Restless in Carolina (13 page)

I catch my breath.

He looks around, eyes watery. “You think that’s wrong? For me to want to use this disease as poorly as it’s usin’ me?”

“No, I …”
Was thinking the same thing
.

He pulls a hand from beneath mine and sets it atop my fingers. “Don’t tell me that, along with that mess of”—he looks left and right of my face—“hair you got rid of, you also did away with your refreshin’ ability to speak in truth.”

“Refreshing? There are plenty of people who would say otherwise. I can’t tell you the number of bridges I’ve burned speakin’ in truth.”

He grunts. “Some people take themselves too seriously. As for my b-bridge, if you burn it, chances are I’ll forget and it’ll be good as new come mornin’. So is my thinking wrong?”

I stare into the pale, lined face of this beloved man who became
beloved too late in my life, absorbed as I was in my causes and my marriage. Not that he’s all that old—sixty-two or three—but he’s aged so rapidly these last few years, he could be in his seventies.

He raises his eyebrows, and I have to be truthful. “I understand your thinkin’. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I’ve thought it too—that it might be better were you unaware of all this change. But I don’t want you to go someplace in your mind where you can’t be reached.” My voice breaks. “You’re the last great Pickwick. Maybe the only great Pickwick. And I don’t like to see you hurtin’.”

He regards me a long time, then lowers his chin to his chest. “Thank you. I should get some rest now.”

Bridge still standing, I rise and hover as he lifts his legs onto the mattress. “Would you toss that over me?” He points to the throw at the foot of the bed. “I have a chill.”

On an eighty-five-degree day. I spread the throw over him. Despite its many years—from the day his mother finished crocheting it to this—it’s still vibrantly blue and green.

I look to my uncle to ask if he needs anything, but his lids are lowered. “Rest well,” I murmur.

Though I know I should return to the library for the discussion between J.C. and Piper, I need air. And pretty things around me. All of which can be found in Uncle Obe’s garden.

I
was just thinking I might have to beg a ride back to town.”

His voice striking me square in the back, I look around at where J.C. stands over me. Caught. On my hands and knees in my
very
formerly black slacks. I only meant to pull the most aggressive weeds from the flowerbeds, but I couldn’t stop myself. And now I’m at J.C.’s feet, my image further tarnished.

Brushing myself off, I rise. “Leave it to me to get caught up in gardenin’. I do enjoy the outdoors.”

“I can see that.” His green eyes travel over me, a bit too slow for comfort. “You were going to join me on the tour of the mansion and discussion about the property.”

“I apologize.” I start to cross my arms over my chest, but Piper has pointed out that closing off my person drains me of presence and power. “After I got my uncle settled in, I needed fresh air.” I reroute my hands to my hips. “And now”—I glance over my shoulder to gauge the sun’s position—“look at where the time’s gone.” Two hours, I’d guess.

He sighs. “In our future dealings, am I to be stood up time and again?”

There does seem to be a pattern developing, and as I search for a better defense than simply the need for fresh air, I bump into two promising words. “Future dealings? You intend to purchase the Pickwick estate?”

“Intend? No. Interested? Yes.”

It was silly to think a decision could be made today. We are talking
millions
of dollars. And many more to develop the estate into something environmentally friendly and income producing. I hate being made to feel stupid, especially when stupidity is doled out by my own hand. I should have been at that meeting.

“I’ll send out my team to evaluate the property—survey and map the land, take soil samples, check water tables, address zoning issues, conduct feasibility studies.”

He says it like it’s no big deal, but it sounds like it could take a long time.

“Then,” he says, “we go from there.”

Why can’t he just buy it and put an end to the circling and sniffing of the less environmentally friendly developers? “When can we expect your people?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“You do know there are other interested parties?”

J.C. unhooks his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and slides them on. “I’m taking it into account. However, I won’t be pressured into something to which I’m not fully committed, especially when dealing with other people’s money.”

Commendable, providing a body isn’t on
this
side of the matter. “Then all we can do is wait to hear from you.”

“That’s all,” he drawls, once more letting in the South.

I step past him. “Well, just know that we can’t wait forever. If you drag your feet, we’ll have to go with someone else.”

“Of course.”

Not the response I was hoping for. “We’d best get you back to town.”
I head for the kitchen’s rear door but catch sight of Piper through the windows and veer right to avoid delaying our departure with small talk. As I lead J.C. around the side of the big house, he starts jangling.

Shortly we’re back on Pickwick Pike, but as I relax into the silence, he says, “Tell me about your uncle.”

Did he pick up on the dementia? Uncle Obe stumbled on a word or two and was a bit socially inappropriate with the J.C.–Jesus Christ digression, but I don’t think anything was glaring. Fortunately. Though J.C. may be environmentally friendly and though he seemed to show genuine concern for my uncle, that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t see dementia as a ticking clock to be used to secure the property at a price below market value.

I cement my attention on the road. “What about him?”

“He became agitated when I started talking about the estate—couldn’t wait to leave the room.”

I tap the brakes to keep all four wheels on the road that curves above a steep ravine. “It’s not easy for him to give up his family home. Of course, seein’ as you’re accustomed to a life of excess and have probably never lost anything of sentimental value, it might be difficult to appreciate his … feelings.” I reluctantly finish the thought, knowing Piper would say I should not have said that.

Further evidencing the bridge against which I thoughtlessly struck a match, I feel J.C.’s gaze fall on me. “That’s an assumption you have no right or insight to make.”

Deep breath. “I apologize. Other than your reputation for being environmentally conscious, I know nothing about you or your past.” Which is fair, considering he knows little about the real me—aside from
my opossum-toting ways, lack of allegiance to fake nails, and off-again-on-again relationship with makeup.

