Restless in Carolina (19 page)

Out comes her bottom lip. “I’m tired.”

I’m tempted to clean up after her just to get away from J.C., but it’s best to use the opportunity to teach about responsibility. “We clean up our own messes, Birdie. Now clean up yours and we can go.”

The breath she exhales on the nippy night air shoots from her nostrils like steam from a cartoon bull. “You do it.”

I glance from Miles, whose face is in his cup, to where J.C. stands beside the picnic table, appearing content to watch. But I’m
not
backing down. “No, Birdie.”

More bullish steam, followed by pawing of the ground with a sparkly pink sneaker. I nearly drop my jaw when she grabs the cup and corn and turns into the path of a Darth Vader–clad festival-goer who stumbles to avoid her. Sloshing all the way, she stomps to a garbage bin. “There!” She stomps back. “Carry me.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Please!”

It worked! Not a nice “please,” but I’ll take it. I haul her onto my hip where she sits rigidly, as if it were my idea to carry her.

More tugging at my jeans. “I’m tired too.”

I peer into Miles’s upturned face. Surely he’s not suggesting I also carry him? I’m hardly frail, but Birdie is one sturdy little girl and the walk to the parking area is mostly uphill. “Uh …”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to do that, J.C. I mean, why don’t you hang out and enjoy the festival. Maybe try the maze.”

He looks over his shoulder at the throng before the entrance. “Your creation, I understand.”

He knows about my seasonal job, meaning he probably knows it got its start with The Great Crop Circle Hoax. So what else does he know about me? Does one shred of my Atlanta image remain?

“A piggyback ride?” Miles asks.

“Now, Miles …” I reach to him. “As big a boy as you are, I’m sure you can walk.”

Still clutching his hot chocolate, he positions himself before J.C.

J.C. shrugs. “Piggyback it is.”

Miles starts to set his hot chocolate on the table, hesitates, then grabs his corn and runs to the garbage bin. Sharp kid.

With Miles on J.C.’s back, we weave among the chattering crowd. Bit by bit, Birdie’s rigidity recedes, and when we enter the parking area, she drops her head to my shoulder.

And there’s my truck ahead. “I’m parked right over—” Oh. My truck. I’m not embarrassed by its dents and dings and dirt. It’s my image—

What image? He knows you’re an opossum-toting Pickwick, you’re not much for fake nails or makeup, you muck it up at a nursery, and you’re a purveyor of crop mazes. Face it, the suited-up, briefcase-toting Bridget Buchanan who wheedled her way into his meeting no longer exists
.

Fine. But if he views it as weakness that will secure the estate at a price below market value, he’ll be sorely disappointed. I take the last steps to my truck and turn to gauge his reaction. “This is it.” I pat the fender with its shotgun spray of rust spots.

He halts three feet back and, as far as I can tell, doesn’t react in any negative way.

I shift Birdie’s weight, and she gives a murmur I hope means she’ll be so far asleep when we get home I won’t have to wrestle her into bed. “I appreciate you going out of your way to carry Miles.”

“My pleasure, but it was hardly out of my way.” He nods to the left. “I’m parked two cars down.”

Miles sits higher on his back to peer past the gas-guzzling luxury SUV between our two vehicles. “Where?”

“The white Lexus.”

“My dad drives one of those. But it doesn’t look like yours.”

I step toward them to confirm the car is something fast like Caleb drives, but it isn’t. “Is that a hybrid crossover?”

“It is. Very fuel efficient.”

Music to my ears.

“I’m considering purchasing one, so I decided to rent one on this trip.”

Of course it’s a rental. As busy as he is, he would have flown in from Atlanta.

“Can I ride with you?” Miles asks.

“No!” My sharp protest makes Birdie lift her sleep-weighted head. “Sorry.” I pat her back down.

Miles leans over J.C.’s shoulder. “I’ll bet Aunt Bridge’s is on the way to wherever you’re going.”

“Not if he’s staying at the Pickwick Arms,” I interject.

“I am.” J.C. holds my gaze. “But I don’t mind Miles riding with me—providing
you
don’t mind.”

