by Tamara Leigh
I consider Birdie, who seems content to remain pressed against me, which is kind of nice. “Sound good to you?”
She works her bottom lip in and out. “I want whipped cream on mine.”
Hopefully that’s an option. “All right. Should I carry you?”
She snakes an arm around my neck. “Please.”
The magic word! I nearly praise her, but something tells me that if I draw attention to it, she might think better of it next time. I stand and settle her on my hip.
Shortly, my niece and nephew sit at a picnic table across from J.C. and me. Intent on inhaling the whipped cream and marshmallows from the cups of hot chocolate that J.C. bought them, they ignore the roasted corn I bought them. Of course, my mother did feed them dinner before I picked them up.
I look at J.C. “How did you connect Birdie and Miles to me?”
Angled toward me with an elbow on the table and jaw on a fist, he says, “I overheard them trying to decide where next to hide from their aunt Bridge.”
Then if he hadn’t collared them, I would have called down a manhunt that might have ruined Henry’s opening night. “Thank you for steppin’ in.” Gaze drawn to his light brown hair that the pole light over his shoulder turns almost blond, I have an urge to touch it—just to determine if he uses that gel stuff Caleb uses. “As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not the best at keeping track of others.”
“It takes practice.”
Does he have practice? Little ones of his own? Just because there’s no wedding ring doesn’t mean there aren’t children. “I’m a bit shy in that department. My mother is the one keeping my niece and nephew while their parents are out of the country. I help when I can, but obviously not enough.” Am I babbling? “So, I didn’t know you were back in Pickwick.”
He frowns. “I was told you were expecting me.”
“What?”
“Here. Tonight.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
His eyebrows rise. “You were expecting someone, though?”
“Yes.” I look past Birdie and Miles who remain occupied with their steaming cups. “In fact, he’s probably—”
“He’s me.”
“You?”
His mouth curves. “Earlier today, I called your nursery—”
He knows I own a nursery?
“—and spoke with someone named Taggart.”
Then it wasn’t Caleb who called.
“He said you wanted me to meet you here in lieu of dinner out.”
I blink. “That’s what I said.”
J.C. lifts his head from his fist. “Who were you expecting? Merriman?”
I have no reason to feel guilty that Caleb remains interested in the estate. And it’s good for J.C. to know the competition hasn’t gone away. “I thought you were him. Unfortunately Tag is better versed with plants and irrigation than taking messages.”
“I hope you’re not too disappointed.” He watches me as if to capture that disappointment.
I turn up a hand. “You surprised me is all.”
He nods. “If I’d been given your cell number, we could have avoided the confusion.”
“Tag knows I don’t give my number out to just anybody.”
J.C.’s head tilts. “Then Merriman is ‘just anybody’?”
The question is loaded, but in a good way. He doesn’t like competition, especially if it gets personal enough to squeeze him out. It seems J. C. Dirk has set his mind on buying the Pickwick estate, which means his team is giving a good report.
“I wouldn’t say Caleb is ‘just anybody,’ being an old family friend. I just don’t care to be in the middle of something, whether it’s work or simply ponderin’, and have my phone go off. Unlike you, I believe in quiet time.”
His eyebrows go north. “You haven’t heard my phone ring once since we met up.”
First the cologne that remains absent, now the phone. Absent too or just—? “I’ll bet you have it set to vibrate.”
He laughs, a strong laugh that shows to the back of his teeth. “It’s on vibration mode. However, when it went off awhile ago, I didn’t even check.”
Feeling Birdie and Miles’s interest, I lean nearer J.C. “Let me guess. Not only can you now choose different ring tones to identify the caller, there are different vibrations.”
He also leans in, and I catch the sans-cologne scent of him. It does something to me, and it appears the feeling is mutual since whatever he was going to say is left unsaid and his partly open mouth closes.
“Are you Aunt Bridge’s happily ever after?”
J.C. pulls out of his lean. “Her happily ever after?” A teasing smile turns his mouth. “Why do you ask?”
I come out of my frozen state with a splutter. “Birdie—”
“Because her heart is happy tonight. Not weal happy, but happy.”
