Leaving Carolina (26 page)

His mouth quivers. “You’re engaged to be engaged?”

That sounds pitiful. I pull my hand free. “I’m in a relationship.”

“A serious one?”

“Yes.” It is, isn’t it? Grant’s constituents have certainly been positive about our dating, and Grant has been enthusiastic about their response. Too, he’s the one who introduced the words
marriage
and
children
, albeit couched in
if
. Of course, that was before I confessed to being “one of them” and he ended our conversation, as if afraid he might catch “Pickwick” through the phone line.

“I apologize,” Axel says. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

No, it shouldn’t have.
And wouldn’t have if you hadn’t invited it
.

A damp Errol whines where he sits on his haunches looking from me to Axel.

“I anticipate having your uncle home from the hospital by noon tomorrow.”

“You? But Uncle Obe made arrangements with Uncle Bartholomew.”

“Apparently something came up.”

Hardly surprising. “I can drive in and get him.”

“I’m happy to do it. And I’ll have an easier time getting him in and out of a vehicle.”

True. “You really seem to care about my uncle.”

“I do. See you tomorrow.” He turns, and a flash of lightning illuminates his sandy hair from his crown to the rubber band at his nape.

I whip around and hurry up the stairs. Errol dances at the screen door, and I barely get it open before he shoves his big head between it and the doorframe and squeezes his wet body in ahead of me. “Some gentleman,” I grumble as I bump the door wide enough to make it through with the pickled corn.

I deposit my armful on the island and peer at the jars. “Well, at least there’s one bright spot to my day.” A memory of dissent steps forward—Axel’s kiss. I try to send it back, but it plays out. At half speed. Once more, I feel his breath against my mouth. His lips touch mine, lightly at first but with increasing pressure. My heart pounds against my ribs, and it’s all I can do to keep my arms around the pickled corn when I want to wind them around his neck—

“Oh, stop!” I flap my hands, as if to shake the memory from my fingertips. But it’s in my head, and all the squawking in the world is not going to dislodge it. Time to try a different tack.

“Grant,” I say to the kitchen.
“U.S. Congressman
Grant Spangler. Smart, sophisticated, well-connected,
not
down-to-earth—”

Actually, down-to-earth is kind of nice. In an Axel Smith way…

T
his is some welcome home.” Uncle Obe smoothes the covers I pulled up over him after Axel helped him out of the wheelchair and into bed.

“It’s good to have ya back where ya belong.” Artemis pats his paunch.

“It sure is!” Trinity waves a duster, dispersing a cloud that causes Bridget to scowl. “I’ve cleaned and cleaned and—goodness!—this place needed it. Why, it’s a full-time job. And let me tell you, it wasn’t easy fittin’ you in, Mr. Pickwick, but I did. Day in, day out, I’ve worked my fingers to the nubs, and only now am I glimpsing light at the end of the tunnel. But it’s worth it. Yes sir. I can’t thank you enough for allowin’ me to shine as your new housekeeper.” She waves the duster again. “Shine, shine!”

She’s not going to break into song, is she?

Uncle Obe clears his throat. “Thank you, Trinity. I appreciate all you’ve done. I don’t recall the hardwood…” He frowns hard. “… er,
floors
in the entryway shining so bright.”

“That’s a trade secret.” She puts a hand alongside her mouth and whispers, “Furniture polish.”

I gasp.

“Furniture
polish?” Bridget’s jaw drops.

“The floors do look mighty nice, Trin.” Bart nods his approval. “Good job.”

Trin? It sounds as if he knows her, rather than
of
her. And she was in my graduating class—three years of ahead of him. Hmm.

Bridget punches his shoulder. “You do
not use
furniture polish on hardwood floors. It’s slick as spit.”

“Ow.” Bart rubs his arm. “I didn’t know.”

Trinity’s face turns thoughtful. “So that’s why I went down quicker ’an a duck on a June bug when I had to run to the bathroom. Whoosh! Right on my seater.”