“I want to go with Mr. J.C.!” The whine in Miles’s voice warns of worse to come.

And I’m too worn out to deal with it. “All right.”

I secure the floppy, softly snoring Birdie in her booster seat and climb in the cab. The engine jumps to life with a single turn of the key. Hopefully, that means my truck’s temperamental behavior has resolved itself.

With the Lexus on my tail, I exit the Martins’ farm and head down Pickwick Pike. It’s a short drive to my turnoff, and when I pull onto the gravel road, I expect J.C. to hesitate in committing his vehicle to the driveway as Caleb did. He doesn’t.

Before long, I pull into the parking area in front of my dimly lit house. The Lexus draws alongside. As I unbuckle Birdie, J.C. exits his car, and I feel him rise at my back at about the time Errol sets to barking.

“Sounds like a big dog,” J.C. says.

Is that wariness in his voice? Good. I’m sure J.C. is honorable, but it’s best to be safe. “He’s a Great Pyrenees.”

Miles hops out of the Lexus. “Errol isn’t Aunt Bridge’s. She’s baby-sitting him.”

I ease Birdie into my arms and, as I turn, say low, “True, but I think he’ll soon settle down here with me.” Especially since the last time Artemis Bleeker availed himself of my baby-sitting services, it took his wife a week to notice the absence of her “big boy.” Though Artemis has yet to verify the cause of his wife’s memory problems, most everyone believes she’s on the same path as my uncle. If so, the one bright spot for her is that her deterioration isn’t marked by early onset. She had twenty more years of intact memories than my uncle.

“Does he bite?” J.C. asks Miles, and I have the sense he really wants to know. Is he afraid of big dogs? It hardly fits this confident man.

“Nah, he’s like a puppy that got blown up big.”

J.C. nods. “Would you like me to carry Birdie?”

Into the house where Easton and I grew as man and wife? Where no man other than kin has stepped since his death? Imagining J.C.’s feet on the same floorboards once tread by Easton, panic rises.

“Just to the door,” J.C. clarifies.

“I’ve got her.” I extend a hand. “Thank you for driving Miles home.”

As his fingers close warmly around mine, my nephew tugs J.C.’s sleeve. “Come see Errol! And Reggie—she’s an opossum.”

He already knows about my unusual pet.

“Maybe another time.”

My nephew thrusts his face up. “Why? I’m not tired anymore—all the way awake. See?” The whites of his eyes get big in the night.

“It’s getting late, and I’m sure your aunt wants to put you to bed.”

“Then you can read me a story—or tell me one.” Miles jerks his head in my direction. “She doesn’t have kids’ books.”

Makes me sound borderline abusive.

“Please, Mr. J.C.”

Please
again …

Still holding my hand, the man whom I’m responsible for bringing to Pickwick returns his gaze to mine. “It’s up to your aunt.”

“I promise I won’t keep getting up for water, Aunt Bridge. I’ll stay down and fall asleep like I do when Daddy tells me a story.”

“Well?” J.C. prompts.

What harm, especially if it gets Miles down faster? And it is one more step in the right direction for you
. “All right.”

Miles whoops, and I’m sad for how much he misses his daddy. The emotional places inside him that need filling by a father figure certainly aren’t being filled by his granddaddy.

I wag a finger. “A
short
story.”

Miles bobs his head. “Short.”

With Errol more vigorously heralding our approach, I lead the way across the stone path Easton laid for me weeks before his death … up the porch steps he replaced a month before his death … through the screen door he installed a year before his death … across the porch he repainted two years before his death … past the hammock he hung several years before his death … halt before the door he—

Yes, he did, but
you
more recently replaced the weather stripping
. And I did it without perseverating on my loss. Why am I perseverating now? Does the answer lie in Caleb, who kissed me as Easton last kissed me? In J. C. Dirk, who disturbs me as Easton disturbed me when he first set his mind to pursuing the lone tree-hugging Pickwick?

As I slide the key into the lock, Errol’s barking becomes a growl. He must sense someone unfamiliar is with me. Or if J.C. is wary of big dogs, maybe that’s why Errol is frantic. A moment later, his big claws are scrabbling on the other side. Great. Just as the weather stripping fell to me, so will the refinishing.

