Restless in Carolina (8 page)

“All right.” He concedes more easily than expected. “I’ll call for a driver.”

“Thank you.”

He looks down his outstretched arm. “Of course, it would be easier done if I had my hand back.”

Why am I still holding on to him? I release him so fast you’d think I had hold of a viper.

He shakes his sleeve down and turns, but not before I glimpse a grin. And that gets my back up.

Put those matches away!
Fine, but if he turns up his nose at my proposal … well, I’m bound to say something which Piper won’t approve of. But it’s not as if I’ll see his miserable self again.

“Five o’clock traffic,” J. C. Dirk says as the driver of the cow-appointed (leather again) luxury car maneuvers through the downtown traffic on our trek toward the freeway.

Despite the strong possibility I’ll miss my plane, I settle down to business. “As I said earlier, the Pickwick estate consists of more than five hundred prime acres.” I open the portfolio to the map and set it on the seat between us.

He continues to stare out the window, right leg crossed over left, foot bouncing with that corridor-running, pen-rolling, key-jangling energy. But then he suddenly angles toward me. “Why prime?”

I flip to the data sheet the chamber of commerce compiled to promote the town of Pickwick that has undergone revitalization since the new highway exit provided easier access. “It’s all there.” I pat the page. “A diverse population base, a variety of established and thriving businesses, new single-family developments located less than an hour’s drive from the Biltmore Estate—”

His cell phone rings, and he pulls it out. “Excuse me.”

Be calm. Telling him off will get you nowhere
.

After a minute of mostly monosyllabic conversation on this side of the phone, he returns his cell to his pocket. “May I?” He nods at the portfolio. “I’m more visual than auditory.” He starts flipping through the carefully constructed pages, as if flipping through an advertisement-heavy magazine.

If that’s all the notice he’s going to give my presentation, this is a waste of time.

“There appears to be a lot of woodland.” He considers the topographic map.

I lean closer. “Natural and unspoiled. When my great-granddaddy set up his textile business and founded the town, he decided to build a grand residence on a scale that would grant him entrance to the society inhabited by the Vanderbilts. So he bought up everything he could in this area outside of town. As you’ll see in the photos on the next page, the Pickwick mansion is somethin’ to behold.” Unfortunately for my ancestor, though the textile business made him wealthy, it wasn’t enough to grant him elbow-rubbing status with the Vanderbilts.

I reach past J.C. to turn the page. However, he stretches a thumb across the map and touches a large rectangular piece that Uncle Obe marked. “Why is this acreage outlined?”

Discomfort triggers an itch I long to scratch. But why am
I
feeling discomfort? Although it’s rumored the Calhouns were swindled out of that piece of land in a poker game rigged by my great-granddaddy, I had nothing to do with it. Besides, once the estate is liquidated, Uncle Obe intends to make restitution to the descendants of that family who long ago left Pickwick—another of his quests to right our family wrongs. In
this instance, an expensive wrong
and
the reason he’ll likely be forced to vacate his beloved residence before the dementia settles in deep enough to make the matter a nonissue.

“Mrs. Buchanan?”

When my pale green eyes meet their bright green counterparts, I realize how near our heads are and that his cologne is tickling my nose. And I’m the one responsible, as evidenced by my reach to turn the page that has left my hand suspended above the portfolio, I snatch my arm back and swipe at the hair on my brow.

“I’m not sure why my uncle outlined those middle hundred acres …” Likely a reminder to make restitution, but no need to speculate. “Though that acreage was acquired later than the surrounding areas, it is part of the estate in which I’m proposin’ you invest your eco-friendly self.”

“So these hundred acres were a holdout.”

“If you mean the owner held out on selling to my great-granddaddy, that is my understandin’.”

“But he finally gave in for the right price?”

There’s that itch again. I agree with my uncle that our family wrongs should be righted, but it can be embarrassing. “You could say that. Now let me show you the photos—”

“What about the quarry?” He points to the center of the Calhoun acreage.

I peer at the tiny lettering that, to my surprise, records that ugly bit of history when the dirt-poor Calhouns put food on their table and clothes on their backs by the grace of my great-granddaddy’s desire to construct his mansion out of North Carolina stone. According to yet
more rumors, he promised to set the land right once he took what he needed. However, after the mansion was completed, he continued to pay the Calhouns a pittance for the privilege of gouging out their land and selling the stone elsewhere—making the land so undesirable that only he, possessing extensive acreage on either side, was interested in buying it. Or winning it, as it were. Possibly stealing it.

I sigh over the injustice, not only to the Calhouns, but the land. “If you’re asking if the quarry is active, it isn’t. Not for years and years.”

“Just an eyesore.” Beneath the surface of his voice is resentment that makes me warm to this environmentally concerned citizen.

“Yes, but it could be put right.”

He gives a slow nod. “And this acreage on the edge of town?” He taps a smaller outline at the northernmost boundary of the Pickwick estate.

So much for warming toward him. “Those thirty acres are spoken for.” As in
mine
, Uncle Obe having set it aside as my inheritance so I can expand my nursery to include organic gardening.

“That’s a choice piece of real estate. Commercial acreage … road frontage …”

“Not for sale.” Once more finding my hand stuck above the portfolio, I bypass his grip and turn the page. “As you see, the mansion is spectacular and the grounds—”

“Lovely.” He passes the portfolio to me, settles back, and studies my face. “I have to ask what every informed buyer wants to know. Why is the seller selling?”

Piper warned me to expect the question. “As you’ve probably guessed, money is an issue; however, not such an issue that the Pickwick estate will necessarily go to the one who offers the most.”

