Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  But back to my problem. Operation Get Spit having failed, what now?

  “Oh!” I spin around to face the Pickwick Arms. And smile. “That’s what.”

  Whoa.” With that single-syllable-turned-double-syllable word, there’s no question Bridget’s drawl is more pronounced than mine. As she stares at me from where she sits cross-legged on the corner of her desk, I recall the scene she made the first—and last—time she attended cotillion.

  Though my mother went on and on about the importance of girls and boys from good families attending cotillion to learn social graces, my Aunt Belinda should have known better than to try to stuff Bridget into that mold. My cousin came to the gathering with a resentful attitude and unladylike swagger that had Asheville’s finest sons and daughters muttering all over themselves.

  But that was nothing compared to the appearance of a skunk shortly after Bridget’s return from the restroom. Tail plumed, the animal strolled into the ballroom through one set of doors while everyone shrieked and stampeded out the other. They didn’t know that Bridget’s pet, Stripe, was deskunked. But that was the point. Bridget was told not to come back, and her mother’s hopes of transforming her earthy daughter into a true Southern belle were dashed. My mother was humiliated by association, and doubly so when the stunt earned the Pickwicks another unflattering headline: “Pickwicks Raise a Stink at Cotillion.”

  Bridget gathers her blond dreadlocks back from her face and pulls the ropelike hair over one shoulder. “That’s a pretty risqué plan for a born-again like you.” She grins. “Sure you aren’t puttin’ your salvation on the line?”

  I don’t like her throwing my Christianity in my face as if it’s foreign to her. It isn’t. She’s just set on keeping her back to God for making her a widow after all the soul-searching she went through to get to Him in the first place.

  “Why did I even bother?” she’d demanded the day of her husband’s funeral. “So I can feel better about Him takin’ Easton from me?” She’d jerked free of my hand on her arm, stomped out of the funeral home, and pointed an accusing finger at the sky. “I’m good and mad at You, and I’m gonna stay that way, so just take Your Son and scat!”

  Bridget and her penchant for burning bridges. However, I prefer to believe that her bridge to God only suffered smoke damage and that if she would step back onto it, she would find it sturdy enough to hold her weight just as when it first spanned the chasm between uncertainty and belief.

  “Well, little cuz?”

  I don’t like being called that, especially as she’s only two years older and I’m almost six inches taller. I glance at my watch. I’m going to be late for service if I don’t leave now. “I know it sounds deceitful, but I have to eliminate Reece. I need the peace of mind of knowing I was straight with Devyn.”

  She snorts, that hair of hers seemingly granting her license to do so. “Seems to me if you don’t know whether or not you were straight with her, you weren’t. Or am I missin’ something?”

  Since when did Bridget start sounding like Skippy? This I would expect from my dear friend. From Bridget, I expected shrugging acceptance and, hopefully, cooperation.

  I sigh. “Will you help me or not?”

  “Sure, but I’m not goin’ through Boone.”

  The “crushin’” manager at the Pickwick Arms.

  She waves a finger. “I won’t be owin’ him. He may be cute in an Oxford-shirt way, but when guys start droppin’ hints about my hair, saying how pretty I’d be if I ditched the dreads…” She wrinkles her small nose. “No.”

  At least until she stops mourning Easton, who himself wore dreadlocks. Following her husband’s death four years ago, she holed herself up with the usual stockpile of funeral casseroles delivered by friends and neighbors. When she finally emerged from seclusion months later, her beautiful blond hair was twisted into dreadlocks.

  Some believe she did it in memory of Easton, others that she did it in a “dying wish” way (she had resisted his attempts to convince her to give dreads a try), and still others say it was done to keep “widow sniffers” at bay (her name for men attracted to women who have lost their husbands). Regardless, the closest she has come to having a relationship with another man was with Axel, though she insisted they were only friends. And Piper’s return to Pickwick put paid to the possibility of a deeper relationship between Bridget and him.

  I’m happy for Piper and Axel, but I wish Bridget wasn’t so alone. “So, how are you going to get me into Reece’s room?”

