Restless in Carolina (2 page)

“You don’t wanna say it.” Miles sets his little legs wide apart. “Do ya?”

So much for my distraction.

“You don’t like Birdie’s stories ’cause they have happy endings. And you don’t.”

I clench my toes in the painfully snug high heels on loan from Piper.

“Yep.” Miles punches his fists to his hips. “Even Mama says so.”

My own sister? I shake my head, causing the blond dreads Maggie pulled away from my face with a headband to sweep my back. “That’s not true.”

“Then say it wight now!” Birdie demands.

I peer over my shoulder at where she stands like an angry tin soldier, an arm outthrust, the book extended.

“Admit it,” Miles singsongs.

I snap around and catch my breath at the superior, knowing look on his
five-year-old
face. He’s his father’s son, all right, a miniature Professor Claude de Feuilles, child development expert.

“You’re not happy.” The professor in training, who looks anything but with his spiked hair, nods.

I know better than to bristle with two cranky, nap-deprived children, but that’s what I’m doing. Feeling as if I’m watching myself from the other side of the room, I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ll admit no such thing.”

“That’s ’cause you’re afraid. Mama said so.” Miles peers past me. “Didn’t she, Birdie?”

Why is Bonnie discussing my personal life with her barely-out-of-diapers kids?

“Uh-huh. She said so.”

Miles’s smile is smug. “On the drive here, Mama told Daddy this day would be hard on you. That you wouldn’t be happy for Uncle Bart ’cause you’re not happy.”

Not true! Not that I’m thrilled with our brother’s choice of bride, but … come on!
Trinity Templeton?
Nice enough, but she isn’t operating on a full charge, which wouldn’t be so bad if Bart made up for the difference. Far from it, his past history with illegal stimulants having stripped him of a few billion brain cells.

“She said your heart is”—Miles scrunches his nose, as if assailed by a terrible odor—“constipated.”

What?!

“That you need an M&M, and I don’t think she meant the chocolate kind you eat. Probably one of those—”

“I am
not
constipated.”
Pull back. Nice and easy
. I try to heed my inner voice but find myself leaning down and saying, “I’m realistic.”

Birdie stomps the hardwood floor. “Say the magic words!”

“Nope.” Miles shakes his head. “Constipated.”

I shift my cramped jaw. “Re-al-is-tic.”

“Con-sti-pa-ted.”

Pull back, I tell you! He’s five years old
. “Just because I don’t believe in fooling a naive little girl into thinkin’ a prince is waiting for her at the other end of childhood and will save her from a fate worse than death and take her to his castle and they’ll live …” I flap a hand. “… you know, doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.”

Isn’t there?
“It means I know better. There may be a prince, and he may have a castle, and they may be happy, but don’t count on it lasting. Oh no. He’ll get bored or caught up in work or start cheatin’—you know, decide to put that glass slipper on some other damsel’s foot or kiss another sleeping beauty—or he’ll just up and die like Easton—”
No, nothing at all wrong with you, Bridget Pickwick Buchanan, whose ugly widow’s weeds are showing
.

“See!” Miles wags a finger.

Unfortunately, I do. And as I straighten, I hear sniffles.

“Now you done it!” Miles hustles past me. “Got Birdie upset.”

Sure enough, she’s staring at me with flooded eyes. “The prince dies? He dies and leaves the princess all alone?” The book falls from her hand, its meeting with the floor echoing around the library. Then she squeaks out a sob.

“No!” I spring forward, grimacing at the raspy sound the skirt makes as I attempt to reach Birdie before Miles.

He gets there first and puts an arm around her. A meltable moment, my mother would call it.
After
she gave me a dressing down. And I deserve one. My niece may be on the spoiled side and she may work my nerves, but I love her—even
like
her when that sweet streak of hers comes through.

“It’s okay, Birdie,” Miles soothes. “The prince doesn’t die.”

Yes, he does, but what possessed me to say so? And what if I’ve scarred her for life?

Miles pats her head onto his shoulder. “Aunt Bridge is just”—he gives me the evil eye—“constipated.”

“Yes, Birdie.” I drop to my knees. “I am. My heart, that is. Constipated. I’m so sorry.”

She turns her head and, upper lip shiny with the stuff running out of her nose, says in a hiccupy voice, “The prince doesn’t die?”

