Restless in Carolina (9 page)

“A kettle of vultures,” my daddy would call them had he attended the
dedication ceremony. Though he had three weeks’ notice, he couldn’t see his way to reschedule his trapshooting date. After all, he reasoned, it’s just a statue; money foolishly spent to ease his brother’s conscience for having dumped the original statue of Great-Granddaddy Pickwick in the lake during a secretly rebellious phase.

As for Mama, she’s not here either, but she has a good reason not to venture out on this balmy end-of-summer day. When I stopped by the house to pick her up, along with Miles and Birdie, who kicked off their eight-week stay in Pickwick two weeks ago, Mama said she’d sent her grandchildren ahead with Bart and his new wife, who agreed to keep the children overnight while Mama recovers from whatever bug has hold of her. Guessing the “bug” to be more a matter of keeping her busy grandchildren, I resolved to make good my promise to Bonnie to relieve Mama.

Though Bart and Trinity also seem willing to help, I worry about their ability to keep control of those two. Of course, from where I stand back from the crowd, they appear to be doing a good job.

Peering past them, I consider the creation of Maggie’s beau that rises from a great granite block against the backdrop of the church across the street. The immense bronze sculpture shows a master weaver at his loom, a commemoration of the textile industry upon which the foundation of the town of Pickwick was laid. A foundation that, despite cracks and uneven settling over nearly a century, held firm until my daddy demolished it with his mismanagement. So say most Pickwickians, and though I love my socially and financially challenged father, no one will get an argument from me.

Now on the matter of the Pickwick estate … I declare, if I ever see
J. C. Dirk again, no fancy briefcase or high heels or binding skirt will keep me from letting him know what I think of his refusal to return the calls I’ve made since our meeting last month. Why, I—

“Long time no see,” a familiar voice warms my ear.

What is
he
doing here? I look around at the man who is standing far too near. His toothy smile might make many a girl curl her toes, but not me. I’ve had just about enough of it.

As I turn to fully face him, I say, “Boone,” measuring out all the little sounds that make up the name of my most persistent widow sniffer.

His gaze sweeps me head to toe. “You sure look pretty today. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you outta your jeans—” His eyes widen. “I mean, wearin’ anything
other
than jeans. A-and a top, of course.”

Though tempted to say something that will make him tuck tail and run, I don’t. His unwanted attention may frustrate me, but he’s a decent man, and I’m working hard on keeping my wayward tongue from its arsonist tendencies.

I glance down the off-white dress that was over Maggie’s arm when she appeared on my doorstep this morning. I suppose it isn’t bad, what with the absence of ruffles and floaty material. Also, its skirt isn’t any of that fitted stuff that restricts my stride. If I have to wear a dress, I could do worse.

“That dress does you good.” Boone’s color is almost back to normal.

“Thank you. It’s on loan from Maggie. Of course”—I smile—“I doubt she expected me to accessorize with a fanny pack.”

“Or the critter in there.”

Especially
the critter. I ease back the zippered flap to reveal my sleeping opossum. “I didn’t set out to bring Reggie, but she worked herself
into a state as I was leavin’. Seeing as I haven’t gotten her out much lately, I gave in.”

Though Boone can see her just fine, he leans in, and when he returns his gaze to me, he shows no sign of relinquishing my personal space. “Is that why you’re hangin’ back here rather than joining your family?”

I lower the flap. “I thought it best, but now that the hoopla is past”—including a hair-raising moment when Birdie threw a tantrum that Trinity quickly got under control—“I’d better put in an appearance. Bye, Boone.”

“You know, if you took me up on my offers of dinner, there’d be more occasions to dress up.”

Why does he persist? Twice a week I stop at the Pickwick Arms to tend their live plants, Boone asks me out, and I turn him down—twice a week, every week since he was hired three years ago to manage the newly renovated hotel.

“Have I told you how much I like your new hairstyle?”

Twice a week, every week since I came undreaded. “Yes, thank you.” I look to the other members of my family who have gathered near Uncle Obe and the sculptor, Reece Thorpe. “Well, I’d better—”

“And that I think it’s healthy you finally took off your weddin’ ring?”