  “Observation. First, I—” Seeing her opossum stir on the scarf mounded on a corner of the desk, she makes kissing sounds, and the accidentally tailless creature lumbers into her lap.

  I don’t grimace as I used to when Bridget showed up with Reggie—she of the female persuasion but male name. In fact, I’ve gotten to like the little creature; however, a lot of people, especially those new to our fast-growing community, think it’s wrong for Bridget to keep a wild animal. Even Piper still calls Reggie a “rodent.” Of course, I don’t think she’s forgiven Reggie for rolling around in her beloved pickled corn.

  “While I’m making the rounds of the plants”—Bridget strokes the opossum’s head—“I’ll find out which room Reece is in and take a peek at the housekeeping schedule. Then, when he’s good and gone, you sneak in while the maid is running the vacuum and get your DNA.”

  I was angling for a key, but this is better. No key means no Boone. Too, if I’m caught “accidentally” wandering into the wrong room, it can hardly be considered illegal entry. And the only thing I’m after is what is found in a comb or brush: a rooted hair or two.

  I smile. “Good plan.”

  Bridget scoops up Reggie and stands. “I’m at the Pickwick Arms tomorrow. As soon as I have the info, I’ll call you.”

  I step toward her. “I appreciate your help.”

  She backhands the air. Though the gesture appears casual in an “aw, shucks” way, I know it’s a reminder of where my personal space ends and hers begins. “You’d best get on to church or you’ll be late. And God knows”—light flashes in her eyes—“if the big guy doesn’t agree with the way you’re goin’ about this, you might be needin’ some bonus points.”

  Another deserved rap on the knuckles. She may have turned her back on the “big guy,” but she knows He can’t be pleased with how I’m handling this. And so here’s a wide-angle view of how shallow my faith must appear to Bridget, who I’ve begged to join Devyn and me for Sunday services.

  Yeah, right, she’s probably thinking, like I wanna come back to your God—the one in whom you trust so completely you’re sneaking around trying to snag some guy’s DNA to prove you didn’t lie to your daughter? I’ll be sure to get my order in early for some of that faith.

  She circles the desk and settles into a wheeled chair that wimpily protests her hundred and twenty or so pounds with a crackle of cracked vinyl. “Tell Devyn ‘hi’ for me, will ya?”

  Devyn, who spent the day with Piper at Uncle Obe’s while I was conducting my Saturday auction, and then the night when it became evident my day would run long. Doubtless, she and Piper and Uncle Obe are wondering if I’m going to show for worship.

  “I’ll tell her.” I head for the door of the trailer that serves as the nursery’s office.

  “And ask her when she’s gonna spend a night with me for a change.”

  That “personal space” thing doesn’t apply to Devyn. In fact, if there’s one person my cousin truly cares about, it’s “Devyn Divine,” as she started calling my toddler the day she took a bad tumble at her feet. Without considering what she was getting herself into, Bridget scooped her up. And Devyn had her “in”—burying her face in my cousin’s neck and grabbing fistfuls of her shirt. When she finally calmed, she pulled back and, with runny eyes and nose, said, “Wuv Bij.” And so “Bij” it was, though I tried to correct the pronunciation for all the looks we received from people who thought my little girl was calling her second cousin a very bad name.

&nb
sp; I turn in the doorway. “How about next Saturday night?”

  Bridget’s lids narrow. “And we meet you at church the following morning, right?”

  Of all days to try and pull that one on her, this was not it. In fact, after today, I’ll probably be too embarrassed to ever try it again. “No, I can pick her up at your place on the way to church.”

  Her teeth flash brilliant white, confirming she is the loveliest of the Pickwick women. Even with dreads. “Why, cuz, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came to little ol’ me for help.”

  Right. By involving her in my deception, she has a monkey off her back. But considering the poor example this monkey set, that can’t be a bad thing.

  Lord, grant me patience—

  Hold it! I can do better than that. Rewind. Lord, grant me longanimity. Lots of it. “Patience in adversity” definitely fits, and not even Devyn, where she sits in the pew beside Reece, could argue it. Not that she’ll ever know the context in which it was applied.