His face relaxes into a faint smile, but his foot starts bouncing again. “That’s an enviable position to be in—to be able to pick your buyer based on factors other than money.”

I nearly smile at his suddenly accelerated speech that makes me imagine his words running roughshod over one another in their haste to exit his mouth. “It is an enviable position.” One I’m trying hard to keep hold of.

“And the determining factor is that the developer is eco-friendly.”

I nod and, once more, swipe at my hair. “That’s right, keeping the property in as natural a state as possible.”

“You think I’m the one to do that?”

“That’s why I sought you out, Mr. Dirk.”

“Call me J.C.”

Grateful I didn’t burn the J. C. Dirk bridge, I smile. “Thank you. Call me Bridget.”

He shifts his gaze to my mouth, considers it longer than he ought to, then puts out a hand. “May I keep the portfolio?”

I pass it to him, and though our fingers don’t touch, something quavers between the covers and pages. However, I’m too newly determined to shed my widow’s weeds to take it seriously, especially where this man is concerned. This is business, after all.

He drops the portfolio in the case at his feet, then looks out the window at the cars his driver is doing his utmost to pass.

Relaxing a little, I retrieve the briefcase that contains all I need to get me out of Atlanta if I can just make it to the airport. I pop the latches, and that’s when I hear a crack and feel a sting at the tip of my index finger. I stare at the flesh-tinted nail revealed by the parting of ways. “Thank goodness!” One down, nine to go.

“Thank goodness?”

Warmth spreads to my face as J.C. picks the fingernail from his pant leg and extends it. “I would expect the breakage of one of these to be more an occasion for gnashing of teeth, not giving thanks.”

I snatch the vile acrylic tip from him, and when our fingers actually touch, I’m thankful there’s only a little of that quavering going on. “What I mean is, thank goodness I’ll be home soon so I can have it repaired.” Downright lie, especially considering the rest will surely be off before I touch down in Asheville, but if he’s going to take my proposal seriously, I have an image to maintain.

“You might want to get that fixed too.” He jerks his chin toward my head.

“What?”

“Your hair seems to bother you a lot.”

Did I swat at it again? “I just need to get used to it.”

“New hairstyle, then.”

Though it isn’t a question, I consider answering it with another lie. But it’s not as if I don’t have the best excuse in the world. I wrinkle my nose, imitating my cousin Maggie, who is practically tattooed with feminine wiles. “You know us women, one day this, the next day that.”

This time his smile has teeth, as if he’s given himself permission to enjoy the moment. “Pity.”

“What do you mean?”

“Call it ego, but I thought maybe the hair, nails, and flattering outfit were aimed at getting me to take notice of you as a woman.”

How dare he—?
Read the situation right? Come on, Bridget. If this leads to what is best for the town of Pickwick, the cost is minor
.

“The end result being I take notice of your proposal.”

Bull’s-eye. Still, pride begs me to differ, common sense to do so civilly. “You’re right. Best we chalk it up to your ego.”

He chuckles, props an elbow between window and door frame, and turns his attention to the traffic outside.

When the driver pulls the car to the curb for departures, I lean forward to peer at the dashboard clock. It’s possible I’ll make my flight. Gripping the briefcase, I turn to J.C., but he’s already outside. A moment later, he opens my door and reaches in.

I hesitate to accept his gentlemanly gesture for fear I’ll regret it and, sure enough, sensation runs up my arm when my fingers make contact with his palm. And keeps on running as I rise before him and his eyes fasten on my face with an intensity that makes my insides catch again. However, in the next instant, he frowns and releases me.

I take a step back. “Thank you for the ride.”

“You’re welcome.” He pushes his hands in his pockets and, once again, starts jangling.

“I’d better go.” I step past him but look over my shoulder. “You will give the Pickwick estate serious consideration, won’t you?”

“Sure.”

Sure?
That sounds like someone who’s been asked to hold another person’s place in line. “My cousin’s card is in the front of the portfolio. If you have any questions, Piper will be happy to talk to you.”

His lids narrow. “I was under the impression that should there be further contact, it would be between you and me.”

I turn to him. “Piper is the one handling the liquidation of our uncle’s estate. I’m just the messenger.”

His mouth turns upward. “I doubt that.”

I start to argue, but not with my plane about to depart. And considering I initiated this, he’s right. “Well, I suppose—”

“Should I decide Pickwick warrants further interest, we will speak again, Bridget, messenger or not.”

This time I’m the one who says, quite simply, “Sure,” then I’m hurrying toward the glass doors and feeling J.C.’s gaze all the way. I’m nearly knocked sideways by the mammoth of a man who cuts in front of me. Ruder yet, he tosses a fast-food bag at the trash can near the doors. It misses, spilling its mustard- and ketchup-smeared contents across the sidewalk.

“Hey!” I start to chase after him but remember J.C. While I long to confront the litterbug, it would likely result in a nasty scene sure to dispel any belief in my credibility. Still, I can’t leave the mess. I scoop up the bag and wrappers, shove them in the trash can, and with red- and orange-streaked fingers, enter the building. Safely out of sight of J.C., I scan the ticket lines, but the mammoth has disappeared. He has no idea how lucky he is.

Now if I may be so lucky to make my flight. And forget whatever it was that passed between J. C. Dirk and me.

Saturday, September 18

T
he vultures are circling, and not a word from J. C. Dirk. The dog!

As Uncle Obe, looking more present than he has in weeks, consents to a photographer’s request for another picture, I scan the dispersing crowd to count the real estate agents who attended the unveiling of our town square’s new statue. Six vultures in all—that I know of—and that gum-slinging Wesley woman is one of them.