by Tamara Leigh
“Well, thank you.”
“We appreciate your help,” Uncle Obe says. “Uh, what was your name?”
J.C. turns to him. “J. C. Dirk, sir.”
My uncle nods. “Like Jesus Christ, but … not Jesus Christ.”
J.C.’s hesitation is barely perceptible. “That’s right.”
Uncle Obe taps his temple. “I’ll try to remember.”
Mary touches his hand. “Piper’s waving at us. Time to go.”
“I should go too,” J.C. says. “But I’ll see you at the estate in a few hours?”
I glance at my niece and nephew, who sit on the bench with elbows on knees and chins in hands. “I’ll be there.”
J.C. starts to move away, but I catch his arm. “And I’m sorry that circumstances bein’ as they were, we didn’t have the opportunity to discuss the estate before today.”
“I understand. How’s your mother?”
It’s nice of him to ask. “The doctors are still running tests. Hopefully, we’ll know soon what’s goin’ on.”
He nods. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
I realize my hand is still on his arm and pull it back. “Thank you. I just might.” Though what could he do? I wonder as he walks away. All I need from J.C. is an ecologically sound plan and a fair market offer for the estate.
Are you sure that’s all you need?
19
She’s had a calming influence on him.” Piper peeks around me to where our uncle is sitting on a sofa beside his caregiver, head tilted toward her as if what she’s saying is of importance. “He hasn’t asked about Daisy and Antonio for weeks.”
“That’s good—unless it means he’s forgotten them.” I grimace. “But considerin’ their lack of response to reconciliation, it’s probably for the best.”
Piper sighs. “All I know is that woman is a godsend. She may not be the nurse we were hopin’ for—Uncle Obe made sure of that—but she seems what he needs.”
I’m happy for him. “How are the weddin’ plans coming along?”
Scooting a hank of short red hair behind an ear, Piper grins. “Fine, since we’re keeping it simple by holding the wedding here and having Martha cater the reception like she did for Bart and Trinity.” In the next instant, she leans to the side to peer past me. “Look who’s here.”
I turn. Having traded his church wear for dark jeans and a white oxford shirt, J.C. strides from beneath the arched doorway and turns up his mouth when I catch his eye. Insides going all funny, I look to Maggie at his side. Despite my cousin’s excess height in heels that cause her to top J.C. by a bit, they’re a good-looking couple. Fortunately Reece has already staked his claim to Maggie—
Fortunately? You’re not thinking of staking a claim yourself, are you? No! Could’ve fooled me with those suddenly moist palms of yours.
Pressing them to my thighs, I growl at the voice in my head. Not that it takes the threat seriously.
“You all right?” Piper says.
“Yes.” I scan the library, pausing on Maggie’s brother and his wife, who sit at the back of the room on an old tufted bench that lost its tuft ages ago. Two feet separate Luc and Tiffany, though from the look of them, it’s only for lack of a longer bench. Jaw jutted, Luc leans forward with his hands clasped between his knees. Chin up, Tiffany sits straight with her hands in her lap and legs crossed, the upper foot bouncing in time with what appears to be indignation.
I consider her other foot anchored to the floor by a four-inch heel. Going by Tiffany’s taste for high-end shoes, my guess is that until yesterday the only home those shoes had ever known was a box with fancy gold lettering. I almost feel sorry for Luc, who foots (ha!) the bill for his wife’s expensive tastes—almost since his own spending habits contribute to keeping him in the red. Doubtless, he hopes the sale of the estate will translate into a nice inheritance when …
I look at Uncle Obe. He’s doing better, so hopefully “when” won’t come for a long while.
“Well,” Piper says, reminding me she’s still at my side, “I believe we’re all here.”
Except Birdie and Miles—thankfully. Wide-eyed from their second cookie after lunch, they lay awake at nap time; however, on the drive over, they conked out and barely stirred when Axel and I carried them to an upstairs bedroom.
“That’s assuming your father isn’t coming,” Piper says.
Daddy’s still at the hospital. Though I wish it were a testament to his love for Mama so I could forgive the many ills I often find myself pinning to him like badges of shame, more than likely he wasn’t informed of the meeting. Certainly not by me.
