by Tamara Leigh
Mama gives an uncertain nod that speaks of her own surprise at his presence. “Why yes, I am.” Perking up a little (she looks better than she did yesterday, though still tired), she drapes her hand in his.
And here comes the theatrical kiss to the back of her hand that makes her blush.
“And this is your daughter, Bridget.”
I put my hand firmly in his and initiate the shake to let him know I don’t go for hand kisses. That’s when I catch another breath of cologne. It’s not of the choke-me variety, but still … why can’t men smell like men? “Bridget Buchanan.”
I expect him to check my ring finger, but he doesn’t. Of course, seeing as Daddy is behind this, my “suitor” is probably aware of my widow’s status. Dark eyes peering into mine, he says, “As pretty as I’ve heard tell.”
Don’t let the dress fool you, mister. Your tune would change if you saw me in work jeans and dreads, fertilizer beneath my nails. “Thank you.” I pull my hand free. “I don’t believe I caught your last name.”
“Merriman. Caleb Merriman the second.”
Why does that sound familiar?
“Oh!” My mother’s blond head bobs. “I remember your daddy. Why, the last time I saw … him …” Her gaze slides to her husband.
“Bygones be bygones.” He grunts, then urges her into a chair.
Well, well. I start to lower beside my mother, but Daddy says, “That’s where I’m sittin’. You take the seat beside Caleb so you two can get to know each other.”
As sure as flies on butter …
Sitting between Caleb and him, it’s awhile before I realize I’m holding my breath, and only then because Mama says, “Are you all right, dear? You’ve gone as red as a tomato.” She reaches across Daddy and touches my forehead.
I let out my breath. “It’s just a little warm in here.”
“But you’re—”
“She said she’s fine.” Daddy opens Mama’s menu and places it in front of her. “Now let’s see what fits your meal plan, Belinda.”
If I was fine, I’m not anymore. I don’t like that he monitors her fat and calorie intake, especially while ignoring his own. Yes, she’s added extra pounds to her slight frame in the last five years, but she looks good, so why shouldn’t she have what she likes from time to time?
“I think pasta, don’t you, Mama?” I peruse the menu. “Somethin’ with a nice thick cream sauce.”
“Oh no,” Daddy says. “What she wants is a low-fat marinara sauce.”
I shake my head. “The house specialty is peppercorn chicken alfredo. Can’t go wrong with alfredo, right, Mama?”
She stares at me across the table, as if for fear a glance her husband’s way will find her swimming in red sauce, then presses her shoulders back. “You know how much I like cream sauces.” She closes the menu, sandwiching Daddy’s hand in it.
“But Belinda—”
“Oh, Daddy, if you want the marinara sauce, you go right ahead.”
His frown lands on me with the weight of a slap. However, when Caleb sits forward to gain a better view of the unfolding scene, Daddy swallows whatever he meant to say. I’m liking my “suitor” better by the minute.
My daddy unsandwiches his hand and runs it through his silver hair that evidences he was once a very red redhead. “The alfredo sounds good to me too.” He considers his wife. “We can split a plate.”
I cup a hand between Daddy’s ear and my mouth. “Split? Surely, you don’t want Mr. Merriman to think you’re cheap?”
I feel his startle. Though scandal is a trench coat he wears as well as other Pickwicks, he does like to maintain the long-lost appearance of wealth. “Actually,” he says, “I’ve an appetite tonight. We’d best have two of that alfredo dish.”
Shortly the server slips away, taking our meal orders with her as well as an order for a bottle of wine chosen by Caleb Merriman—some fancy something or other I’d gladly exchange for a beer if my father wouldn’t be beside himself. I like the taste of beer, but only the taste, which is why I drink nonalcoholic.
Caleb turns to me. “Chicken primavera? I took you for a vegetarian.”
What gives him the right to take me for anything?
“She was,” Mama says, “but that was a while back. Missed your meat, didn’t you, dear?”
Like I want to share my personal life with Daddy’s replacement for Easton.