Twice a week, every week since I strung it around my neck. I glance down at my ring finger and am relieved by the pale circle of flesh that remains, though only because I started wearing a bandage while working outdoors so it won’t tan.

“I’ll see you again soon, Boone.” I hurry across the town square park toward the Pickwicks.

Maggie’s thirteen-year-old daughter sees me coming and breaks from the group. “You made it!” A few moments later, she gives me a side hug
to avoid crushing Reggie, and I don’t protest her invasion of my personal space.

Although she’s my second cousin, I’ve always felt more of an aunt to her than I do to the rarely seen Miles and Birdie, both of whom are asleep on Trinity’s and Bart’s shoulders respectively.

Returning Devyn’s hug, I momentarily close my eyes and sink into the rare feeling of being held and loved.

“You should have seen the ceremony!” She gazes up at me from behind thick lenses, and I feel a ripple of movement at my waist. Reggie is awake.

“I did.” I release Devyn. “The whole thing.”

“Really?”

“From back there.” I nod over my shoulder at the massive magnolia tree.

“Why didn’t you come sit with—?” She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I know you.”

Yes, she does. “Reggie was also a consideration, what with all the media.”

She lifts the fanny pack’s flap. “Hey, Reg.”

My opossum sticks out her pink nose, snuffles at Devyn’s hand, and resettles.

I loop an arm through Devyn’s and draw her toward the others. “Uncle Obe did a wonderful job.”

“He did, though considering the way he was yesterday—all mixed up and lost—we were worried he might not be up to the dedication. But Mom and I prayed last night, and he was more himself today.” She glances at me. “See, prayer works.”

So does coincidence. Not that I’m ungrateful my uncle was able to
beat back his advancing dementia to present the magnificent work of art to the citizens of Pickwick. It’s just that I don’t see why God would bother Himself over a little speech when He doesn’t bother Himself over rampant injustice, the suffering of innocents, the lives of those too young to be cut short …

Oh, Easton, I need to let you go
. I touch the ring beneath the dress.
But not yet
.

“How are things going with your mom and her beau?” Entirely rhetorical, as evidenced by their joined hands where they stand before the statue.

“Mr. Reece is the one”—Devyn allows the change of topic—“but Mom says there’s no reason to rush things, and much as I’d like to have a father full time, I know she’s right. And Gram says it’s best too.”

She’s not talking about Maggie’s uppity mother, Adele, who went to Mexico for a month to visit her estranged husband and decided to stay “awhile longer.” She’s talking about her newly discovered grandmother, Corinne Elliot. At the end of my cousin’s recent DNA quest to discover which of her high school beaus fathered her daughter, it wasn’t Reece who was standing but Corinne’s son. And yet to my surprise, Reece
is
still standing. By Maggie. Had I never known love myself, I wouldn’t believe what those two have, but there it is. Thankfully, Devyn is a part of it. And a good thing, or Reece and I would have words.

As we reach the others, I murmur, “To be continued.”

“When I spend the night.”

“Sounds good.” I release her.

Maggie’s gaze falls on me first, and she pulls a face at the sight of my fanny pack around her raw-silk dress. She’ll get over it. Now Piper …

She also pulls a face, but more of the “you’ve got to be kidding me” kind. I’m tempted to lift the flap, but she wouldn’t see the humor in it—that whole pickled corn incident. How was I to know Reggie would investigate the meal Piper abandoned to take a phone call in the middle of our supper?

No, I shouldn’t have left Reggie unattended, but Piper shouldn’t have frightened her into playing possum—well,
trying
to play possum. Reggie’s wiring is a bit messed up, probably from the hit-and-run that killed her mother and siblings and left her nearly tailless.

“I told you Bridget would be here.” Bart shifts a softly snoring Birdie on his shoulder.

With a hand circling Miles’s back, Trinity bobs her head. “You were right.”

Suddenly I have an image of them with their own children, and it isn’t as worrisome as it was months ago. Maybe they will be good at parenting.

I cross to Uncle Obe and kiss his whiskery cheek. “That was a nice dedication. And this is certainly an improvement over that statue of Great-Granddaddy.”

