Leaving Carolina (11 page)

“Would you like help cleaning up the mess?”

That would mean working side by side, and he rattles me too much as it is. “I can get it.”

“Then since I’ve made my delivery, I’ll get out of your way.”

I look to the dog, whose shiny coat contrasts sharply with the
matted one of last night. Once more he retreats, obviously offended by Eau de Pickled Piper. I narrow my gaze on Axel. “Is it too much to hope Errol isn’t your delivery?”

“Groomed and ready to serve and protect.”

“I don’t need a dog.”

“You’ll have to take it up with Artemis.”

“But I won’t see him until Monday.”

“He rarely misses church, so you can catch him there tomorrow.”

Church on the Square? Nothing doing. Of course, I could intercept him on his way in. “Maybe I’ll do that. Good night.”

Axel’s eyes lock on mine with an intensity that nearly makes me step back. “Are you always such a snob, or do I just bring out the worst in you?”

Me a snob? Compared to whom? Certainly not my relatives. Still, the question gets under my skin, and I go defensive. “It must be you.”

Axel nods slowly. “I’ll have to work on that.”

Is he patronizing me? Hot breath fans my palm, and I snatch my hand up and glare at Errol, who seems to have overcome his aversion to pickled Piper. “You know”—I look back at Axel—“you could start by taking this dog with you.”

“Like I said, talk to Artemis.” He crosses to the door that leads out to the garden and inspects its splintered frame, courtesy of knight-in-shining-armor syndrome. “I’ll fix it tomorrow, but you shouldn’t have any worries with Errol inside.” He walks out and closes the useless door behind him.

I smell bad. Unfortunately, before I can shower, I have a mess
to clean up. Ignoring Errol, I tromp to the pantry. All I wanted was a little pickled corn and what did I get? A failed rescue attempt by a gardener-turned-knight who thinks I’m a snob. Ha! I know snobs, and Piper Wick is not one… Am I?

Not even twenty-four hours in Pickwick and I’m questioning myself. Yes, I was short with Axel—all right,
rude—
but it’s hard not to be defensive with Pickwick wreaking havoc on my ordered world. I have to convince Uncle Obe to leave well enough alone. And as quickly as possible.

Turning back into the kitchen, I recall a Scripture that Mom often quoted after we left Pickwick:
“Forgetting what is behind… I press on toward the goal.”

There’s more to the apostle Paul’s words, but that puts me in the right frame of mind. “Get in, get out,” I say. Before I do become a snob.

“Am I a snob, Celine?”

“What?”

Bless her disbelief. “Am I a snob?”

“No!”

Bless her lack of hesitation. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

And bless her conviction. I switch the phone to the other ear and reach to turn off the light on the nightstand.

“Once people get to know you, Piper, they realize it’s just a defense mechanism.”

I snatch my hand back. “What?”

“You know, to keep from getting hurt.”

I know what a defense mechanism is! “You’re saying I come across as a snob?”

Now she hesitates. “Sometimes.”

“Like when?”

She sighs. “Like when I tried to get to know you when I started at the firm. You were pleasant enough in the context of work, but try to chat with you or ask you a personal question? You didn’t go there. But I’m persistent, and I can now say that you are one of my best friends. And I’m one of yours—don’t deny it.”

I can’t. And wouldn’t.

“So you are going to take this as constructive criticism, learn from it, and when you get back to L.A., buy me lunch to show your appreciation for my keen insight.”

I’m not so sure I appreciate it, or agree with it, even if Axel backs it up. “Okay. Now how about an update on Grant’s reelection campaign?”

“Aye, aye, cap’n.”

Fifteen minutes later, Celine says she’ll e-mail a detailed report of what we’ve discussed. I thank her, but as I start to say good-bye, she says, “One more thing.”

“Hmm?”

“I got a call today from a woman who identified herself as a freelancer assigned to write an article about Hollywood’s image makers. As you were recently talked up in a magazine, she thought she would start with you.”