“And biscuits and pie crusts—all made with animal fat. Oh, and gravy. I make the best.” Mama points at Caleb. “Let me tell you, tofu will never be to gravy what sausage is. I tried, for Bridget’s sake, but substitutin’ that wet-sponge stuff for sausage is plain wrong. That’s not how the good Lord intended gravy to taste.”
Though tempted to shut down this conversation, I determine to be civil. “As you may know, Mr. Merriman—”
“Caleb.” His eyes smile—nice brown eyes, framed by long lashes.
“As you may know, it’s hard to be a vegetarian in the South, especially when one’s mama is as incredible a cook as mine. But I do stay away from red meat—well, mostly. And where free-range is available, that’s what I buy.” At a premium.
“Regardless, this girl is fit.” Daddy gives me a rap on the back that makes me feel like a prize bull. “Not a sick bone in her body. Comes from good stock.”
I swivel my head and hiss, “Daddy, I am not in—or on—the market for a husband, so please!” What happened to civil?
As Mama murmurs, “Oh my,” and Daddy distances his gaze, Caleb clears his throat. “Actually …” Ridges rise across his neat brow. “I didn’t join you for dinner to be party to matchmakin’, Bridget. At this point, my interest lies solely in the Pickwick estate. When I approached your father about acquiring the property, he thought you could give me some insight.”
That’s the reason for this party of four? I’m relieved. But then, just because that’s why Caleb is here doesn’t mean Daddy doesn’t have an ulterior motive.
I unroll my silverware and shake my napkin into my lap. “I’m glad that’s straightened out.” And that J.C. might have real competition. This time when I smile at Caleb, it’s without effort. “Tell me about your interest in the estate.”
He settles back. “I’ve done well for myself and, I’ll have you know, my father didn’t put me where I am. Nepotism?” He shakes his head, and his dark hair moves very little, as if full of gel. “No ma’am.”
“Commendable.” Daddy nods.
Caleb winks at him. “There’s good money in latex, and now that I’ve sold my company, I’m set for life and ready for a change. As much as I like the pace of Asheville, I’m thinking about toning it down.”
That surprises me. Yes, Asheville is larger than Pickwick, but other than the flocking of tourists to the Biltmore mansion, the city runs at a relatively sedate pace. Why—Hold it! Asheville!
As Caleb continues his monologue, I look at him anew. I’ll bet he was the “important client” in the car with that real estate agent Wesley Trousdale. Ha! The man in the sunglasses revealed. Of course, if he’s revealed, so might I be. Has he recognized me as the dreadlocked woman in the beat-up truck who chased them down? I tense, but this is different from J. C. Dirk. Not only does Caleb surely know about my scandalous family, but if Daddy’s “bygones be bygones” is any indication of our past association, the Merrimans have been directly affected by our … ahem … shortcomings. So no scrambling to piece together a suitable image.
Caleb turns his attention to me. “That’s why I’m considering buying your family’s property for a private residence.”
He doesn’t want to turn it into a moneymaker? “Really?”
“Granted, the estate is a good deal bigger than what I had in mind when I decided to settle down—”
“Wants to settle down,” Daddy murmurs to Mama, and I nearly elbow him.
“—but better too big than too small. That’s the Merriman motto.”
Good to know. “I assume you’re interested in the mansion as well.”
/> “I’ve seen pictures of it, and it’s beautiful. Needs updating, but I can see myself living there and raising a family.”
“Raisin’ a family,” Daddy rasps, causing Mama to “ooh” and me to struggle against kicking him under the table.
“What about the rest of the property?” I attempt to overwrite my folks’ murmurings. “There’s a lot of acreage.”
Caleb shrugs. “From what I understand, it’s not been doin’ much but communing with nature all these years. I see no reason to change that.”
Is this man after my tree-hugging heart? “What about the quarry?” I liked J.C.’s talk of setting it right. “You know it—”
Daddy’s shoe connects with my ankle.
“Ow!” Snapping my head around, I sense the turning of other heads.
“You all right?” Daddy asks, all innocence.
And here I had the good grace not to kick him.
“Did somethin’ bite you, Bridget?” Mama asks.
