Restless in Carolina (34 page)

“He most certainly did, the scoundrel.”

Uncle Obe raises a hand. “Bartholomew, let her finish. What happened, Bridget?”

“I told him our family is far removed from Gentry Pickwick”—though times like this I’m not sure I should include Daddy in that generalization—“and that the reason you’re selling the estate now is because of the high cost of making restitution to his family and that you wanted it done before …”

Uncle Obe slowly lowers his lids, then slowly opens them. “You told him right.”

“I also suggested revenge might have ruined him as he said it had ruined his father. Though he put in his offer the next day, I’m thinkin’ that once what I said settled in, he saw the truth of it.”

“And withdrew the offer,” Uncle Obe murmurs.

“Hallelujah to that,” Daddy says. “Though I do think you’re givin’ the man too much credit for decency. More’n likely, it was a business decision—he decided the estate wasn’t a good investment after all.”

I considered the same thing myself, so I can’t be too upset with him.

“I remember the Calhoun boys.” Uncle Obe stares past my shoulder, as if at a movie screen on which the memory is playing back. “Dirt poor but proud those young uns were. Had a bit of the wild in them, always runnin’ around and getting into trouble. Their mama worked all the time, and their daddy … Well, he was around. One day he was sittin’ at the counter of Martha’s place, looking scrawny as a cat caught in the rain, nothing but a cup of c-c-coffee in front of him. Martha tried to give him a bowl of stew on the house, but her only thanks was that he didn’t throw it back at her.”

Uncle Obe stares hard at that place over my shoulder. “I knew his family was struggling, same as his daddy and his daddy before, so I took the …” He pats the arm of his chair. “… this thing beside him and offered him a job.”

“And he spat on your shoes,” Daddy says. “I was there, Obe, and you were supposed to be havin’ lunch with me, not dispensing handouts to ungrateful slackers.”

Uncle Obe’s gaze flies to Daddy, and there is such anger in his eyes that my own seems little more than an appetizer. “Do you recall why you were there, Bartholomew?”

“Not rightly, I don’t.”

“You needed another loan, though we shouldn’t call it a ‘loan,’ should we?”

Gripping my hands before me, I silently beg my father to blush to prove he isn’t more closely related to great-granddaddy, and he does. Still, he splutters, “Regardless, those Calhouns were bad news.”

“No, b-broken, is what they were. Like we all are, though some more noticeably than others. But now we Pickwicks have a chance to make things right, and we will.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Daddy is obviously as suspect as I am that Uncle Obe’s plans have changed.

“Excuse me,” someone says, and I look over my shoulder at Uncle Obe’s daughter where she stands in the doorway, a glass in one hand, the fingers of the other closed over something. “It’s time for my … er, for …” She sets her jaw. “It’s time for my father to take his medicine.”

Good for you, cousin
.

She steps forward, and the sun slanting through the room lights on her dark hair, drawing out the auburn tint that evidences the red passed on to her by Uncle Obe.

Daddy shifts his weight, and I know he’s eager for Daisy to exit so he can get to the bottom of his brother’s meaning.

However, after Uncle Obe washes down his medicine, he says, “Won’t you stay, Daisy Marie? We’re nearly done here.”

She looks from Daddy to me. I nod, and her face lightens as she positions herself alongside her father.

“So, Bartholomew?” Uncle Obe prompts.

“How, exactly, do you intend to set things right with the Calhouns?”

Uncle Obe seems to disappear from the room, but eventually he says, “I need to think on it.”

Daddy huffs. “But you will sell to Caleb Merriman?”

“I don’t know that, though I’ll give his offer a look-see when it comes through.”

“It came through a little while ago,” I say. “But it’s not going to work.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because the offer is for sixty percent of the asking price, Daddy.”

If I didn’t witness the depth of my father’s startle, I don’t know I’d believe his surprise. Then he didn’t tell Caleb that Dirk Developers withdrew their offer?

“Sixty percent!” He scratches out the words. “That’s all he offered? Why that—”

“Go home, Bartholomew.” Uncle Obe reaches for his daughter’s hand. “Take care of that sweet wife of yours, and let me handle this.”

