by Tamara Leigh
“Thank you.”
He looks down his outstretched arm. “Of course, it would be easier done if I had my hand back.”
Why am I still holding on to him? I release him so fast you’d think I had hold of a viper.
He shakes his sleeve down and turns, but not before I glimpse a grin. And that gets my back up.
Put those matches away! Fine, but if he turns up his nose at my proposal … well, I’m bound to say something which Piper won’t approve of. But it’s not as if I’ll see his miserable self again.
“Five o’clock traffic,” J. C. Dirk says as the driver of the cow-appointed (leather again) luxury car maneuvers through the downtown traffic on our trek toward the freeway.
Despite the strong possibility I’ll miss my plane, I settle down to business. “As I said earlier, the Pickwick estate consists of more than five hundred prime acres.” I open the portfolio to the map and set it on the seat between us.
He continues to stare out the window, right leg crossed over left, foot bouncing with that corridor-running, pen-rolling, key-jangling energy. But then he suddenly angles toward me. “Why prime?”
I flip to the data sheet the chamber of commerce compiled to promote the town of Pickwick that has undergone revitalization since the new highway exit provided easier access. “It’s all there.” I pat the page. “A diverse population base, a variety of established and thriving businesses, new single-family developments located less than an hour’s drive from the Biltmore Estate—”
His cell phone rings, and he pulls it out. “Excuse me.”
Be calm. Telling him off will get you nowhere.
After a minute of mostly monosyllabic conversation on this side of the phone, he returns his cell to his pocket. “May I?” He nods at the portfolio. “I’m more visual than auditory.” He starts flipping through the carefully constructed pages, as if flipping through an advertisement-heavy magazine.
If that’s all the notice he’s going to give my presentation, this is a waste of time.
“There appears to be a lot of woodland.” He considers the topographic map.
I lean closer. “Natural and unspoiled. When my great-granddaddy set up his textile business and founded the town, he decided to build a grand residence on a scale that would grant him entrance to the society inhabited by the Vanderbilts. So he bought up everything he could in this area outside of town. As you’ll see in the photos on the next page, the Pickwick mansion is somethin’ to behold.” Unfortunately for my ancestor, though the textile business made him wealthy, it wasn’t enough to grant him elbow-rubbing status with the Vanderbilts.
I reach past J.C. to turn the page. However, he stretches a thumb across the map and touches a large rectangular piece that Uncle Obe marked. “Why is this acreage outlined?”
Discomfort triggers an itch I long to scratch. But why am I feeling discomfort? Although it’s rumored the Calhouns were swindled out of that piece of land in a poker game rigged by my great-granddaddy, I had nothing to do with it. Besides, once the estate is liquidated, Uncle Obe intends to make restitution to the descendants of that family who long ago left Pickwick—another of his quests to right our family wrongs. In this instance, an expensive wrong and the reason he’ll likely be forced to vacate his beloved residence before the dementia settles in deep enough to make the matter a nonissue.
“Mrs. Buchanan?”
When my pale green eyes meet their bright green counterparts, I realize how near our heads are and that his cologne is tickling my nose. And I’m the one responsible, as evidenced by my reach to turn the page that has left my hand suspended above the portfolio, I snatch my arm back and swipe at the hair on my brow.
“I’m not sure why my uncle outlined those middle hundred acres …” Likely a reminder to make restitution, but no need to speculate. “Though that acreage was acquired later than the surrounding areas, it is part of the estate in which I’m proposin’ you invest your eco-friendly self.”
“So these hundred acres were a holdout.”
“If you mean the owner held out on selling to my great-granddaddy, that is my understandin’.”
“But he finally gave in for the right price?”
There’s that itch again. I agree with my uncle that our family wrongs should be righted, but it can be embarrassing. “You could say that. Now let me show you the photos—”
“What about the quarry?” He points to the center of the Calhoun acreage.
