Restless in Carolina (6 page)

More pattering, and when I reach down, soft fur grazes my fingers. I stroke the little body and, once it relaxes, scoop it from the porch and settle it against my side. It’s too dark to see much, but a bit of light reflects off Reggie’s beady eyes.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, sweetums.” My nearly tailless opossum rarely moves as fast as she did when I let myself into the house an hour ago. After a frozen moment, she shot under the sofa and refused to come out. “And I’m sorry for being so late in gettin’ home.”

As she works a place for herself, I swing my leg into the hammock.

“My hair will look better in the light of day. I promise.” A promise J. C. Dirk is going to help me keep. Though I may not fit into his world, Savannah will bring me one step closer. But as for the rest of the way …

Maybe I should let Piper make me into someone like her. Imagining myself recast in her image, I reach to tug a dread. All gone, nothing but fine strands that slide through my fingers. “Okay, Piper. Do with me what you dare.”

Monday, August 16

P
iper dared big, from my hairline where the pore-clogging makeup starts to the fitted jacket and skirt to the tips of my toes that are stuffed into high heels that have no business on my formerly calloused feet. Yes, formerly. Over the past few days, I’ve been pumiced, scraped, and plucked nearly raw.

I frown at the woman reflected in the back wall of the elevator. She may look put together, especially holding Piper’s expensive briefcase, but she’s a fake. However, if she gets me an audience with J. C. Dirk, I’ll suffer her. And if she doesn’t … On the upside, I’ll be back in jeans. On the downside, I’ll have to figure out something else.

As I continue my solitary ascent, I perform a quick check of my hair on which Savannah worked her magic such that it angles down from my cheekbones, brushes my shoulders, and capes my upper back. It’s more feminine than I aimed for, but Piper assured me the style went well with the professional attire, softening the look enough to decrease the chance of being thrown out on my rear. In other words, it might help if Dirk finds my looks even more appealing than my proposal.

Hmm. I already don’t like him. But if I can put the ball in play, he’ll never know that beneath the makeup, clothes, walk, and talk is a formerly dreadlocked nursery owner more inclined to dirt under the nails
than the acrylic tips that make my nail beds ache something terrible. Once I’m on the plane home, they’re coming off.

As the elevator slows, I set my shoulders back per Piper’s crash course in exuding confidence in the world I’m about to enter. “You can do this,” I mutter. “Now get in there and do it.”

Hoping “speaking into existence” works better for me than my mother, I step into the lobby of Dirk Developers Inc. It’s all gleaming wood, faintly green glass, and cows. That’s right. As environmentally friendly as J. C. Dirk is said to be, he likes his leather, as evidenced by the plush chairs and sofas that congregate in the waiting room.

Noting the other occupants who likely have appointments, I approach the receptionist’s desk. And once more my feet beg to be free of the heels Piper assured me were worth the fifty dollars I plunked down so I wouldn’t have to borrow her too-small shoes again. While I probably should have broken them in, I have a nursery to run, and heels are not compatible with fertilizer and the like. Too, the last thing I need is to draw more gawking and gossiping than what’s come my way since I undid my dreads.

“May I help you?” a well-rounded young woman asks as I near the reception desk.
Zaftig
, my new sister-in-law, Trinity, would call her as she referred to my mother not long ago, rousing Daddy’s ire, though Trinity thought the “pleasingly plump” label was flattering. She still has a lot to learn about my family.

I set the briefcase on the counter. “I’m here to see Mr. Dirk.”

She glances at her computer screen. “The eleven o’clock meeting?”

“No.” Ugh, that could have been my in. “But he’ll want to see me.”

“Then you”—her pretty smile falters—“don’t have an appointment?”

Not for want of trying. “I don’t, but if you tell him Bridget Buchanan
is here to discuss an investment opportunity, I’m sure he’ll make time for me.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Buchanan—”

“Mrs.”

Her gaze flicks to my barren left hand atop the briefcase, and I feel the pale band of skin that is the only visible symbol of my marriage. “Er, Mrs. Buchanan.”

