Restless in Carolina (26 page)

Luc’s upper lip draws back. “Cut me—?”

“Sit down.” Uncle Obe points to the bench where Tiffany has gone still to the tip of her formerly bouncing shoe.

Luc drops to the bench.

I feel bad for Mary, whose hands are clasped white tight in her lap. However, once Uncle Obe resettles beside her and gives her hands a pat, she sets them free. Though it’s true the Pickwicks can be overwhelming, especially in concentrated doses, I wish the woman had more of a spine.

“Now that we’re done with family announcements,” Uncle Obe says, “let’s return to the business at hand.”

If Maggie and Reece had planned to announce their engagement today, it’s definitely on hold.

“Thank you, Mr. Pickwick.” J.C. widens his stance. “First, let me assure you all that the reports coming in indicate the estate’s asking price is commensurate with its market value. However, there is a problem. The quarry.”

Of course.

“As Dirk Developers is an environmentally minded company, leaving the land to struggle in its reclamation of the quarry over thousands of years is not an option. Any responsible development, whether it’s for single-family homes, a wilderness retreat, a golf course, or an industrial park”—he meets my gaze—“has to take into account the scarred land at the center of the property. The cost of reclaiming it to make the estate whole and, therefore, financially viable, is high.”

The sound of the front door slamming puts an exclamation mark on that last word, causing us to look to the doorway that will soon frame the person who didn’t ring the bell. I have a bad feeling about our late arrival, even before I hear the huffing and puffing that proves I have every reason to feel this way.

“Bridget!” Daddy calls.

It could be worse. Had he arrived earlier, he would have been present for the announcement of Trinity’s pregnancy, and his response might have made J.C. rethink his interest in becoming involved in our family in any way.

“Where are you, Bridget?”

I’m on my feet when he enters the library. “What are you doin’ here, Daddy? You’re supposed to be with—”

“She’s sleepin’ off the latest test, so I ran home for a shower and a change of clothes. And do you know what I found?” He halts before me. “Rather, what I did
not
find? My favorite classic car. Gone!”

It is not his favorite, which is why I chose it over the others.

“And where do I find it? Here! And who’s the culprit? My own daughter, who I brought up better than to take a man’s prized possession for a joyride.”

Deep breath. “My truck broke down, Daddy, which is why I had to ask J.C. to give me a ride to your house yesterday so I could watch Birdie and Miles while you took Mama to the doctor.”

Daddy growls at J.C., “
You
again!”

J.C. smiles, and I don’t doubt that some of that smile is born of amusement. Leave it to us Pickwicks to turn his meeting into a joke.

“Sit down, Bartholomew,” Uncle Obe says, “you’ve interrupted our meeting long enough.”

“Meeting?” Daddy shifts his regard to his brother, then around the library, eyes widening as he takes in the other family members.

“J. C. Dirk has called us together to, uh …” My uncle flips a finger through the air as if paging through a book. “… you know, t-talk about his plans for the estate.”

Daddy harrumphs. “Surely you’re not seriously considerin’ selling to this big city slicker when we have Caleb Merriman in our pocket?”

Uncle Obe frowns. “I am. Now if you want to stay, sit. If not, you’d best get back to …” His eyes trip back and forth, as if scanning for my mother’s name. “… your wife.”

Daddy lowers to my place on the sofa, all the while grumbling about the insult of not being invited to the meeting. Though tempted to remind him that this is not where he ought to be, I want J.C. on his way before he witnesses more of our dysfunction.

Hoping Mama is fast asleep, none the wiser for having been abandoned, I wedge myself between Daddy’s hip and Devyn, who has settled beside Trinity.

J.C. clears his throat. “I’ll get to the point. We believe the Pickwick estate has the potential to be developed into an environmentally responsible destination golf resort.”

I was hoping for better, but in a world where profit comes first, something like a wilderness retreat comes last.

