Restless in Carolina (31 page)

When J.C. finally returns the car to the highway, I settle in to watch the mile markers pass.

“Let’s discuss your concerns about the golf resort.”

I look around. “At the moment, they’re hardly relevant.”

“They might seem more relevant if you pull out the folder that’s in
the top of my briefcase.” He nods over his shoulder. “Proof that Merriman is in partnership with investors looking to build an industrial park.”

Call me stubborn, but I don’t care. After all, it’s probably just more kudzu. “No, thank you.”

A muscle in J.C.’s jaw ticks, and I wonder how men do that. Easton’s jaw did the same when he was tightly wound, but that little spasm was always telling—as in, “Lord, give me patience.”

“All right,” J.C. says, “but it’s a long drive, so let’s discuss the resort.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t like it.”
And don’t you sound like little girl Bridget when Mama tried to get you into a ruffled, poppy-bedecked dress?

“I know you’d prefer that the estate remain in its natural state, which would be possible with private ownership if the land wasn’t so commercially desirable that it commands an exorbitant price. However, whoever buys it either has to be incredibly wealthy with a desire to root himself in Pickwick—”

Of which he does not believe Caleb capable.

“—or have the ability to develop the estate so it promises the kind of profit that attracts investors.”

I feel his gaze but don’t give it back.

“Well-designed golf courses draw locals and tourists. In this case, a golf course will anchor the development, serving as a hedge against what could be a passing fad if the property were developed strictly as a nature retreat or wilderness resort.”

I believe the surge of environmental consciousness and the desire to get back to nature won’t fade, and yet my beliefs—happily ever after, for instance—have been toppled before.

“I’m sorry you don’t like the plan, and I understand your objections, spoken and unspoken, but I have a responsibility to be straight with my investors. They aren’t coming on board without the golf course.”

Wishing the day away—Mama’s sickness that may or may not be cancer and Jesse Emerson Calhoun Dirk’s revelation that seems like a cancer—I close my eyes. I feel like a baggy old balloon blown nearly to breaking point. I feel betrayed, used, resentful. And oh so hurt. If only I hadn’t let myself be ready …

I look at J.C. “I imagine it did your sense of justice good to see the family you believe stole from yours forced to sell their heritage.”

His nod surprises me, and that it’s the kind of nod a person on death row might give when told it’s time to go to the chair. “Yes, there was a sense of triumph. In the beginning.”

Then he’s no longer gloating? Why? Because he’s come to know us? To know me? To care? Remembering his kiss that felt so good and seemed so real, my insides soften; however, that way lies vulnerability, all the more terrible and painful if J.C. is playing me. And he probably is. More than likely, this is simply Plan B.

“Well,” I say, “now we know why you’re having as much trouble getting back to God as I am, don’t we?”

He doesn’t answer, and this time the silence that settles stays settled, during which I pick apart and regret every encounter we’ve had. He was laughing at us. At me. But at least I can be grateful my discovery saved my family from giving him the last laugh.

J.C. won’t be buying the Pickwick estate—not if I can help it.

Finally he pulls into the nursery; the parking lot is empty save for Daddy’s car and Allen’s truck.

The second J.C. brakes in front of the trailer, I’m out of the car. I
start to slam the door but pull it back open. Neither will I have the last laugh, but I will have the very last word. I bend down and meet his gaze.

“I have news for you, Jesse Emerson Calhoun. Though my family is far from perfect, we’re only
related
to Gentry Pickwick. In fact, had you been honest about your interest in the estate, you would have been told that upon the sale of the property, my uncle intends to compensate the Calhoun heirs for what he also believes was stolen from them—to do it while he can still savor the peace of righting the wrong.”

My satisfaction multiplies when something like alarm jumps in his eyes.

“You said revenge ruined your father. Maybe it ruined you too.” I raise my eyebrows. “Jesse Calhoun.” I pull back, toss the door closed, and bound up the steps.

Without a backward glance, I step into the trailer and turn my attention to my beady-eyed critter perched on the corner of my desk. As I tuck her beneath my chin, I hear the crunch of J.C.’s tires.

