Nowhere, Carolina

by Tamara Leigh

  “There was a…” Why not? “…hair on your pant leg.” And it’s still there, meaning it’s back to Plan Bridget.

  Reece unclamps my wrist. “I’m here to work, Maggie. That’s all.”

  Though I pretty much handed him the right to interpret my hair quest as a sexual advance, my pride protests. “Believe it or not, Reece Thorpe, I’ve been over you for a long time.”

  He lowers those thickly fringed lashes, and when they rise, there’s a glint in his eyes. “I didn’t realize there was anything to get over.”

  Which is what I wanted him to believe when he dumped me. Which is why I quickly filled his shoes with someone who didn’t fit them…and then someone else. I wanted jealousy to eat at him until he came crawling back. But never did I intend to go as far as I did with those other two, knowing Reece wouldn’t tolerate that degree of intimacy. However, I did go that far, and that’s why I don’t know who fathered Devyn.

  Wishing I had focused on God and not Reece, that I had something good to show for my church attendance, I sing the last verses of the hymn. Thankfully, when the final note floats away, Reece steps into the aisle.

  “Wait!” Devyn traverses the pew on her knees to get around me. “Do you want to have lunch with us, Mr. Thorpe?”

  I nearly shout, “No!” but reason prevails. Not only do we have an engagement with my mother, but even if we didn’t, there’s no way he would accept. Still, I hold my breath as he pauses amid the others in the aisle.

  “Thank you, Devyn.” He smiles lightly. “But I have other plans.”

  Plans that do not include suffering the company of a shameless hussy—No. That is not who I am in Christ. My sins have been washed away. So, why do I feel dirty? Uh, might that have something to do with your DNA quest?

  “Maybe next Sunday,” Devyn suggests.

  “We’ll see.” He raises a hand, and as he moves down the aisle, I note that I’m not the only one looking after him. Reece has caught the attention of several of our single ladies, one of whom is pressing hard through the crowd to catch up with him. A moment later, she reaches her objective. A moment after that, Reece is smiling at whatever silliness she is speaking to him.

  “You all right?” Piper whispers over my shoulder.

  I look around. “That was hard.”

  “It’s over.” She squeezes my arm.

  She has no idea how comforting that small gesture is. If Piper, who I repeatedly wronged while we were growing up, can forgive me and care about me, I must be doing—or was—doing something right.

  “Yeah.” I nod and meet Axel’s gaze over her shoulder. I could hug him for the sympathetic light in his oh-so-blue eyes. And not for the first time, I wish there had been something between us like what he has with my cousin.

  Though my mother protested our friendship on the grounds that not only is Axel “blue collar” but he wears his hair in a ponytail and has a prosthetic leg, he’s a good man and would have made Devyn a wonderful father.

  Deciding to wait out the exodus, I chat briefly with Piper, Axel, and Uncle Obe, then decline lunch for the sake of Digby Dan’s. Oh, joy!

  “Might not be meningitis after all.” My mother dabs the corner of her mouth, though there’s no barbecue sauce to be seen. “That or God answered my prayer for healing.”

  “It was God.” Devyn drops the last picked-clean rib to the fine china plate my mother set out for us. Then, forgetting in whose presence she sits, she licks the sauce from her thumb.

  “Devyn, stop that!” My mother’s head trembles with the passion of her offended sensibilities. “It’s one thing to eat with your fingers”—she used a fork and knife—“but to lick them? Proper young ladies do not lick their fingers.”

  “Sorry, Grandma.” She wipes her hands on the napkin in her lap.

  Adele shifts around in her chair at the head of the table. “I declare, Magdalene, after the years and years that went into training you to be a lady, the least you could do is pass some of that learning on to my granddaughter.”

  I push aside the remains of my barbecued chicken salad. “They’re ribs, Mom, and we aren’t in public.”

  She sticks up an index finger. “Manners begin in the home.”

  I don’t want to argue with her, especially with her on the brink of recovery from life-threatening meningitis. “You’re right.” I slide an apologetic smile from her to Devyn. “Honey, remember to use your napkin.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The “ma’am” ought to please my mother, though it always makes me feel old when a remorseful Devyn uses it on me.