“To that end, we’re drawing up plans for a world-class eighteen-hole golf course. Our vision is for the mansion to serve as the clubhouse and administrative center”—he holds up a hand as if expecting protest (he’s getting to know me)—“however, in the interest of historical preservation, only minor changes will be made.”

I still can’t say I like it, but if I have to, I can live with it.

“Phooey!” This from Daddy.

J.C. flicks his gaze over him. “The development will include a hundred-room timber lodge, restaurant, and fitness center.”

I squirm.

“But we’ll push past the boundaries of a typical golf resort and incorporate the feel of a wilderness retreat.”

I perk up, only to unperk. The
feel
?

“We’re looking at walking and horseback riding trails, an equestrian center, and converting the quarry into a fishing lake bordered by private cabins where guests looking for peace and quiet can find it.”

“Phooey, I tell you!”

J.C.’s jaw shifts. “Within the next week, Dirk Developers will submit an asking-price offer, along with preliminary plans.”

Daddy heaves himself to the edge of the sofa. “I ask you, why would my family sell to you when Merriman is willing to buy the property for use as a private residence?”

J.C.’s nostrils flare. “Are you sure about Mr. Merriman’s intentions, Mr. Pickwick?”

Daddy hesitates. “He’s a man of his word. And even if he decides to
develop the property, why wouldn’t we let the two of you start a biddin’ war and put more money in our pockets?”

Uncle Obe’s pockets!

J.C. pushes his hands into
his
pockets and starts jangling. “The price
Obadiah
Pickwick has set for the property is workable; a bidding war is not. Dirk Developers’ full-price offer is a take-it-or-leave-it proposition.”

Daddy harrumphs. “Sounds like a bluff.” He looks to his brother. “I’d call him on it, Obe. That is, unless you do as I wisely advise and sell to Caleb Merriman who, I assure you, is sincere in his desire to acquire the estate as a private residence.”

My uncle glowers at his brother, smiles lightly at Mary, then tips his head back to consider the ceiling.

“If my uncle were to accept your offer, Mr. Dirk,” Piper takes a step away from the shelves, “what’s the timetable we’re talking about?”

“Best-case scenario, development will begin in one year. Worst case, two years, since one or more of hundreds of things could gum up the process, whether on our end or the local government.”

She nods. “And durin’ that time, the mansion sits empty?”

I know where she’s going. I shift my attention to Uncle Obe, whose gaze is still stuck on the ceiling.

“We believe it’s an ideal base of operations before and during development,” J.C. says, “the lower rooms serving as offices, the upper rooms as lodging.”

Piper stands taller. “It sounds like an efficient use of space. However, I believe the family will agree that your offer on the property would be more desirable if it allowed Uncle Obe to remain in his home until the development is well underway.”

Good for you, Piper
.

“Well, I don’t agree!” Daddy scowls. “Clearly, Merriman’s offer is the best.”

Her smile is patient. “Though Mr. Merriman has expressed interest in the property,
supposedly
as a private residence, he has yet to make an offer.”

Daddy backhands the air, his sturdy fingers coming within an inch of my nose. “Oh, he’ll make an offer. You can bet your fancy education on that, Piper
Wick.
”

My cousin blinks at yet another dig at her attempt to disassociate herself from her family when she fled Pickwick at the age of eighteen and shortened her last name. Though it didn’t sit well with me when I heard about it, I understand her motivation—especially when Daddy acts like this.

“As for my brother continuin’ on here,” he says, “you know better than most, Piper, he isn’t much longer for this place.”

A strangely musical gasp goes around the room. I could just pinch my father.

“That’s enough!” Mary, the spineless one, jumps up and points at Daddy. “You … parasite!”

We all look from her to Daddy to Uncle Obe, whose gaze has finally come down off the ceiling, wearing a smile, no less.

My red-faced father heaves upright.

I check on J.C., who is staring, jaw slightly agape, jangling absent.