“We’d better find a seat,” I say. Not that they’re in short supply in the large library that features floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the upper half of which requires a rolling ladder to access the leather-bound books.
I settle on the sofa that is also occupied by Trinity and Bart, who cuddle at the opposite end, and catty-corner to the sofa Uncle Obe and Mary occupy. Considering the bookshelves, I pick out the growing number of gaps, evidence their former occupants have been sacrificed to keep the money flowing at the Pickwick estate.
I pause at a large hole in the Charles Dickens section. Only a few books remain there, a first edition Bleak House and a three-volume set of Oliver Twist having most recently departed. According to Maggie, the books should command upwards of four thousand dollars at next week’s auction. Their disappearance saddens me, as does the disappearance of many of the antiques that once defined this big old house.
“Hey there.”
I look around to find Maggie’s daughter has claimed the threadbare cushion beside me. “Devyn Divine!” I lift an arm.
The recently promoted “teenager” hesitates, something I’m trying to get used to, but ducks beneath my arm and hugs my side. “Don’t be sad.” She tilts her head back to meet my gaze.
“It feels like the Pickwick roots are being sheared straight off.”
“I was feelin’ that way too, but Unc-Unc reminded me—I don’t remember the Bible verse, but it was Matthew. Anyway, it’s the one about storing up treasures in heaven and not on earth where they’ll come to nothin’. You know, rot and theft.”
It is Matthew, specifically 6:20. I know this since it was among Easton’s guiding verses. In fact, it’s one of the things that first drew me to him since neither did I seek a lavish lifestyle.
I give Devyn a smile. “That is a good verse.”
“Plus”—she puts her mouth near my ear—“we have good news. The best!”
If “the best” for her still means acquiring a father, then Reece has proposed to Maggie. “Oh?”
Devyn smiles.
“All right, all,” my newly engaged cousin calls from the far end of the room where she stands before Uncle Obe’s immense desk. “Mr. Dirk is here to discuss his proposal for the estate.”
She steps aside, and J.C. takes her place. “I’ll keep it brief. As you know, Dirk Developers—”
“Stop that!” Trinity swats at Bart’s hand on her stomach, seemingly oblivious to the reason for our family gathering.
With a muffled groan, I return my attention to J.C. in hopes he’ll ignore the interruption. However, his gaze has settled on my brother and sister-in-law.
“Ba-art!” Trinity swats again, tempting me to lunge past Devyn and snatch his splayed hand from her … stomach.
“Oh,” goes Piper, straightening where she leans against a wall of books alongside Axel.
“Oh my,” goes Maggie, her steps slowing as she nears the sofa where Uncle Obe and Mary have been joined by Reece.
“That’s great!” goes Devyn, scooting down the sofa to place her own hand on Trinity’s stomach.
“Oops,” goes my sister-in-law, giggling, shoulders wiggling. “I think you done let the cat out of the bag, Bart.”
He grins. “Then we might as well give it a name.” He clears his throat. “Baby Pickwick is gonna make us a mommy and daddy come May.”
; There seems a lot of breath holding going on, evidence other members of our family are uncertain about my brother and his wife becoming parents. But I know something they may not. Bart and Trinity are really good with Birdie and Miles.
“And it’s a boy,” my brother continues.
They know already? But she can’t be that far along.
“It’s just a feelin’,” Trinity says, “but since we both feel it, chances are this little one is gonna wear blue.”
“That’s mighty fine news.” Uncle Obe looks to the woman beside him. “Don’t you think, Marie?”
She nods.
With my brother’s gaze awaiting mine, as if he’s anxious for my agreement, I’m thankful Daddy isn’t here. “It is good news. I’m excited for you and Trinity.”
Relief melts into his smile.
“You’ll be an auntie again,” Trinity says. “Doesn’t that just goose your bumps! And hey, since you never had kids and in case you don’t ever—you know, what with you bein’ a confirmed widow and all—”
I feel myself tighten like a screw in a hole that’s in danger of being stripped of its threads.