I wince. I should have done a better job supervising her, but there were so many calls to deal with this morning, not the least of which was one from a senior partner at the firm who wanted to know when I’m returning to L.A. And, more specifically, how I intend to handle the rumors about Grant’s sexuality. He was not pleased with my response. Just like Grant, he couldn’t get his mind around my refusal to fly to his aid, but unlike Grant, he has no idea of my connection to the Pickwicks.

“It’s got to come off,” Bridget says.

“Don’t want Obe’s feet flyin’ out from under him,” Artemis says, “especially in his delicate condition.”

Bart shrugs. “Bummer.”

“I’ll help you, Trinity.” Axel’s voice causes my nerves to do the shimmy. For the first time since his return from Asheville, I look him full in the face. His Blue eyes shift to mine, and the kiss I’ve been trying to forget returns in 3-D.

“Thank you, Axel,” I say.

Uncle Obe turns his head to gaze out the window. “I like
the…” He points at the panes. “… view. I might have to move here permanently.”

“Oh!” Trinity trills. “I can help. I’ll move the rest of your stuff down here—clothes, shoes, books, pictures, that big box of papers under your bed.”

Uncle Obe goes a little gray. “Thank you, but it was only a thought. Once I’m able to negotiate the stairs, I’ll return to my own bedroom.”

She shrugs. “Just let me know if you change your mind, hear?”

He slides his gaze over the rest of us. “I thank you all for the welcome home. Now I need to rest up.”

We file out of the room. As I bring up the rear, I pull the door closed and follow the others to the front of the house.

“It does look kind of slick.” Bart stands on the edge of the rug that runs down the hallway as he stares at the hardwood floor.

Bridget grunts. “It is.” She continues past him, following Artemis and Axel toward the front door.

“But it’s so pretty.” Trinity halts alongside Bart.

He smiles sympathetically. “It’s a pity to have to remove the polish. Sure you aren’t overreacting, Bridge?”

“I’m sure.”

As I sidestep Bart and Trinity, I mentally steel myself for when it will be just Axel, Trinity, and me. Though I’m grateful for Axel’s offer to help with the polish removal, it will make it harder to avoid him. And forget about that kiss.

“Whoa!” Bart yells, and we all turn as his rear hits the hardwood floor, and he slides into the baseboard. “I’m okay!”

Bridget growls. “I told you it was slick.”

With the help of Trinity, who nearly goes down herself, he gets to his feet.

“What a ding-dong,” Bridget mutters.

Ten minutes later, having thanked Bridget for the groceries and Artemis for the use of Errol (more, for taking Mrs. Bleeker’s “big boy” home, which he didn’t seem too happy about), I suppress a smile when Bart rubs his backside as he slides into the passenger seat of his sister’s truck. Artemis and Errol in the sporty red Lexus follow Bridget and Bart down the driveway.

“Let’s get that furniture polish up, Trinity.” Axel turns back into the entryway.

“All right.” However, she doesn’t move from my side until both cars disappear from sight. “That Bart Pickwick is somethin’ else. I just might have to go behind Granny’s back and take him up on his offer of dinner and a movie.”

Keep your eyes in your head!
“Bart asked you out?”

“Oh, all the time, but he’s younger than me, and Gran says if that isn’t taboo enough, there’s that little problem he had with devil’s dust.” She taps her nose.

He
did
fall into the drug crowd his first year in high school.

“And to top it off, he’s a Pickwick.” Her eyes nearly jump ship. “Oh, that wasn’t me talkin’, but Gran. I have nothing against the Pickwicks, and how could I as you’ve been so kind to hire me as your uncle’s housekeeper in my time of need?”

Would she feel the same way if I told her that
my
actions led to her losing the chance to run the family business? That the things people say about her are
my
due?

She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. “Forgive me?”

“Nothing to forgive. I understand completely.”

“Whew! Well, I’d best see about that polish.” She swings away. “Oh!” She turns in the doorway, beyond which I catch sight of Axel. “You knew about Bart and the devil’s dust, didn’t you?”

“I knew he had a drug problem.”

“Yes, and it got bad, but that was after you left town and before your uncle sent him to that fancy rehab center in Minnesota.”