“Hey, Reggie.” I stroke her from head to little bit of tail. “Your mama’s had a rough day.” But surely not as rough as
my
mama’s day. Tears tingle my nose. “How about we go home and snuggle down, just you and me—” I sigh. “And Birdie and Miles.”

“She’s dead.”

In light of my phone conversation with Piper about Mama’s condition, the little-voice-trying-to-be-a-big-voice takes my breath, but one look at my nephew who has come to stand in front of me, and I know exactly who “she” is. Great.

“Yep.” He shakes his head. “Dead again.”

I cover the mouthpiece. “I’ll be right there.” And I’d better be or Birdie will take full advantage of Reggie’s attempt to escape the unthinkable.

“Birdie has the bonnet on her,” Miles warns, then turns away.

Poor Reggie. “I need to go, Piper. Do you mind letting Maggie know what’s goin’ on?”

“I’ll call her. Just know I’ll be praying for the situation with J. C. Dirk.”

“Jesse Calhoun.”

She sighs across the phone line. “I’ll be praying for Aunt Belinda too.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Talk to you later, Bridget.”

As I hurry past Miles into the room I once shared with Easton, I shove J.C. to the back of my thoughts. And there lies Reggie, as still as stone in the middle of the bed, outfitted in a ruffled bonnet too big for her head and bloomers that wouldn’t stand a chance if she hadn’t lost most of her tail.

Birdie looks up from where she’s trying to fit one of my opossum’s arms into the sleeve of a miniature dress, squeaks, and whips the pink thing behind her back.

“Oh, Birdie,” I say, to which Reggie opens an eye. Not your usual playing possum, but she tries. A moment later, she’s moving fast across the mattress. I scoop her up, bloomers and all. “You know Reggie doesn’t like baby-doll clothes.” I pat her. “I’ve told you that.”

Birdie sinks onto her bottom and frowns up at me from beneath long lashes. “I want my mama.”

I want my mother too—out of the hospital and in good health. And not so she can take Birdie and Miles off my hands.

As I round the bed, Reggie begins to scrabble out of my hands, but I stroke her into semirelaxation as I lower to the mattress beside Birdie. “She’s coming home soon. Remember what she said when you talked with her on the phone awhile ago?”

“Just four more weeks, Birdie,” Miles says from the doorway. He seems so brave standing there, but consciously brave. I feel for how hard he’s trying to be a big brother to his twin even though he misses his parents just as much, as evidenced by the tremor in his voice when he spoke with my sister awhile ago. “And they’re bringing us presents, one for every week they’re gone.”

Birdie drops the doll dress, lifts her left hand, and tucks her thumb into her palm. “Four”—she tucks the other thumb—“plus four. That’s eight. Eight presents.”

“Each.” Miles smiles.

She considers this, and I remove the bonnet from Reggie and ease off the bloomers.

“Okay.” Birdie sighs. “But I still want Mama.”

“It won’t be much longer.” I lower Reggie to the floor. As she scurries away, I look to Birdie. “Ready to tuck in?”

My niece jabs a finger to the middle of her forehead. “I need a kiss wight here like Mama does.”

“I can do that.” I lift her finger and put a kiss right … there.

“Me too,” Miles says.

I barely disguise my surprise. “All right. I’ll be in shortly to see you down for the night.”

He starts to turn away but comes back around. “Your bed is really big.”

Am I reading this right? “It is. Too big for just Birdie and me. In fact, I’m sure we’d sleep better if we had you in here with us.”

His brow furrows. “I could protect you since Errol had to go home.”

Unfortunately it’s true. Well, unfortunately for me since I’m overly fond of that dog. But fortunately for Artemis’s wife, who was having a good enough day to remember her big boy and want to see him. “That would be nice, Miles.”

He turns. “I’ll get my pillow.”

“And brush your teeth,” I call over the thump of his bare feet.

“Tell him to go potty,” Birdie says. “I don’t want him to wee on me.”

“And go potty!”

“I will!”

Still, I’ll slip a doubled towel under the fitted sheet to be on the safe side. I hold out my arms to Birdie. “Let’s get you ready for bed.” When she props up my chin with her curly blond head, I feel myself lighten. I’ll get past J.C. Of course I will.