My daddy’s mouth twitches, but he raises a hand and swipes a good-bye.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say.

“Bridget?” Uncle Obe calls as I follow my father.

“Yes?”

Once Daddy is gone from sight, he says, “Anything goin’ on between you and this J.C.?”

A lie tempts me, nearly justified as it is by Daisy’s watchful gaze, but I say, “Not anymore.”

He nods. “Come see me before you and the kids leave. I might have somethin’ you can do to help me.”

“Something to do with J.C.?”

“Maybe.”

I start to protest but say, “I’ll drop by before we leave.”

I catch my father as he slides into his car and lay a hand on the door to prevent him from closing it. “Did you tell Caleb what you overheard of my conversation with Piper?”

His face puckers with distaste and denial, self-righteous in its intensity.

“Daddy, the truth.”

He remains puffed up awhile longer, then sags. “I told him. But I did it for you. I thought he’d make you a good husband, give you the life you deserve, a life like Bonnie’s.”

Heard that before. Too bad he doesn’t understand me well enough to know that would not be a good fit.

“Now,” he continues, “I’m not so sure. Can you believe he offered only sixty percent?”

“A lack of real competition will do that. Was there any money involved in helping Caleb secure the estate?”

He stares at the emblem at the center of the steering wheel.

“Daddy?”

“All right, there was to be a little somethin’ in it for me for brokerin’ the deal.”

My shoulders drop. “How much?”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

“A
little
something!”

“But I’m tellin’ you, it was with the understanding that I help him obtain the property, not steal it. Sixty percent! Don’t know how I’d sleep at night knowin’ I had a cheat for a son-in-law.”

He doesn’t have to worry about that. “Daddy, do you know anything about his plans to turn the estate into an industrial park?”

“ ’Course not. He said he wanted it as a private residence, and the possibility of you being lady of the manor made the apple that much shinier.”

I sigh. “For you and Eve both.”

“What?”

“Nothin’.” I touch his shoulder. “I appreciate your being straight with me. Tell Mama I’ll bring Birdie and Miles by tomorrow.”

He pulls the door closed.

Hoping my niece and nephew have reconciled and Uncle Obe won’t ask of me something I can’t do, I slowly climb the steps of the mansion. Unfortunately when I return to my uncle’s room, he is at a complete loss as to what he wanted my help with. Or maybe fortunately.

Monday, October 18

T
his time I told Caleb yes. Not because I mean yes but because J.C. hasn’t returned Piper’s or Uncle Obe’s phone calls. Because if there is going to be a counter to Caleb’s insulting offer, there’s something the Pickwicks need to know. And it’s up to me to determine if the man who tried to bribe my father is slippery in other ways. Unfortunately I believe J.C. is right, and if I’m not stood up—

“I’m pleased you agreed to join me for dinner,” a voice stirs my hair, and as I look around, a kiss lands on my cheek.

Be still, my livid heart
. I meet the gaze of the man over my shoulder. “Caleb.”

Grin as bowed as a quarter moon, he pulls out the chair catty-corner to mine. “Of course, I can’t help but hope this will also be a celebratory dinner.”

I’m tempted to play dumb, especially in lieu of an apology for him being twenty minutes late, but I’m not sixteen anymore. “Actually, the reason I accepted your dinner invitation was to discuss your offer on the estate.”

“Wonderful! Not that I’m not up for enjoying the company of such a lovely lady and”—he lays a hand over mine—“getting to know her better.”

Just in case the possibility exists he still needs to exploit my influence
with Uncle Obe as he tried to exploit Daddy’s influence with me? More than ever, I lean toward the belief he wants the estate for an industrial park, and I resent that I’m here, especially since I could be home with Birdie and Miles. However, they’re spending the night with Mama and Daddy, my father having insisted on it though Trinity and Bart were willing as usual. Feeling a pang of loneliness at the prospect of having no one to share the big bed with tonight, I close my eyes.

“What can I get you to drink?”

