Leaving Carolina (36 page)

W
ith the lowering sun casting shadows across the town square, I try not to think about the last time I joined a smaller crowd of Pickwickians for pre-parade Fourth of July festivities. Regardless, as Axel and I walk on either side of Uncle Obe, the memories come out to play. And it becomes hard to distinguish between the children of the present, who are running around their parents, and those of twelve years ago. The same goes for the music that rises from the garlanded pavilion where the high school band is pooling its patriotic talent. Then the smells of hot dogs, hamburgers, and lovely fried things make my mouth water, just as they did when I was eighteen and trying not to give in to temptation that might void the sacrifices of my senior year. But this time I don’t feel invisible. In fact, I am very visible, as evidenced by looks, whispers, and behind-the-hand comments.

“That’s her,” an older woman’s voice wends toward me. “Piper Pickwick. I was her ninth-grade social studies teacher.”

Mrs. Harding?

“Now that’s one Pickwick who never saw the inside of the principal’s office—or the sheriff’s. Made something of herself, I heard.”

One of only two
supposedly
upstanding Pickwicks.

As we near the pavilion where Uncle Obe will announce his
funding of a new statue, I glance around at the block of granite that is all that remains of the old one. And standing a few feet from it are Maggie and Devyn, neither of whom appears as happy as Seth Peterson, who is between them. Remembering Maggie’s exchange with him at Cracker Barrel, I feel for her. She really has changed. The cousin of my youth would have told him she wanted nothing to do with him, and in such a way that he would have slunk away.

“She works for some fancy public relations firm in Los Angeles,” a man’s voice reaches me. “Leastwise, that’s what Bart is puttin’ around.”

“Speaking of Bart, isn’t that him with that Templeton woman?”

Trinity made it to the parade? Her grandmother allowed it? Or did she sneak out again?

“Yeah, they’ve been seen together a time or two.”

Once we’re clear of the voices, to which Uncle Obe appears oblivious and Axel probably isn’t, I peer over my shoulder. Trinity, once more transformed from awkward to pretty, stands beside Bart in the shade of a beautiful old magnolia tree. It’s the same tree I stood beneath twelve years ago when I overhead one of Maggie’s friends tell another that it was a good thing Maggie had had her baby because she was starting to look like me.

I glance from Trinity’s glowing face to Bart’s grin. Maybe he wasn’t using Trinity to get information. Maybe he does like her. Of course, once he has to deal with her grandmother, he might decide she isn’t the girl for him. But at least he doesn’t have to worry about old Mrs. Templeton today. Thankfully, neither do I.

As we halt to the right of the pavilion, I catch sight of a small, fast-moving object heading for Trinity and Bart.

Oh no, thankful too soon.

“Would you mind taking me through my speech again, Piper?” Uncle Obe asks.

“Uh…” It
is
Trinity’s grandmother, hands clenched, arms swinging, jaw thrust forward, cheeks splotched red.

This could be bad. And on a day when the Pickwicks should be regaining a measure of dignity for their contribution to the community.

I glance at my uncle patting his pockets in search of the note cards I made him, then at Axel looking toward the scene about to hit the fan. While Piper would advise me to stay clear, this is of my making. “I’ll be back, Uncle Obe.”

“But I need to go over my speech.”

“I won’t be long.”

“I’ll take you through it,” Axel says.

I shoot him a smile of thanks. As I head for the magnolia tree, Trinity catches sight of me and waves me forward—oblivious to the approaching storm—and I hear the rumblings.

“Can you believe that Templeton girl is here?” a languorous drawl reaches me. “Why, she hasn’t shown her face on the Fourth of July since that scandalous ride of hers.”

“Don’t remind me,” says another woman, whose voice carries louder than the others’. “That was utterly tasteless!”

“And sinful.”

Déjà vu rolls over me, though this time it’s Trinity who is ridiculed, and wrongfully so.
I
was the one who “showed them all.” When night started to fall and the parade commandeered Main Street to begin its trek to the community park for the fireworks
display, Piper Pickwick burst onto the scene in all her Lady Godiva un-finery.

“What
I
can’t believe is that Bart Pickwick is with her. Not that he’s much better, mind you…” A flutter of laughter. “Actually, worse.”

I look over my shoulder at the clutch of older women, most of whom I recognize as lifelong Pickwick residents.

The sixty-fiveish one in the middle gasps. “Is that her grandmother?”