“I want Snow White tonight.”

“Okay.”

She peers up at me as I carry her toward the bathroom. “You’re getting better at happily ever after.”

So says a five-year old who has no idea that the crown-wearing prince carrying a torch for a princess and riding around on a horse might really be a sunglass-wearing guy carrying a torch for revenge and riding around in a hybrid. Not that I expected a happily ever after with J.C., did I?

A half hour later, I stare at the darkly shadowed ceiling from where
I lay between my softly snoring niece and nephew. Restless again, though this time for reasons other than Easton’s absence.

Answering the tug inside me that I suspect is what’s keeping me awake, I close my eyes and whisper, “Lord, I’m asking You again to heal Mama like You didn’t heal Easton. Though it will be hard if You don’t answer as I ache for You to do, I’ll do my best to accept what comes. But I am hopin’ You want Mama’s healing as much as I do. Please, Lord.”

I feel another tug.

“And I need to move on. I need Your help, ’cause otherwise Bonnie could be right about me taking my grievin’ to the grave. And after what happened with J.C., I’m tempted to do just that. However, I don’t want to be like his daddy, carrying such a burden until the end, or like J.C. takin’ joy in others’ misery. I want … I need to heal.” I sigh. “Help me.”

Monday, October 11

P
rayer answered. Not the way I wanted it, but closer than it could have been. Thank You up there, God. Mama doesn’t have cancer, but she does have something called celiac disease. Providing she sticks to a gluten-free diet, the doctor says her intestines should heal and she can expect to live a long, healthy life. If she can stick to it.

In this case, it’s good Daddy has an eye on her diet, since Mama loves her grains. In the week since her release from the hospital, my father has been more attentive to her needs than I can remember him being. In fact, he’s decided to sell one of his classic cars—the one I supposedly put a ding in—so he can update her kitchen and take her on an Alaskan cruise like she’s always wanted. I just hope the possibility of losing Mama stays with him.

“Okay, kiddos”—I look from Birdie to Miles, who have polished off their grilled cheese sandwiches—“go outside and play while I finish cleaning up here; then we’ll get on home.”

I’m pleased when they bring their dirty plates to me before running out the back door.

“I wish you could stay longer,” Mama says as the screen door bangs behind her grandchildren.

“I know, but we’ve been here two hours, and you need your rest.” I
return her cast-iron skillet—the one that was mine before it was hers again—to the cabinet, wipe my hands on a dishtowel, and slip into the chair beside hers. “How was your salad?”

She considers the remains. “Tasty. Of course, it would have been better with croutons—you know, those Texas toast ones?” She sighs. “But I suppose I’ll get used to all this deprivation.”

I check my watch. “Daddy should be home any minute.” It’s nice that I can say that with confidence. “Do you want to lie down while I finish up here?”

She nods, and I reach to her, but she waves me away. “I’m not an invalid, dear.”

Awhile later, as I’m drying her salad plate, my cell rings. I set the plate in the cupboard, check on Birdie and Miles through the kitchen window, and take the call. “What’s up?”

“Bad news,” Piper says. “The offer we received from Dirk Construction? Withdrawn.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“Withdrawn.”

Then it’s over, though I’d thought it had only just begun when Wesley Trousdale submitted the offer the day after J.C. left Pickwick—a full-price offer that included the provision that Uncle Obe could remain in his home without cost for a minimum of one year. “Did they say why?”

“No, though I’m thinking, as you probably are, that it has everything to do with the revelation.”

That’s what we—Piper, Maggie, and I—call the bolt from the blue that scorched the earth between J.C. and me. Piper’s fiancé, Axel, and Maggie’s boyfriend-turned-fiancé, Reece, know about it as well, but that’s
all. There seemed no reason to muddy the water further, though Piper suggested Uncle Obe be told since one of the reasons for selling the estate is to make restitution to the wronged Calhouns. I saw her point, but Maggie had her own point—Uncle Obe needs to focus on his relationship with his daughter, not on a vendetta born a hundred years ago.