“Yeah,” Miles says. “Not constipated.”
“Well!” I jump up so fast my knees knock the underside of the picnic table. “Time to go.”
“I’m not done with my hot chocolate.” Miles tips his cup to show it’s half full.
“I’m done,” Birdie says, though other than the absence of whipped cream, her drink is untouched.
“Let’s get you home.” I turn my back on J.C. and step over the bench.
“But I’m not done,” Miles insists.
“Bring it with you.” I don’t relish a spill in my truck, but better that than further discussion about the state of my heart, especially if it takes us in the direction of M&M’s. “And don’t forget your corn.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Me neither.” Birdie tugs on my jeans. “Carry me.”
Fine. “After you toss your cup and corn.” I nod at where she left them.
Out comes her bottom lip. “I’m tired.”
I’m tempted to clean up after her just to get away from J.C., but it’s best to use the opportunity to teach about responsibility. “We clean up our own messes, Birdie. Now clean up yours and we can go.”
The breath she exhales on the nippy night air shoots from her nostrils like steam from a cartoon bull. “You do it.”
I glance from Miles, whose face is in his cup, to where J.C. stands beside the picnic table, appearing content to watch. But I’m not backing down. “No, Birdie.”
More bullish steam, followed by pawing of the ground with a sparkly pink sneaker. I nearly drop my jaw when she grabs the cup and corn and turns into the path of a Darth Vader–clad festival-goer who stumbles to avoid her. Sloshing all the way, she stomps to a garbage bin. “There!” She stomps back. “Carry me.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Please!”
It worked! Not a nice “please,” but I’ll take it. I haul her onto my hip where she sits rigidly, as if it were my idea to carry her.
More tugging at my jeans. “I’m tired too.”
I peer into Miles’s upturned face. Surely he’s not suggesting I also carry him? I’m hardly frail, but Birdie is one sturdy little girl and the walk to the parking area is mostly uphill. “Uh …”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“You don’t have to do that, J.C. I mean, why don’t you hang out and enjoy the festival. Maybe try the maze.”
He looks over his shoulder at the throng before the entrance. “Your creation, I understand.”
He knows about my seasonal job, meaning he probably knows it got its start with The Great Crop Circle Hoax. So what else does he know about me? Does one shred of my Atlanta image remain?
“A piggyback ride?” Miles asks.
“Now, Miles …” I reach to him. “As big a boy as you are, I’m sure you can walk.”
Still clutching his hot chocolate, he positions himself before J.C.
J.C. shrugs. “Piggyback it is.”
Miles starts to set his hot chocolate on the table, hesitates, then grabs his corn and runs to the garbage bin. Sharp kid.
With Miles on J.C.’s back, we weave among the chattering crowd. Bit by bit, B
irdie’s rigidity recedes, and when we enter the parking area, she drops her head to my shoulder.
And there’s my truck ahead. “I’m parked right over—” Oh. My truck. I’m not embarrassed by its dents and dings and dirt. It’s my image—
What image? He knows you’re an opossum-toting Pickwick, you’re not much for fake nails or makeup, you muck it up at a nursery, and you’re a purveyor of crop mazes. Face it, the suited-up, briefcase-toting Bridget Buchanan who wheedled her way into his meeting no longer exists.
Fine. But if he views it as weakness that will secure the estate at a price below market value, he’ll be sorely disappointed. I take the last steps to my truck and turn to gauge his reaction. “This is it.” I pat the fender with its shotgun spray of rust spots.
He halts three feet back and, as far as I can tell, doesn’t react in any negative way.
I shift Birdie’s weight, and she gives a murmur I hope means she’ll be so far asleep when we get home I won’t have to wrestle her into bed. “I appreciate you going out of your way to carry Miles.”
“My pleasure, but it was hardly out of my way.” He nods to the left. “I’m parked two cars down.”
Miles sits higher on his back to peer past the gas-guzzling luxury SUV between our two vehicles. “Where?”
“The white Lexus.”
“My dad drives one of those. But it doesn’t look like yours.”
