Restless in Carolina (7 page)

She rises from the chair. “This is a closed meeting.” She glances at the four men and two women around the table that could accommodate a dozen more, then frowns at my escort whose confusion I feel. “I have to ask you to—”

“Make an appointment. I know, but that hasn’t worked. So here I am.” As my escort lowers into a chair, I shift my regard to J. C. Dirk. “I understand you’re a busy man, but all I need is ten minutes.”

He picks up a pen between both hands and twists it back and forth, as if to give his energy an outlet.

Come on, I’m out of the bridge-burning business. All gussied up. Wearing heels, a skirt that seriously constricts my stride, and a jacket that has nothing on denim. Say yes
.

Nothing. I look to his visitors. “I apologize for interruptin’ your important
meeting, but I need to discuss something with Mr. Dirk that can’t wait. Do you mind?”

“I’ll call security.” Ms. Wiley picks up the phone. And her employer doesn’t stop her.

Fortunately, I already don’t like the man. Unfortunately, my chance of preserving something of my family’s estate is going bye-bye.

I set the briefcase on the end of the table opposite J. C. Dirk. “You’re looking for a new challenge.” According to the article. “And I have just the one for you.” I press the briefcase’s latches, but they resist.

“Security,” Ms. Wiley says, “would you send an officer to Dirk Developers? We have an intruder in our conference room.”

I suppose I am an intruder, though she makes it sound as if I’m armed. What’s with these latches? I wiggle them. It’s as if they’re—

They are. From the inside pocket of my jacket, I dig out the key. Piper told me to carry it in my wallet, but since she barred me from wearing a fanny pack and I saw no reason to tote a purse when there was plenty of room in the briefcase for my wallet, I kept it close.

I hold it up for all to see—J.C., who raises a very visible eyebrow and rolls the pen faster, Ms. Wiley, who returns the handset to the cradle, and their visitors, who settle back with strained patience.

I spring the lid and grab the portfolio Piper helped me put together. “The Pickwick Estate, over five hundred prime acres located in picturesque Pickwick, North Carolina.” I open the portfolio to a highlighted map and turn it face out. “Less than an hour’s drive east of the famed Biltmore Estate.” I trace the highway between Asheville and Pickwick with an acrylic-tipped fingernail, then glance at J.C. to see if he’s still with me. He is.

“Easy in, easy out, by car or plane. An investment opportunity for
an eco-friendly development, ideally along the lines of the Biltmore Estate, offering tours of the mansion and gardens. Perhaps an on-site hotel but modest so it doesn’t overshadow or
impinge
”—fancy word courtesy of vocabulary-conscious Maggie—“on the natural environment. For instance, your award-winning oceanside development, Mr. Dirk.”

He stops twisting the pen. A good sign?

“Correct me if I’m wrong”—the drawl of the South peeks above the surface of his voice—“but there’s good hunting in those parts.”

I stiffen. “Yes, and plenty. No need to add to it.” I clear my throat. “Nature walks, bicycling, canoeing, and horseback riding are more the speed of the development I’m talkin’ about.”

He leans back. And smiles lightly.

Did he just push my buttons? It would seem so. Had I stamped
tree hugger
on my forehead, it would have been seriously redundant.

“Your concern for the environment is admirable, Ms. Buchanan, but should I decide to be interested in the”—his gaze grazes the portfolio—“Pickwick estate, why would I go through you and not another real estate agent?”

“Another …?” Is this the reason for the brush-off? Ms. Wiley’s assumption that a real estate agent was behind my calls? Although I didn’t say anything to that effect, it’s a valid assumption considering the business Dirk Developers is in.

Relief flows through me like a cool-water dip on a Carolina summer day. “I’m not a real estate agent.”

J. C. Dirk tilts his head to the side. “Then what are you, Ms. Buchanan?”

“I’m Bridget
Pickwick
Buchanan.”

He startles. Well, his eyes—a momentary widening I might have
missed were I not so intent on him. Then those eyes dip to my barren left hand, sweep back up, and shift left and right of my face.