“Ooh,” croons the blue-haired one, “this could be mighty juicy.”

I jerk my chin around. Mrs. Templeton is nearly upon Pickwick’s quirky version of Romeo and Juliet. I nearly call out a warning, but it would come too late and cause more of a scene.

“Trinity Louisa!” Mrs. Templeton screeches, causing her granddaughter to jump half a foot. Bart’s reaction is identical, which would be comical if fear hadn’t quickly displaced surprise on their faces.

The buzz gains momentum, and I groan. I’m about to enter the fray.

When I’m twenty feet away, Mrs. Templeton grabs Trinity’s arm. “I done told you to stay away from that Pickwick boy.”

Though her voice trembles, it carries well enough that a person doesn’t have to be front row to hear.

Mrs. Templeton jabs a finger at Bart. “He’s a good-for-nothin’, and he’ll make you good-for-nothin’ if you don’t stay away from him.”

“But Gran—”

“Don’t you ‘But Gran’ me, you rebellious child!”

To his credit, Bart tentatively moves forward. “Mrs. Templeton, we’re just—”

“Don’t you ‘Mrs. Templeton, we’re just’ me, you ne’er-do-well, devil’s dust-usin’ scalawag.”

I lunge forward and place myself between her and Bart. “Mrs. Templeton, everything’s fine—”

She thrusts her face near mine. “Don’t you ‘Everything’s fine’ me, Missy Pickwick who done run off from her family.”

Did the band just stop playing? Feeling eyes on my back-could be hundreds—I move closer. “Do you mind if we talk somewhere else?”

“Why? Am I embarrassin’ you?”

“Gran!” Trinity steps nearer. “It’s
me
you’re embarrassing.”

As further evidence, the word
indecent
is hissed from somewhere to our right, followed by, “Makin’ a right spectacle of themselves.”

The old woman’s eyes blaze. “Me, hmm? You done already embarrassed yourself.” She jerks her chin over her shoulder. “Who do you think them old biddies are jabberin’ about? You. And not just ’cause you snuck off with this scoundrel. No, ‘cause you’re showin’ your face here after what you did years ago, gettin’ all naked and ridin’ through town.”

I could just puddle as I stand silently by while the blame for my wrongdoing tightens around Trinity. It’s time to set the record straight—sans spin.
Lord, please work this for the good…

“Gran, I told you—”

The old woman throws a hand up. One beat passes… two… then her rounded shoulders slump. “Child, this is what they call paying the piper.”

Isn’t that your cue?
My inner image consultant urges me to pick
a better time and place, but I ignore her. Allowing my voice to carry and the Southern drawl to have its way with me, I say, “Why, Mrs. Templeton, are you talkin’ about the Lady Godiva ride—what, twelve years ago?”

Trinity catches her breath, no doubt hopeful I’m going to keep my word.

“What else would I be talkin’ about, Missy Pickwick?”

Deep breath
. “Well, that wasn’t Trinity.” I increase my volume further to ensure the celebrants don’t miss the front row seats so graciously provided.

The old woman ducks her head back like a chicken. “How do you know that?”

“Yeah?” Bart chimes in.

My throat is dry, and the eyes on my back are boring through me. “I know it because
I
was the one on the horse.”

Gasps all around, and Mrs. Templeton’s jaw unhinges.

“The one whose wardrobe consisted of a blond wig and toenail polish—oh, and a thong, although I don’t think anyone noticed.”

A fresh round of gasps and Mrs. Templeton’s jaw unhinges farther. She looks to her granddaughter. “Is it… true?”

Trinity appears confused. “Uh, yeah, Gran.” She shoots me a frown. “That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you for ages.”

The elderly woman’s body starts quivering, and she raises her hands to the sky. “Praise the Lord!”

Who would have guessed someone that old was in possession of all her teeth? In the next instant, they disappear.

“Should have known it was a Pickwick.” She jabs a finger at me. “You folks have got some nerve.”

“I’ll say,” Bart mutters, and I know he’s thinking about the night I found him atop a ladder in the library.

I meet Mrs. Templeton’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“And well you should be.” She snaps her head around, and though she narrows her eyes on our audience, as if tempted to give back what was given her and Trinity, she pinches her lips closed.