I step toward them to confirm the car is something fast like Caleb drives, but it isn’t. “Is that a hybrid crossover?”
“It is. Very fuel efficient.”
Music to my ears.
“I’m considering purchasing one, so I decided to rent one on this trip.”
Of course it’s a rental. As busy as he is, he would have flown in from Atlanta.
“Can I ride with you?” Miles asks.
“No!” My sharp protest makes Birdie lift her sleep-weighted head. “Sorry.” I pat her back down.
Miles leans over J.C.’s shoulder. “I’ll bet Aunt Bridge’s is on the way to wherever you’re going.”
“Not if he’s staying at the Pickwick Arms,” I interject.
“I am.” J.C. holds my gaze. “But I don’t mind Miles riding with me—providing you don’t mind.”
“I want to go with Mr. J.C.!” The whine in Miles’s voice warns of worse to come.
And I’m too worn out to deal with it. “All right.”
I secure the floppy, softly snoring Birdie in her booster seat and climb in the cab. The engine jumps to life with a single turn of the key. Hopefully, that means my truck’s temperamental behavior has resolved itself.
With the Lexus on my tail, I exit the Martins’ farm and head down Pickwick Pike. It’s a short drive to my turnoff, and when I pull onto the gravel road, I expect J.C. to hesitate in committing his vehicle to the driveway as Caleb did. He doesn’t.
Before long, I pull into the parking area in front of my dimly lit house. The Lexus draws alongside. As I unbuckle Birdie, J.C. exits his car, and I feel him rise at my back at about the time Errol sets to barking.
“Sounds like a big dog,” J.C. says.
Is that wariness in his voice? Good. I’m sure J.C. is honorable, but it’s best to be safe. “He’s a Great Pyrenees.”
Miles hops out of the Lexus. “Errol isn’t Aunt Bridge’s. She’s baby-sitting him.”
I ease Birdie into my arms and, as I turn, say low, “True, but I think he’ll soon settle down here with me.” Especially since the last time Artemis Bleeker availed himself of my baby-sitting services, it took his wife a week to notice the absence of her “big boy.” Though Artemis has yet to verify the cause of his wife’s memory problems, most everyone believes she’s on the same path as my uncle. If so, the one bright spot for her is that her deterioration isn’t marked by early onset. She had twenty more years of intact memories than my uncle.
“Does he bite?” J.C. asks Miles, and I have the sense he really wants to know. Is he afraid of big dogs? It hardly fits this confident man.
“Nah, he’s like a puppy that got blown up big.”
J.C. nods. “Would you like me to carry Birdie?”
Into the house where Easton and I grew as man and wife? Where no man other than kin has stepped since his death? Imagining J.C.’s feet on the same floorboards once tread by Easton, panic rises.
“Just to the door,” J.C. clarifies.
“I’ve got her.” I extend a hand. “Thank you for driving Miles home.”
As his fingers close warmly around mine, my nephew tugs J.C.’s sleeve. “Come see Errol! And Reggie—she’s an opossum.”
He already knows about my unusual pet.
“Maybe another time.”
My nephew thrusts his face up. “Why? I’m not tired anymore—all the way awake. See?” The whites of his eyes get big in the night.
“It’s getting late, and I’m sure your aunt wants to put you to bed.”
“Then you can read me a story—or tell me one.” Miles jerks his head in my direction. “She doesn’t have kids’ books.”
Makes me sound borderline abusive.
“Please, Mr. J.C.”
Please again …
Still holding my hand, the man whom I’m responsible for bringing to Pickwick returns his gaze to mine. “It’s up to your aunt.”
“I promise I won’t keep getting up for water, Aunt Bridge. I’ll stay down and fall asleep like I do when Daddy tells me a story.”
“Well?” J.C. prompts.
What harm, especially if it gets Miles down faster? And it is one more step in the right direction for you. “All right.”
Miles whoops, and I’m sad for how much he misses his daddy. The emotional places inside him that need filling by a father figure certainly aren’t being filled by his granddaddy.
I wag a finger. “A short story.”
Miles bobs his head. “Short.”