What? I gave myself a good ironing with the straightener I bought to counter my hair’s stubborn memory. Of course, considering he’s looking at me the way a lot of folks looked at me after I came undreaded, maybe the Atlanta humidity did me in.

He shoots my escort a look that makes the man shake his head, as if to deny all knowledge of me. “So you’re a Pickwick.”

He says it with a derogatory tone, but that’s nothing new. Despite our family’s fall from prominence long ago, the name still draws attention, especially in association with scandal.

“I am.”

His lips twitch. “
Mrs
. Bridget Pickwick Buchanan.”

Though tempted to burn this bridge, I can’t. “Yes, widowed.” Then to dispel any notion my qualifier is a hint I’m open to achieving my end on a more personal level, I add, “Most unfortunately.”

Behind me the door opens, and when I look around, I see a security guard enter, followed by the wide-eyed receptionist.
God, I’m still not talking to You, but if You care more for Your earth than You ever cared for Easton or me, You might want to give this situation a look-see
.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dirk,” the receptionist says. “I didn’t realize she slipped in.”

“You’ll have to come with me, ma’am.” The security guard halts alongside me and places a hand on his holstered pistol.

The gesture would be funny if not for the alternative—manhandling, which he’s wise not to try. I may be on my best behavior, but I could forget myself were he to overstep my bounds.

I swallow my pride. “Please, Mr. Dirk. All I ask is for ten minutes.”

“Mr. Dirk?” the security guard says.

The object of my
affliction
resumes his pen twisting. “Mrs.
Pickwick
Buchanan is welcome to stay”—his voice picks up speed and the drawl ceases to be—“providing she waits in my office while I conduct my meeting.”

I catch my breath. “I’ll wait.”

He looks at his assistant. “Ms. Wiley, would you show Mrs. Buchanan to my office?”

Her jaw tightens. “Certainly.”

As she steps toward me, I stuff the portfolio in the briefcase.

The security guard and receptionist follow us from the conference room, and we don’t part ways until we pass through the glass-fronted corridor and Ms. Wiley leads me past the door that leads into the reception area.

“Here we are,” she says after two more turns find us standing in a large, sparsely furnished office, also with a view of the murky Atlanta skyline. “If you’ll take a seat, Mr. Dirk will be with you as soon as possible.” She turns, pauses, and looks back. “Can I send in some coffee? It’s likely to be a long wait.”

“I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”

She gestures across the room. “There’s bottled water in the refrigerator.”

Bottled—all that unrecycled plastic clogging up landfills. Exactly how “green” is Dirk Developers? “I’ll pass.”

She departs, leaving the door wide open. The better to keep an eye on me?

I consider the chairs in front of the desk near the windows but make myself comfortable at the nearby oasis where two sofas face each other
across a marble-topped table. Setting the briefcase on the latter, I start to lower into one of the fabric-covered sofas, but more comfort is in order. I step out of the heels. And why not? I made it past Go by doing what Piper would have advised against. Surely, I can make it the rest of the way without causing my feet further hardship.

I remove the jacket and toss it on the back of the sofa. As I settle into the overstuffed cushions, I free the blouse’s top button and would free the next if not that it would reveal the ring around my neck. That’s personal.

I drop my head back and groan with gratitude. I don’t like airports or planes or traffic or smog so thick it fills the air with cancer. I don’t like honking horns or high rises or people too important to be seen. I like my corner of Pickwick. Sometimes it’s dirty, but it’s with good old-fashioned dirt that can be washed off and returned to the earth without doing harm. So here I am, in the middle of all I don’t like, to keep Pickwick the way I like it as much as possible. Now if my luck holds—

Or was it luck? I imagine the sky beyond the ceiling.
Was it You? If so, thanks. Not that You would do it for me, but that’s fine since we want the same thing
.

I close my eyes, slowly exhale, and float back to four o’clock, when my alarm dragged me out of hard-won sleep so I could get to Asheville and on the plane that would take me through Charlotte before dumping me in this nature-forsaken place. Back to the scent of darkness and warm air. Back to the embrace of the hammock that is as close as I come to a man’s arms.

