by Tamara Leigh
He goes reluctantly, and as he lumbers across the backyard, I close the door. When his business is finished, he’ll let me know.
Birdie sighs heavily as I exit the kitchen, nearly masking the second flushing of the toilet. Miles again? Surely not. The last time he was here, he flushed three times during one trip to the bathroom. Under close questioning, he admitted he likes to watch the water “tornado.” Thus, I instructed him on environmentally responsible toilet etiquette of one flush maximum per use. It sounds like the lesson didn’t stick.
As I head down the hallway, my nephew flings open the bathroom door. When he sees me, he puts on the brakes. “Just two times, Aunt Bridge. Not three.”
“That’s an improvement, but—” I glance down the hallway to the light that pours from the guest room, where J.C. is waiting for Miles. Now is not the time to reinforce the lesson.
“I had to. I did a two! And I wasn’t done. Mama says when that happens, you have to give a courtesy flush so you don’t stink up the bathroom for the next person. It’s rude if you don’t, ’cause then they can’t breathe.”
I feel suddenly as warm as a sun-baked tomato. There is a man in my house who is surely amused by what he’s hearing. “Okay. So why don’t you go climb into bed and Mr. Dirk can tell you that story?”
My nephew frowns, doubtless surprised by my easy acceptance of his double flushing, then runs to the guest room. I follow, passing the bedroom I shared with Easton, where I am going to sleep tonight. Well, maybe. The sofa isn’t all that uncomfortable, and when in doubt—
“Birdie can’t sleep in here,” Miles says as I enter the guest room.
I look from where he’s settling in the middle of the bed, pillows piled behind him and Reggie making herself comfortable alongside his hip, to J.C., who sits in a chair pulled up to the bed, elbows on knees and hands clasped. The latter is grinning, no doubt a result of the toilet-flushing lesson.
Don’t you dare get embarrassed over a conservation issue. I return my gaze to my nephew. “Of course Birdie can sleep in here. The bed’s big enough—”
“She’s a girl!”
I hesitate. The twins have separate rooms at home and at Mama’s house, but their parents and mine have the luxury of more bedrooms than they need. My house is a modest two bedroom. If Birdie doesn’t sleep in here, she’ll have to—
“You’re a girl too,” Miles says. “She can sleep with you.”
He’s right, which means the sofa is not an option, which means I’ll have to sleep in the bedroom I once shared with Easton, which means I won’t be alone. I almost smile. Leave it to Miles to provide the solution.
“Good idea.” I turn away. “Don’t forget—a short story. Mr. J.C. needs to get back to his hotel.”
As I step into the hallway, J.C. says, “I call this story ‘The Seven Caves of the Seven Winds.’ ”
“Ooh,” Miles breathes.
I enter the master bedroom, turn down the covers, and lower Birdie onto the mattress where Easton once slept. “That wasn’t so hard.” The words rush out on the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The hard part will be crawling in beside her. “No, it won’t.” I tuck her in, then walk to the other side. “It’s just a bed.” I fold the linens back in anticipation of J.C.’s departure.
“Then what happened?” Miles’s voice drifts from the guest room as I return to the hallway.
“The winds met in the great valley beyond the caves, howlin’ and circlin’ one another—”
Ah! J.C.’s drawl has tipped its hand again.
“—around and around, faster and faster until they came to blows, and that’s when an amazin’ thing happened.”
“What?”
“As they were dukin’ it out, they began to mix and their strength multiplied.”
“Like a tornado!”
“That’s right.”
“I like tornados. Then what happened?”
“The easterly wind, being the wisest of the seven winds, was the first to realize what their combined forces were capable of. With a twist and a heave and a mighty wrench, that old easterly wind broke away.”
Who would have thought J.C. was good with kids?
A muffled woof sounds from the front of the house. If I don’t quickly answer Errol’s summons, he’ll claw at that side of the door—more refinishing.
I hurry through the living room and throw open the door. Errol shoves his way inside, runs his tongue up my hand, and drops in a heap in the middle of the living room. I start to close the door, but one breath of the night air draws me outside. I hate that energy will be wasted but leave the door open. Not only will it allow J.C. to find me when he wraps up his story, but it ought to keep Errol’s protective instincts in check.
Standing on the porch, staring through the screens at the star-pierced night sky, I wrap my arms around myself. If it weren’t so cool and I didn’t have a date with a certain bed, I’d stretch out in the hammock. I’ll have to be content with sitting in it. That’s where J.C. finds me when he makes it past Errol’s growling ten minutes later.
“Trying to warm the great outdoors?” He steps outside, leaving the door open as if to assure the dog that followed him there he means no harm.
The porch light showing J.C.’s smile to be of the teasing sort, I say, “A waste, but I didn’t think you’d be long.”
“I made it as short a story as possible.” He halts alongside the hammock.
I set it to swaying as I peer up at him. “ ‘The Seven Caves of the Seven Winds’? You’re good with kids.”
The smile he aims across his shoulder increases. “Experience.”
“Do you have children of your own?”
“Not yet.”
“Nieces and nephews?”
He looks out into the night. “Yes, though my experience with children started with caring for my siblings while my mother struggled to put food on the table.”