“Behave,” I say as Errol thrusts his face in the space that opens into him. “No jumpin’.” And, hopefully, no piddling.

I push the door wider and flip the light switch, but as I carry Birdie inside with Miles on my heels, Errol pushes past. With my niece making waking sounds, I rasp, “Errol!”

The big dog halts before J.C. and gives a bark that rolls into another growl.

J.C. doesn’t move, though his eyes meet mine. “Blown-up puppy?”

I see through his attempt at humor. He
is
wary of Errol. Not that he’s shaking in his shoes, but discomfort comes off him like heat from
pavement in summertime, and he’s definitely avoiding eye contact with Errol.

“Are you afraid of dogs?” Miles asks. “Daddy says they can sense fear and it makes them suspicious.”

“I prefer them small,” J.C. says.

I shift Birdie’s weight and step back onto the porch and touch Errol’s head. “Come on, boy, it’s okay. Let’s go inside.”

He looks up at me, back at J.C., at me again.

I nod. “Let’s get a treat.”

He gives a grunt, his tail a thump, and follows. I glance over my shoulder at J.C., who is about to enter the home that Easton—
Stop it!

Fortunately, with J.C. keeping an eye on Errol, there’s no need for me to force a smile. “Why don’t you and Miles start on that story while I give Errol his treat?”

“Sure,” J.C. says.

With repeated glances over his shoulder, Errol walks alongside me toward the kitchen.

“It’s cold in here,” Miles says.

It’s that or too hot, depending on the season, since I always turn off the thermostat when I leave the house for the day. I refuse to waste energy to keep my furniture warm. As for Reggie and Errol, they have fur. “I’ll turn on the heat.” I slide the switch. “Just keep your jacket on until it warms up.”

Miles gives a weary sigh. “She’s a tree hugger. Hey, would you get Reggie? She’s probably up there.”

I feel bad that I didn’t acknowledge my opossum atop the hutch, but my hands are full. On a good note, Reggie and Miles seem to have
connected. Not once has she attempted to play possum in his presence. Now with Birdie … Reggie has never bitten anyone—well, other than me—but if my niece doesn’t stop trying to outfit her in baby-doll clothes, she might make an exception.

Huffing with the effort to support Birdie, I enter the kitchen and hit the Play button on the answering machine. As I open the doggie canister, a time- and date-stamped voice sounds around the small room.

“Bridget, it’s Caleb.”

Again. Obviously, my father gave him my home number.

“I’ll be in town tomorrow and thought we might have dinner.”

At the prospect of wiggling out of another invitation, I draw a deep breath. But wait. Did J.C. hear Caleb’s message? Probably. So not a bad thing to prove that competition is alive and well in Pickwick.

“Call me back, okay?”

I don’t have much choice, do I? Oh, the lengths to which I must go.

E
rrol trots off with his treat. However, no sooner do I get the lid on the canister than he returns for more. “Oh no, a treat is a treat.”

His ears lower only to perk at the sound of the toilet flushing. Guessing that was Miles and grateful I won’t have to remind him to empty his too-small bladder that has led to “accidents” at Mama’s house, I cross to the back door and pull it open. “Come on, Errol, I don’t want any accidents from you either.”

He goes reluctantly, and as he lumbers across the backyard, I close the door. When his business is finished, he’ll let me know.

Birdie sighs heavily as I exit the kitchen, nearly masking the second flushing of the toilet. Miles again? Surely not. The last time he was here, he flushed three times during one trip to the bathroom. Under close questioning, he admitted he likes to watch the water “tornado.” Thus, I instructed him on environmentally responsible toilet etiquette of one flush maximum per use. It sounds like the lesson didn’t stick.

As I head down the hallway, my nephew flings open the bathroom door. When he sees me, he puts on the brakes. “Just two times, Aunt Bridge. Not three.”

“That’s an improvement, but—” I glance down the hallway to the light that pours from the guest room, where J.C. is waiting for Miles. Now is not the time to reinforce the lesson.