by Tamara Leigh
“Now,” he continues, “I’m not so sure. Can you believe he offered only sixty percent?”
“A lack of real competition will do that. Was there any money involved in helping Caleb secure the estate?”
He stares at the emblem at the center of the steering wheel.
“Daddy?”
“All right, there was to be a little somethin’ in it for me for brokerin’ the deal.”
My shoulders drop. “How much?”
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
“A little something!”
“But I’m tellin’ you, it was with the understanding that I help him obtain the property, not steal it. Sixty percent! Don’t know how I’d sleep at night knowin’ I had a cheat for a son-in-law.”
He doesn’t have to worry about that. “Daddy, do you know anything about his plans to turn the estate into an industrial park?”
“ ’Course not. He said he wanted it as a private residence, and the possibility of you being lady of the manor made the apple that much shinier.”
I sigh. “For you and Eve both.”
“What?”
“Nothin’.” I touch his shoulder. “I appreciate your being straight with me. Tell Mama I’ll bring Birdie and Miles by tomorrow.”
He pulls the door closed.
Hoping my niece and nephew have reconciled and Uncle Obe won’t ask of me something I can’t do, I slowly climb the steps of the mansion. Unfortunately when I return to my uncle’s room, he is at a complete loss as to what he wanted my help with. Or maybe fortunately.
26
Monday, October 18
This time I told Caleb yes. Not because I mean yes but because J.C. hasn’t returned Piper’s or Uncle Obe’s phone calls. Because if there is going to be a counter to Caleb’s insulting offer, there’s something the Pickwicks need to know. And it’s up to me to determine if the man who tried to bribe my father is slippery in other ways. Unfortunately I believe J.C. is right, and if I’m not stood up—
“I’m pleased you agreed to join me for dinner,” a voice stirs my hair, and as I look around, a kiss lands on my cheek.
Be still, my livid heart. I meet the gaze of the man over my shoulder. “Caleb.”
Grin as bowed as a quarter moon, he pulls out the chair catty-corner to mine. “Of course, I can’t help but hope this will also be a celebratory dinner.”
I’m tempted to play dumb, especially in lieu of an apology for him being twenty minutes late, but I’m not sixteen anymore. “Actually, the reason I accepted your dinner invitation was to discuss your offer on the estate.”
“Wonderful! Not that I’m not up for enjoying the company of such a lovely lady and”—he lays a hand over mine—“getting to know her better.”
Just in case the possibility exists he still needs to exploit my influence with Uncle Obe as he tried to exploit Daddy’s influence with me? More than ever, I lean toward the belief he wants the estate for an industrial park, and I resent that I’m here, especially since I could be home with Birdie and Miles. However, they’re spending the night with Mama and Daddy, my father having insisted on it though Trinity and Bart were willing as usual. Feeling a pang of loneliness at the prospect of having no one to share the big bed with tonight, I close my eyes.
“What can I get you to drink?”
I open my eyes on the server who has sidled into the space between Caleb and me.
He smiles at her. “I have the feeling we’re going to need a wine list.”
“No.” I pull my hand from beneath his and wrap it around my perspiring glass of ice water. “I’ll stick with this.”
“Are you sure?”
I incline my head. “Although if I were to order something from the bar, it would be a beer.” This time, Daddy’s not here.
Caleb blinks, as I intended him to.
Yes, I’m once more dressed up, the restaurant he suggested having called for it, but I still prefer the taste of beer over wine. “Of the nonalcoholic sort.”
He ducks his head back. “Nonalcoholic?”
“It’s the taste I like, not the dizziness or false feelin’ of happiness.”
He waves the server away, clasps his hands on the table, and leans forward. “But we’re not talking false feeling. Not if you’re here to tell me what I hope you are.”
Here goes the bluff I’ve been practicing since I took his call this morning. “I have to disappoint you, Caleb. You see, I don’t believe we have anything to celebrate.”
Full-fledged frown. “What are you talking about?”
I take a sip of water. “You haven’t been straight about your plans for the estate.”
I watch him closely for signs of guilt and surprise, but there’s nothing to be seen in his eyes or his facial muscles. “Of course I’ve been straight. I’m looking forward to calling the Pickwick mansion my home.”
He seems sincere. Might I be wrong? Did J.C. lie? Don’t let your bluff down. “Caleb”—I hold his gaze—“I know about your plans to build an industrial park.”
This time there is something in his eyes, but it’s so fleeting I can’t say it’s incriminating. “You think I want to turn your heritage into an industrial park? Where’d you come up with that idea?”
I’m starting to feel gullible. “J. C. Dirk told me.”
Caleb snorts. “My competition—a man who wanted the estate probably more than I do.”
Wanted. Not that I need further evidence he knows J.C. withdrew his offer. “True. And for that reason, he brought me written proof.” I didn’t see it, but that’s my fault.