I hear the “but” in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“She wasn’t forthcoming about the magazine she’s writing for, and when I told her you were out of the office and asked for her number, she started buttering me up—complimenting me on my professionalism and saying what an asset I must be to you and the firm.”

I hear the peal of an alarm that Celine obviously heard.

She chuckles. “All true, of course, but an obvious change of subject. I played along, and the next thing I knew, she asked if you were out of town. That’s when
I
changed the subject, and back and forth we went until she asked if it was true that your relationship with Grant Spangler is more than professional.”

Am I being investigated? Although my name change presents a bit of a barrier, with some work the “Pick” part will come out. “What’s her name?”

“Janet Farr, or so she said, and she sounded like she was from New England.”

New England… Why does that ring a bell?

“When an urgent call came through that I just had to take”—I hear the smile in her voice—“I hung up and did an Internet search.”

“And no evidence of a freelance writer named Janet Farr.”

“You got it.”

I’m not naive. I knew if my relationship with Grant progressed to one of commitment, my ties to the Pickwicks would have to come out. But we’re not even engaged. However, if we’re ever going to be, Uncle Obe’s will has to remain as is.

I sigh. “Thanks for the heads-up, Celine.”

“No problem.”

I flick off the light. I should get down to the business of sleeping, but it’s the business of worrying that eats up the hours. And then there’s Axel’s belief that I’m a snob. Am not!

A
ll right, I’m a snob, albeit reluctant. And it’s not just Pickwick that’s bringing out the worst in me, or Axel. It’s me. Growing up here, I detested the dismissive way my mother and I were treated. But now, for fear of getting too close to something that could burn me again, I’m the one whose nose is in the air. After hours of wrestling with my pillow last night, first over Janet Farr and then over Axel, there was no other conclusion. And more than ever, I can relate to Jacob’s nightlong wrestling match with God, right down to the pain in the hip.

“Great,” I grumble, favoring my left side as I descend the stairs, “you’re not only a snob, but a drama queen.” I look up. “Sorry, God. I know I shouldn’t compare that night to last night, but I’m worn out.” I lower my gaze to Errol at the foot of the stairs, his tail acting as a dust mop on the wood floor. “And that dog is still here.”

As I near, he starts in with his gotta-go-potty dance.

I walk wide around him, but he bounds in front of me, looking like a big sissy with all that prancing and sidestepping. “And to think you scared me that first night.”

He bumps my knees and nearly knocks me over.

“You big lug!” Something warms my toes, and I glare at the wet spots spreading across my canvas shoes. “You peed on my Keds!”
And that’s not all. The hardwood floors have been dribbled on. Despite my protesting hip, I bound forward and wrench open the front door. “Out!”

Excitement dampened, he slowly draws even with me and lowers to his haunches to consider me with big, wet eyes.

“Don’t you look at me like that. I am
not
a dog person.”

He pops his head to the side.

Muttering words just this side of a bar of soap, I cross the threshold, and he follows me to the steps where he once more looks at me. I wave a hand. “Go potty.”

He races down the steps, and I hurry back inside and close the door. “Problem solved.” Except for the dribbles. Is cleaning up messes—literal
and
metaphorical—to be my lot in Pickwick? I trudge to the kitchen and retrieve the mop I used to clean the pantry last night.

An hour later, dribbles eradicated, Keds soaking in the sink, and having prevailed over the gate’s intercom system to allow for the delivery of my replacement car, I finish off a refrigerated bagel as I go out the door. Though I intended to head to Asheville to visit Uncle Obe, this morning’s events necessitate a detour.

Shortly, surprised by further evidence of Pickwick’s renewal that comes at me from every street I turn down, I pull into the town square and take in the buildings that bordered on shabby when last I was here—the Pickwick Arms Hotel, pharmacy, courthouse, old theater, antique shop. While they still retain the nostalgic look of years past, the paint is fresh and the windows bright. And the park in the center is manicured and inviting.

