Leaving Carolina (18 page)

I
did
agree to it. “That’s fine.” I turn to Maggie where she sits behind the enormous mahogany desk in front of the windows. “I just wanted to let you know—” What is that on her face? Can’t be reading glasses. But they are. Rectangular, faintly blue lenses perch halfway down her nose that pair with my dazzling cousin about as well as ketchup with caviar.

“Yes?” She leaves the glasses in place rather than ashamedly whipping them off.

“I’m getting an early night and wanted to tell you so you can schedule my wake-ups. The doctor said every two hours.”

She glances at her watch. “See you around eleven, then.”

“Miss Piper, can I ask you something?”

“She needs to go to bed, Dev.”

“Just one question, Mom.” Devyn beckons me forward, and I cross to the sofa as she retrieves the book from beside her. “I looked at your senior picture in Mom’s yearbook—”

Oh no. My graduating yearbook, which I had no reason to purchase for the memories it held of a life I was leaving behind.

“—and I felt a connection with you.” She studies a page I don’t dare look at too closely. “Well, with who you were. Not that I’m close to being a senior, but there’s definitely a connection.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maggie rise. “Let’s not bother Piper with—”

“Please, Mom.” Devyn peers at her over the back of the sofa. “It’s not a question you can answer.”

At Maggie’s hesitation, Devyn pats the sofa cushion. “I won’t keep you long, Miss Piper.”

Aware that I’m wearing my discomfort on my sleeve, I lower to the edge.

“You were a late bloomer.” Devyn taps the picture of an eighteen-year-old Piper Pickwick whose smile is forced and face is framed by an ill-fated attempt to give body to her flat red hair. Compare that to the previous picture of Maggie whose easy beauty shines off the page, and you have a study in opposites.

“But bloom you did,” Devyn says, “which is inspiring. You see, I think I’m a late bloomer, partly by choice, because I view hair and makeup as a waste of time better spent pursuing things like astronomy, books, and environmental awareness.” She sighs. “Anyway, my question is: How did you handle the ‘it’ girls? Some can be quite mean, as I’m sure you know.”

It’s all I can do to keep from turning to Maggie where she stands
behind the sofa. Has anyone told Devyn that her mother was not only one of the original “it” girls but commanded a legion of “mean” girls? Now her daughter is one of those ostracized for not being pretty or fashionable or rich enough. How ironic—

Not ironic.
Sad
. Regardless of who you are, a childhood is far too long a time to be made to feel like an outsider. And it’s not really the scars that are the problem, as they imply healing. No, the problem lies with those hurts that simply scab over.

I look into Devyn’s eyes. “Mostly, I stayed out of their way, tried to develop relationships with others outside the privileged circle, comforted myself with the knowledge there was life beyond middle and high school, and prayed.” Which I was much better at when life was painfully uncertain.

“But I can’t seem to stay out of their way. It goes against my nature. If I’m walking down a hallway and they’re coming four abreast, why should I flatten myself against the lockers to let them pass? One of them can step aside. After all, I have as much right to the hallway as they do.”

In principle, yes. In middle and high school, no. “What happens when you don’t give right of way?”

“Standoff, which can be uncomfortable, but unless I’m running late for class, they fold every time.” Devyn’s mouth momentarily curves. “Of course, there are always the snide comments, the eye rolling—”

I remember, though I did my best not to provoke it. Ask Maggie.

She lays a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You can visit with Piper more tomorrow.”

Devyn wrinkles her nose, too long and sharp to have come from Maggie. “All right.” But as I rise, she jumps up and steps over Errol to avoid disturbing him. “Can I walk you to your room, Miss Piper?”

“De-vyn,” her mother drawls.

I look to my cousin, whose glasses are hooked on the neck of her blouse in line with the bit of cleavage that makes me feel flat. “I don’t mind, Maggie.”

She shrugs. “All right, but no late-night”—a secretive smile appears—“tête-à-têtes.”