Again, something crosses Caleb’s eyes, but after it flits out, it flits back in. With a sigh, he reclines in his chair. “All right, so Dirk dug up my association with investors who are scouting for an industrial-park site.” He inclines his head. “It’s true.”
Still I cling to the frail, barely visible thread of hope tied to both ends of me—that despite the look of things, it’s coincidental Caleb is looking for an industrial-park site at the same time he’s trying to buy a private residence.
“And, yes, the Pickwick estate is ideal for our purpose.”
Good-bye, hope. I sit straighter. “Then you lied.”
His gaze slides left, and I follow it to the server, who does an about-face when he once more waves her away. “Let’s just say I didn’t elaborate on my plans for the estate.”
I lean forward. “Now would be a good time.”
“Is your family still interested in selling to me?”
I wish I could say no, but J.C. is out of the picture. “Not at the price offered.”
He starts to smile. “I’m negotiable—never said I wasn’t.”
Obviously, he’s been practicing at bluffing longer than I have. “So elaborate.”
“I do want the mansion for a private residence. It’s beautiful, has historic value, and is in decent shape. As I’ve already said, I can see myself raising a family there.”
Just because he can see himself doesn’t mean he plans to.
“As for the bulk of the property, it is ideal for the development of an industrial park, and it’s possible that pieces will be broken off and developed as such.”
And there’s the truth cloaked in the word possible—his way of throwing me a bone. But I would be a fool if I tried to gnaw on it. My nails dig into my palms, throat muscles tighten, nostrils widen. “And manufacturing comes to Pickwick Pike,” I say with a hard edge of resentment.
Caleb’s lids flicker. “I understand your misgivings, Bridget.”
No, he doesn’t.
“However, environmental concerns aside, your family needs the money.”
Only because the Calhoun heirs have a sizable restitution coming to them. If not for Uncle Obe’s determination to see our wrongs righted, time would be on our side, which would allow him to remain undisturbed in his home while he’s lucid enough to be comforted by its familiarity. But the estate needs to be liquidated, and all because of that middle piece of land.
>
I back up my thoughts, the wheels of which reverse over Caleb’s words, then shift back into drive. The whole idea to sell the estate in its entirety was based on an assumption. But the assumption may have been wrong. I push my chair back and stand.
Caleb jumps up. “Bridget?”
“I don’t believe we’ll be in touch.”
Irritation distorts his attractive face. “As I said, I’m negotiable.”
“Even so, I think I speak for my uncle when I say you’ll have to look elsewhere for your industrial park site. Good-bye.” I catch the unhinging of his jaw as I turn away. Striding past the other tables, the hem of my skirt flapping at my knees, I put all my hope in having happened on the solution.
Piper thinks it might just fly, but Uncle Obe … It was not a good day for him, according to his daughter and evidenced by his inability to understand the solution I tried to lay out for him. Just when I thought he was tuning in, he tuned out on J. C. Dirk and Caleb Merriman, becoming agitated when I reminded him they were the ones who wanted to buy the estate. He didn’t like that one bit, and Daisy had eased him to his feet to help him to his bedroom. He called her by her mother’s name as she led him from the library, and he went on and on about selling the estate “over my dead body.”
I had hurt for him. And prayed for him when Piper started to cry. For some reason, talking to God for others comes easier than talking to Him for myself. When I mentioned that to my cousin, interrupting the awkward silence that followed my prayer, she said it seemed to her I was a lot further along in my faith than some people.
I don’t know about that, but what I do know as I lie here in the dark is what I keep coming back to. J.C. didn’t lie. He may be guilty of widow sniffing (some) and his investigation into Caleb’s interest in the estate may have been self-serving, but he was telling the truth. As wary as I am of reading too much into what happened between us, I feel it, especially as loneliness reaches out to me from all corners of the bed.
I turn from my back to my side and press a hand to the empty place beside me. It’s not so bad. Even the temptation to sleep in the guest room wasn’t too hard to resist. And I suppose I have Birdie and Miles to thank for easing me into this. There’s still emptiness, but the murkiness has cleared enough that I can see to the bottom of it.
“Thank You, Lord.” My voice slides into the night. “Thank You for letting me have my ‘happily,’ even if not for ever after. Thank You for allowing me to brush my fingertips against Yours, though I know it’s my whole hand You’re lookin’ to hold. And my heart too. Speakin’ of hearts …” I sigh. “I think I mislaid a piece of mine in the vicinity of Jesse Calhoun Dirk. Just a little piece, but I’d like it back—that is, if he has no use for it. Does he have a use for it?”
I flip to my back again and try to make out the ceiling. “I was too hard on him, said things I shouldn’t have. If what was between us was real, and it seemed like it, I’ve messed up. But I’d like to try and fix it. And I could use some help.” I close my eyes. “That’s it. For now. So amen.”
27
Friday, October 29
This time J.C. is expecting me, though that doesn’t necessarily mean getting in to see him will be easier than it was the first time. In fact, my advance warning in the form of a phone call might make it harder if he’s set against meeting with me.