I open my eyes on the server who has sidled into the space between Caleb and me.

He smiles at her. “I have the feeling we’re going to need a wine list.”

“No.” I pull my hand from beneath his and wrap it around my perspiring glass of ice water. “I’ll stick with this.”

“Are you sure?”

I incline my head. “Although if I were to order something from the bar, it would be a beer.” This time, Daddy’s not here.

Caleb blinks, as I intended him to.

Yes, I’m once more dressed up, the restaurant he suggested having called for it, but I still prefer the taste of beer over wine. “Of the nonalcoholic sort.”

He ducks his head back. “Nonalcoholic?”

“It’s the taste I like, not the dizziness or false feelin’ of happiness.”

He waves the server away, clasps his hands on the table, and leans forward. “But we’re not talking false feeling. Not if you’re here to tell me what I hope you are.”

Here goes the bluff I’ve been practicing since I took his call this morning. “I have to disappoint you, Caleb. You see, I don’t believe we have anything to celebrate.”

Full-fledged frown. “What are you talking about?”

I take a sip of water. “You haven’t been straight about your plans for the estate.”

I watch him closely for signs of guilt and surprise, but there’s nothing to be seen in his eyes or his facial muscles. “Of course I’ve been straight. I’m looking forward to calling the Pickwick mansion my home.”

He seems sincere. Might I be wrong? Did J.C. lie?
Don’t let your bluff down
. “Caleb”—I hold his gaze—“I know about your plans to build an industrial park.”

This time there is something in his eyes, but it’s so fleeting I can’t say it’s incriminating. “You think I want to turn your heritage into an industrial park? Where’d you come up with that idea?”

I’m starting to feel gullible. “J. C. Dirk told me.”

Caleb snorts. “My competition—a man who wanted the estate probably more than I do.”

Want
ed
. Not that I need further evidence he knows J.C. withdrew his offer. “True. And for that reason, he brought me written proof.” I didn’t see it, but that’s my fault.

Again, something crosses Caleb’s eyes, but after it flits out, it flits back in. With a sigh, he reclines in his chair. “All right, so Dirk dug up my association with investors who are scouting for an industrial-park site.” He inclines his head. “It’s true.”

Still I cling to the frail, barely visible thread of hope tied to both ends of me—that despite the look of things, it’s coincidental Caleb is looking for an industrial-park site at the same time he’s trying to buy a private residence.

“And, yes, the Pickwick estate is ideal for our purpose.”

Good-bye, hope. I sit straighter. “Then you lied.”

His gaze slides left, and I follow it to the server, who does an about-face when he once more waves her away. “Let’s just say I didn’t elaborate on my plans for the estate.”

I lean forward. “Now would be a good time.”

“Is your family still interested in selling to me?”

I wish I could say no, but J.C. is out of the picture. “Not at the price offered.”

He starts to smile. “I’m negotiable—never said I wasn’t.”

Obviously, he’s been practicing at bluffing longer than I have. “So elaborate.”

“I do want the mansion for a private residence. It’s beautiful, has historic value, and is in decent shape. As I’ve already said, I can see myself raising a family there.”

Just because he can
see
himself doesn’t mean he plans to.

“As for the bulk of the property, it is ideal for the development of an industrial park, and it’s possible that pieces will be broken off and developed as such.”

And there’s the truth cloaked in the word
possible
—his way of throwing me a bone. But I would be a fool if I tried to gnaw on it. My nails dig into my palms, throat muscles tighten, nostrils widen. “And manufacturing comes to Pickwick Pike,” I say with a hard edge of resentment.

Caleb’s lids flicker. “I understand your misgivings, Bridget.”

No, he doesn’t.

“However, environmental concerns aside, your family needs the money.”

Only because the Calhoun heirs have a sizable restitution coming to them. If not for Uncle Obe’s determination to see our wrongs righted,
time would be on our side, which would allow him to remain undisturbed in his home while he’s lucid enough to be comforted by its familiarity. But the estate needs to be liquidated, and all because of that middle piece of land.