Restless in Carolina (23 page)

Meaning he also turned from God? Why? And what brought him back?

“As I said the last time I was in town, I have a hard time being a what-you-see-is-what-you-get person, especially when I perceive the competition is playing dirty. Or, in this case, sniffing around. It tends to bring out the worst in me. That and my … past.”

The vulnerability that peeks through his face is gone in an instant.
Obviously, behind that big-city facade lurks someone who has more to say than he’s saying.

Amid the awkward silence, we return to our omelets. “I appreciate your honesty, J.C. However, just because you’re doing
some
sniffing doesn’t mean Caleb is.”

“I could be wrong, and if I am, I apologize. But what I do know is that Merriman has ties to a firm looking to plant an industrial park outside of Asheville.”

That gives me pause. J.C. has been checking on his competition. Piper did the same, but she didn’t find anything like this. If it’s true, it could be coincidence only. I slowly chew through egg, tomato, and green peppers. “You know that for certain?”

J.C. nods. “That brings us back to the question of how you spot a widow sniffer.”

I guide another bite of omelet toward my mouth. “Now what kind of fool would I be to reveal my means of sniffin’ out a sniffer?” I laugh to lighten the mood, but he stares at me. “All right, you got me. I tend to see y’all as widow sniffers.”

J.C. pushes his plate forward and rests his forearms on the table. “You must have loved your husband very much.”

My heart flickers, but the weight I anticipate to descend on it is blessedly—did I think
blessedly
?—lighter than expected. “I did.”

“How many years has it been?”

“Four.” Disgusted with the wimp in my throat, I sit straighter. “Easton’s been gone—” Here I go again, refusing to acknowledge the finality of his death, as Bonnie so painfully pointed out. “My husband died four years ago.” There, I did it. Out loud. On my own.

“And you still feel the loss deeply.”

Is he giving me a talking-to the same as Bonnie? “You think I shouldn’t?”

His shrug is slight. “Though four years seems a long time to be in mourning, some people take longer to heal than others. Of course, there are those who simply find it easier to live in the past. They refuse to move on and miss out on life—God’s plans for them, if you will.”

Maybe he
is
giving me a talking-to.

“They play dead. Like your opossum.”

Not
my
opossum. But Reggie tries, bless her heart. In the next instant, I draw a sharp breath, belatedly struck by the irony to which J.C. is alluding—a woman who pronounces every man who threatens her widowhood a widow sniffer keeping a pet that, in the face of danger, closes down.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Which one do you think I am? Someone who takes a long while to heal or one who finds it easier to live in the past?”

He considers me. “I don’t know you well enough to be certain, so it’s not for me to say.”

“All right then, which are you?”

He blinks. “What makes you think I’m one or the other?”

“You said your past tends to bring out the worst in you.”

He inclines his head. “So I did.”

“Then?”

With a smile that seems directed at himself, he says, “I’d say I’m missing out on life, letting seemingly unfinished business get in the way of the present. You?”

Seemingly
unfinished business. In my case, regret over something I wish could be undone. And disillusionment with God denying me the ability to undo it. “The same, I suppose, but I’m making progress. After all, though I did suspect Caleb was a widow sniffer, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Do I also get the benefit of the doubt?”

I don’t look away. “You admitted to being guilty of sniffin’.”

“Some.”

That little word makes me so jumpy, my fork nearly gets loose. I set it down.

“It’s true the business side of me longs to beat Caleb at his own game, but I am interested in you in a personal sense, Bridget.”

Feeling my skin warm, I snort. “I may come from a prominent, albeit scandalous, Southern family, but you can’t tell me I’m what you’re accustomed to. I clean up fairly well, is all.”

“You’re one surprise after another. I like that.” He lowers his gaze to his arms on the table and is gone a long moment. “You’re not the typical Pickwick.”

He’s dug into our family’s history. But that’s just it—
history
. Yes, my daddy falls into the “typical” category, as do two of my expatriate uncles and my used car–salesman cousin Luc (to an extent); however, despite a here-and-there peculiarity, the rest of us are doing just fine.