  I reverse my gaze over the five who have claimed one of the short pews on the left side of the sanctuary: Reece, Devyn, Piper, Axel, Uncle Obe. I linger on the latter’s silver-haired head. Is he responsible for Reece’s presence at Church on the Square, or do I owe this latest stressor to Pastor Stanky? Regardless, my attempt to maintain distance between my daughter and Reece has failed.

  With the pastor expounding on whatever he’s expounding on, I stride down the aisle. As I near my destination, Skippy catches my eye with a wave of her hand, pointedly looks from me to Reece, and gestures for me to join her on the front pew.

  No can do. Though five is pretty much the maximum for the shorter pews, they will make room for me. I shake my head, she grimaces, and I halt alongside Reece.

  “Excuse me,” I whisper and, without meeting his gaze, turn sideways and slip in. As the back of my knees connect with the front of his, he stiffens.

  “Mom!” Devyn rasps, then scoots closer to Piper as I bring my rear end in for a landing between Reece and Devyn.

  Her movement causes a chain reaction, and when I settle on the bench, I have claimed over a foot of precious space. Still, it makes for a tight fit—on both sides. Feeling the brush of Reece’s outer thigh against mine, I nearly groan. Why didn’t I sit with Skippy? It’s not as if Devyn and Reece can carry on a conversation in the middle of service.

  I look at Devyn and whisper, “Why didn’t you save me a seat?”

  She’s so close that all she has to do is turn her head to put her lips to my ear. “I thought you might have slept in and weren’t coming—”

  Regrettably, that happens from time to time.

  “—or maybe you got sick like Grandma.”

  Right. We’re barely on the backside of February, but twice this year my mother has warned that her days are numbered. In January, she was certain her cough was lung cancer, and this morning when she phoned, her sniffles were symptomatic of meningitis.

  I promised that Devyn and I would visit and make her a big pot of soup and—lo and behold!—she asked me to bring an order of Digby Dan’s barbecued ribs instead. Though my mother’s craving hardly fits the face she presents to the world, it’s proof her life is not in jeopardy. Imagine using ribs as the measure of a person’s ailments!

  “Grandma called you at Uncle Obe’s?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh. Anyway, when Mr. Thorpe came in late and was lookin’ for a place to sit, I invited him to join us.”

  I’m relieved Uncle Obe didn’t engineer this, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I’m sandwiched between a man I once had an intimate relationship with and the child who may have been born of that relationship.

  “You slept in?” Devyn asks.

  I shake my head. “I stopped by the nursery to visit with Bridget.”

  “On Sunday morning?”

  I shouldn’t have volunteered that. I look past her and meet Piper’s waiting gaze. She gives me a “what was I supposed to do?” look.

  Devyn taps my arm and puts her mouth so near my ear her lips brush the lobe. “You didn’t tell me Mr. Thorpe set up his studio in the theater.”

  I knew she would find out. It won’t be long before she becomes suspicious about my new habit of bringing work home. “I didn’t think it was important.”

  She draws back and frowns.

  With a shrug, I look to Pastor Stanky, who is referencing a verse in Galatians—

  Warm breath stirs the hair near my right ear, causing a shiver to shoot to my fingertips. “I would move,” Reece whispers, “but that might cause more speculation.”

  He’s right. Some are bound to interpret my behavior in light of my past. “There she goes again, throwing herself at the opposite sex.” But I’m no longer like the adulteress Jesus saved from stoning. He wrote in the dirt for me as well…forgave me…told me to sin no more. And I haven’t. Well, not in the sexual sense. But as Bridget can testify—

  More breath, more shivers to the outer reaches of my person. “It’s your call.”

  I look around. As expected, his face is too close, and I notice he still has the nicest pores I’ve seen on a guy. I know that’s an odd thing to note, but what lies above and below his nose I’d best stay clear of, what with our bodies so close.

  “I can handle it,” I breathe, only to hear the flustered, snippy side of me add, “Can you?” Oh, Lord, I issued a challenge. Do over. Take back.

