by Tamara Leigh
“Since I’d caught the teens using it to take down a buck on our property the year before, I told Easton I had a mind to chainsaw it. When I said I could get away with it since the stand was rotting and could be declared an attractive nuisance if our neighbor tried to bring charges against me, Easton said the Christian thing to do was talk to him. I reminded him I’d done that when the buck was killed on our property, and he reminded me there was more yelling than talkin’ going on.”
I peer out the window at the blur of trees, many of which autumn has turned sunshine yellow, blazing orange, and brilliant red. “I said I would pray hard that sometime in the next twenty-four hours, the old deer stand made its last stand.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “I did that sometimes when Easton riled me—poked at his beliefs though I was also saved. He—”
J.C.’s cell rings. He ignores it. “Go on.”
I almost wish he’d take the call to give me time to consider how far I’m letting him in. “Easton knew I meant to take care of the problem, so he did it for me, though I didn’t know it until I came out of the shower and heard the chainsaw. I hurried and got dressed so I could help him, but when I got there …” My throat feels full. “… he was on the ground, the stand in pieces, the chainsaw biting up the dirt.”
Catching the tightening of J.C.’s face, likely due to the horror he thinks I witnessed, I shake my head. “The chainsaw didn’t get him. It was the rotting wood that had been my justification for taking the matter into my own hands. Still, Easton seemed all right, if shaken up. He told me he’d only started with his chainsaw when the stand collapsed—said it was a good thing it was him and not a bunch of boys, since they might have broken their necks. Though he said God would do any healing that needed to be done, I insisted on taking him to an emergency clinic. The doctor said everything looked fine but recommended an MRI. Easton refused, but since I was driving …” I replenish my breath. “He hated the hospital, seein’ as he lost his mother as a child when she went in for a routine surgery and died from complications.”
“So you drove him to Asheville.”
I nod. “We argued until he passed out a couple miles from the hospital. He came to as he was being wheeled into the emergency room and insisted prayer and rest were all he needed. I begged him to let the doctor take a look, and he got mad. In the exam room, he pushed the nurse aside, got up, and walked out. ‘God will heal me,’ he said when I went after him.” I close my hand around the burger to absorb its fading heat. “Easton collapsed outside and died from a ruptured spleen.”
Sensing a sob in my chest, I push past it. “Everyone called it a freak accident, even our neighbor, though he swore it wasn’t rotting wood that did Easton in but trespassing. He said Easton cut the stand out from under him.” I shake my head. “Regardless, he was dead, and God and I haven’t been on the best of terms since.”
The car fills with silence so full it seems it might spill out into the rest of the world. And then J.C.’s hand is on mine. “I’m sorry.”
His warmth is real, not fading, and I don’t understand what makes me turn my palm up into his, but I close my eyes and draw his heat to the cold places my husband left behind—places I thought only Easton could warm. I turn my face to J.C. “Thank you.”
His hand tightens on mine.
I breathe in, breathe out. Then, as light as I can manage, I say, “Seein’ as the skeletons in my closet are feeling exposed, how about you give them a little company?”
His grip tightens further, though I sense more from tension than an attempt to comfort.
I squeeze back. “Tell me about your bleached bones.”
He returns his hand to the steering wheel. It appears he does so to pass an eighteen-wheeler on the steep grade, but when we shift back into the right lane, my hand remains alone in my lap.
“Your turn.”
He nods. “A while back, you accused me of being accustomed to a life of excess—assumed I’d never lost anything of great sentimental value.”
“I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
“I grew up in real poverty, Bridget, not the kind that loosely determines who’s eligible for welfare. The kind where it isn’t holes in shoes you’re worried about but having shoes at all. Growing up, the other kids called my brothers and me the ‘grubs.’ ” His mouth tightens. “It didn’t have to be that bad, but my father wouldn’t take what he called handouts. But neither was he willing to take a regular job. Our mother brought in the little income we had, working two and three jobs to keep us all under one roof and with as close to three meals a day as possible. We’d come home from school, and our father would be at the kitchen table where we’d left him, books all around. Usually he hadn’t eaten, so we had to scrape together a meal for him.”
“Did he drink?”
“Sometimes, but that wasn’t the problem. Bitterness and revenge were what ruined him.”
His cell rings again. I sense hesitation as he considers the small screen, as if—as I did—he’s rethinking how far to let me into his personal life. But he returns the phone to the console.
“You said revenge ruined your father.”
He glances at me. “Those books were about the legal system, on which he was educating himself in hopes of righting a wrong our family had been dealt years earlier.”
“What wrong?”
“Something was taken from us.”
“Stolen?”
“That’s what he believed. And since he couldn’t afford an attorney or law school, he chased the dream of restoring our family’s fortunes with a library card.”
“Did he succeed?”
“Since we only had one car that was barely reliable enough to get our mother to work, he walked to the library. One day, on the way home, he was hit by a truck.”
I catch my breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Witnesses said he was too busy reading to watch where he was going and that he stepped off the curb into traffic. He wasn’t killed instantly, and for a while we had hope, but he had too much internal bleeding.”
“I’m sorry.”
J.C. nods. “Before he died, he passed the torch to me.”