With Errol more vigorously heralding our approach, I lead the way across the stone path Easton laid for me weeks before his death … up the porch steps he replaced a month before his death … through the screen door he installed a year before his death … across the porch he repainted two years before his death … past the hammock he hung several years before his death … halt before the door he—
Yes, he did, but you more recently replaced the weather stripping. And I did it without perseverating on my loss. Why am I perseverating now? Does the answer lie in Caleb, who kissed me as Easton last kissed me? In J. C. Dirk, who disturbs me as Easton disturbed me when he first set his mind to pursuing the lone tree-hugging Pickwick?
As I slide the key into the lock, Errol’s barking becomes a growl. He must sense someone unfamiliar is with me. Or if J.C. is wary of big dogs, maybe that’s why Errol is frantic. A moment later, his big claws are scrabbling on the other side. Great. Just as the weather stripping fell to me, so will the refinishing.
“Behave,” I say as Errol thrusts his face in the space that opens into him. “No jumpin’.” And, hopefully, no piddling.
I push the door wider and flip the light switch, but as I carry Birdie inside with Miles on my heels, Errol pushes past. With my niece making waking sounds, I rasp, “Errol!”
The big dog halts before J.C. and gives a bark that rolls into another growl.
J.C. doesn’t move, though his eyes meet mine. “Blown-up puppy?”
I see through his attempt at humor. He is wary of Errol. Not that he’s shaking in his shoes, but discomfort comes off him like heat from pavement in summertime, and he’s definitely avoiding eye contact with Errol.
“Are you afraid of dogs?” Miles asks. “Daddy says they can sense fear and it makes them suspicious.”
“I prefer them small,” J.C. says.
I shift Birdie’s weight and step back onto the porch and touch Errol’s head. “Come on, boy, it’s okay. Let’s go inside.”
He looks up at me, back at J.C., at me again.
I nod. “Let’s get a treat.”
He gives
a grunt, his tail a thump, and follows. I glance over my shoulder at J.C., who is about to enter the home that Easton—Stop it!
Fortunately, with J.C. keeping an eye on Errol, there’s no need for me to force a smile. “Why don’t you and Miles start on that story while I give Errol his treat?”
“Sure,” J.C. says.
With repeated glances over his shoulder, Errol walks alongside me toward the kitchen.
“It’s cold in here,” Miles says.
It’s that or too hot, depending on the season, since I always turn off the thermostat when I leave the house for the day. I refuse to waste energy to keep my furniture warm. As for Reggie and Errol, they have fur. “I’ll turn on the heat.” I slide the switch. “Just keep your jacket on until it warms up.”
Miles gives a weary sigh. “She’s a tree hugger. Hey, would you get Reggie? She’s probably up there.”
I feel bad that I didn’t acknowledge my opossum atop the hutch, but my hands are full. On a good note, Reggie and Miles seem to have connected. Not once has she attempted to play possum in his presence. Now with Birdie … Reggie has never bitten anyone—well, other than me—but if my niece doesn’t stop trying to outfit her in baby-doll clothes, she might make an exception.
Huffing with the effort to support Birdie, I enter the kitchen and hit the Play button on the answering machine. As I open the doggie canister, a time- and date-stamped voice sounds around the small room.
“Bridget, it’s Caleb.”
Again. Obviously, my father gave him my home number.
“I’ll be in town tomorrow and thought we might have dinner.”
At the prospect of wiggling out of another invitation, I draw a deep breath. But wait. Did J.C. hear Caleb’s message? Probably. So not a bad thing to prove that competition is alive and well in Pickwick.
“Call me back, okay?”
I don’t have much choice, do I? Oh, the lengths to which I must go.
15
Errol trots off with his treat. However, no sooner do I get the lid on the canister than he returns for more. “Oh no, a treat is a treat.”
His ears lower only to perk at the sound of the toilet flushing. Guessing that was Miles and grateful I won’t have to remind him to empty his too-small bladder that has led to “accidents” at Mama’s house, I cross to the back door and pull it open. “Come on, Errol, I don’t want any accidents from you either.”