I peer at the tiny lettering that, to my surprise, records that ugly bit of history when the dirt-poor Calhouns put food on their table and clothes on their backs by the grace of my great-granddaddy’s desire to construct his mansion out of North Carolina stone. According to yet more rumors, he promised to set the land right once he took what he needed. However, after the mansion was completed, he continued to pay the Calhouns a pittance for the privilege of gouging out their land and selling the stone elsewhere—making the land so undesirable that only he, possessing extensive acreage on either side, was interested in buying it. Or winning it, as it were. Possibly stealing it.
I sigh over the injustice, not only to the Calhouns, but the land. “If you’re asking if the quarry is active, it isn’t. Not for years and years.”
“Just an eyesore.” Beneath the surface of his voice is resentment that makes me warm to this environmentally concerned citizen.
“Yes, but it could be put right.”
He gives a slow nod. “And this acreage on the edge of town?” He taps a smaller outline at the northernmost boundary of the Pickwick estate.
So much for warming toward him. “Those thirty acres are spoken for.” As in mine, Uncle Obe having set it aside as my inheritance so I can expand my nursery to include organic gardening.
“That’s a choice piece of real estate. Commercial acreage … road frontage …”
“Not for sale.” Once more finding my hand stuck above the portfolio, I bypass his grip and turn the page. “As you see, the mansion is spectacular and the grounds—”
“Lovely.” He passes the portfolio to me, settles back, and studies my face. “I have to ask what every informed buyer wants to know. Why is the seller selling?”
Piper warned me to expect the question. “As you’ve probably guessed, money is an issue; however, not such an issue that the Pickwick estate will necessarily go to the one who offers the most.”
His face relaxes into a faint smile, but his foot starts bouncing again. “That’s an enviable position to be in—to be able to pick your buyer based on factors other than money.”
I nearly smile at his suddenly accelerated speech that makes me imagine his words running roughshod over one another in their haste to exit his mouth. “It is an enviable position.” One I’m trying hard to keep hold of.
“And the determining factor is that the developer is eco-friendly.”
I nod and, once more, swipe at my hair. “That’s right, keeping the property in as natural a state as possible.”
“You think I’m the one to do that?”
“That’s why I sought you out, Mr. Dirk.”
“Call me J.C.”
Grateful I didn’t burn the J. C. Dirk bridge, I smile. “Thank you. Call me Bridget.”
He shifts his gaze to my mouth, considers it longer than he ought to, then puts out a hand. “May I keep the portfolio?”
I pass it to him, and though our fingers don’t touch, something quavers between the covers and pages. However, I’m too newly determined to shed my widow’s weeds to take it seriously, especially where this man is concerned. This is business, after all.
He drops the portfolio in the case at his feet, then looks out the window at the cars his driver is doing his utmost to pass.
Relaxing a little, I retrieve the briefcase that contains all I need to get me out of Atlanta if I can just make it to the airport. I pop the latches, and that’s when I hear a crack and feel a sting at the tip of my index finger. I stare at the flesh-tinted nail revealed by the parting of w
ays. “Thank goodness!” One down, nine to go.
“Thank goodness?”
Warmth spreads to my face as J.C. picks the fingernail from his pant leg and extends it. “I would expect the breakage of one of these to be more an occasion for gnashing of teeth, not giving thanks.”
I snatch the vile acrylic tip from him, and when our fingers actually touch, I’m thankful there’s only a little of that quavering going on. “What I mean is, thank goodness I’ll be home soon so I can have it repaired.” Downright lie, especially considering the rest will surely be off before I touch down in Asheville, but if he’s going to take my proposal seriously, I have an image to maintain.
“You might want to get that fixed too.” He jerks his chin toward my head.
“What?”
“Your hair seems to bother you a lot.”
Did I swat at it again? “I just need to get used to it.”
“New hairstyle, then.”
Though it isn’t a question, I consider answering it with another lie. But it’s not as if I don’t have the best excuse in the world. I wrinkle my nose, imitating my cousin Maggie, who is practically tattooed with feminine wiles. “You know us women, one day this, the next day that.”