I grab the book from the floor and turn to the back. “Look. There they are, riding off into the sunset—er, to his castle. Happy. See, it says so.” I tap the
H, E
, and
A
.

She sniffs hard, causing that stuff to whoosh up her nose and my gag reflex to go on alert. “Weally happy, Aunt Bridge?”

“Yes.”

“Nope.” Barely-there eyebrows bunching, she lifts her head from Miles’s shoulder. “Not unless you say it.”

Oh dear Go
—No, He and I are not talking. Well, He may be talking, but I’m not listening.

“I think you’d better.” Miles punctuates his advice with a sharp nod.

“Okay.” I look down at the page. “… and they lived …”
It’s just a fairy tale—highly inflated, overstated fiction for tykes
. “… they lived happily … ever … after.”

Birdie blinks in slow motion. “Happily … ever … after. That’s a nice way to say it, like you wanna hold on to it for always.”

Or unstick it from the roof of your mouth. “The end.” I close the book, and it’s all I can do not to toss it over my shoulder. “Here you go.”

She clasps it to her chest. “Happily … ever … after.”

Peachy. But I’ll take her dreamy murmuring over tears any day. Goodness, I can’t believe I made her cry. I stand and pat the skirt back down into its stand-alone shape. “More cake?”

“Yay!” Miles charges past me.

Next time—No, there won’t be a next time. I’m done with Little Golden Books.

Birdie hurries to catch up with her brother. “I want a piece of chocolate cake.”

I
want to go home. And curl up in my hammock. And listen for the hot air to stir up a breeze and creak the leaves. And try not to think about my lost happily ever after. I set my shoulders and thoughts against memories and check my watch. I’ve been in this dress and these shoes for four hours. It’s time.

Outside the library, I pause at the grand staircase, step out of the heels, and try to flex my toes. They’re numb. I declare, if I have to have anything amputated, someone will hear about it. I retrieve the shoes and hobble into the hallway, through the kitchen, and outside into a bright day abuzz with wedding revelry.

No matter the season, the beauty of Uncle Obe’s garden always gets to me, especially now that it and the entire Pickwick estate will be passing out of Pickwick hands. For months I’ve about killed myself trying to find a way around the sale that will provide restitution to those our family has wronged as well as something of an inheritance to kin, but everywhere I turn, I find walls.

“Hey, babies,” my sister’s voice rings out, “did you have fun with Aunt Bridge?”

I halt and look toward the linen-covered table, where a large three-tiered wedding cake was the centerpiece earlier. Only one tier remains, and it’s had its share of knifings.

“Yeah, it was okay.” Miles holds out a plate for his mother to fill. “Until she made Birdie cry.”

My little sister’s gasp shoots around those standing in the twenty feet between us. “What happened?”

“Aunt Bridge didn’t want to finish the book. Did she, Birdie?”

Hugging it to her, she shakes her head.

“Well,” Bonnie slides a piece of cake onto each of their plates, “maybe she’s tired.”

“Nuh-uh.” Miles leans his face into the cake, takes a bite, and with crumbs spilling and frosting flecking, says, “She told us the prince gave the glass slipper to another girl and kissed Sleeping Beauty and then died.”

“Oh.” Bonnie’s lids flutter. “Huh.” Sunlight glints off the knife in her hand as she meets my gaze. “Well.” She forces a smile. “Hmm.” Back to her daughter. “We know that’s not true, don’t we, Roberta baby?”

Birdie bounces her head. “They lived happily … ever … after.”

Time to go. But as much as I long to run, I’m civilized, despite rumors to the contrary. I search out my brother where he stands with his bride, Trinity, my mother and father, and Uncle Obe in the gazebo built for the reception. A quick congratulations and I’m out of here.

“Bridget!”

I hurry past Maggie’s brother and his latest wife, around Uncle Obe’s attorney, between—

“Don’t think I don’t know you can hear me, Bridget.”

And so can everyone else. I swing around. “Bonbon!”

Bonnie rushes the last few feet. “I know we’re mostly family here, but I’ll do you the kindness of talking to you in private.” She points to the mansion.

I don’t care to accompany her, but neither do I want to throw a shadow over Bart’s special day. And going by the eyes turning our way, it’s fast approaching. “Of course.” I set off ahead of her, raise my eyebrows at Maggie when she turns a worried face to me, and give Piper a shrug.