Apparently Caleb isn’t supposed to know about that big ugly scar in the middle of the property. But not only is it wrong to try to hide it, nobody pays what’s being asked for the estate without picking it over.
I turn to Caleb whose smooth face is lined with concern. “Nothin’ to worry about. Now where were we? Oh, right, the quarry—”
“Do you know that man, Bridget?” Daddy interrupts.
Could he make it more obvious he’s trying to hide something? I look to him, but the warning I stamp across my eyes goes unnoticed as he peers past me.
“He’s payin’ you a mite too much attention. Rude, I tell you. Probably a Yankee.”
Whoever is looking at me, I’m sure it has more to do with my kick-induced yelp than anything that would give rise to my sire’s rarely seen protective side.
Humoring him, I look over my shoulder. There is someone watching me. Sitting at a window table, J. C. Dirk raises a hand. Coincidence? I don’t think so. He not only overheard my dinner plans but said he’d like to meet my folks.
“Who is he?”
Since the less Daddy knows about what’s happening with the sale of the estate, the better, I search for a change of subject until it occurs to me this could be good. Just as J.C. needs a little competition, Caleb could do with some.
“That’s J. C. Dirk of Dirk Developers out of Atlanta. I took him on a tour of the estate today. He’s very interested.” I hope.
I expect Daddy to be pleased at the possibility of two dogs wrangling over one bone, but uncertainty puffs his face. “I didn’t realize we had any serious lookers.” He glances at Caleb—an apologetic glance.
What’s with that? Something to do with his matchmaking scheme? Might he be trying to throw me into the deal? I consider Caleb, but his face is in the blank range. “Based on his environmentally friendly reputation, I approached him about acquirin’ the land.”
Caleb clears his throat. “Your family ought to consider that you can’t get more environmentally friendly than preserving the estate as a private residence.”
“That is appealing.” Very much, but Piper would warn me not to show my hand. I reach to the basket that has appeared on the table and pick out a breadstick. I take a bite and sigh when pockets of warm, yeasty air fill my mouth.
“Hello, Bridget.”
Though the voice that speaks between Caleb and me cramps my enjoyment, I know this is an opportunity not to be shirked. “J.C.,” I say, all friendly-like, “we were just discussin’ you.”
His gaze makes the rounds of the table. “Oh?”
I introduce him. Since Mama is the only one who seems pleased to meet him, batting her lashes and drawling, “Lovely to meet you,” I almost feel sorry for him. Then she gasps. “Why, you could be mistaken for James Dean.”
Mama would liken him to someone from her generation, an actor who stands out for me only because of the rebel he played in one of the few classic movies I’ve sat through with her. I can kind of see it, but Piper is nearer the mark with Simon Baker.
“Well”—Mama wrinkles her nose—“that is, if he wasn’t long dead. Of course, he’d be pretty old if he were alive, wouldn’t he? Meaning you couldn’t possibly be him.”
Did she get into chocolate? On the drive over, I thought I heard the crinkle of the foil wrappings that hug the Dove pieces she’s so fond of. I didn’t say anything since Daddy would come down on her, but I’ll bet she was indulging.
“Your hair color is lighter.” Mama slants her head to the side. “Or maybe not. I mean, James Dean’s films were mostly black and white, weren’t they? Or were they?” She looks to Daddy, who is frowning fiercely.
Time to step in. “J.C., I was just telling Caleb here—”
“So you’re interested in our property, are you, Mr. Dirk?” Daddy says.
“I am, sir, though whether the estate is a good fit for my company has yet to be determined.”
Daddy plucks a breadstick from the basket, takes a bite, and says around his chewing, “My advice is that you save your time and money.” He points his breadstick at the man opposite him. “Caleb here is the son of an old family friend and is interested in acquirin’ the property for a private residence.”
Great. Even I know this is not how you play the competition against each other. What is Daddy doing? And if Caleb is the son of such a highly regarded friend that money should take a backseat—forbid!—why do I only vaguely know the friend by name?
J.C. looks more closely at the man to his left. “A private residence.”
Caleb inclines his head. “I’m sure we’ll come to terms.”