  “So”—my mother sets her folded napkin on the table—“who’s up for a game of Yahtzee?”

  “Scrabble?” Devyn says with a hopeful expression.

  My mother waves away the suggestion. “Yahtzee.”

  Two hours’ worth. When we finally make it to the door and Devyn bounds past me, my mother grips my arm and pulls me back into the doorway.

  “Perhaps we could have lunch one day this week, Maggie. Just the two of us.”

  Something I try to avoid, as we end up arguing or I end up “being Skippy” to the point of exhaustion. “I have a busy schedule, but I’ll call if I can work something out.”

  She stares at me, then shrugs. “So long as it’s not Wednesday. Your brother is taking me to lunch.”

  He is? That’s not like Luc. Of course, it might just be wishful thinking on her part. Regardless, it’s an attempt to guilt me into doing what she wants.

  “Poor boy.” She shakes her head. “I told him not to marry that woman. And now…” Heavy, heavy sigh. “…he may be on the brink of another divorce.”

  I know a little about that. Luc tries my patience, most notably last summer when he plotted to have Uncle Obe declared mentally incompetent in order to deny him the right to dispose of his assets as he sees fit, but I make an effort to keep my brother in the family loop. Thus, the lines of communication are open when he avails himself of them, which he did this week.

  “He and Tiffany are fine, Mom. Luc bought her roses and apologized for forgetting her birthday.” Per my advice.

  “That did it—roses and an apology?” Mom’s lids narrow to slits. “What else?”

  “Er, he also gave her a gift card to her favorite boutique.” That I did not advise, but Luc knows his wife best.

  “Oh, dear.” She presses a hand to her chest. “That woman and her designer clothes. When Luc takes me to lunch, I’d better leave my checkbook at home since he probably wants another loan. I’m a bit low on funds, you know.”

  I didn’t know.

  “At least until your daddy sends more money.”

  Which he will, as he’s done since he ran off to Mexico to avoid imprisonment. I don’t know how he’s managed to support himself and my mother all these years, but I am grateful he hasn’t stopped loving her. That alone warrants forgiveness of him for leaving us.

  “Mom, if you need money—”

  “No, no. He’ll send it.”

  “Well, if he’s late, let me know.” I put my lips to her cheek that is smoother than mine, thanks to a lifelong love affair with moisturizer and, more recently, cosmetic intervention. To my surprise, she leans into the kiss as if to feel it deeper, and my heart stretches as if to ease a tight muscle. Despite past hurts and unresolved differences, she’s still my mother. “I love you, Mama.”

  Her breath catches, and when I draw back, she’s almost smiling. It wasn’t just the kiss and profession of love. It was that I called her Mama, which she probably longs to hear from me as much as I long to hear it from Devyn.

  We stare at each other until a sweet drawl calls, “You comin’, Mom?”

  “Goodness!” My mother scowls at Devyn, who has stuck her head out of the SUV window. “Do something with that girl’s hair. And show her how to use makeup to minimize the size of her nose.”

  Bite thy tongue! I do, which is only possible since she didn’t speak loudly enough for Devyn to hear. I hurry to the SUV to find
that my daughter has turned her attention to a book I haven’t seen before: Steps to a Successful Stepfamily. Grr!

  As I turn the key in the ignition, I catch sight of the daily word taped to my dashboard. Yeah, longanimity about sums up this day.

  Hotel room number 310—check!

  Third floor scheduled for 1:00 housekeeping—check!

  Subject safely tucked away in studio—check!

  Operative (me) in position—check!

  Evidence-collection kit present—check!

  All that’s missing is a trench coat, and though I own one, its bright red color is too loud for the job—as is my hair, which is why it’s tucked beneath a brown knit beret despite a good hair day.

  As I scan the soda pop machine’s offerings for the hundredth time, the housekeeping cart rattles, alerting me to the housekeeper’s emergence from Reece’s room. I check my watch. It’s now 1:45. Since Bridget delivered the goods three days ago, I’ve kept watch on Reece’s comings and goings. Unfortunately, there isn’t much of a pattern, as he breaks for lunch anywhere between noon and two. On the upside, twice he returned to his studio afterward. On the downside, once he returned to his hotel.