In the kitchen, I cross to the pantry and raise my hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to say what I did. I certainly didn’t mean to make Birdie cry.”

Bonnie steps near, causing my hackles to rise. I don’t like sharing my personal space, even with my own sister. My
hotheaded
sister. And then she goes and puts a finger in my face, and I have the urge to bite it. But I won’t. That would end badly.

“I trust you with my most precious possessions,” Mama Bear growls, “and what do you do? Try to steal my babies’ sweetness and innocence with that ‘life is dark’ outlook of yours.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just on edge, what with tryin’ to find a buyer for the estate who won’t turn it into a crowded development or a nasty theme park. And now Uncle Obe has listed it, and the real estate agents are swarmin’. It’s too much, Bonbon.”

She narrows her lids. “Don’t you Bonbon me!”

Though she’s five foot two, one hundred ten pounds to my five foot six, one hundred twenty pounds, I know she could take me down if I riled her enough to forget we’re grown women. But that’s not the reason I pull back on my emotions. I do it because I’m the one who lost control in front of her twins. I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did!” The finger again. “You can’t stand for anybody to be happy if you aren’t happy.”

Ignore the finger
. “That’s not true.” My throat strains from the effort to keep my voice level. “I—”

“Woe is me. My husband’s dead, and I refuse to get over it. Even though he’s
four
years gone!”

I suck breath.
Oh, God. I mean, no! I’m not talking to You. Of course,
I could use a little self-control if You’ve got some lying around. But that doesn’t mean I’m talking to You
.

“Have mercy on us, Bridget, ’cause you know what? Grief is contagious. And I don’t want my babies catchin’ it.”

A chill goes through me. I never thought of grief as contagious, but I suppose it could be.

“So stop casting your widowhood like a net, catching others in it and saying stuff like that just because Easton is dead.”

Just
because? I feel warm again. “Maybe …” My voice sounds all wet and boogered up with that stuff that boogered Birdie’s nose. “Maybe I said it because my
constipated
heart needs an M&M.”

Bonnie startles so hard I find myself checking the whereabouts of my hands to be certain I didn’t slap her. Not that I would, although she might slap me.

“Oh.” She steps back and gives a nervous laugh. “They told you I said that?”

Having regained some of my personal space, my shoulders unbind. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

“Uh, yeah. I didn’t realize they were listenin’. They had their earphones in and were singing along with their iPods.” She frowns. “Or so I thought.”

I pull a hand down my face. It’s a good thing I never took to makeup. “It’s all right. I know you didn’t mean it to hurt me.”

She raises her hands palms up. “I needed to talk it out with Claude. You know how I worry about you.”

Not really, but we live a ways from each other, averaging two visits a year when she and her family drive through on their way to elsewhere.
However, that pattern will be broken when my sister and her husband leave the twins with their grandparents for eight weeks while they’re in the Ukraine to study the development of children awaiting adoption. My mother will have her hands full, but I’ll help however I can.

“I really am sorry for what I said to Birdie and Miles. It won’t happen again.”

Once more, Bonnie invades my space, and this time I’m the one who startles when she lays a hand on my cheek. “Oh, Bridget, how are you going to keep that promise when you’re still wrapped up in all those widow’s weeds?”

Don’t pull back. It’s your sister, not a “widow sniffer” trying to get a hook into the lonely little widow
. Pressing my dry lips, I long for my Burt’s Bees lip balm. “I’ve accepted my loss. It’s just taking me longer than some to adjust. But I am adjustin’.”

Her eyes snap to slits. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“No, if you were adjusting, you wouldn’t still be clinging to your wedding ring.”

I catch my breath. “There’s nothing wrong with wearing it.”

“Yes, there is.” She grabs my hand and lifts it before my face. “It’s time.
Past
time. You have to let him go.”

I do
not like
this. “I have. I accept he’s gone—”

“No, not
gone
. That implies he can come back. He’s dead. And you have to call it what it is and get on with your life. Not yours and Easton’s life.
Your
life.”

I pull my hand free. “I’m getting there.”

“Well, at this rate, you’ll be in your own grave before you arrive.”

My own grave … I feel cold. At thirty-three, if I live to see my body stoop and shrivel, that will be a very long time. Like one big unending yawn.