A voice from the past—mine—plays back the words I spoke during his first visit to Pickwick, when I accused him of being accustomed to a life of excess and concluded he’d never lost anything of sentimental value. He told me it was an assumption I had no right or insight to make.
I halt the hammock. “I’m sorry. I thought you came from money.”
He continues to stare opposite me. “As your family came from money and lost it, my family came from poverty and made something of themselves, my brothers and I.”
I recall the magazine article’s mention of two brothers who also work for Dirk Developers, both having come on board some years after J.C. And there was something else. “But I read that you and your brothers inherited the company from your father.”
“Our adopted father. And we did inherit it when he passed away, but at that time it was run out of a dilapidated warehouse in the worst part of town and was always one construction job away from bankruptcy. It took years of sacrifice, hard work, and long hours to make it what it is today.”
“Is that why you aren’t married?” The question pops out, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
J.C. turns his head toward me again. “I’ve had opportunities, but never enough time to raise a family and give a wife and children the time my brothers and I didn’t have with our parents. I don’t want that, so I’ve waited.”
“And your brothers?”
“The youngest is married. He and his wife have two boys and a girl. My middle brother says he’s content to remain single. You met him in Atlanta.”
“I did?”
His mouth lightens as if to smile again. “Parker’s the one who escorted you into the middle of my meeting.”
That was his brother? The scarred, spectacled man who materialized at my elbow? “I don’t recall any brotherly resemblance. Must be a deep gene pool.”
“I suppose.” He goes silent a moment. “You’re not what I expected, Bridget. You’re different.”
I laugh. “You aren’t the first to notice. Suffice it to say, even my father is disappointed with how I turn
ed out.”
“Why?”
“I love nature, all those things that struggle up through the earth in search of the sun, the animals that are just trying to live day by day, the wind on my face, the rain on my skin.” I shake my head. “I can’t remember a time when those things didn’t matter.” I glance at J.C. “Of course, sometimes they get me into trouble.”
“The Great Crop Circle Hoax.”
“I figured you knew about that, but let me tell you it was for a good cause. I was trying to save a crippled fawn from the harvesters. Of course, you may not be able to relate to somethin’ like that.”
“What makes you think so?”
“What you said in Atlanta about there being good hunting in these parts.”
He chuckles. “I’m no hunter, Bridget. I was pushin’ your buttons.”
I’m relieved. And I do so like that dropped g of his. “I was hoping that was the case. It’s good to know you’re not half as bad as you make yourself out to be.”
“Neither are you.”
“Oh?” Feeling strangely light, almost playful, I tilt my head farther back, the better to gauge his reaction. “Then you like the nursery-owner Bridget better than the briefcase-carrying Bridget?”
He holds my gaze across his shoulder, then turns to me. “Much better.” He slides a hand up my jaw to my cheek.
In that moment, everything stops. No blink. No breath. No quiver. In the next moment, he drops his hand and steps back.
I blink. I breathe. I quiver.
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You haven’t asked why I wanted to have dinner with you.”
Does it have anything to do with what just happened? Or is he changing the subject? I swallow. “All right. Why?”
The jangling starts up. “The reports coming in from my team are good, and my investors are interested in funding the venture.”
Change of subject, then. What happened wasn’t supposed to. And though he initiated it—or did he?—he regrets it. Good. I feel the same. “Great,” I say, though the word venture sounds itchily moneygrubbing. “That is, if we’re still talking an environmentally friendly development.”
“We are. Barring any untoward findings, Dirk Developers will make an offer.”
Though my insides remain tangled from the feel of J.C.’s hand on my face, hope goes to my toes.
“I understand Merriman is still interested.”
Obviously his offer will be all the better for Caleb’s interest. Now if Caleb would be so accommodating, we might have a bidding war. “He’s still interested, so much that his own team is going over the estate.”
“I’ve heard that too.” His pockets quiet. “A large undertaking for someone who only wants it for a private residence.”
I catch the doubt in his voice, and it worries me until I realize it was meant to be caught. The two men are in competition. “It’s a lot of money. I’m sure Caleb just wants to know what he’s getting for it.”
A few moments later, J.C. says, “I’d like to discuss the plans for the estate further. Can we talk tomorrow over lunch?”
Another full day in the making, especially with the opening of Bronson and Earla Biggs’ maze. But since J.C. is determined that I participate in the negotiations for the estate and he asked nicely this time, I’ll make an early start of it. Miles and Birdie are not going to like getting up at dawn so I can get them to Mama’s, but there’s nothing for it. “Where would you like to meet?”
“My hotel has a nice restaurant.”
It also has Boone.
“How about noon?”
I nod. “I’ll be there.”
“Good night.”
As he crosses the porch, my conscience—or something like it—overcomes my relief at his leave-taking. “J.C.?”
Hand on the screen door, he looks around.
“Thank you for putting Miles down. I’m not very good with stories.”
“All it takes is practice.”