  “No problem.” Reece shifts nearer me.

  Ah! What does he think he’s doing? Of course, he is tight against the end of the pew, having moved far right to make room for me. Still, I’m sure it’s more a matter of upping the ante.

  Feeling like a slingshot drawn taut—make that the stone that’s about to be hurled to kingdom come—I turn forward. That’s when Seth catches my eye from where he sits across the aisle. He looks from me to Reece with a lowered brow and clenched jaw. If he doesn’t get the new job in Japan, maybe one good thing will come of this situation.

  I focus on Pastor Stanky, who has segued into the subject of sexual sin.

  Rub it in, won’t you?

  Devyn touches my clenched hands. “You okay, Mom?”

  “Um-hmm.” I’m healthy, I have feeling in every one of my nerve endings (just ask those in contact with Reece), and I have a wonderful daughter. What’s not to be okay about?

  Mercy! He moved again. The good news is, in crossing one leg over the other, he broke contact with my thigh. The bad news is, his hip is now against mine—lightly, but there all the same. Thus, we suffer each other’s company, and most of our pastor’s sermon falls on the infertile, rocky ground of my intense awareness of the man beside me.

  “Mom?” Devyn taps my arm. “I’m squished.”

  If that’s her only discomfort, she is one lucky girl. “Only ten minutes to go.”

  “My legs are falling asleep.”

  If she were young enough that no one would raise an eyebrow, and if it didn’t eliminate the wedge (me) between Reece and her, I’d pull her onto my lap. Instead, I’ll have to reclaim the inch Reece took back. I jump my bottom sideways and hear Reece’s intake of breath as my hip settles hard against his.

  I smile at Devyn. “Better?”

  She nods and returns her attention to Pastor Stanky. Surprisingly, I’m not as intensely aware of Reece as I was when more space was between us. Might this have something to do with my mother’s advice during my teen years that to get a guy’s attention, it’s best to “leave something to the imagination”? If so, it also applies to getting a gal’s attention.

  How is Reece holding up? His jaw tenses a moment before his head comes around. Oh no, I am not getting caught up in a game of footsy—er, eyesy—like when his face came so near mine at the Grill ’n’ Swill I thought he was going to kiss me. I stare at the V-shaped gap between our thighs until the weight of his regard lifts. Close one.

  And so is that. I blink at the dark hair against the side of his dark slacks. As he’s in town alone, it likely belongs to him. But what are the c
hances the root is attached? That the hair didn’t break off? I squint to pick out the translucent bulb, but to no avail. I’ll have to get closer.

  And how do you propose to do that? “Excuse me, you have a hair on your pant leg. Let me get that for you. Oh, and I’d be happy to save you the trouble of disposing of it.”

  If that didn’t send his suspicion through the roof, he’d think I was making a move on him. Maybe I could just pinch it, but if he catches me…

  Though I hate providing evidence that I haven’t changed in the thirteen years since he left Pickwick—that I’m still a shameless flirt at best, a seductress at worst—if it saves me from sneaking into his hotel room, it’s worth the risk.

  I slide my right hand to my thigh, bringing it in line with the hair on his left thigh. Just three inches and it’s mine. But timing is everything, so I wait until the right moment, which isn’t until Pastor Stanky ends his sermon.

  As we pry ourselves out of the packed pew to sing a closing hymn, I make my move in hopes that if Reece feels anything, it can be blamed on the jostling of bodies. But when Devyn stumbles against me, it’s Reece’s thigh on which my fingers close.

  He catches my wrist and presses it against my side as we straighten shoulder to shoulder. “I had hoped,” he rasps low as the voices around us rise in song, “you might have grown up some.”

  He thinks the worst of me. But why is he still holding my wrist? To prevent me from pinching him again? And why does his touch make my insides go all soft and fluttery?

  I meet his frowning gaze. “Sorry about that. I…” I moisten my lips, which makes him frown harder, and I want to smack myself for adding to his negative perception. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  And he’s going to believe you? That was no jostle or bump. You pinched him!