“—you can always borrow our little one. Or two. Maybe three.” She tosses her hands up. “Who knows?”
The room suddenly pressurized, doubtless from all that breath holding, I long to walk out, and more so when a glance at J.C. confirms he’s watching me. However, I can’t fault my sister-in-law for putting a name on these past four years. After all, I have lived as a “confirmed” widow. Well, until that kiss. And the almost-kiss. And this longing to live in the present so my future doesn’t remain buried with Easton.
I sigh. Trinity, for all her running at the mouth, knows a thing or two. I turn to her and see wariness in her eyes, the first sign she’s clued in to the silence.
“You’re right.” I nod. “Who really knows?” I look to J.C. “I believe we’re ready to hear your plans for the estate.”
He shifts his gaze to the other end of the sofa. “First allow me to offer my congratulations. I’m sure you’ll make fine parents.”
“Here, here!” Uncle Obe raises an imaginary glass.
The rest of us murmur congratulations, restoring Trinity to her glowing self.
J.C. clears his throat. “As you know, Dirk Developers—”
“Since we’re all gathered here,” Luc says, “I might as well share my news too.”
I throw J.C. a look of apology before peering over the back of the sofa at my cousin who has risen from the bench.
“In order to finance the spending sprees my wife so enjoys, I’m expanding my car business. Which takes money, Mr. Dirk, so you’d best not be lookin’ to steal our family’s land.”
Oh, to be a mouse with a hidey-hole nearby …
J.C.’s face darkens. “I assure you, Mr. Pickwick, I am not in the land-stealing business.”
I look to Maggie. We both look to Piper, who meets our frowns with one of her own, evidencing she also caught J.C.’s emphasis that I interpret to mean Luc is in the land-stealing business. Of course, J.C. knows the land belongs to Uncle Obe. Our cousin’s interest in it is merely a result of the inheritance our uncle has promised each of us. Meaning J.C. believes Luc is taking advantage of Uncle Obe’s generosity?
“Well now, Luc,” Uncle Obe says, “I’m proud of you for plannin’ for the future, but why don’t we let our guest get on with his … uh … talk.”
“I just want to be sure he and I understand each other. Do we, Mr. Dirk?”
As J.C. stares at Luc, Uncle Obe eases up off the sofa, shaking his head at Mary when she reaches to assist him. “If you sit down now, Luc,” our gaunt and suddenly tight-faced uncle says, “I might not cut you out of the will.”
Luc’s upper lip draws back. “Cut me—?”
“Sit down.” Uncle Obe points to the bench where Tiffany has gone still to the tip of her formerly bouncing shoe.
Luc drops to the bench.
I feel bad for Mary, whose hands are clasped white tight in her lap. However, once Uncle Obe resettles beside her and gives her hands a pat, she sets them free. Though it’s true the Pickwicks can be overwhelming, especially in concentrated doses, I wish the woman had more of a spine.
“Now that we’re done with family announcements,” Uncle Obe says, “let’s return to the business at hand.”
If Maggie and Reece had planned to announce their engagement today, it’s definitely on hold.
“Thank you, Mr. Pickwick.” J.C. widens his stance. “First, let me assure you all that the reports coming in indicate the estate’s asking price is commensurate with its market value. However, there is a problem. The quarry.”
Of course.
“As Dirk Developers is an environmentally minded company, leaving the land to struggle in its reclamation of the quarry over thousands of years is not an option. Any responsible development, whether it’s for single-family homes, a wilderness retreat, a golf course, or an industrial park”—he meets my gaze—“has to take into account the scarred land at the center of the property. The cost of reclaiming it to make the estate whole and, therefore, financially viable, is high.”
The sound of the front door slamming puts an exclamation mark on that last word, causing us to look to the doorway that will soon frame the person who didn’t ring the bell. I have a bad feeling about our late arrival, even before I hear the huffing and puffing that proves I have every reason to feel this way.
“Bridget!” Daddy calls.
It could be worse. Had he arrived earlier, he would have been present for the announcement of Trinity’s pregnancy, and his response might have made J.C. rethink his interest in becoming involved in our family in any way.