I push the remains of my omelet aside. “You mean
stereotypical
Pickwick.”

“True.”

I really ought to be more annoyed. “Well, in case you haven’t heard, firsthand knowledge is more credible than tittle-tattle.”

He looks down again and draws a breath. “Actually, Bridget—”

“I woke up.”

I look around, and Birdie’s in the doorway, a book dragging from her hand. “Why, Birdie, that wasn’t a long nap.” I push my chair back.

“I need another happily … ever … after.”

Me too. I scoop up my niece, and she drops her head onto my shoulder. “As soon as I get her back down”—I look at J.C.—“we’ll talk about your plans for the property.” Which is what we
should
have been doing all along.

“I’ll clean up here.”

“Thank you.”

As Birdie and I near the stairs, the house phone rings. “Don’t worry about that,” I call. “The answering machine will get it.”

When Birdie drops off again, I return to the kitchen, where J.C. is at the sink.

“All done.” Wiping his hands on a towel, he turns to me.

“I appreciate—” I falter at the sight of Mama’s cast-iron skillet overturned on another towel. “Tell me you didn’t …” There are beads of water on the black iron surface. “You did.”

“What?”

I point at the skillet. “You washed it.”

“Yes?” He frowns harder. And then stops. “It appears I’ve forgotten the importance a Southern woman places in a skillet that’s … What do you call it? ‘Well seasoned,’ isn’t it?”

Wasn’t
it? I turn the skillet over and whimper when I see that, instead of being wiped clean, layers of seasoning are scoured away. And there, in the bottom of the sink, is the steel wool pad that did it in—with the help of J.C.’s energy-infused elbow grease.

“I’m sorry.”

I draw a deep breath. “I know. You were just trying to help.” Poor Mama. What will become of her gravy? And fried chicken? And breaded okra? Wait! She gave me the skillet’s twin when Easton and I married. Much as I hate to lose it, I’ll gladly give it up to keep her from becoming anxious—and Daddy from grumbling over his supper not tasting right.

“You’ll want to listen to the message.” J.C. nods at the answering machine. “It’s from your father.”

Probably complaining about how long it’s taking the doctor to see Mama. I set the skillet on the counter and hit the playback button. How am I going to swap skillets without alerting Mama?

“Bridget? You there? No?”
He grunts.
“Probably outside. Just want you to know we won’t be home anytime soon. Though I see no reason to get all het up, the doctor insists on admitting your mama to the hospital in Asheville for testin’.”

My breath seizes up.

“Typical doctor junk. You just know they get a kickback on every test they order. Well, we’ll see you when we see you. Probably late.”
With a click, he’s gone.

Tests … Mama’s fatigue … the circles under her eyes … What if Daddy’s wrong? What if she really is sick? It could be cancer. Or something worse.
Is
there anything worse? Besides death?

“Oh, God,” I breathe, and I mean it.
You aren’t going to just stand by this time, are You?

“Bridget?”

I can’t go through it again. Please don’t make me go through it again
.

A hand on my arm startles me, and I turn and come chest to chest with J.C.

With a sharp breath, he releases me and steps back. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“If you’d like, I can give you and the kids a lift to the hospital.”

That’s right, I have no way of getting there. Actually, I do. “Thank you, but I’d best wait to hear from Daddy. And he’s probably right, that it’s nothin’. But if I do need to go into Asheville, I can borrow a car from him.” Surely he won’t begrudge me one of his garaged classics, the sale of which would go a long way to keeping Mama and him from being financially strapped all the time.

“I should probably go, then.”

I nod. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to discuss the property.”

“We can discuss it tomorrow at the Grill ’n’ Swill.”

I shake my head. “Until I know what’s happenin’ with my mother, we’d best not plan on that.” Goodness, if I’m not canceling on Caleb, I’m canceling on J.C. How did life get so worrisome?