“Ah!” Devyn bounces onto her toes. “You used it.”

What is she talking about? And what’s with “tête-à-têtes”?

“Told you I would.” Maggie checks her watch. “Now go, and be back in five minutes or I’m coming after you.”

Devyn hurries me away, and as we start up the stairs, I have to ask, “What was that about—your mother using something?”

“The word
tête-à-tête
. She has one of those Daily Word calendars to help her improve her vocabulary. I think most of the words are useless since people don’t talk like that, so she likes to prove me wrong by finding a use for one.”

Maggie trying to improve her vocabulary… Not the Maggie I knew, which leads to the question of how she must feel when her daughter talks about the “it” and “mean” girls. Some people can’t see themselves for what they are—or were—even when a mirror is held up, but something tells me Maggie isn’t one of them. Something about the way the air stirred as she stood over us.

When we top the stairs and start along the second-story hallway, Devyn says, “My mom’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

She nods. “I’m sure I’ll come into my own after a few awkward teenage years, and once I allocate time for hair and makeup, but I don’t harbor illusions that I’ll be as pretty as her. That’s probably my father in me.”

Intrigued by this odd little girl who only
looks
little, I stare at her as we near my bedroom.

She frowns. “I don’t know who he is, but sometimes I miss him. If that makes sense.”

Sometimes I missed my father, even when I was older and told myself I shouldn’t. “I understand.”

“Really?”

I halt before my bedroom. “Really.”

She beams, and I long to point out that she has her mother’s smile. “Well, I’d better let you get to bed.”

I nod, but as I start to turn into the room, her thin arms wrap around my waist and she hugs me. “I know I’ll enjoy getting to know you. And I hope you’ll feel the same about me.”

While the last thing I want is to have any emotional ties to Pickwick, I like her. “I’m sure I will.” I stare at the mousey brown hair at the top of her head as I fight the impulse to hug her back-to give her what I longed for someone other than my mother to give me.
Then do it
. I close my eyes and put my arms around her little shoulders.

A contented sigh goes out of her, and then she releases me. “I’ll remind Mom to wake you in a couple of hours. Probably after we come down off the roof.”

“The roof?”

“Unc-Unc has a telescope up there. Mom promised we’d do some stargazing.”

I almost wish they would invite me along.

“’Night, Miss Piper.”

“Good night.” I step into the bedroom and flick the light switch, only to wish I hadn’t. The overhead light is not supposed to play favorites, but it’s spotlighting my go-anywhere Bible, which hasn’t moved an inch since I fulfilled my daily devotional time with the Scripture about shaking off the dust of a town that doesn’t welcome a person.

“Okay okay.” I trudge forward and swipe the little book from the dresser. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I fan through the New Testament section in search of yellow. Whatever I took the time to highlight must have impacted me—and therefore is something I can easily sink my teeth into.

Ah! Mark 6:11: “And if any place will not welcome you or listen to you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave, as a testimony against them.”

I blink. “Hmm. Another one of those ‘dust-shaking’ verses.” Coincidence or divine counsel? I blow a breath up my face. Regardless, it’s a swift reminder of my Get In, Get Out strategy. No matter how likable Devyn is, no matter how changed her mother seems to be, no matter how Blue Axel’s eyes are, Pickwick is still one dusty place.

“Dusty!” And with that and a promise to make more of an effort the next time I tackle a daily devotional, I close the go-anywhere and get ready for bed.

Unfortunately, my sleep and dreams are interrupted every two hours by suddenly dependable Maggie, who makes me open my eyes and respond before returning to her own bed. Very aggravating, especially as my cousin is nearly as beautiful groggy and out of makeup as she is on full alert and not a pore out of place.

Now if she really has changed as Axel wants me to believe, what a combination…

I
t’s one thing to know the Pickwicks are out there, quite another to have them breach the walls. As I stand frozen in the kitchen doorway, an irritated-looking Maggie stares at her brother, Luc, and her mother, Adele, where they sit on the opposite side of the island in the light slanting through the windows.

