Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  What do you think Skippy would say?

  Okay, just a nibble. Mouse tiny. I shrug a shoulder. “It’s been quite a few years since I last saw Mr. Thorpe. In fact, I think it’s been…” Don’t say thirteen, fool!

  Feeling Reece’s gaze move between my daughter and me, I sense his attempt to reconcile the Maggie Pickwick he knew with this utterly likable girl. It was the same last year when Piper returned to Pickwick after a twelve-year absence. Until she became reacquainted with the cousin who had to hit a painful low before she could claw her way up and into God’s arms, Piper was certain my baby was switched at birth. Thank You, Lord, for throwing me that rope. Speaking of which…

  “You don’t remember him?” Devyn asks.

  I could use another rope, Lord.

  “I must not be very memorable,” Reece says.

  Don’t I wish! And just who is he to throw me a rope? Okay, I’ll take it. No use letting a perfectly good rope go to waste.

  “Of course, your mother was very popular—”

  Did he emphasize very? I glare at him, but his let-me-tell-you-a-story expression doesn’t falter.

  “—whereas I was a bit of a nerd, always putting my art before anything else.”

  He was not a nerd, at least in the usual sense. It was his choice not to be a jock. And that’s one of the things that made him so appealing. Then there was his lack of facade, that he saw beyond mine and that he seemed to care more about the Maggie beneath the beauty queen than Maggie the beauty queen.

  “Hey, I’m a nerd too!”

  I hate it when Devyn calls herself that. It reminds me of how smugly I labeled the bookish teens who didn’t fit, including Piper. I can even hear my drawl wrap around the word, and though it’s just a memory, it feels as if I’m speaking it against my own daughter.

  “An art nerd?” Reece asks.

  She wrinkles her nose. “Nah.”

  See, not his daughter. I rub the cross at my neck. Keep the rope coming, Lord!

  “Science is more my thing…and history…and reading. And I’m good at math.”

  Reece’s mild expression turns confused. Doubtless, he’s also entertaining the possibility my baby was switched at birth.

  “So, were you and my mom in the same grade?”

  “We were.”

  Oh, Lord, next she’ll ask if we ever dated.

  “Did you—”

  “Hot apple cider on the bar!” Mr. Copper calls.

  Nice rope. Pretty rope. Yes, you are. “Honey, can you get that?” I smile at Devyn. “And pick out a pastry for me. And ask Mr. Copper to give it a shot of heat.”

  She shakes her head. “You want a pastry?”

  Makes it seem as if I never indulge—Maggie Pickwick, who has nearly six feet over which to spread her weight. But I understand her confusion, since my indulgences are usually premeditated. “It sounds good right now. Must be the cold weather.”

  Scratching her head, she hurries off.

  “I’m sorry about the storage room.” Reece glances at my neck, which makes me jerk my hand from the cross as if it’s garlic to my vampire. “When your uncle offered it, he didn’t mention the theater was your place of business.” He hooks a thumb in a pant pocket. “Unfortunately, the location really is ideal.”

  Unfortunately…Not that I don’t feel the same way.

  “However, if having me there bothers you, I’ll find another place.”

  “Actually—” Hold it. If you accept his offer, he could take it to mean he’s going to bother you rather than the situation bothering you. No, he wouldn’t think that.

  “Will I bother you?”

  “Of course not!” The prideful denial ejects from me like a Pop-Tart from a toaster. Lord, maybe You should stop feeding me rope, ’cause sure as pigs in the slop, I’m gonna choke myself—and on pride, no less.

  Reece tilts his head, causing the ceiling light to skate across his left cheekbone and point up its height. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” No! “If the storage room works for you, I can work around you. In fact, providing you use the rear entrance, there’s no reason we should disrupt each other’s work. Just”—I fish-wiggle a hand—“two ships passing in the night.”

  He stares at me as I drop my arm to my side. “All right. I’ll start setting up my studio on Monday.”

  What have you done? “I’ll make sure you get a key to the rear door.”

  “Thank you.” He shows a bit of teeth, but it’s not exactly a smile. “So Maggie Pickwick is an auctioneer.”