This time his smile has teeth, as if he’s given himself permission to enjoy the moment. “Pity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Call it ego, but I thought maybe the hair, nails, and flattering outfit were aimed at getting me to take notice of you as a woman.”
How dare he—? Read the situation right? Come on, Bridget. If this leads to what is best for the town of Pickwick, the cost is minor.
“The end result being I take notice of your proposal.”
Bull’s-eye. Still, pride begs me to differ, common sense to do so civilly. “You’re right. Best we chalk it up to your ego.”
He chuckles, props an elbow between window and door frame, and turns his attention to the traffic outside.
When the driver pulls the car to the curb for departures, I lean forward to peer at the dashboard clock. It’s possible I’ll make my flight. Gripping the briefcase, I turn to J.C., but he’s already outside. A moment later, he opens my door and reaches in.
I hesitate to accept his gentlemanly gesture for fear I’ll regret it and, sure enough, sensation runs up my arm when my fingers make contact with his palm. And keeps on running as I rise before him and his eyes fasten on my face with an intensity that makes my insides catch again. However, in the next instant, he frowns and releases me.
I take a step back. “Thank you for the ride.”
“You’re welcome.” He pushes his hands in his pockets and, once again, starts jangling.
“I’d better go.” I step past him but look over my shoulder. “You will give the Pickwick estate serious consideration, won’t you?”
“Sure.”
Sure? That sounds like someone who’s been asked to hold another person’s place in line. “My cousin’s card is in the front of the portfolio. If you have any questions, Piper will be happy to talk to you.”
His lids narrow. “I was under the impression that should there be further contact, it would be between you and me.”
I turn to him. “Piper is the one handling the liquidation of our uncle’s estate. I’m just the messenger.”
His mouth turns upward. “I doubt that.”
I start to argue, but not with my plane about to depart. And considering I initiated this, he’s right. “Well, I suppose—”
“Should I decide Pickwick warrants further interest, we will speak again, Bridget, messenger or not.”
This time I’m the one who says, quite simply, “Sure,” then I’m hurrying toward the glass doors and feeling J.C.’s gaze all the way. I’m nearly knocked sideways by the mammoth of a man who cuts in front of me. Ruder yet, he tosses a fast-food bag at the trash can near the doors. It misses, spilling its mustard- and ketchup-smeared contents across the sidewalk.
“Hey!” I start to chase after him but remember J.C. While I long to confront the litterbug, it would likely result in a nasty scene sure to dispel any belief in my credibility. Still, I can’t leave the mess. I scoop up the bag and wrappers, shove them in the trash can, and with red- and orange-streaked fingers, enter the building. Safely out of sight of J.C., I scan the ticket lines, but the mammoth has disappeared. He has no idea how lucky he is.
Now if I may be so lucky to make my flight. And forget whatever it was that passed between J. C. Dirk and me.
7
On behalf of the Pickwick family,
it is an honor to extend an invitation to you
to attend the dedication ceremony of
The Master Weaver
created by sculptor Reece Thorpe
and commissioned by Obadiah Pickwick.
This event will be held at the
Pickwick Town Square
on Saturday, September 18 at 2:00 p.m.
Cordially yours,
Magdalene Pickwick
Saturday, September 18
The vultures are circling, and not a word from J. C. Dirk. The dog!
As Uncle Obe, looking more present than he has in weeks, consents to a photographer’s request for another picture, I scan the dispersing crowd to count the real estate agents who attended the unveiling of our town square’s new statue. Six vultures in all—that I know of—and that gum-slinging Wesley woman is one of them.
“A kettle of vultures,” my daddy would call them had he attended the dedication ceremony. Though he had three weeks’ notice, he couldn’t see his way to reschedule his trapshooting date. After all, he reasoned, it’s just a statue; money foolishly spent to ease his brother’s conscience for having dumped the original statue of Great-Granddaddy Pickwick in the lake during a secretly rebellious phase.