“I appreciate that,” Maggie says, “and in some ways I feel the same, but—”

“Miss Piper, you’re up!”

Feeling the eyes of my cousins and aunt, I look down at the girl who has appeared alongside me in the doorway. “Good morning, Devyn.”

She studies my face. “Rough night?”

“Too much interrupted sleep.” I don’t mean that accusingly, but that’s how it comes out, spurred on by the invasion in Uncle Obe’s kitchen.

“The good news is, you woke up alive.” Luc slips off the barstool and strides toward us.

I narrow my lids at him. “That is good news.”

He ruffles Devyn’s hair. “So what do you think of my new commercial, kiddo?”

“It’s good.” She hands him a slipcased DVD. “You spoke clearly
and not too fast, looked directly into the camera, didn’t overdo the hand gestures, and the navy polo was an excellent choice.”

She sounds a bit like me.

“However, I think you ought to reconsider the mustache, Uncle Luc.”

He smoothes the whiskers beneath his nose. “Too much?”

“Too stereotypically ‘used-car salesman,’ meaning you’ll have all the stigma and preconceived notions that come with that.”

“But Tiffany will throw a fit if I shave it off.”

The blond bombshell I saw him with at church?

“She says it makes me look distinguished.”

Aunt Adele harrumphs. “You might want to point out to that wife of yours—number three, isn’t it?—that the more trustworthiness you exude, the more cars you’ll sell and the more money you can fork over for those designer clothes she’s so fond of. I’m with Devyn—shave the thing off. It makes you look slimy.”

He leans toward me in a conspiratorial manner. “A used-car dealership is not what Mom had in mind when she sent me to college.”

“If you had stayed in college, rather than get kicked out just like your father, maybe you would have made something more of yourself,” Aunt Adele says.

Luc tilts his head at me. “You’re the expert on projecting the right image. What do you think of my mustache?” He strokes it. “Shave it?”

I could say something sarcastic in support of truth in advertising, but I won’t. “I think Devyn’s objections are valid.”

“So if I were a client, you would advise me to get rid of it?”

“I would.”

He thrusts the DVD at me. “Before you make your final determination, have a look at my new commercial.”

On an empty stomach? “Er…”

He puts an arm around my shoulders and turns me out of the kitchen. “It’ll only take a minute.”

Stunned by the physical contact, I’m unable to summon a protest as he leads me away. Soon I find myself in the sitting room on a sofa facing the television.

“Wait for it.” Luc steps back from the DVD player. “And… there!”

The name Pickwick Regal Motors flashes on the screen, followed by a closeup of a mustached Luc. Grateful his attention is fastened on the screen so I don’t have to worry about my twitching lips, I watch as he sweeps a hand over the hood of a sporty red BMW and extols its virtues in a subdued twang and deeper-than-natural voice.

“This baby will go fast.”
His television persona strokes its gleaming fender.
“So hurry in to Pickwick Regal Motors and take her for a spin.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, assuming a stance reminiscent of the Jolly Green Giant.
“I’m Luc Pickwick, and if I can’t cut you a deal, no one can.”
He points at the camera, smiles wide beneath the mustache, and winks.
“Come on down!”

Luc, in the flesh, whips around. “So?”

There’s a lot I could say, but as he only asked about the hair on his upper lip, I’ll stick with that. “The mustache is too much.”

Hope slides off his face. “Tiffany won’t be happy.”

I rise. “Perhaps break the news to her when you take her shopping for a new outfit.”

He lights up. “Great idea.”

I start to turn away, but he grabs my arm. “While I’ve got you here, we need to talk about the mess Uncle Obe will make of the Pickwick name if he starts changin’ his will.”

As delicately as possible, I extricate my arm. “That’s why I’m here, to talk sense into him. And I’ll do my best as soon as the timing is right—meaning when he’s fully on the road to recovery.”