Restless in Carolina (17 page)

Friday, October 1

Y
ou outdid yourself, Bridget.” Henry Martin winks, then resumes his side-to-side gum chewing.

I tuck his check in my back pocket and fold my arms over my chest. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the farmer on the balcony of his house overlooking his land, I concede that he’s right. I did outdo myself. But then I had a lot to work with due to the longer-than-usual growing season that made the cornstalks shoot high. Henry’s five-acre harvest maze, which will attract thousands of families in the thirty days between now and the end of October, is the largest maze I was commissioned to design and construct this year. He said he wanted something more out
of the ordinary than usual—spooky for those who like a good chill but joyous in honor of God’s blessing of this year’s bountiful harvest. So I gave him The House on
Boo-
ntiful Lane.

From this vantage point, of which visitors will partake as they crest the hill and start down the dirt road to the parking area, the outline of the Victorian house cut into the cornfield is breathtaking. The less-intrepid visitors, mostly small children, have plenty of flagstone paths to follow among the topped cornstalks that make up the Victorian’s courtyard. There they’ll find stands of vibrant yellow and orange marigolds, a pumpkin patch, benches, and a small stage where Henry’s granddaughters will enact puppet shows every half hour.

For those intent on goose bumps, shudders, and jolts, they have only to enter the “house” and explore its numerous rooms—especially at night—to get turned around and lost, since most paths either dead-end or wind back on themselves. Other than forcing a way between the dense cornstalks, there are only two means of exiting the maze: through the secret passageway in one of the “second-floor” rooms or the chimney that leads to a hay-chute slide.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Henry chews some more, and I marvel at how smooth his earth-colored face is despite the sixty-some years he has to his name. “How’s your uncle doin’? I keep meaning to stop by his place and sit a spell, but this festival eats up all my time.”

Henry and Uncle Obe go way back. Though my uncle never exposed those who aided him in chucking the statue of Great-Granddaddy Pickwick in the lake, Henry was probably present. He was also what Easton called his “spiritual mentor,” having befriended the young Christian
when he first moved to Pickwick. And there’s the root of the tension that sometimes rises between Henry and me. Hopefully, he’ll leave Easton out of this day.

“All things considered Uncle Obe is doing well, especially now that Piper has hired a live-in caregiver.” Not that Mary Folsom was my cousin’s first choice, seeing as she has little caregiving experience, but once Uncle Obe locked on the woman who offered to share her table at the coffee shop, he made certain by argument and guile that the list of five candidates was narrowed to one.

Henry nods again. “That’s good. How’s he handling those experts snoopin’ around his property?”

J.C.’s team that showed up a week ago, just four days after he returned to Atlanta. Piper was right; competition is good. For Caleb, too. Though I’ve been too busy to take around Daddy’s choice of a suitor, Caleb has been back twice—once to tour the mansion and again to have Axel show him the acreage, including the quarry.

“He appears to be handling it fine, but you know it can’t be easy on my uncle.”

He shoots me a sideways look. “I have the whole family praying for him.”

I recognize the bait as a door to Easton. Normally I wouldn’t go through it, but I see Birdie and the tears my bitterness caused, hear my sister’s angry words, remember my attraction for J.C., and feel Caleb’s kiss and the emptiness in the guest bed that neither Reggie nor Errol can adequately fill.

I moisten my lips. “I’d feel better about those prayers for Uncle Obe if God had a better track record with answering them.”

From beneath a gathering of silvered eyebrows, he stares at me with those soulful browner-than-brown eyes. “Nothing wrong with God’s track record. He didn’t answer your prayers for Easton the way you wanted Him to, but He answered.”

I turn my hands up. “So why bother wearin’ out my knees when He already has His mind made up?”

Henry sets a hand on my shoulder. “Because He wants to hear from you. Though His answer may not match up with yours, He wants to be your comfort.”

I reach for my ring, but it’s gone like my dreads. “Easton was my comfort.”

“Yes, and when you accepted Jesus, God became your comfort. Know where He is? Standin’ on the other side of that door you shut in His face, waiting for you to open up.” Henry looks to my hand clutching a fistful of shirt. “I noticed you took off your ring. I’m hopin’ that means your hand is on the knob and you’re gonna turn it and ask God back into your life.”

