Restless in Carolina (22 page)

As Itsy settles against my chest, I touch Mama’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re getting checked out.”

“I’m fine.” She pats my hand, then her little dog. “Your daddy’s makin’ this tired of mine more than it is.” Her smile is wan. “I appreciate you watchin’ the young uns. They’re eating lunch now, but if you can get them down for a nap—Lord knows, they hardly ever go down for me—it would make the afternoon less busy.”

“I’ll do my best.” But if J.C. wants to weave another of his “Seven Caves of the Seven Winds” stories, I’ll take
his
best.

Daddy cups his wife’s elbow. “We’ll be back soon.” He gives J.C. a meaningful glare.

I look beyond him to where Caleb is descending. “And Caleb?”

“I told him he could stay, but he’s got business to attend to.”

Good. Juggling J.C. and the twins is one thing, adding Caleb to the mix, quite another. Hopefully, the twins will give me time to settle in before—

“It’s Mr. J.C.!” Miles shouts.

I guess not. As Daddy urges Mama toward their car, J.C. waves at my nephew, who has come out onto the veranda.

“Aunt Bridge,” Birdie pulls up behind her brother, “come read the new book Grandma got me. It’s a happily … ever … after story.”

Right. “Coming!”

Or I was. Suddenly, Caleb is in front of me, and before I realize what he intends, he kisses my cheek. “I know,” he whispers as Itsy squirms between us, “I should have asked permission, but …” With a smile and a glance at J.C., he says, “I’ll pick you up at your house at six o’clock. Wear something that looks good in candlelight.”

Seeing as we already confirmed the time and dress code, that was for J.C.’s sake.

“I’ll do my best to get Bridget home on time,” J.C. says smoothly.

Doubtless, he’s letting the competition know there
is
competition, and he’s as familiar with where I live as Caleb. And in J.C.’s case, his claim
is
backed up by Miles’s excitement at seeing him again.

With a slightly slipped smile, Caleb says, “You do that,” and looks to me. “Tonight.”

Goodness, if a body didn’t know the bone these two are wrestling over is the Pickwick estate, she might think I’m the most eligible woman in North Carolina. I blink at the realization that the seed J.C. sowed took hold—that Caleb’s interest in me is tied to the acquisition of the property. But is he just another widow sniffer? Or might he still be a maybe?

He steps past me. As he opens his car door, he finds my gaze, smiles a smile that would earn him the front cover of a magazine, and winks.

Yeah, maybe.

I
step onto the porch overlooking a deep Carolina wood through which a creek runs wet and cool all year excepting the hottest summer months. And there on the back lawn that would be scrubby if I didn’t keep it groomed for Mama, J.C. and Miles are running plays with a child’s football, which looks tiny in J.C.’s hands. As for the energy that seems to churn within him, it’s being put to good use as he gives my nephew a workout. Hopefully, it will pay off at nap time.

I ought to have put Miles down shortly after I entered the house behind the others, but he begged J.C. to throw a ball with him, buttering his toast on both sides by reminding me his daddy isn’t here and his granddaddy is too busy for him. I relented, mostly because Miles is in need of male attention but also because it got J.C. out of the house.

Though I’m at Mama and Daddy’s fairly often, I feel out of place in the home Daddy managed to hold on to through the thin times when his investment schemes went belly up. Inside, the need for TLC is less evident, since Mama works hard to keep it bright and in good repair, but the aged house is out of date—lots of lace, lacquer, and gold this ’n’ that.

After watching J.C. take it all in, gaze moving up the walls of the foyer, tracing gilt mirrors, sliding over thick-waisted pillars better suited to supporting a roof than framing a formal living room, I found myself on the verge of apologizing for the bold extravagance. Instead, I excused Birdie and myself and headed upstairs.

After closing Itsy in Mama and Daddy’s bedroom to save her from my niece’s attempts to dress her in baby-doll clothes, I tackled the task of putting Birdie down. This was easier done than expected, Birdie drifting to sleep after a single reading of her “happily ever after” story.