Steeling myself, I look around. We aren’t the center of attention I feared we were, but we have drawn something of a crowd. Unfortunately, it’s only a matter of minutes before the gossip about Lady Godiva à la Piper Pickwick makes the rounds of the park. Within hours, it will be all over town. I dread it, and yet until now I didn’t realize how heavy the guilt has grown since Artemis’s phone call. In fact, I feel pounds lighter—until I catch sight of Uncle Obe and Axel, who aren’t at the pavilion where they should be. They’re within earshot of my confession, meaning they followed me.

What bothers me is the distant smile on Uncle Obe’s face, indicative of wheels turning. And then there’s Axel, whose face is no more readable than it has been since my eventful Sunday. Now that he knows about my scandalous ride, is he more disillusioned? disgusted?

“Well,” Mrs. Templeton says, “I gotta tell you that I’m feelin’ mighty smug. Gonna have to do me some prayin’ to get myself right.”

“Gran, does this mean I can stay for the parade?”

“What? And chance you messin’ up our good name now that we’ve finally cleared it?”

I so long to remind her that Trinity is thirty years old, but I’ve had my say and this is not my battle.

“Mrs. Templeton,” Bart says. “I really am a changed man, and
I give you my word that I will watch out for Trinity and not let any ill befall her.”

“You?” She’s back in his face. “You devil’s dust-usin’—”

Trinity stamps her foot. “Stop sayin’ that!” She puts an arm through Bart’s. “He’s a fine man, and I’m not a child.” Her chin bounces. “Now I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Gran, but I’m stayin’ for this here parade.”

Mrs. Templeton’s little body startles and her brow lowers. Another scene in the making… But she just stands there and brews, her nostrils quivering and the muscles at the corners of her mouth convulsing as she looks between us and the crowd. “All right, I’ll allow that, but I’m serving as chaperon, you hear?”

Trinity is back to beaming. “Why, Gran, it would be ever so nice if you joined us.”

“Well, it has been years since I saw fireworks up close.”

Bart shrugs. “Can I buy you a snow cone, Mrs. Templeton?”

She looks him up and down. “It is mighty hot out here.”

“Well, come on, then!” Trinity tugs Bart forward.

Mrs. Templeton glares at me and gives a
humph!
before following.

Keep your head up
, advises my inner image consultant. So she’s still talking to me?

As I prepare to face the music (“paying the piper” doesn’t do it for me), Trinity breaks from Bart and heads back.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She throws her arms around me. “That was so nice of you,” she whispers in my ear, “but you didn’t have to go so far as to take the blame.”

I draw back and, keeping my voice low, say, “Trinity, I wasn’t just being nice. I
was
Lady Godiva.”

Her smile falters. “You were?” She gasps. “So that’s how you knew it wasn’t me.”

“That’s how I knew.”

“I can’t believe it. You were always such a nice girl.”

I smile sheepishly. “Even nice girls make mistakes. And I acted on impulse.”

“I do that a lot. Gran says that’s where trouble lies.”

I touch her arm. “I want you to know that it wasn’t until I was called back to Pickwick that I learned you had taken the fall for me. I really am sorry, and sorrier that I didn’t clear this up sooner.”

She twists her lips to the side. “Better late than never.”

Forgiveness. “This is the reason my uncle wanted to write you into his will. He knew I made the ride and felt it had affected you adversely.”

“Oh. That does make more sense. I mean, after all, I’ve haven’t been workin’ for him long.”

“And I’ll be the one writing a check to help with your business.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Don’t that make even more sense!” She steps back. “Well, now I really could use a snow cone.” She hurries away.

Ignoring the parade goers regarding me with different eyes, I cross toward Uncle Obe, who has been joined by Seth, Maggie, and Devyn. Axel is gone.

Is he distancing himself from the scandalous Piper Pickwick as I years ago distanced myself from my scandalous, disapproving
relations? This is still a small town, and one in which he has chosen to put down roots.

“I can’t believe
you
were Lady Godiva,” Seth says as I halt before them. As endearing as ever.

I resist the temptation to search out Axel. “Afraid so.”

Maggie blows a breath up her face. “That took some guts.”

Devyn nods. “I bet you feel tons better, Miss Piper.” She slides a look her mother’s way. “Honesty
is
the best policy.”

So she’s still after Maggie to spill on her father. I feel for my cousin, and I’m not surprised when she turns to Seth and says in a falsely chipper voice, “You know, I think I will let you buy me a Coke.”