  I poke my head out of the alcove to peer right down the hallway to where the housekeeper is wheeling the heavy vacuum cleaner through the doorway into Reece’s room. This is it. After waiting through the cleaning of three rooms, I’m relieved that the excruciatingly thorough woman will soon be vacuuming her way out of number 310, and I’ll be in like—

  She halts and looks around.

  I press myself flat against the alcove wall, nearly laughing at the thought that if the Pickwick Arms had cameras in the hallways, I would appear as shifty-eyed and suspicious as a comic strip spy—less the trench coat, of course.

  The vacuum revs up, and the woman begins to hum over the sound of the motor.

  Pulling the baggie from my coat pocket, I look left down the hall at the elevator. Above the doors, the lit number 2 changes to an L as the elevator returns to the lobby. I hold my breath and count to ten, but the L remains as proof no one is traveling between floors. Providing that doesn’t change soon, Reece’s DNA is as good as mine.

  I step out of the alcove. With the sound of the vacuum growing louder in time with the pounding of my heart, I pass rooms 304…306…308…

  Ping! goes the elevator for the third time since my vigil began. But this time I no longer have the cover of the soda pop/ice machine alcove.

  I consider ducking behind the housekeeping cart, but it’s too far away, so I do a one-eighty and stride toward the elevator looking all the while like a guest on her way out. Providing the other guest isn’t Reece Thorpe.

  I should have guessed—no, extrapolated!—this would happen. I halt; he halts. I stare; he stares. I look guilty; he…well, he knows it.

  As the elevator doors close behind him, I clench my fingers around the baggie and am grateful the crinkle of plastic can’t be heard over the vacuum. Also, I’m grateful I’m not standing in Reece’s bathroom. Had he arrived thirty seconds later…

  “Maggie.” His mouth curves questioningly, the movement emphasized by the toothpick in one corner. “What are you doing here?”

  “Er, what are you doing here?” The automatic answer-a-question-with-a-question strategy almost makes me groan.

  His mouth flattens. “This is my home for the duration of my stay in Pickwick.”

  “Oh. Right.” My face feels redder than my hair. “Silly me.” I step forward. “Well, I won’t keep you—”

  “Why are you here?”

  No easy way out. Not only do I have to get around him, but there’s the wait for the elevator to return to the third floor. I stop before him. “It’s personal.” And it would be personal for him too if I could only get my hands on his hair!

  He looks me up and down, and then to the rooms beyond. “I see.”

  He says it with such certainty I know I’m found out. But how did he—? Oh! He thinks I’ve come from a rendezvous. After all, what else would the Maggie he knew be doing in a hotel in a town where she lives?

  Same old Maggie. Still jumping bed to bed, though she does attend church for good measure. Why, all that’s missing is a trench coat.

  Thankfully! It would have been the polish on the poison apple had I come strolling down the hallway wearing bright red. Still, even in its absence, the conclusion is the same, and it makes me feel like a tramp. But better that than the truth. Or is it? By not being up-front with Reece, I’m denying him further proof of my promiscuous past, but also providing false proof of my promiscuous present.

  Lord, I’ve dug myself in. With a one-way shovel. That is, unless I own up to my DNA quest.

  No. That is as much a reflection on my present as being caught in a hotel.

  I raise my chin. “It’s not what you think. I…”

  Reece frowns.

  “It’s not what you think.” Feeling the heat rise in my face, I step around him. As I punch the Down button, he turns toward me.

  “What then, Maggie?”

  Does he really want me to dispel his assumption? Is he looking for the good in me as he did years ago when he pushed past my outward beauty in search of the inward glimmer no one else bothered to seek? Longing for him to put forth the effort just one more time, I turn back.

  His dark hair has shifted on his brow, and the impulse to push my fingers through it is so strong, I have to curl them into my palms to stop myself. The baggie protests.

  Reece looks down.

  Oh no.