“What torch?”
“As he’d promised his dying father he would get back what was stolen from us, he asked the same of me.”
Then the wrong was an old one.
He looks at me. “And I’m still trying to get it back, Bridget.”
“What is it?”
“We’ll get to that.” He returns his attention to the road. “A year later, in hopes of a better life, our mother moved us out of the South to Oregon where her brother lived.”
“That’s why I only catch your drawl once in a while.”
“Though we were young enough for the change of environment to alter our speech, peer pressure had a more immediate effect. We were out of place, and our classmates mocked us, called us rednecks.” His hands flex on the steering wheel. “It took them awhile to draw a connection between cause and effect—their taunting, my fists.”
“How many times were you suspended?”
His mouth curls. “I lost count.”
“So life wasn’t any better in Oregon?”
“Not for a long while, but it started improving when I was in my teens and got involved in sports. That’s when our mother reconnected with an old friend and moved us to Atlanta, where her friend had a business. They married a month later. It didn’t sit well with us, but Cameron Dirk proved to be a good man, if not a good businessman. He adopted us and gave us his name. You see, our mother thought that if we cut out our father’s name, we could lay down the torch … move on … heal …”
“But you still wanted justice.”
“I started my quest in college and continued it after I stepped in to help with our adopted father’s failing business. Nearly all my spare time was spent on the same path my father traveled, reading up on the legal system in search of a way to lay claim to what had been taken from us.” He smiles grimly. “I was s
o obsessed with keeping my promise that women weren’t much more than an afterthought.”
That explains why he’s unmarried.
“In the end, I couldn’t find any legal recourse, no way for the courts to restore it to us.”
I’m about bursting to know what it is. “But you said you’re still trying to get it back.”
“I am, but not by way of the law.”
I blink. “You’re trying to steal it?”
His laugh is short. “I’ll get it back, but in such a way there’s no question as to whom it belongs. Everything on the up and up.”
“I don’t understand.”
His cell phone rings again, and on the second ring, he sweeps it from the console. “It’s my assistant again. She wouldn’t persist if it wasn’t important.”
“Then take the call.”
Within moments his conversation with the woman turns grave, and he sits straighter. “Other than that, he’s all right?” He sighs. “Anyone else hurt?”
An accident at one of his developments?
“Good. What time did it happen? All right.” J.C. thrums the hand gripping the steering wheel—in lieu of jangling? “Get me on an early-morning flight, and let Burns know I’m coming.” He listens. “Thank you, but I’ll call Dunn. Right. Let me know.”
J.C. ends the call. “There’s been an accident at a convention center our company is renovating in Alabama.”
“What happened?”
“An interior stairway that was recently replaced for safety reasons collapsed on some workers.” He shakes his head. “It’s a miracle no one was killed.”
“But someone was hurt.”
“My brother.”
I catch my breath. “The one who escorted me into your meeting in Atlanta?”
“No, that was Parker. Our younger brother, Dunn, was at the site. Fortunately he only suffered a broken arm and a couple of cracked ribs, and the other two men have minor cuts and bruises.”
“Thank God.” The gratitude exits my mouth as automatically as it did when Easton was at my side, and part of me wants to take it back. After all, there was nothing to thank God for when it was my husband who fell victim to an accident. And yet the other part of me thanks Him again that other wives and families don’t have to suffer as I did. I don’t understand it. Maybe I never will.
“We’re fortunate. If you’ll excuse me, I need to call Dunn.”
“Of course.” I can’t help but listen in on his conversation, and though it’s one sided, it’s obvious Dunn is fine. When J.C. ends the call, we’re entering Asheville and only minutes from the hospital.
“We’ll finish our talk on the drive back to Pickwick,” he says as I motion for him to take the next right. “Maybe even get around to discussing your concerns over the resort.” A smile lightens his mouth.
I look out the window at the colorful street fronts of various shops, most I’ve never set foot in, including a chain coffee shop. Here a Starbucks, there a Starbucks, everywhere a Starbucks. Well, not everywhere, but they are a bit like rabbits. I sigh but perk up at the sight of one of my favorite restaurants: Mellow Mushroom. What I wouldn’t give to trade in my grown-cold burger for one of their salads, maybe the capri with its layers of tomatoes, fresh mozzarella—
I deflate again when I see the huge sign on a corner office: Trousdale and Associates, a Premier Real Estate Agency. As in Wesley Trousdale, Caleb’s gum-flinging agent. If I never see that woman again …
A couple minutes later, I point. “Turn there.”
Shortly, J.C. brakes in front of the hospital entrance. “Would you like me to walk you in?”
I would, but if Daddy is here, he might say something to J.C. I would regret. “Thank you, no. Are you headin’ to your business meeting now?”
He consults the dashboard clock. “It doesn’t start for another hour, so I’ll make some calls and see if I can get to the bottom of the accident.” His brow furrows. “It doesn’t speak well for a developer to have new construction collapsing.”
“I understand.” I reach for the door handle.
“Bridget?” His hand touches my shoulder.
A thrill runs through me, and I turn back.
“I appreciate what you shared. It helps to know you better.”
