draw attention to it, she might think better of it next time. I stand and settle her on my hip.

Shortly, my niece and nephew sit at a picnic table across from J.C. and me. Intent on inhaling the whipped cream and marshmallows from the cups of hot chocolate that J.C. bought them, they ignore the roasted corn I bought them. Of course, my mother did feed them dinner before I picked them up.

I look at J.C. “How did you connect Birdie and Miles to me?”

Angled toward me with an elbow on the table and jaw on a fist, he says, “I overheard them trying to decide where next to hide from their aunt Bridge.”

Then if he hadn’t collared them, I would have called down a manhunt that might have ruined Henry’s opening night. “Thank you for steppin’ in.” Gaze drawn to his light brown hair that the pole light over his shoulder turns almost blond, I have an urge to touch it—just to determine if he uses that gel stuff Caleb uses. “As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not the best at keeping track of others.”

“It takes practice.”

Does he have practice? Little ones of his own? Just because there’s no wedding ring doesn’t mean there aren’t children. “I’m a bit shy in that department. My mother is the one keeping my niece and nephew while their parents are out of the country. I help when I can, but obviously not enough.” Am I babbling? “So, I didn’t know you were back in Pickwick.”

He frowns. “I was told you were expecting me.”

“What?”

“Here. Tonight.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

His eyebrows rise. “You
were
expecting someone, though?”

“Yes.” I look past Birdie and Miles who remain occupied with their steaming cups. “In fact, he’s probably—”

“He’s me.”

“You?”

His mouth curves. “Earlier today, I called your nursery—”

He knows I own a nursery?

“—and spoke with someone named Taggart.”

Then it wasn’t Caleb who called.

“He said you wanted me to meet you here in lieu of dinner out.”

I blink. “That’s what I said.”

J.C. lifts his head from his fist. “Who were you expecting? Merriman?”

I have no reason to feel guilty that Caleb remains interested in the estate. And it’s good for J.C. to know the competition hasn’t gone away. “I thought you were him. Unfortunately Tag is better versed with plants and irrigation than taking messages.”

“I hope you’re not too disappointed.” He watches me as if to capture that disappointment.

I turn up a hand. “You surprised me is all.”

He nods. “If I’d been given your cell number, we could have avoided the confusion.”

“Tag knows I don’t give my number out to just anybody.”

J.C.’s head tilts. “Then Merriman is ‘just anybody’?”

The question is loaded, but in a good way. He doesn’t like competition, especially if it gets personal enough to squeeze him out. It seems J. C. Dirk has set his mind on buying the Pickwick estate, which means his team is giving a good report.

“I wouldn’t say Caleb is ‘just anybody,’ being an old family friend. I just don’t care to be in the middle of something, whether it’s work or simply ponderin’, and have my phone go off. Unlike you, I believe in quiet time.”

His eyebrows go north. “You haven’t heard my phone ring once since we met up.”

First the cologne that remains absent, now the phone. Absent too or just—? “I’ll bet you have it set to vibrate.”

He laughs, a strong laugh that shows to the back of his teeth. “It’s on vibration mode. However, when it went off awhile ago, I didn’t even check.”

Feeling Birdie and Miles’s interest, I lean nearer J.C. “Let me guess. Not only can you now choose different ring tones to identify the caller, there are different vibrations.”

He also leans in, and I catch the
sans-cologne
scent of him. It does something to me, and it appears the feeling is mutual since whatever he was going to say is left unsaid and his partly open mouth closes.

“Are you Aunt Bridge’s happily ever after?”

J.C. pulls out of his lean. “Her happily ever after?” A teasing smile turns his mouth. “Why do you ask?”

I come out of my frozen state with a splutter. “Birdie—”

“Because her heart is happy tonight. Not weal happy, but happy.”

“Yeah,” Miles says. “Not constipated.”

“Well!” I jump up so fast my knees knock the underside of the picnic table. “Time to go.”

“I’m not done with my hot chocolate.” Miles tips his cup to show it’s half full.

“I’m done,” Birdie says, though other than the absence of whipped cream, her drink is untouched.

“Let’s get you home.” I turn my back on J.C. and step over the bench.

“But I’m not done,” Miles insists.

“Bring it with you.” I don’t relish a spill in my truck, but better that than further discussion about the state of my heart, especially if it takes us in the direction of M&M’s. “And don’t forget your corn.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Me neither.” Birdie tugs on my jeans. “Carry me.”

Fine. “After you toss your cup and corn.” I nod at where she left them.