“Catch, Aunt Bridge!”

A widening of my eyes sharpens Miles’s blurred figure a moment before I focus on the flying football. I easily catch it, my love of the outdoors extending to sports.

“See,” Miles smiles, “I told you she could catch—almost as good as my dad.”

That’s debatable, and I think that not to brag but to prove a child’s education ought to extend to the great outdoors. Claude de Feuilles may be highly intelligent, but it’s obvious his parents’ love of knowledge took precedence over time spent in the pursuit of the increasingly endangered outdoor play of children. I’m encouraged that J. C. Dirk appears to be at home outside as well as inside a shiny office tower. Maybe more so.

“Join us?” He looks decidedly un-Atlanta with his mussed hair, tie-less shirt, rolled sleeves, and bare feet.

Since the image meant to impress him has been dismantled—excepting my dread-to-silky hair, thank goodness—I step from the porch.

“All time quarterback!” Miles pokes his chest. “You and Mr. J.C. against each other.”

I falter. I don’t want J.C. chasing after me, literally or otherwise.

“I’m game,” he says. “Two-hand touch.”

Though I know it’s backyard football terminology, I don’t like the sound of that.

“You’re defense, Aunt Bridge.”

“O … kay.” With the toes of one shoe, I peel off the heel of the other and, shortly, cross the lawn in bare feet.

J.C. smiles, a true smile as verified by the absence of his sunglasses, extending the warm expression to his eyes. “Let’s do it.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, marked by whoops, laughter, and fairly benign laying on of hands, J.C. and I catch Miles’s throws and attempt to reach the agreed-upon goal between oak trees on the far side of the lawn. With two touchdowns to my name, two to J.C.’s, we take up positions for the tiebreaker.

On offense, I run toward the goal, looking over my shoulder for Miles’s throw and J.C.’s whereabouts. He’s too near, unlike the football that arcs high toward me. However, I pull off a fingertip catch and carry the ball into my chest. I pump my legs hard to evade J.C.’s reach, but he’s nearer than before, so near I can hear him breathing as he forces me to zig and zag toward the nearest oak.

A hand brushes my upper arm, but just one. It has to be two. Another brush, then a hand lands in the middle of my back, the other on my shoulder.

“Oh!” I cry as the tree rises before me. A moment later, I collapse against the gnarly trunk, as does J.C.—rather against
me
. Feeling heat fly beneath my skin, I twist around and the football falls from my hand.

“Sorry.” J.C. pulls back maybe six inches, a hand on the trunk on either side of me. “You’re a hard one to catch.”

Though reason tells me momentum is responsible for what feels like intimacy, it also points out there is no excuse for us to remain so close—unless he’s trying to catch his breath. I know I’m trying to catch mine. In fact, I seem to have lost it altogether. Our bodies are no longer
touching, but I feel him. And for some reason, it doesn’t bother me that he’s practically smothering my personal space.

“So”—he peers into my face—“let the tie stand? No winner, no loser?”

I pick out the gold flecks in his green eyes only to wonder if I imagined them. Perhaps even the color, his pupils have grown so large. I swallow, an unladylike gulp that, had I not already tarnished my image, would do it for me lickety-split. “I can live with a tie.” Was that my voice? And what’s he doing looking at my mouth? He’d better ask permission first, is all I can say.
And if he does?

His gaze returns to mine, and I see the question in his eyes. Was it there last night when he touched my face? I don’t know what possesses me, but I lean forward.

“Whatcha guys doin’?” Miles asks from far away. Or so it seems until J.C. drops back and I find my nephew beside me, the football under his arm.

His mouth transforms into an open-mouthed grin. “Aunt Bridge and Mr. J.C. sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage—”

“Miles!”

“—then comes baby in a baby carriage.”

Avoiding J.C.’s gaze, I push off the tree. “Nap time, buddy.”

The grin evaporates. “Do I have to, Mr. J.C.?”

“That was the agreement. Also, your aunt and I need to talk business.”