He’s hoping big.

A few wrinkles appear on Henry’s brow. “What’s the Band-Aid for? Did you cut yourself?”

Time to change the subject. “I appreciate your concern, Henry, but you aren’t in my shoes.”

“Not anymore.”

True. Though several times he’s tried to tell me about his first wife, but I’ve bordered on rude to prevent him from drawing a parallel between our lives.

“Can I tell you about her? Won’t take but a moment.”

I sigh. “All right.”

Momentarily resuming his side-to-side chewing, he looks out across his farm. “Long before that rascal daddy of yours met up with your mama, I lost my first wife after a year of marriage. It was hard, but I took comfort from the Lord. A couple years later, He gave me Lucy. And I love that woman—in the beginning, not as much, but soon enough more.”

I feel a twinge of hope.

“Told you it wouldn’t take but a moment.”

That’s it?

Henry checks his watch. “I’d best make sure the family has everything set up. When we throw open the gate in two hours, we gotta be ready for the crowds.” Mud-flecked boots clomp on the badly-in-need-of-paint planks, and he steps back inside the house.

I’m as relieved by the change of subject as his optimism. Since he and several other farmers first hired me years ago to cut corn mazes to supplement their farm income, day-trippers have been coming from as far as Charlotte to experience the family-oriented fall celebration our area offers. And Henry’s mazes are a favorite for all the extras he provides—hayrides, pumpkin patch, petting zoo, bonfires, plays, farm tours, and refreshments. And then there’s the canned goods that showcase his wife’s penchant for pickling just about anything that springs from the earth. “Therapy” she calls it, a way to relax after long days counseling troubled teens at the local high school.

Of course, there have been slim years when the crop yield is low or an early frost hits and there isn’t much out of which to fashion a maze, but we’ve always pulled something together. And when that isn’t enough to keep the farmers going, we turn to crop advertising, whereby my team transforms the leavings of sorry crops into company logos visible from the air—among them a Detroit carmaker, an airline, a chain of health-food
stores, and a save-the-earth organization. Who would have guessed The Great Crop Circle Hoax would pave the way to today?

I follow Henry through his office, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where Lucy is setting out Mason jars full of corn, green beans, and the like.

“Looks good, Mrs. Martin,” I say as Henry kisses her proffered cheek in passing.

“Is good.” She winks at me as she adjusts her Monet-print apron. “I put a jar of pickled green tomatoes in your truck—extra spicy.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank
you.
” She jerks her head toward the screen door that bangs behind her husband. “That maze is a beauty. Are you coming back for opening night?”

“Count on it.” But first I need to check on the progress of Bronson and Earla Biggs’s maze that opens tomorrow night. I wave my way out the door, call a good-bye to Henry, then climb in my truck. Sure enough, a Mason jar is in the driver’s seat. I pick it up. “Dinner.” Well, that and a hunk of cheese and homemade bread.

I turn the key in the ignition. As has happened several times recently, it takes a couple of attempts before the engine revives. I’m going to have to get that checked.

The air from the heat vents cause the invitation I earlier tossed on the dashboard to scoot across the cracked vinyl, and I grab it and once more consider the fancy writing. Another wedding at the Pickwick mansion. I’m happy for Piper and Axel. And for Uncle Obe, who will see his efforts to join his niece and godson realized before the rest of him slips away. Unless his dementia accelerates …

I flick my gaze to the “great overhead,” as Easton called it. “Surely You’ll give him another month, won’t You? Another year would be”—
a blessing
—“nice should Maggie and Reece and Devyn decide to become a real family, but at least another month. Please.” I swallow. “Yes, that was a prayer. I’m trying.” And that’s all I can do.

I put the truck in gear and head out. When I reach the end of the dirt road, my cell phone rings. Poised as I am to pull onto the pike, I have no intention of answering; however, a glance at the screen shows it’s the nursery. Business, then, and it would have to be important for Taggart or Allen to call me.

“Whatcha need?” I say.

“Nothin’.”

Nothing?
“That you, Tag?”

“Yep.”

“I assume you have a good reason for interruptin’ my drive?”

“You got a call.”

“I do get them.”

“From a man.”

“I get those too.”

“This one didn’t want manure. He wanted to have dinner with you.”

Oh. “Who?”