“Yes, indeed,” Daddy says. “And soon I imagine—”
“I appreciate your optimism, Caleb,” I return to the conversation, “but the future of our family estate is a bit more complicated than terms. No decision has been made, and no decision will be made until my uncle who owns the property is satisfied with plans for the estate.” There. Chew on that, Daddy.
J.C. leans down, so near I steel myself for an assault on my sinuses. “I’m pleased to know my trip to Pickwick wasn’t for nothing.”
Not even a whiff of cologne. And I feel a thrill in remembering he said he would keep in mind my aversion to the stuff. And another thrill at the realization he smells an awful lot like Easton.
He starts to pull back but pauses to finger my sleeve. “I have to say this is my favorite dress on you.”
That unnerves me, at first because it seems a territorial thing to say in front of Caleb (I am not part of their competition), but then I realize it’s the only dress J.C. has seen me wear, the first time being at the dedication. Is this his way of letting me know he’s peeled away another layer of my image?
He pockets his hands and I hear the jangling. “It was nice meeting you.” He looks to Daddy, Mama, and Caleb. “I’ll let you get back to your meal.”
A meal that drags, not only because of Daddy’s embarrassing attempts to assure Caleb the property is as good as his but because of J.C.’s presence in the dining room. However, after Caleb settles the bill (much to Daddy’s relief, I’m sure) and we rise to leave, I see two women have claimed J.C.’s table. When did he leave?
As we near the doors, I veer to the right. “I need to duck into the ladies’ room.”
Mama follows. “I’d best do the same.”
“Belinda,” Daddy calls, “have you got some antacids in your pocketbook?”
“I think.” She turns back.
And that’s how I find myself at Caleb Merriman’s mercy when I return to the lobby.
12
Where are my folks?”
Caleb unleans from the wall alongside the mahogany doors that lead to the parking lot. “Headed home.”
“What?”
“Your father said he wasn’t feeling well and asked your mother to take him home. That makes me your chauffeur.”
Of course it does. I know what Daddy’s indigestion looks like, and there was no evidence of it when we left the table. This is the reason he insisted o
n picking me up at home. “I’ve been set up,” I say, not caring what Caleb thinks.
“I was thinking that myself, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make the best of it.” He gives a grin that lends a mischievous air and makes me think of Easton. Might there be more to Caleb than tall, dark, and handsome? Of course, maybe he’s just buttering me up now that competition for the Pickwick bone has commenced.
“Ladies first.” He holds the door for me.
Despite a warming toward him—or maybe because of it—I’m tempted to refuse, but that would mean calling a cab. And so I tuck into his cow-appointed (what is it with men and leather?) sports car.
“Where to?” He slides in beside me.
I direct him away from the town square and down the lightly trafficked Main Street.
“Your father is quite a character,” he says as he brakes at a light.
That’s a nice way of putting it. “Yes, he is.”
“I like him. And your mother seems a gentle soul.”
An even nicer way of putting it. Mama may be scattered, overly indulgent with her children and grandchildren, easily railroaded by Daddy, and too worried about appearances, but she knows how to love. “Thank you.”
“I suppose you’re wondering why your father favors my interest in the estate, especially since you’ve probably never met my family.”
Yet one more thing to recommend Caleb—no sneaking through the back door. With only the streetlights to part the darkness from the interior of the car, I turn toward him. “That is a question I wouldn’t mind having answered.”
The light changes, and he follows another car through the intersection. “Your father calling my father a family friend is … a truth stretcher.” He chuckles. “What brought them together years ago was the textile mill.”
I nearly groan.
“My father invested heavily in the business in hopes of getting it back to turning a profit.” He glances at me. “What you may not know is that when it went under, it took our family’s investment down with it.”
I now understand my mother’s flustered reaction to the Merriman name. “I’m sorry. It was a blow to a lot of people when the mill closed.” Especially the workers who went without pay for a month based on Daddy’s promise of future compensation. Thankfully, Uncle Obe recently made good on that promise, adding to years of accumulated interest that made his savings account stagger and moved him nearer the sale of his beloved home.