  And not ashamed of it, though some people look down on the profession. “That’s what I do for a living—finally found a good use for my ability to rattle on.”

  His dark green eyes shift past me as Devyn reappears.

  “Just the way you like it.” She holds out my drink. “And Mr. Copper is heating up a cherry pastry.” As I wrap my fingers around the warm mug, she looks at Reece. “Tell me more about when you and my mom were in high school.”

  “Oh, not enough whipped cream.” I thrust the mug at her. “Could you ask Mr. Copper to add more?”

  “But you don’t like a lot of whipped cream.”

  “For some reason it sounds good right now.” Ooh, I used that line already.

  She gives me a look and takes the mug. “Oookay.”

  Alone again with my past, I decide it’s time to say good-bye. “I guess I’ll see you—”

  “You were at the metalworks shop yesterday.”

  Eek! Choke! Gag! “Uh-huh. I was checking on the signs that Fate and Connie are making up for me.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “Imagine that, especially with all this red hair.” I pat the side of my head. “Hard to miss.”

  “Apparently mine isn’t as hard to miss.” He runs fingers through the black hair on his brow, briefly revealing surface scratches at his temple.

  I did that. Though I may not remember how the snowball ended up in my hand, I remember the feel of it—a compact ball of ice crystals, grass, and the small pebbles upon which the thin layer of snow had fallen. And I remember the moment of impact.

  “Sorry about that. My only excuse”—the one I’m willing to give—“is that I don’t like my daughter talking to strangers.”

  I fall under his considering gaze again. “I’m hardly a stranger, at least to you.”

  Flushing in remembrance of the intimacy we shared that one night, I fight the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. “Aren’t you? Thirteen years is a long time. Certainly long enough for people to change. Some for better, some for worse.” I long to point out that I fall in the former category, but it’s not something you tell; it’s something you show. Too, though I believe I’m better for who I’ve become, I still fall short in many ways.

  “Here you go, Mom. Lots of whipped cream, more caramel, and your pastry.”

  I take the glistening, cherry-topped confection but frown at the mug. “Would you ask Mr. Copper to add some shaved chocolate?”

  Her jaw drops. “Chocolate and apple cider?”

  I’ll take a ruined apple cider over further exposure to Reece Thorpe. “I’m in the mood for chocolate.”

  Fortunately, Devyn is more respectful than I was at her age and doesn’t question me further. She does set her teeth as she turns away, but I can hardly fault her for that.

  Back to Reece. “I had better—”

  “When I met Devyn yesterday and she said her last name was Pickwick, I assumed she was Luc’s or Bart’s.”

  “Nope, mine.” All mine. Well, God’s too, but here on earth—

  “No father in the picture?”

  What business is it of his? And is that a knowing glint in his eyes—as in, Surprise, surprise, the Pickwick tramp had an illegitimate child? Why, I—Do not get defensive, especially while holding a bright red pastry. “None needed.” Forget that Devyn and her research disagree. “I’ve done just fine raising her on my own.”

  “She seems like a nice kid.” And now I bet that g
lint is saying, How did that happen with a mother like you? “So, Devyn is ten…eleven?”

  Oh, God. Help! “Umm…” I shrug. “About that.”

  His brow furrows. “About?”

  Right. That sounds either very detached, very stupid, or very suspicious. Choose one and get thee out of here!

  “Got it,” Devyn’s voice precedes her appearance.

  “Wow.” I peer into the mug she hands me. “That’s fancy.”

  “Shaved chocolate on top of caramel on top of whipped cream on top of apple cider,” she drones with the weariness of one sent on one too many errands. Just one more…

  I check my watch. “Oh, honey, the time. We need to get back. Would you ask Mr. Copper to put our drinks in to-go cups?”

  She stares. “Mom?” As in, Are you my mom?

  “We need to go, Dev.”

  She looks at the table near the window where she’d set her book and binder. “But you said I could hang out here until you’re done.”

  I know my behavior is over the edge, but does she have to question me? “Since I won’t be much longer at the viewing, I’d like you to head back with me now.”