With a grumble, Miles turns toward the house.

Keeping my gaze averted, I walk wide around J.C. He about kissed me. And I made it easy for him. I can’t believe he’s really interested in me—

Bingo! He did warn me on the drive over that any interest he showed should be considered purely mercenary.

Actually, that was
your
conclusion—and sarcastic at that
.

True, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t his answer to Caleb—as in, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Or something like that. And I don’t like it. J.C. and I need to talk. Caleb too. If either of them thinks he’s going to the head of the property-acquiring line by courting me, he has another think coming.

Thirty minutes later, I’m in a bit of a better place when I hear J.C.’s tread on the stairs. When he offered to put Miles down with another story of the “Seven Caves of the Seven Winds,” I was so perturbed I nearly turned him down, but that would have been cutting off my nose to spite my face. Too, it gave me time to make lunch and put Mama’s recycling bins in order that Daddy always puts out of order. The man simply can’t be bothered to do his part to ensure his grandchildren and their grandchildren inherit a world worth living in.

“I hope you like Spanish omelets,” I say as J.C. enters the kitchen.

“I do.”

As he settles at the glass-topped table, I slip a slice of my creation on each of the plates I set out. “Orange juice okay?” I nod at his filled glass.

“Sure.”

I return the cast-iron skillet to the stove top, seat myself opposite J.C., and raise my fork. As I zero in on the beautifully turned omelet (I’m something of a cook, if I say so myself), I realize something is missing that is always at this table whether I like it or not. I glance at J.C., who is watching me, but is he waiting? And how’s it going to look if I jump in and eat without saying grace? I suppose I could—

He lifts his fork and cuts into the omelet.

Problem solved.

“This is good.”

“Thanks to Mama. She pretty much let me grow in the direction to which I was inclined, but she did push me to learn to cook.” In fact, those are some of my best memories. She longed for me to be a Southern belle befitting my “lineage,” but after the cotillion-skunk incident, she settled for a tomboy who could whip up a batch of tasty.

“So no cotillion or fancy coming-out balls for Bridget Pickwick?”

Did I think that out loud? I’m sure I didn’t. I suppose it just follows that my nature-loving self wouldn’t go in for the stereotypical Southern-girl things. “No cotillion. No debutante ball.”

“But plenty of tree hugging.”

I look sharply at him; however, the light in his eyes isn’t derogatory. Nor is his smile, which reminds me of a certain tree and a certain leaning toward something I shouldn’t have. “That’s right.”

He slides another forkful in his mouth, and I watch his lips close around it and remember—

I look to my omelet.

A few bites later, J.C. says, “About the estate—”

“Can we clear the air first?”

“What air is that?”

“The stuff that was floatin’ around when we were up against the tree outside.”

He smiles another smile that goes straight to the center of me. “Yes?”

Why is my heart thudding? It’s not as if I’m not used to speaking my mind. It’s second nature. Maybe first. I clear my throat. “You nearly kissed me—”

“You nearly let me.”

I feel another blush coming on. “That’s neither here nor there.”

“Isn’t it?”

I lower my fork. “I just want you to know I’m not up for that kind of sport.”

“What kind is that?”

Is he baiting me? “You asked earlier how I determine the difference between a widow sniffer and a man who is genuinely interested in me.”

“And you didn’t answer.” He leans back, looking so relaxed I almost wish he’d start jangling. “However, something tells me you think I was sniffing.”

“Weren’t you?”

He looks ceiling-ward as if replaying the scene.

I wish he wouldn’t do that. It sets my own film rolling. And for some reason, it’s not only in high definition, it’s scented. Why I should smell the grass, dust, and sweat of J.C. now when I don’t recall smelling any such thing when he was inches from me, I can’t say.

“I suppose there was some sniffing goin’ on.” He looks back at me.

Only
some?
Then a part of him really wanted to kiss me?

“Chalk it up to business instinct, something I’ve struggled with since I stepped back into my faith a year ago.”