I chuckle. “Are you sure you still want to?”
“Yes.” His gaze drifts to my mouth. “I do.”
Here we are again, in the vicinity of an almost-kiss. What happened to holding off on the personal side of things until after the sale of the estate?
J.C.’s hand moves from my shoulder to my jaw. Fingers graze my neck, and he leans in and there’s nothing “almost” about this kiss. It’s all there, gentle at first, then deeper as I press nearer … angle my head … breathe in his salty scent …
He pulls back, and it’s a moment before I orient myself. That shouldn’t have happened, but I liked it. Maybe too much. It felt good to feel things I haven’t felt in a long time, things I didn’t know I was capable of experiencing beyond Easton. But there it is—with J. C. Dirk, whose invasion of my personal space hardly registers.
He clears his throat. “As I said, I want to know you better.”
I hate that I have to ask, especially after his kiss. “Even if Caleb buys the estate?”
J.C. stares at me, then past me. “Even then, but he won’t. When we head back to Pickwick, I should be able to show you proof of his plans for an industrial park.”
Is that what his meeting is about?
“I’ll try and wrap up the meeting early so I can take care of a few things in Pickwick before I leave tomorrow morning. If you’ll give me your cell number”—he retrieves his phone—“I’ll call you when I’m close to being done.”
I recite the digits few have access to, and he enters them into his phone.
“Thank you for the ride.” Still tingly from our kiss, I drop my burger and shake into the Sonic bag and take it with me as I step onto the sidewalk.
As J.C. pulls from the curb, I toss my garbage into a trash receptacle, then turn to face the doors that grant entrance to the place where Easton breathed his last. Fortunately this isn’t my first time here since that day, so it shouldn’t be that hard to enter. Hard was when we had a scare with Uncle Obe a year and a half ago, and it took a half hour of pacing back and forth in front of these same doors before I called on anger to push me through.
And I can do it again. I touch my lips. I most certainly can.
22
Standing outside Mama’s hospital room, one hand on the door, I brush my lips with the other to remove traces of J.C.’s kiss. Then I roll my eyes. A body would think I wore lipstick.
When I open the door, my father is sitting alongside Mama where she’s up on pillows, eyes closed. His presence isn’t what makes me falter. It’s his face. I’ve seen it bluster red before, but I don’t remember seeing it sorrowful red, complete with matching eyes and tear-tracked cheeks.
I gasp. “Mama?”
He blinks. “Shh, she’s restin’.”
Then she’s … Yes, her chest is rising and falling.
“Birdie and Miles?” He peers warily to the sides of me.
I step inside and ease the door closed. “They’re spendin’ the day with Trinity,” I whisper. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”
His face brightens further, this time with what I’m sure is embarrassment. “Nothin’. Those fancy doctors still don’t know what’s wrong.” He releases Mama’s hand and sits back. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting, like you.”
“I’m not visiting; I’m … vigilin’.”
I don’t think that’s a word, but I’ll give it to him. “Were you cryin’?”
“Me?” He snorts, the sound of his congestion confirming my suspicion. My seemingly self-centered father is worried for his wife. That makes me feel good. “Don’t be reading anything into this cold.” He pulls a handkerchief from his jacket and dabs at his nose. “That time of year, you know.”
&n
bsp; In that moment, he’s nearly huggable.
“You taking good care of my car?”
“Yes sir.”
“Not puttin’ any dings in the doors or letting Birdie and Miles eat in it?”
“No sir.”
“Good. Of course, you are putting needless miles on her drivin’ all the way in from Pickwick.”
Needless? “Actually, I drove in with J.C.”
His jaw drops. “Him again?”
“He was coming anyway, so I hitched a ride.”
Daddy presses his lips so hard they whiten.
“Bridget?” my mother says softly. “You’re here.” She reaches to me, and I hurry forward to clasp her hand.
“I would have come sooner, but—”
“I know. Are Birdie and Miles doin’ all right?”
I nod. “They miss you. How about you, Mama? How are you doing?”
“I’m bored. And tired of all these tests. You know what I think? I’m just old.”
I shake my head. “You’re fifty-five. That’s not old.”
“I feel it.”
With a grunt, Daddy stands. “I’ll let you two visit. I need coffee.”
When we’re alone, Mama says, “Was your daddy cryin’?”
I refuse to cover for him, especially since it will do her good to know he’s worried. “He won’t admit it, but he was definitely crying.”
Smiling lightly, she nods at the chair. “Come sit by me.”
I settle in, and her gaze roves my face, and a frown collects between her eyebrows. “Oh my, you’ve been kissed.”
I jerk. “What?”
“Don’t what me. I always knew when you went at it with some boy, especially when you were a teenager and your lips were unaccustomed to all that smoochin’.”
Heat stings my cheeks. “Mama!”
“Just look at them—all swollen up.” She shakes her head. “You’ve been out of practice too long. Was he a good kisser, that J.C.?”
Then she heard me tell Daddy I drove in with him, meaning my lips probably aren’t all that swollen. She was looking for it, is all. Though I don’t care to talk about what happened between J.C. and me, her face is bright against the backdrop of a hospital bed. And I want it to stay that way.