  She draws a deep breath, retrieves her mug, and steps past me.

  “You were never very subtle, Maggie,” Reece says in a low voice.

  Not something my mother felt the need to teach me. Her lessons were about the right clothes, hairstyle, makeup, posture, and speech. In short, how to leave the other beauty contestants in the dirt. And I did, in not-so-subtle ways and without apology. Thankfully, Skippy showed by example how to deal with difficult matters in a gently honest way. But that won’t work with Devyn at stake.

  “You couldn’t have been more obvious that you don’t want me talking to your daughter.”

  “I’d prefer you don’t.” Meaning that as long as his studio is in my auction house, I can’t bring Devyn there after school as I sometimes do to keep up with business. I’ll have to bring work home.

  Reece crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s been a long time, Maggie, but I don’t recall being the bad guy in our breakup.”

  He wasn’t, though I wouldn’t have admitted it then. But better he believes I still hold a grudge. “Let’s just say that thirteen years does a stranger make.” Hmm, that sounded like something out of a book of famous quotes.

  As Reece’s eyebrows slide up into the dark hair on his brow, I nod at the plate. “I’d better ask Mr. Copper to wrap this up. I’ll see you Monday.” I walk away and shortly turn from Mr. Copper’s bewildered expression to usher Devyn toward the door.

  She stops to scoop up her binder and book, then swings around. “See you later, Mr. Thorpe.”

  Not if I can help it.

  The cold hits me hard when we step outside, but not as hard as Devyn’s question. “Was he one of your boyfriends?”

  One of…Recalling Amanda Pigg’s taunt that there were a half-dozen guys who could have fathered Devyn, I want to lie so badly that the bitter aftertaste is already in my mouth. But I won’t. “Yeah, we went on a few dates.” The word few is open to interpretation, isn’t it?

  “And it ended badly, didn’t it?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You were both tense, especially you—like you sometimes get around Grandma.” As we near the auction house doors, she peers up at me, and her glasses reflect a brightly burning streetlight. “And you were nervous, and you’re not usually nervous around the opposite sex.”

  Lord, I prayed she would be smart and not struggle as I did in school, but did You have to make her this smart?

  “When did you and Mr. Thorpe date?”

  Wrapping my fingers around the cold brass handle of the first door, I feel a tremor go through them as I pull it open. “In high school.”

  “Yeah, but when?” She enters ahead of me.

  “My junior year.” No need to mention we continued to date through the summer and into the first month of our senior year—right before he moved and six weeks before I suspected I was pregnant.

  As we cross the lobby, I fear what’s coming, but Devyn doesn’t ask any further questions, and not on the way home either. I hope that means I’ve thrown her off the scent.

  By the time Devyn gets to bed, it’s too late to call Skippy. I won’t like what she has to say about how I handled the day’s events, but I need to talk to her.

  There’s always God. I hug my body pillow that keeps my bed from being entirely empty outside of me. “Okay,” I say, then slide to my knees, where I don’t often enough go. “Lord, this could be a real mess—and one I’m responsible for—but please help me keep Devyn out of it.”

  Here it’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re havin’ lunch with me, a divorced past-her-prime woman.” Skippy leans sideways and bumps her shoulder beneath mine. “What’s wrong with this here picture?”

  As the line inches nearer the hostess’s stand, I look down at my fifty-five-year-old friend and mentor who was surely the inspiration for Peg Bundy of the once-popular sitcom Married with Children—bouffant hair, large nose, and a wardrobe right out of the seventies. All that’s missing are outlandish high heels, and only because she broke an ankle when she fell off them several years back and her doctor forbade her to wear anything over an inch.

  “Why, there’s nothin’ wrong with this picture.” I allow her drawl to rub off on mine. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have lunch with today.” Especially as Devyn’s moodiness hasn’t improved much since Friday. Fortunately, my mother offered to take her and me to brunch after church. I took her up on the Devyn part, which freed me to get together with Skippy. Though Skippy and I spoke on the phone yesterday and she was her usual wise self as I filled her in on Reece’s return, I need this. I need to see, not just know, I’m loved. I need the warmth of her smile and the cool squeeze of her fingers.