Of which he had plenty growing up. While Daddy was indulging my taste for environmental causes and exotic creatures, J.C. was raising his brothers. That’s a lot to admire in a man, and though he sometimes goes against my grain, I do admire J.C. Not like I admired Easton, who saw good in those things on which I defaulted to bad … who spoke gently and lovingly—
The creak of the screen door returns me to the man who is here now. Shortly, his headlights swing onto the unpaved driveway. Then he’s gone, leaving me to my lonesome. And the bed I will sleep in tonight.
I loiter on the porch before taking Errol up on his offer to escort me inside. While I check on Miles, Errol stretches his neck across the mattress to check on Reggie. Raising her head, my opossum issues a hiss that makes the big dog duck his head back.
“I suppose this means you’re hanging out with Miles.”
Reggie continues to glare at Errol. Yep, not only is she perturbed that I ignored her earlier but she wants nothing further to do with Errol. And considering Birdie is sharing my bed, Reggie won’t be keen on joining me anyway.
After retrieving my flannels, I change in the bathroom and brush my teeth. As I run a washcloth over my face, I catch the bandage’s reflection in the mirror.
Take it off.
But I’m sleeping in my bed tonight—trying to.
Good timing, then. But if you want to keep the grieving alive and feed into that big unending yawn, go ahead and cling to your sticky little piece of denial.
I drop the washcloth and peel off the bandage. “Done,” I say, to which Errol gives a grunt.
I look to where he sits in the doorway and raise my hand. “See? Easy.” Hard will be not giving in to the temptation to apply another bandage.
I flip off the hall light, then back on in case Miles or Birdie needs to see their way to the bathroom. It’s harder to conserve energy with little ones.
Errol enters the master bedroom ahead of me and sniffs at Birdie before settling in the doorway.
I stare at the bed. I can do this. The mattress gives beneath me, feeling familiar and yet foreign. Something is missing, and I know who. However, his absence is not going to run me off. I won’t let it, especially with Birdie here. I scoot nearer, turn on my side, and drape an arm over her like Easton draped an arm over me. It’s not the same, but it’s good.
With a murmur, Birdie turns and snuggles into my chest. Better than good. And in the hour before restless and sleepless become rest and sleep, I find myself thanking God that my niece is here at all. I lost her and Miles at the festival, and anyone could have found them, but it was J.C. Prayer answered, though the bitter Bridget defaulted to doubt.
“Thank You, God. Thank You.”
16
Saturday, October 2
Last night Reggie was perturbed with me; today it’s Boone. I thought I made it through the lobby without detection, but no sooner did I lower into the chair opposite J.C. than my most persistent widow sniffer appeared at the restaurant entrance. I acknowledged Boone with a wave. He nodded and walked away but has returned twice.
“The butternut squash soup sounds good.” I snap the menu closed.
J.C. looks up, his green eyes exceptionally bright in the sunlight that falls across our window table. “That’s all?”
“It’s a generous serving. Also, it comes with a bread basket and honey butter.”
“I need something more substantial. Is the chicken potpie good?”
“Real good. It—”
His cell phone rings.
He looks at me. “I’m sorry, but I have to check.” A moment later, he repockets the phone. “Chicken potpie it is.”
My cell phone rings.
I look at him. “Sorry, but I need to see if it’s my mother.” When I dropped Birdie and Miles at her house this morning, she said she was doing better but was still slump-shouldered with fatigue. I dragged from my father a promise he would stay home and help with his grandchildren. Unfortunately he doesn’t always keep his word.
I read the number a
nd, with an apologetic grimace, flip open the phone. “Everything all right, Mama?”
“No,” Daddy says. “I need you to watch the kids while I take your mama to the doctor.”
I startle straight in my chair. “What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothin’ other than a woman’s problem, but I want her checked out.”
That’s a first. Of course, Mama’s health is more of a concern to him when it cuts into his recreational time.
“Though it’s Saturday, her doctor agreed to meet us at his office and have a look. Can you be here in five minutes?”
“I’m coming now.” I close my phone and push my chair back. “My father is taking my mother to her doctor and needs me to watch Birdie and Miles.”
J.C. stands. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“She’s been under the weather lately. Probably a bug, but I’m glad she’s finally seeing her doctor.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
I nearly protest but Boone is back, and he’s less likely to try to engage me if J.C. is at my side.
However, as we exit the restaurant, he steps forward. “I didn’t know you were dining with us today, Bridget.” He glances at J.C.
“I was, but a family …” Not emergency. My mother just needs her husband to do his part, and hopefully this visit to the doctor will bring him around. “… situation has come up.”
“Can I help?”
“Thank you, but I can handle it. See you later.” I continue past Boone, and J.C. follows me outside.
“I’ll call you,” I say as he walks me to my truck that looks especially shabby in daylight. Oh well.
“Perhaps we can have dinner instead.”
I step off the curb and hurry around the tailgate to the driver’s side. “I would, but I accepted an invitation from Caleb Merriman.” Not only to learn where he stands on the estate but to see if that kiss of his had any long-reaching effects. No, I’m not buying into my father’s matchmaking scheme, but when Caleb’s cajoling voice and humor warmed me across the phone line this morning, I accepted that he’s still something of a maybe. And since I’ve worked through the wedding band, the bandage, and the bed …