“Young lady”—Daddy pokes the space between them—“need I remind you that you are here in the capacity of caregiver to my ailin’ brother? This is a
family
discussion, and if you can’t keep your yap shut—”

“Bartholomew!” Uncle Obe’s voice is strong; then he’s on his feet alongside Mary. “You will not speak to my daughter in that manner.”

Another collective gasp, then silence so complete the sound of a pin dropping would have little on a gnat similarly afflicted. Beneath our startled regard, Mary Folsom colors and her rigidly held arms sink to her sides.

Daddy heaves a sigh. “Well, there you have it. You are officially off your rocker, Obe.”

“No, he isn’t.” Reclaiming her presence, Mary turns to face Uncle Obe. “When did you know?”

Despite the gauntness of his face, the angles soften, and he lays a hand on her cheek. “I wasn’t sure the day in the coffee shop, seein’ as Bridget hurried me away, but when you came for the … talk about the j-job, I knew you were my Daisy Marie.”

That’s
his daughter’s middle name? I stare at her. Marie … Mary …? As I noted the first day I saw her, she has a Catherine Zeta-Jones look, and if she’s to be believed, it comes from her Hispanic mother’s side.
Is
she to be believed?

“Hogwash,” Daddy trumpets.

She looks around. “If you want proof, I have my birth certificate … Uncle Bartholomew.”

Daddy startles so hard he jiggles, but then his glower is back. “If what you say is true, that’s the most underhanded thing I ever heard—hiding your identity to spy on our family … size us up … maybe even work a swindle … dabble in a little vengeance.”

“I want you to leave, Bartholomew,” Uncle Obe says. “Now.”

J.C. clears his throat. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

I pry my eyes from my newly discovered cousin and apply them to
the man who is battening down his briefcase. Keep
us?
More like we’re keeping him, in all our scandalous glory. How is it that I, who am not easily embarrassed, should feel every shade of that emotion at him witnessing our assorted dysfunctions in one sitting? If ever J. C. Dirk was a maybe, he is no more. I’m just glad that kiss didn’t happen, because …

It would hurt more?

As he draws near on his way out, he meets my gaze and his mouth turns wry.
That’s
how it could hurt. I don’t want a wry smile. I want a real smile. But J.C. has to be thanking his lucky stars that, for all he had to endure, he’s been warned.

He won’t be touching me again, not even with a ten-foot pole.

Monday, October 4

M
ary Folsom is Daisy Marie Marshall, Marshall her adoptive father’s name, Folsom her married name. According to Piper, who spent time with her and Uncle Obe after I hurried Birdie and Miles home following J.C.’s departure yesterday, our cousin is divorced from a physically abusive husband. However, when she decided to get to know her father on her own terms, she used her married name to conceal her identity. It worked, though Piper says only because she allowed Uncle Obe’s ancient attorney, Artemis Bleeker, to oversee the applicants’ background checks. The man really needs to retire.

I feel bad that I scooted off after giving Mary … Marie … or is it Daisy … a cursory “welcome to the family,” but I needed the outdoors to clear my head, especially when Daddy demanded the keys to his car. Not that he left me stranded. He loaned me his boat of a car—as in maybe ten miles to the gallon. Things should have gotten better from there, but after a half hour at the park, my niece and nephew were downright bored. So I called Trinity last night, and she picked up Birdie and Miles this morning. Her enthusiasm over “mothering practice” was a bit annoying, but still I could have hugged her for reworking her schedule so I can tend to my nursery and visit Mama this afternoon.

As I pick off the fingers of my old gardening gloves, I turn my wrist to check the time. “Not bad for four hours’ work.” I tuck the gloves into
my right rear pocket and step back to survey the rows of weeded, fertilized, and repotted plants.

“Lookin’ good!” Taggart calls.

I consider the lanky, scruff-faced man who looks older than his almost-fifty years. From the top step of the trailer that serves as our office, he gives a thumbs-up.

“Has the mulch come in?” I start across the yard toward him.

“Allen’s unloading it now.”

“What’s the status on the pumpkins?”