  “Seth Peterson didn’t look too happy at church today.”

  I sigh. “I told him last week I couldn’t spend Valentine’s Day with him. I told him again on Wednesday when he called and yesterday when he turned up after the auction. He’s persistent.”

  “You ain’t encouraged him further, have you?” she asks as the couple in front of us is led to the dining room.

  “No.”

  “Good. Stand firm.”

  She has been after me for years to cut Seth free from his infatuation that began in high school, but he keeps wiggling back into my life. There was a time when I would have put a quick, shrug-able end to his pursuit, but I’m not that Maggie anymore. And so, until last summer when I put my foot down, he continually guilted me into spending time with him—as friends, he’d say, but he always wanted more.

  Of course, I’m as much to blame, since loneliness made me say yes when I knew to say no, but this time it’s for good, no matter how lonely I get. And if he gets the job in Japan he interviewed for, it will be that much easier.

  I inform the hostess there are two in our party, and as she leads us into the dining room, Skippy loops an arm through mine. “How did the auction go yesterday?”

  That makes me smile. “We had a great turnout, and most everything sold for what I expected or more. The antiques dealer I told you about, the one who originally offered eight hundred for the two pieces from the Pickwick estate, ended up paying ninety-five hundred for both.”

  Skippy claps a hand to her chest. “Goodness me! Your uncle must have done real well for his self.”

  “I think so.” Bit by bit, the liquidation of his estate brings him closer to his goal of making restitution to those our family has wronged.

  “Here we are.” The hostess halts at a square four-person table and sets the two menus opposite each other. However, Skippy and I claim side-by-side chairs.

  “When it was all said and done,” I say, “we unloaded eighty thousand dollars in merchandise, a third from the Pickwick estate.”

  “Well now, your uncle ought to be mighty pleased.”

  “I’m sure he will be.”

 
“You didn’t talk to him?”

  “Devyn and I planned to drop by after the auction, but when we called, Piper said he had gone to bed early.”

  “Hmm. I hope he’s all right. I noticed he weren’t at church today.”

  Weren’t. Though my mother would sniff at Skippy’s “butcherin’” of the English language, it’s one of the things that makes this woman dear to me. As she says time and again, “Whatcha see is whatcha get.” I wish I were as comfortable and accepting of myself, but I wasn’t raised that way. I was brought up in beauty pageants, my mother constantly affirming that I was better than others and that the way to prove it was to look and act it. I’ve grown deeper in the years since high school, but I’m still too aware of how others perceive me.

  “Maggie, darlin’, is your uncle all right?”

  I blink at Skippy’s concerned face. “Piper said he’s just tired.” I open my menu. “Probably nothin’ that a couple of homemade pecan pies can’t set right.”

  “Ooh,” Skippy croons. “So you was able to talk Martha into whippin’ up some of them fine pies of hers.”

  Just one of many mouth-watering items served up at Martha’s Meat and Three Eatery before the influx of new restaurants drained off her customers, eventually forcing her to close her doors and take a waitressing job at the new Cracker Barrel. “She hemmed and hawed until I said they were for Uncle Obe. She’s always liked him.”

  Decisively, Skippy taps an item on her menu, then sets it aside. “’Course, since she lost her brother to Alzheimer’s—What was it? Five years ago?—she understands better ’n most what your uncle is going through.”

  I pull my gaze from the glossy picture of a Monte Cristo sandwich. “I didn’t know Martha lost a brother to Alzheimer’s.”

  “Well, it ain’t like she advertised it, and her brother did live in Asheville, so most people don’t know. But I’ll tell you what, it was her dedication to helping her sister-in-law care for her brother that led to the close of her restaurant.”

  “Really?”

  “Yessiree. One too many times, her regulars came lookin’ for a home-cooked meal and there was that Closed sign. So they went elsewhere, and once Martha’s brother passed away, her customers’ new habits were too hard to break.”