“Where are you, Bridget?”
I’m on my feet when he enters the library. “What are you doin’ here, Daddy? You’re supposed to be with—”
“She’s sleepin’ off the latest test, so I ran home for a shower and a change of clothes. And do you know what I found?” He halts before me. “Rather, what I did not find? My favorite classic car. Gone!”
It is not his favorite, which is why I chose it over the others.
“And where do I find it? Here! And who’s the culprit? My own daughter, who I brought up better than to take a man’s prized possession for a joyride.”
Deep breath. “My truck broke down, Daddy, which is why I had to ask J.C. to give me a ride to your house yesterday so I could watch Birdie and Miles while you took Mama to the doctor.”
Daddy growls at J.C., “You again!”
J.C. smiles, and I don’t doubt that some of that smile is born of amusement. Leave it to us Pickwicks to turn his meeting into a joke.
“Sit down, Bartholomew,” Uncle Obe says, “you’ve interrupted our meeting long enough.”
“Meeting?” Daddy shifts his regard to his brother, then around the library, eyes widening as he takes in the other family members.
“J. C. Dirk has called us together to, uh …” My uncle flips a finger through the air as if paging through a book. “… you know, t-talk about his plans for the estate.”
Daddy harrumphs. “Surely you’re not seriously considerin’ selling to this big city slicker when we have Caleb Merriman in our pocket?”
Uncle Obe frowns. “I am. Now if you want to stay, sit. If not, you’d best get back to …” His eyes trip back and forth, as if scanning for my mother’s name. “… your wife.”
Daddy lowers to my place on the sofa, all the while grumbling about the insult of not being invited to the meeting. Though tempted to remind him that this is not where he ought to be, I want J.C. on his way before he witnesses more of our dysfunction.
Hoping Mama is fast asleep, none the wiser for having been abandoned, I wedge myself between Daddy’s hip and Devyn, who has settled beside Trinity.
J.C. clears his throat. “I’ll get to the point. We believe the Pickwick estate has the potential to be developed into an environmentally responsible destination golf resort.”
&nb
sp; I was hoping for better, but in a world where profit comes first, something like a wilderness retreat comes last.
“To that end, we’re drawing up plans for a world-class eighteen-hole golf course. Our vision is for the mansion to serve as the clubhouse and administrative center”—he holds up a hand as if expecting protest (he’s getting to know me)—“however, in the interest of historical preservation, only minor changes will be made.”
I still can’t say I like it, but if I have to, I can live with it.
“Phooey!” This from Daddy.
J.C. flicks his gaze over him. “The development will include a hundred-room timber lodge, restaurant, and fitness center.”
I squirm.
“But we’ll push past the boundaries of a typical golf resort and incorporate the feel of a wilderness retreat.”
I perk up, only to unperk. The feel?
“We’re looking at walking and horseback riding trails, an equestrian center, and converting the quarry into a fishing lake bordered by private cabins where guests looking for peace and quiet can find it.”
“Phooey, I tell you!”
J.C.’s jaw shifts. “Within the next week, Dirk Developers will submit an asking-price offer, along with preliminary plans.”
Daddy heaves himself to the edge of the sofa. “I ask you, why would my family sell to you when Merriman is willing to buy the property for use as a private residence?”
J.C.’s nostrils flare. “Are you sure about Mr. Merriman’s intentions, Mr. Pickwick?”
Daddy hesitates. “He’s a man of his word. And even if he decides to develop the property, why wouldn’t we let the two of you start a biddin’ war and put more money in our pockets?”
Uncle Obe’s pockets!
J.C. pushes his hands into his pockets and starts jangling. “The price Obadiah Pickwick has set for the property is workable; a bidding war is not. Dirk Developers’ full-price offer is a take-it-or-leave-it proposition.”
Daddy harrumphs. “Sounds like a bluff.” He looks to his brother. “I’d call him on it, Obe. That is, unless you do as I wisely advise and sell to Caleb Merriman who, I assure you, is sincere in his desire to acquire the estate as a private residence.”