Great. Not only was I short with Dirk Developers’ first line of defense but she’s correct in assuming I’m husbandless. Old habits, even good ones, are hard to break.

“I’m afraid that Mr. Dirk is about to go into a meeting.”

“The eleven o’clock.”

“Yes.”

“That’s twenty minutes out. More than I need.” I nod at the multi-line phone, causing my hair to shift across my brow so lightly I nearly mistake it for a cobweb as I’ve done repeatedly since my change of hairstyle. I clasp my hands to keep from swiping at my face. “Would you let him know I’m here?”

“I’m sorry, but his schedule is full.”

“Don’t burn bridges.”
Piper’s final piece of advice swoops down on me. “Well then, I could be in for a mighty long wait.” Hopefully not so long that I miss my return flight.

I cross to the waiting area and lower onto a cow that, in another life, was hardly as plush or pleasantly scented. As I settle in, I hear the receptionist on the phone. Though she’s discreet, I catch my name. I only hope she’s not going through Dirk’s cranky assistant—probably a futile hope, but maybe the woman is out of the office.

“Mrs. Buchanan?” the receptionist calls.

I stand. “Yes?”

“Mr. Dirk’s assistant has confirmed that he’s unable to fit you in. She said for you to call her and she’ll be more than happy to set up an appointment.”

I struggle against the urge to burn a bridge. This young woman is only the messenger.

I return to the desk. “I’ve been tryin’ for weeks to do just that, but Ms. Wiley has been far from happy to pencil me in. That’s why I’m here—all the way from North Carolina.”

She rolls her lips inward.

“So please tell her I’m not goin’ anywhere until Mr. Dirk gives me ten minutes.” When I turn back to the cow, the framed photos around the waiting room catch my eye.

Hearing the receptionist on the phone again, I step to the first photo. It’s an aerial of a sprawling ski lodge in Aspen, Colorado—doubtless one of the Dirk developments. And since the magazine article that brought J. C. Dirk to my attention mentioned his love of the outdoors, he’s probably enjoyed the fruits of that labor. As I continue around the room, mostly admiring but sometimes cringing over the height, breadth, and amount of glass and metal used in the buildings, the elevator hatches more visitors.

I look from a family-themed wilderness resort to the three men and two women who exit.

“I’ll let Ms. Wiley know you’re here.” The receptionist glances at me and back to the new arrivals, then comes out from behind her desk and steps toward them with a soft tinkle from her coin belt. “Actually, why don’t I take you back?”

Afraid I’ll make a scene in front of Dirk’s VIPs?

She holds open a door and leads them down a glass-fronted corridor and out of sight. No sooner do I return to the photos than movement pulls my gaze back to the corridor. A very front-loaded woman peers into the waiting room. Ms. Wiley?

Her frown momentarily settles on me, and I give a wave that makes her stiffen and waddle in the direction the VIPs went. Definitely Ms. Wiley.

Continuing to move around the walls, I keep a peripheral eye on the corridor. Shortly, the receptionist returns to her desk. Since she surely has the task of keeping an eye on me, leastwise until someone escorts me off the premises, I feel for her.

The next photo shows the environmentally friendly oceanside condos featured in the magazine that first brought J. C. Dirk to my attention. Again, I’m struck by how beautiful they are—low to the ground, generously spaced, and constructed of easily renewable natural materials that enable them to blend with the environment. If there had to be a development, at least it’s conscientious. That’s why I need J. C. Dirk.

As I cross to the next photo, I catch sight of a fast-moving object in the corridor—a man, and Ms. Wiley is hurrying alongside him despite her baby bulk. He’s not tall, leastwise not compared to Easton, whose lanky six-foot-six frame is the standard by which I measure all men. In fact, this man, who is definitely the one who graced the magazine cover, would be lucky to top me by an inch were I standing beside him in heels that boost me from five foot six to five foot eight. But what J. C. Dirk lacks in height, he makes up for in breadth. Even outfitted in a business suit, it’s evident he’s buff. And he’s about to go from sight.