He gives a small smile. “This statue better serves our town.”

I let my gaze climb over the curves and hollows and feel heat radiate from the bronze, evidencing the sunlight absorbed by the big hunk of metal. Good old solar energy. “It really is amazin’.”

“Did you see the … sign, er, plaque?”

“No.”

“Come ’round here.” He leads me to the other side that faces the church.

I catch sight of that Wesley woman where she stands alongside her Caddy, fluttering her hand at someone, and I glare at her back.

“Here.” Uncle Obe gestures at the engraved plaque set in the granite base.

I bend, causing my hair to fall forward. Pushing it behind my ears, I hunker down.

Had to throw God into the mix. But it’s Uncle Obe’s right, seeing as he footed the bill. Shading my eyes, I peer up at him. “Very nice, but how does this statue of a textile worker—”

“This here’s the master weaver.”

I nod. “How does it tie in with the Bible reference?”

“You don’t know those v-verses?”

He’s forgotten whom he’s talking to. “ ’Fraid not.” Leastwise, not by their numbers, though to admit it would give him too much hope, and I don’t want to disappoint him.

“Psalm 139:13–16.” He looks heavenward. “ ‘For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you
because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.’ ”

How does he recite verses without stumbling, as if memory is not an issue?

“ ‘My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven—’ ” Down comes his chin. “Woven … weave … weaver. See?”

I nod, still trying to figure out how the words are flowing like a river.

“ ‘When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body.’ ”

Struck by a feeling of being watched, I glance over my shoulder, but the real estate agent and her car are gone, and no one appears to be looking my way.

“ ‘All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.’ ” Uncle Obe looks at me again. “Appropriate, hmm? And beautiful.”

Under the circumstances, I beg to differ on the beautiful part, since God’s Word admits to ordaining that my uncle’s last days be fraught with early onset dementia, causing him to teeter toward childlike dependence. Why, he can’t even shave himself anymore, that task falling to Piper—when he allows it, which he didn’t today.

I straighten, and though he lifts his eyebrows to remind me he’s waiting on my agreement about the verses, I say, “So this statue is not only in commemoration of the textile workers, but of God.”

He frowns, and I’m slapped with guilt at the confusion caused by the turn in the conversation. “You can’t honor one without the other. But see, I only referenced the …” He taps the plaque. “… verse in case
someone decides to be offended by God’s Word and tries to have it removed.”

It’s hard to believe he compromised the expression of his beliefs, especially considering how important they have become to him these past few years.

“Of course, it has the added … you know, good thing—”

Benefit.

“—of piquin’ a body’s curiosity and making him turn to the Bible or …” He nods over his shoulder. “… the rather convenient church across the street.” He chuckles, a warm sound I could wrap myself in for how scarce it’s become.

Once more bothered by the feeling of being watched, I start to glance over my shoulder, but Uncle Obe says, “Can’t say I don’t still have a few brain cells wigglin’ around up here.”

“You’re a sly one.”

“Don’t tell my mother.”

I catch my breath. Is he doing a bit of that back-in-time traveling that seems to be happening more frequently?

“Something wrong?”

“No!” I sweep a hand toward the statue. “I’m just impressed by all you’ve done. And I’m proud of you. We all are.”

His smile comes out again, only to turn down. “Not all. They didn’t come.”

His estranged son and daughter.

“Piper sent invitations, but … nothing.”

I long to tell him he’ll hear from them soon, but I can’t keep feeding into his hope.

“My prayers aren’t being answered, Bridget.”

Welcome to the club—
Oh, stop your woe is me-ing! This is about Uncle Obe and his last wish. A dying wish
.

“I’m startin’ to think I might never see them again.”

Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing since they appear unwilling to forgive.

“Bridget?” He lays a hand on my shoulder.

“Yes?”

“I know it’s not your … thing … but would you pray for me?”

It’s more than “not my thing.” It’s not
me
, Easton Buchanan’s widow. Unfortunately, the only way out is to hurt Uncle Obe. Or fake it. I give his hand a squeeze. “All right, but I warn you, it’s been a long time.”