As for Mama, she’s not here either, but she has a good reason not to venture out on this balmy end-of-summer day. When I stopped by the house to pick her up, along with Miles and Birdie, who kicked off their eight-week stay in Pickwick two weeks ago, Mama said she’d sent her grandchildren ahead with Bart and his new wife, who agreed to keep the children overnight while Mama recovers from whatever bug has hold of her. Guessing the “bug” to be more a matter of keeping her busy grandchildren, I resolved to make good my promise to Bonnie to relieve Mama.
Though Bart and Trinity also seem willing to help, I worry about their ability to keep control of those two. Of course, from where I stand back from the crowd, they appear to be doing a good job.
Peering past them, I consider the creation of Maggie’s beau that rises from a great granite block against the backdrop of the church across the street. The immense bronze sculpture shows a master weaver at his loom, a commemoration of the textile industry upon which the foundation of the town of Pickwick was laid. A foundation that, despite cracks and uneven settling over nearly a century, held firm until my daddy demolished it with his mismanagement. So say most Pickwickians, and though I love my socially and financially challenged father, no one will get an argument from me.
Now on the matter of the Pickwick estate … I declare, if I ever see J. C. Dirk again, no fancy briefcase or high heels or binding skirt will keep me from letting him know what I think of his refusal to return the calls I’ve made since our meeting last month. Why, I—
“Long time no see,” a familiar voice warms my ear.
What is he doing here? I look around at the man who is standing far too near. His toothy smile might make many a girl curl her toes, but not me. I’ve had just about enough of it.
As I turn to fully face him, I say, “Boone,” measuring out all the little sounds that make up the name of my most persistent widow sniffer.
His gaze sweeps me head to toe. “You sure look pretty today. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you outta your jeans—” His eyes widen. “I mean, wearin’ anything other than jeans. A-and a top, of course.”
Though tempted to say something that will make him tuck tail and run, I don’t. His unwanted
attention may frustrate me, but he’s a decent man, and I’m working hard on keeping my wayward tongue from its arsonist tendencies.
I glance down the off-white dress that was over Maggie’s arm when she appeared on my doorstep this morning. I suppose it isn’t bad, what with the absence of ruffles and floaty material. Also, its skirt isn’t any of that fitted stuff that restricts my stride. If I have to wear a dress, I could do worse.
“That dress does you good.” Boone’s color is almost back to normal.
“Thank you. It’s on loan from Maggie. Of course”—I smile—“I doubt she expected me to accessorize with a fanny pack.”
“Or the critter in there.”
Especially the critter. I ease back the zippered flap to reveal my sleeping opossum. “I didn’t set out to bring Reggie, but she worked herself into a state as I was leavin’. Seeing as I haven’t gotten her out much lately, I gave in.”
Though Boone can see her just fine, he leans in, and when he returns his gaze to me, he shows no sign of relinquishing my personal space. “Is that why you’re hangin’ back here rather than joining your family?”
I lower the flap. “I thought it best, but now that the hoopla is past”—including a hair-raising moment when Birdie threw a tantrum that Trinity quickly got under control—“I’d better put in an appearance. Bye, Boone.”
“You know, if you took me up on my offers of dinner, there’d be more occasions to dress up.”
Why does he persist? Twice a week I stop at the Pickwick Arms to tend their live plants, Boone asks me out, and I turn him down—twice a week, every week since he was hired three years ago to manage the newly renovated hotel.
“Have I told you how much I like your new hairstyle?”
Twice a week, every week since I came undreaded. “Yes, thank you.” I look to the other members of my family who have gathered near Uncle Obe and the sculptor, Reece Thorpe. “Well, I’d better—”
“And that I think it’s healthy you finally took off your weddin’ ring?”
Twice a week, every week since I strung it around my neck. I glance down at my ring finger and am relieved by the pale circle of flesh that remains, though only because I started wearing a bandage while working outdoors so it won’t tan.