I snag a parking space near Church on the Square. The unobstructed
view across the park, courtesy of the missing statue supposedly at the bottom of Pickwick Lake, allows me to pick out Maggie from among those who converge on the church. Red hair catching the early morning sun, my cousin chats with an older woman. Between them walks a brown-headed, pigtailed girl with her face stuck in a book. Maggie’s daughter? When she lifts her head to speak to the older woman, I have my answer. Even at a distance, I can see she doesn’t resemble Maggie. Too plain. And she wears glasses, not to mention a dress entirely devoid of frills. No, Mini-Mag will be just that—a miniature version of her mother.

Within minutes of Maggie ducking into the church, her brother—my Easter egg–thievin’ cousin—appears. It’s a shock considering the only time I ever saw Luc in this setting was when his parents dragged the family here for Christmas Mass and Easter service. Not so shockingly, a thin, big-bosomed, blond woman is on his arm. As for Luc, despite his good looks and couture, he’s as shifty eyed as ever. And I don’t need to see his eyes to know that. It’s in his carriage and the self-satisfied turn of his mouth.

I check my dashboard clock. It’s only ten minutes until the service begins, so Artemis should be here soon. I nearly miss him when I dismiss a sporty red Lexus that powers into a parking space halfway between me and the church. It’s his bulk emerging from the small car that makes me look again. With that much mass and age, the sports car doesn’t fit. Old-age crisis?

I jump out of the car and call to him.

He jiggles an ear as he circles to the passenger side.

I call again, and he jiggles the other ear as he helps his wife out of the car.

“Artemis!”

As Mrs. Bleeker ratchets upright, her husband looks around. “Is that you, Piper?”

I halt before him and run a hand through my hair. “It’s me.”

He breaks into a tobacco-stained grin. Ugh! I forgot he did snuff. “Well, lookie here, Mrs. Bleeker. It’s Piper.”

The old woman’s creased eyes nearly disappear amid her frown. “Piper who?”

“Jeremiah Pickwick’s daughter—the one who up and ran off with her mother.”

“Ah”—Mrs. Bleeker shakes her head—“a shame. Your poor daddy.”

Let it go. She probably doesn’t remember that your “daddy” was long gone by the time you and your mother left
.

“Well, you have some fence mending to do, but we Pickwickians are forgiving.”

As Mrs. Bleeker pats my arm, I sink my teeth into my lower lip to keep from disputing the belief that my fences are in need of repair.

“Service is fixin’ to start, Arty.” Mrs. Bleeker squints up at her husband.

He urges her forward, closes the car door, and pulls her arm through his. “You’re welcome to sit with us, Piper.”

“Thank you, but I’m not attending the service.”

His head comes around, his fleshy neck rubbing his collar. “Why ever not?”

“I’m”—I shift my weight side to side—“heading into Asheville to visit Uncle Obe.”

“Humph. I’m sure your uncle can wait a couple hours to allow ya to renew your acquaintance with God.”

Watch the body language!
“Though it’s true my church attendance is off”—
Thank you very much, Mom!—“I
have a pretty good relationship with God.”
When you make time for Him
. True, but I am trying to get in the habit of a daily devotional.
Ah, like this morning when you pretended you didn’t see your go-anywhere Bible on the dresser?
I clear my throat. “I just dropped by to catch you before you go in.”

Mrs. Bleeker makes a sound of dissent. “Kids these days!”

“Yes, dear.” Artemis kisses her forehead, then returns to me. “If you’re wantin’ to talk business, I remind ya that this is a day of rest.”

“It’s your dog I want to talk about.”

“Errol?” Mrs. Bleeker’s little figure stiffens. “Is something wrong with my big boy?” She catches her breath. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him all morning. Or yesterday morning.”

One look at Artemis confirms we are talking about the same dog, and his stern gaze warns me to zip my lip. “Errol is fine, dear. We’ll see him when we get home—maybe throw him a stick or somethin’.”

Only if they’re planning on dropping by the Pickwick estate.

“And now Piper needs to get to Asheville to visit her uncle, don’t ya?”