“Um …”

“Tag!”
Hold it. He’s not your secretary. He’s a man with a good work ethic, a deep sense of all things green, and a grudging willingness to answer the phone
. So who is it? It wouldn’t be Boone, since I saw him earlier and he would have asked then. It wouldn’t be J.C. looking to discuss the estate, since he’s returned to Atlanta. So …

I remember Caleb’s kiss. “Does the name Caleb Merriman ring a bell?”

“Hmm. I might have heard a tinkle.”

It has to be him. “What did you tell him?”

“Said you were at the Martins’ finishing up the maze.”

Good thing it was Caleb who called and not J.C.

“He asked for your cell number, but since you don’t like to give it out, I said I’d pass on his message and for him to call back in ten minutes so I can give him your answer.”

I grab an old receipt and scrounge a stub of a pencil from the ashtray. “What’s his number?”

“Don’t know. I didn’t have a pen handy.”

Great. “When he calls back, tell him …” Not that I’ll have dinner with him. After all, he’s a “maybe,” meaning baby steps are the best he’ll get out of me. “Tell him if he wants to get together tonight, I’ll be at the Martins’ corn maze and we can grab a bite to eat there.”

“Will do. Bye.”

I flip the phone closed, pull onto the pike, and jump when the ring-tone sounds again. “Mercy!” This one I’m definitely passing on—Oh, it’s my mother. “Hi, Mama.”

“Hello, dear. Do you have a minute?”

“I do. Everything all right?”

After a hesitation, she says, “I’m not feelin’ up to myself—probably all this keepin’ after Birdie and Miles. Goodness, they’re a handful.”

And I haven’t been as much help as I should be. I’ve taken them to the park with Errol, to the movies, and even had them to my house for lunch, but I could help more.

“As for your father, he’s on a golfin’ and trapshooting kick, and he’s rarely home before I wrestle the children into bed.”

No surprise there.

“And I do mean wrestle. Bonnie has spoiled her little ones somethin’ terrible.” She laughs. “Takes after her mama.”

I know what she wants me to offer, but—
Then step up to the plate and give back as she’s given to you
. “How about I take them for a while?” Good thing I didn’t agree to dinner with Caleb. “We’ll go to the Martins’ fall festival and …”
You promised
. “… I’ll keep them overnight.”

She gasps. “You’d do that for me?”

It pinches that my offer should come as a surprise. “I will, and I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner.”

“Oh, fiddly-dee, you’re offerin’ now. That’s what counts.”

Nearing the Biggs’s property, I lift my foot from the gas pedal. “I’ll pick them up in a couple hours.”

“Couple?” Her voice breaks on the word.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Mama?”

I hear her draw a shaky breath. “Fine. I just wanted clarification.”

No, she didn’t. “Actually, how about I drop by in an hour?”

“Wonderful. I’ll have them packed and waitin’ at the door.”

“See you then.” This time before I close my phone, I turn it off. If I’m going to squeeze into one hour what requires two, I can’t take any more interruptions.

This is fun. And I like the feel of the frequent smile stretched across my face, though it makes my facial muscles ache.

Once again, Miles goes from sight as he takes the path to the right.

“Don’t go too far,” I call as Birdie dances around me.

“I won’t!” Miles’s voice floats back among the cornstalks over which dusk has prevailed, causing dark to run up the stalks and ride the softly waving tassels. “I think I found the way out.”

Not yet he hasn’t. Still, I don’t correct him, knowing we’ll double back soon enough.

“It’s getting weal dark.” Birdie reaches for my hand.

I close her small fingers within mine. “The darker the better.”

“Why?” She looks at me with big eyes from which the coming night has stolen the color. Are they blue? No, brown. I think. I ought to know, especially since I’m determined to improve my aunting skills.

“The darker it gets, the harder the maze, and for those who like a bit of spookin’—”

“I don’t like spookin’.” Her feet drag. “Nobody’s gonna spook us, wight?”

“That’s right.” And that’s why I’m taking her brother and her through the maze before Henry opens the festival to the public. “No spookin’.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Meaning we’d better get a move on since it won’t be long now. When we entered the maze twenty minutes ago, dozens of vehicles had staked out parking spaces in the cut field below Henry’s house. By now there will be considerably more.