I glance at the door. Can I make it into the corridor ahead of the receptionist? I can, but Piper would see it as an act of aggression that could blow my chance of a face to face. I look back at J.C. and nearly startle when I see he’s stopped on the other side of the glass wall. He’s staring at me, and Ms. Wiley is nodding in my direction.

I stand taller, resisting the temptation to open my hands to prove I’m unarmed.

Eyes narrowing beneath a thatch of light brown hair, he returns his attention to his assistant. Whatever she’s relating about the woman who has badgered her with calls, it can’t be flattering.

J. C. Dirk looks sideways at me, and his mouth curves. Though I resent being sized up, there’s consolation in knowing Bridget Buchanan, nursery owner turned attractive, smartly professional woman, has passed Go. He’ll see me now.

He nods at Ms. Wiley, checks his watch, and continues along the corridor.

No! I did not suffer this getup to have him walk away. I don’t care to attract the eligible bachelor, but a slightly closer look would have been all right if it allowed me to present my proposal.

I reach for a dread, but the blond hair slides through my fingers, reminding me of what I gave up for J. C. Dirk before I was truly ready. And that makes me plain mad.

Feeling the receptionist’s gaze, I turn back to the photo. Five minutes later, the elevator pings and a man and two women exit.

I return to my chair as the women are directed to the waiting area with the promise that a Mr. Strom will be with them soon. Next, the receptionist addresses the man. “The meeting has just started. Let me take you back.”

I stick my nose in a magazine in hopes of appearing oblivious to the door that is opening to me. A moment later, the receptionist leads the man away. Once they’re out of sight, I grab the briefcase and hurry to the door.

My trek down the corridor is uneventful, but the next corridor is lined with offices. “Act like you belong,” I mutter as I scan the plaques that identify the occupants of each office. Most of those whose doors are open don’t glance up, but the ones who do are given a smile I wish I felt.

As I approach the next corridor, I hear the tinkle of what can only be the coin belt. Deciding on the plaque that reads Lunchroom, I push open the door. Thankfully, the room is empty. When the tinkle fades, I return to the corridor. Rounding the next corner, I see J. C. Dirk behind a bank of windows in a fancy conference room that boasts a view of the murky Atlanta skyline. Not my kind of view. I’ll take clear and Carolina green any day.

The man I’m here to see is at the head of a table that seats his visitors and Ms. Wiley, who has her back to me. He’s expressive, hands gesturing, lightly stubbled face shifting from serious to excited to something that makes him smile and laugh.

I have the feeling I’m staring at a fountain of energy that the magazine article hinted at with phrases like
go-getter
and
adventurous
, but I can handle him. Though I’d prefer to locate his office and wait there, I risk being intercepted and forcibly removed. Thus, I’ll have to interrupt his meeting. The end will likely be the same, but at least I’ll get my face-to-face, even if only thirty seconds’ worth.

“May I help you?”

I jump at the appearance of a slender, spectacled man at my elbow. “Just headin’ into the meeting.” I cover my surprise with a smile.

He frowns, causing a crescent-shaped scar above his right eyebrow to pucker. “J.C.’s meeting?”

“That’s right.” I check my nonexistent watch—nonexistent because Piper insisted my Velcro-banded water-resistant watch didn’t go with the outfit. “Looks like I’m runnin’ late.” I step forward with such haste my right ankle nearly goes out from under me. I hate heels.

“Since I’m going your way”—he touches my arm—“we can go in together.”

Well, open me a jar of peaches and call me a pie. Is this my lucky day or what? “Certainly.” As he opens the door, the voices within trail off and all eyes turn to me, most heavily those of J. C. Dirk—a brighter green than they appeared on the magazine cover; however, they quickly transition from enthusiasm to questioning to annoyance.

“Ms. Buchanan!” his assistant exclaims from the far end of the table.

I don’t correct the flubbed “Mrs.” Progress.