He turns his head to survey the scenery. “We’ll just put it down to sensitivity over your uncle’s condition.”

He does know about the dementia. Did Piper tell him? I don’t see it. And since it stopped being a secret when Uncle Obe came out about his affliction last year, J.C. must have heard it from one of the locals. Hello, ticking clock.

“It must be hard.” He angles toward me. “Standing helplessly by as all traces of the person you know are wiped away.”

It is hard, and I’m only a niece. For that, I’m glad my uncle never married, since it seems that slowly losing a spouse to dementia can be nearly as difficult as suddenly losing a spouse. Some say more so, but I would argue. Yes, with dementia there’s not only your own pain to deal with but that of your loved one as he slips into a shell of his former self, but there would be time to say good-bye.

“I’m sorry for what your family is going through.”

“It’s a cruel disease, especially when it happens to someone as kind-hearted as my uncle.”

After a considering moment, he says, “He does seem like a good man.”

Is that surprise in his voice?

In the next instant, he adds, almost to himself, “It makes one wonder if some sins of the father are still visited on generations of the children.”

What’s that about? Once we’re on a straightaway, I look around. “Sins of the father?”

He looks out the window, shrugs. “I’ve heard some interesting stories about the Pickwicks.”

He’s done his homework, but I suppose that’s to be expected. “And?”

“Your family has a—”

There goes his phone, tempting me to snatch it from him and chuck it out the window.

He consults the screen and smiles apologetically. “Excuse me, it’s important.”

Lord, how did we survive without cell phones? Yes, I’m talking to You, but only because You’ve got to be more disgusted than I am
.

Shortly, J.C. is off the phone. “The Pickwick family has a reputation for the scandalous, beginning with your great-grandfather—”

Thank you, sire of my sire of my sire
.

“—and the Calhoun land.”

So he knows about that. Resenting the need to defend the Pickwicks’ honor, I say, “You’re referrin’ to the tale that the land was ill-gotten by Gentry Pickwick.”

“A rigged poker game.”

“A hundred-year-old rumor.” I reduce my speed as the pike opens up into the town of Pickwick.

“Then you don’t believe there’s truth to it. That it was put out there by bitter Calhouns.”

Actually, if I had to go one way or the other, I’d probably side with the Calhouns. There may be no proof my great-granddaddy cheated, but there’s proof he had other shady dealings, including the break with his business partner that made him grab his moneybag—and his partner’s—and flee to the hills of North Carolina.

I consider telling J.C. about Uncle Obe’s plan to make restitution to the Calhouns, but there’s no need to raise concerns that the sale of the property will be anything other than smooth. After all, only a fool poisons the pond from which she’s about to drink.

Making it through a yellow light, I glance at J.C. “Who am I to say—?”

The phone again! But this time it’s mine. Not that I’ll answer it, what with being behind the wheel and in the middle of a conversation.
Why not? A taste of his own medicine would do him good
.

I dig the phone from my pocket. “Excuse me, but this is
very
important.” Of course, that might be more believable if I first consulted the screen. I flip open the phone. “Hello?”

“I believe that’s a first!” a voice crackles in my ear as if I might lose reception. “Don’t know that I’ve ever gotten through without first being sent to your voice mail.”

“Daddy?” I say, too late remembering the man beside me. Well, that takes the wind out of my
very
important phone call.

“Just wanted you to know there’s a change of plans for tonight.”

Good. After the day I’ve had, I could do with a quiet night as opposed to sitting across the dining room table from my folks and my active niece and nephew. “All right. We’ll have supper another night.”

“No, we’re still gettin’ together, but we’re going out.”

“With Birdie and Miles?” Are we talking McDonald’s?

Daddy snorts. “Bart and Trinity agreed to keep them another night. I don’t understand it, but they seem to enjoy spending time with the young uns.”

Hmm.

“Thought we’d try out that new place off the square, the one with the onion name.”

“The Scallion?”

“Something like that. Anyway, we’ll pick you up on the way there.”

More unusual. However, as much as I don’t care to eat out, I hate to disappoint my mother. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll meet you there.”

“No trouble. Just wear something pretty—you know, fittin’ for a fine restaurant.”

Now
that’s
trouble. Or would be if I had returned the dress borrowed from Maggie for the dedication. “What time?”

“Our reservation is for seven o’clock, so we’ll swing by your place at six forty-five. Be ready, hear?”

“See you at six forty-five.” I close my phone and toss it on the dashboard.

“Supper with your parents?”

I startle at the realization that I allowed J.C. to slip into the background. “Yes.”

“That would be Bartholomew and Belinda Pickwick?”

I probably shouldn’t be surprised he knows my folks’ names. “Yes.”

“I wouldn’t mind meeting them.”

Why? I nearly ask, but that would open a door best left shut since Daddy tends to talk himself into the ground—a weakness J. C. Dirk might exploit. “If you decide to invest in the Pickwick estate, I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities to meet my folks.”

He’s quiet a long while, and when he turns to me, I catch a whiff of cologne. “So you don’t believe the Calhouns were cheated in a card game?”

I should have known he would return to that. I give my tingling nose a rub. “Who am I to believe one way or the other? I wasn’t there.” With a sniff that makes me more grateful J.C. will soon be out of the vehicle, I put on my blinker to turn into the town square. “As I said, everything’s legal, so if you’re worried about Calhouns poppin’ up to stake a claim, don’t.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I am.” I draw the Jeep alongside the curb of the Pickwick Arms. “Here you are.” And not a moment too soon. I sniff again to keep my nose from running.