S
omething jangles like loose change.

“Mrs. Buchanan?”

Nice voice. Not much of the South to recommend it, but nice.

More jangling. “Mrs. Buchanan?”

I open my eyes, and the man takes shape where he stands over me—hands in pockets, the right one doing the pocket jangling. Higher up, there’s a decent stretch of shoulders beneath a creased white shirt; higher yet, a lopsided slice of a smile; highest of all, sparkling green eyes beneath an expanse of forehead.

Placing myself in Atlanta, in the office of J. C. Dirk—on his sofa, no less—I straighten from my slump, swipe at my bangs, and yank at my skirt that has inched above my knees. Was he peeking at my legs?

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He pulls his hands from his pockets. “The meeting lasted longer than expected.”

Returning my gaze to him, I strain my neck as well as my pride. As I don’t care to be looked down on, I spring upright—poor planning on my part, since it brings me within inches of him, bad form on his part, since he simply stands there. So I’m the one who sidesteps, taking with me a breath of cologne. I don’t like the stuff. It makes my nose and throat itch. Give me a man who smells like hard work and salt any day. That’s how Easton smelled, soap as close to unnatural as he came.

I smooth my skirt with one hand and reach for my jacket with the other. “I didn’t mean to doze off.”

“Long day?”

“Very.” I thrust my arms into the jacket.

“Then it’s a good thing it’s almost over.”

There’s my ten-minute cue. I grab the briefcase from the table. “Let’s get started.”

“I’m all yours.”

Sensations of an unwelcome sort brush my emotions. Not that his voice sounds like Easton’s, but the words are my husband’s. Well,
were
. Now they belong to another man, even if it is in a different context.

I clear my throat. “Here? Or would your desk be better?”

“Actually, I’d prefer that we discuss your proposal over dinner.”

Is that an invitation? I’ll bet he
was
looking at my legs. And though I may not have the Pickwick red hair, thanks to my naturally blond mother, that doesn’t mean I don’t have the temperament.
Do you or don’t you want this to work?

I press a smile into place. “Unfortunately, by the time dinner rolls around, I’ll be on a plane, so we’ll have to do this here.” I move to the opposite side of the table and bend to the briefcase.

“You must have been asleep for some time, Mrs. Buchanan. It’s almost five.”

“What?” I look to the windows, but they’re tinted. And my nonexistent watch isn’t talking. “Are you yankin’ my chain?” I know it sounds boorish the moment the words exit my mouth, but I don’t have time to think of a prettier way to phrase it.

He reaches across the table, the stretch causing his cuff to retract and reveal a watch with several small dials.

I grab his thick, golden-haired wrist and lift it near my face. Sure
enough, the middle dial confirms that when he earlier said the day was almost over, it had nothing to do with my ten-minute proposal. “I’m gonna miss my plane!”

“Then you really are leaving tonight?”

I flick my eyes back to his face, and something catches in me as I get my first up-close look at him. I knew from the magazine he was attractive—in an odd way, what with his broad forehead, rather thick eyebrows, slightly downturned eyes, and thin-lipped mouth—but I didn’t expect my insides to go catching on anything. Of course, maybe it’s because he does rather look like that actor Simon Baker. Not that I’ve seen his show, but I did Google him after Piper mentioned the resemblance.

As a frown rises on J.C.’s brow, I replay his question. “Er, yes, my flight is at six thirty, and—Goodness! Reggie!”

“Who?”

“Reggie doesn’t like to sleep alone.”

His lids narrow. “Your boyfriend?”

“No, my po—” Oops. “My friend. But if I leave now, I might make my plane since I don’t have baggage to check.”

“You flew in this morning?” He tips his head to the side. “Just to see me?”

I narrowly avoid rolling my eyes. “Surely I made that clear, Mr. Dirk. I’m not merely passin’ through. What I want to talk to you about is important.” Meaning I’m going to have to do a bit more begging. “So important that I would be beholden if you would accompany me to the airport so we can discuss my proposal durin’ the drive.”