Uncle Obe to the rescue again. Never imposing himself on anyone, but always there when needed.

“Fortunately, from all accounts, he has stayed clean, and he’s kept this last job for more than a year now.”

I’m glad to hear it, and not just in passing. Maybe there can be peace between Bart and me as well. “What does he do?”

“Why, he works at the print shop on the town square—designs logos and letterhead and whatnot on the computer. He’s what you calla…”

“Graphic designer?”

“That’s it!” Her chin bounces. “A right honorable profession, don’t you think?” Before I can respond, she says, “Hmm, maybe I
will go
to dinner with him.”

As she flounces off with a hum and a hop, it strikes me that she and Bart might be compatible.

Once again, my eyes fall on Axel, but I turn away.

So what now? I could sit around waiting for Grant to call. No. I could check in on Cootchie again. No, she said she would call me after today’s interview. I could look up Romans 8:28. No, my hands are full enough with all this peacemaking. I could go for a run. Yes, I haven’t done that since my first day here, and I need to clear my
head so I can figure out how to approach Uncle Obe about his will. The clock is ticking.

“You make a mighty mean sandwich, Piper.” Uncle Obe settles back against his pillows. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t eat more.”

Grateful to Bridget for her grocery run and for telling me of his fondness for ripe tomato, cheddar cheese, and mayonnaise on white bread, I lift the tray from his lap. “Half is good.”

“You eat the other half, unless you already had, uh, dinner.”

Not for the first time I notice the hide-and-seek some words play with him. “Actually, I haven’t had dinner.”

“Then don’t let that tomato sandwich go to waste. You haven’t forgotten how good they are, have you?”

My mouth did water as I was making it.

“Sit down.”

I back into the chair beside his bed. “Thank you.” Balancing the tray on my lap, I scoop up the sandwich and take a bite. It is good, though not as good as pickled corn.

“Told you so.”

“Uh-huh.” I take another bite.

“So you’re getting’ along fine with Maggie and Bridget.”

“I am.”

He looks at his hands on the covers. “They turned out pretty good, and I’m particularly fond of Maggie’s girl, Devyn. She reminds me of you as a girl. Kind. Studious.”

That makes me feel good. I take another bite.

“A bit awkward. Something of a loner.”

Not so good.

“Of course, she has her mom in her too. Yep. Inquisitive. Confident. Not afraid to speak up for herself.”

That’s where we differ. I was always too self-conscious. “I like her too.” Promising myself that I won’t forget tomato sandwiches when I return to L.A., I finish my dinner and set the tray on the floor. “Uncle Obe, I know you don’t want to talk about your will, but we need to.”

He frowns. “It is what it is and what it will be.”

“But when you pass away, questions will be raised about the new beneficiaries. And the answers could hurt your family.” As his mouth tightens, I lean toward him. “I know your intentions are good, but sometimes it’s best to let the past lie.”

He stares at me so hard it’s all I can do not to make myself a smaller target. I’ve only ever known him to be irritated, but this is anger.

“We Pickwicks have done our share of hurtin’ others, using our position and wealth to thumb our noses at the standards others are held to. We are no different or better than anyone else but demand special treatment.” He sets his jaw. “If no one in our family is gonna take responsibility for the hurts we’ve caused, by God I will. And I mean
by God
. I’ve prayed about it, and Axel has given me fine insight. When I die, everything will be set right as right can be.”

I touch his arm.
“When
you die.” When it will be too late for his illegitimate children to make peace with him, whatever their hurts may be. “I understand you don’t have enough liquid assets to make the kind of restitution you want, but—”

“Artemis has been talkin’ to you! Why, I’ve a good mind to sue him for breach of attorney-client privilege.”

“He’s worried that you’re making a serious mistake.”

His eyes narrow. “Near all the Pickwicks are worried, which is why you finally came home and why you’ve stuck it out this long though your work is calling you back.” He grunts. “All day long that…
phone
of yours rings. If not for my knee, I’d have hunted it down and flushed it.”