  Ping! This time I’m thrilled to hear the call of the elevator.

  “Believe what you want, Reece.” Wincing at how breathless I sound, I slip through the partially parted elevator doors and punch the L button. As the doors start to close, I look up.

  He’s there, eyebrows gathered, the wheels I set in motion turning. Then he steps forward and puts a shoulder to one of the doors, causing them to retract with a loud thump. Or was that my heart?

  “You said it isn’t what I think.” His voice is frighteningly earnest. “Prove me wrong.”

  I want to. Badly. I want to ask him to be tested, to let him into our lives if he is the one. But chances are he isn’t. Too, the thought of giving him proof that the other guys I flaunted were more than an attempt to hurt him makes me ache. And, really, what gain would there be in letting it all out of the bag? Even if he is Devyn’s father, he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with us—me!—if the truth were told.

  I draw a deep breath. “You’re holding up the elevator, and it’s the only one—”

  “It’s not what I want to believe. You just make it hard to believe otherwise.”

  The vacuum cuts off, signaling his room is ready for occupancy, but he ignores the cue to retreat.

  “First the snowball at the metalworks when I was talking to your daughter. Then the coffee shop when you made it more obvious you don’t want me speaking to her. Next”—he gives the persistent door his shoulder again—“the restaurant when I thought you were after my notebook. I got that wrong, didn’t I?”

  Though years ago my automatic response would be to affect innocence, I can’t stomach it. So I stare at him. And pray. Oh, God. God. God?

  “And at church you practically sat on my lap to put space between Devyn and me.”

  And pinched him…

  “Now this. What’s going on?”

  My hard swallow sounds like a suddenly unplugged drain. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  My laugh sounds bitter. “Because I doubt you’ve made the mistakes I have or hurt people the way I have.” I jab the Close Door button.

  This time he doesn’t stop the doors from doing their job but steps back and stares at me until they meet in the middle.

  Leaning against the elevator wall, I blink at the mirrored ceiling until it comes into focus and reflects my flushed face. I’m making a mess of everything, sowing suspicion in dangerous places—Dev
yn, who has begun to question why I’ve stopped taking her to the auction house after school and asked this morning if it has anything to do with Reece, and Reece…

  “You want me to lay off Reece, Lord? Okay. But how am I supposed to prove he isn’t—”

  I gasp. Verification, not elimination. Meaning I’m still in the market for DNA, just not Reece’s.

  My stomach lurches in time with the elevator as it delivers me to the lobby. I hurry through the hotel and outside into the cold, crisp air. Standing on the sidewalk beneath the canopy, I grip a pole and breathe deep until my stomach settles enough for me to point myself toward the pharmacy. Five minutes later, I exit the store with an economy-size bottle of antacid less the three chalky chewables I downed. Unfortunately, before this is all over, I may be back for more.

  Win some, lose some—Gary’s motto. And well deserved, even if it began as a play on his last name: Winsome. He may have been one of the best players on our high school football team, but he wasn’t in it for the sport as much as for the girls.

  “Win some, lose some,” he’d say with a flash of fudge brownie eyes and a swoon-worthy grin when the team lost because he was too distracted by the cheerleaders to catch the football. I was one of those distractions, flirting and hanging on him in hopes of making Reece so jealous he would come back to me. He didn’t, and my encouragement of Gary plus a bottle of liquor pulled from beneath his car seat on the way home from a game is the reason Gary is Candidate Number Two. Of course, he ought to be Candidate Number One since he more likely fathered Devyn—timewise and lookswise—but it only seems right to go in order. Thus, Reece keeps the top spot.

  An Internet search having yielded the whereabouts of Gary Winsome, who is in upper-level management for one of the nation’s top banks in Charlotte, North Carolina, I close my browser. It’s time to pick up Devyn from school.

  I scoop my dress watch from the corner of my desk and push its expandable band over my hand. Upon retraction, the springy links catch the fine hairs on my wrist. “Ouch!” Again. If Devyn hadn’t given it to me for Christmas, I wouldn’t wear it, but she saved and saved for it, so what’s a little discomfort?