“I understand.”

A minute later, I close the door behind him and rest my forehead against it. “Okay, God, I need You to make this better, to make Mama well. You wouldn’t do it for Easton, but please do it for her. Amen.”

Sunday, October 3

I
’m going in. I can. Not will—can. Now. I draw a solid breath and, with Birdie and Miles in tow, enter. The lobby of Church on the Square opens up wide as I cross the threshold. For a moment, I feel as if I’m being swallowed, but then I hear, “Bridget! Oh my goodness, Bridget!”

I turn to the side, and there’s Maggie, the elegant length of her advancing past the others who make their way to the sanctuary. A moment later, my red-headed cousin is upon me, the mint of her recently brushed teeth fanning my face. And it’s okay. Her smile is that big and eyes that bright, it’s okay if she stomps all over my personal space. Providing she doesn’t make a habit of it.

“Hey, Birdie and Miles,” her daughter says, having followed her mother. When Devyn grins up at me from her petite height, I notice the gap between her front teeth is closing. Bit by bit, the sweet little duckling is growing out her swan’s wings. “Welcome back, Aunt Bridge.”

Welcome back …
Though I’m sending out feelers in an effort to reconnect with God, I wouldn’t go that far. “Would you mind takin’ the kids to their Sunday school class?”

“Sure.” Devyn waves a hand. “Come on, you two. I saw Miss Elaine with a plate of oatmeal cookies. You don’t want to miss out.”

Without a backward glance, my niece and nephew follow.

Maggie hugs me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Is she thinking of making a habit of this touchy-feely stuff? Not that it doesn’t feel good …

She pulls back. “I sure didn’t see this comin’.”

“Mama asked me to bring Birdie and Miles and … I could hardly refuse her.”

Her lush mouth turns down. “Is she not feelin’ well again?”

I tell her about yesterday’s events and the half-dozen calls from Daddy informing me that this, that, and the other test came back negative.

“Praise the Lord.” Maggie’s pretty brow smoothes.

“I’m tryin’.” I’ll save further praise for when His answer is different from Easton’s answer. “I’m just … a little scared, what with Mama havin’ to stay overnight for further testing.” That, of course, meant I had to cancel dinner with a rather curt Caleb, which annoyed Daddy when I refused to ask Bart and Trinity to watch Birdie and Miles.

“That’s understandable.” Maggie nods.

“So, any more news from Aunt Adele?”
My
aunt, her mother.

“She extended her stay again—says Daddy’s been real good to her and she’s taken a shine to Mexico.” She frowns. “Makes me wonder if she might not be coming home at all.”

That could be a good thing. My aunt has always been a difficult woman, but life without her husband all these years made her doubly so.

Maggie looks around the emptying lobby. “We’d better go in.”

I peer into the sanctuary where, the last time I was here, I set my hand on the casket and asked God, “Why?” It got grittier, as Maggie can attest. I don’t remember exactly what I said when I ran out of church that
day, but I pointed at God up there who didn’t care about me down here and told Him and His Son to leave me be.

Maggie tugs me forward. “You’ll sit with the family, won’t you?”

My feet drag as we near the wide-open doors. “There can’t possibly be room for another body in that little pew.” Which is true, but mostly I’m thinking it would be better for me to wait in the lobby until the kids’ Sunday school class lets out.

“Ergo, we traded it for a bigger pew,” Maggie says.

Ergo?
Since I understand she’s given up her quest to be taken more seriously by increasing her vocabulary with highfalutin words, that one must be a throwback.

“Since our family is growing, now that Bart and Trinity are married,” she continues, “Piper and Axel are soon to be, and I—” She chuckles. “We’ll see.”

I believe we will. In fact, there’s Reece ahead, briefly meeting my gaze before settling on Maggie.

“Anyway,” she says at the moment I realize we’ve crossed into the sanctuary, “we’ve taken over one of the big center pews. Didn’t your mother tell you? She started sittin’ with us too.”