Surprisingly, his assistant wasn’t as curt as when I last tried to see him. She asked my reason for wanting to meet with him, and when I told her it was regarding the Pickwick estate, she started to place me on hold. Guessing I was about to be put through to J.C., I told her to tell him I would be in Atlanta around noon on Friday and would see him then. I’d hung up and, since no one called back, assumed it was a done deal.
Now as I cross the lobby, noting the business types awaiting their appointments, the same young woman I slipped past months ago looks up from behind the reception desk. She doesn’t seem surprised, so she probably knows to expect me. A good sign—unless she has a security guard waiting in the wings. Or she doesn’t recognize me.
Far more comfortable this time in a new pair of 501s, a lace-edged cotton top beneath a smart denim jacket, and carrying a courier bag, I halt before the desk. “Bridget Pickwick Buchanan. I’m here to see Mr. Dirk. He’s expecting me.”
“Actually, his brother Parker Dirk is expecting you.”
Not a done deal. I’m a little relieved, a lot disappointed. Still, it’s not as if the bulk of what I’m here to do can’t be done with J.C.’s brother. As for the rest? If J.C. doesn’t want to see me, it’s probably for the best. And if I tell myself that enough, maybe I’ll believe it.
“If you’ll take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Five minutes later, the man who fell victim to our bull mastiffs as a boy enters the lobby. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Buchanan.” He advances on me with an outthrust hand and a seemingly genuine smile that makes his eyes behind his glasses crinkle at the corners.
I stand and slide a hand into his. “And you, Mr. Dirk.”
He releases me. “I’m sorry my brother couldn’t meet with you.”
Couldn’t or wouldn’t?
“Hopefully, I’ll do.”
Though I want to ask why J.C. pushed me on to him, I say, “You’ll do fine. How is your brother doin’—I mean, the one who had the stairway collapse out from under him?”
“Dunn. He and the others have recovered and are back at work.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He glances around the lobby. “I imagine that whatever you’d like to discuss requires privacy.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Shortly, he motions me into a chair before a somewhat unkempt desk and settles his slender form behind it. “May I call you Bridget?”
“Certainly. Parker?”
He nods and clasps his hands amid papers scattered across a blotter. “What can I do for you?”
I glance at the scar above his right eyebrow. “You know the story of the poker game between the Pickwicks and the Calhouns.”
“Too well. I had hoped that when J.C. returned from North Carolina this last time, we could finally put it to rest.”
Meaning Parker was against his brother’s quest?
He opens a hand toward me. “But here you are.”
“Yes, but I also want to put it to rest. Or, at least, try. It’s up to you and your brothers to decide if it’s enough.”
His forehead creases, causing the crescent-shaped scar to kink. “If what’s enough?”
I open the courier bag and pull out a large envelope. “Did J.C. tell you that, for some time now, my uncle has been set on makin’ restitution to your family for the loss of your property?”
His head rocks slowly. “He did, but you do realize we have no proof the poker game was rigged. That it could as easily be our great-grandfather’s bitterness that set the rumor in motion.”
“My uncle is convinced otherwise; the only proof he requires is of his troubled conscience. Thus, he wants to make amends before his dementia is too far along for him to enjoy peace of mind.” I pass the envelope to Parker. “As I’m sure you know, the estate has increased considerably in value over the years. Though there are other wrongs my uncle has righted by sellin’ off properties and family heirlooms, the wrong done to your family requires a larger outlay than he can access. Since it was believed the Calhoun heirs would be more receptive to monetary compensation than the restoration of their land, the estate was listed for sale in its entirety in the belief it would command the greatest dollar amount.” I point to the envelope. “Inside is a proposal that will not only give my uncle peace but allow him to remain in his home for the duration of his illness.”
Parker Dirk glances at the envelope.
“Outside of the acreage my uncle has set aside for my inheritance, the Pickwick estate will be divided into four pieces—the original Calhoun acreage, the acreage to the north, and the acreage to the south.”
He frow
ns. “You said four pieces.”
“The fourth piece—the smallest—will be cut off from the southernmost acreage, which is the land on which the big house sits. My uncle will retain ownership and continue to reside there. As for the other three pieces, the Calhoun land will be deeded back to your family, who will be given first right of refusal on the other pieces, which will be priced at significantly less than the whole. Since the fourth piece will consist of only twenty-five acres to allow my uncle to maintain his privacy, those three pieces should be enough to build your golf resort if Dirk Developers is still interested. If not”—I shrug—“we’ll sell elsewhere, and your family can do with your land as you please.” I turn my hands up. “That’s it.”
Parker sits back. “What of Merriman?”
Of course his brother told him about Caleb. “My uncle has rejected his offer, since it appears Mr. Merriman’s primary interest in the estate is as an industrial park. A golf resort is one thing”—I shake my head—“an industrial park, another.”
“Good call.”
“Regarding the wrong done your family and the hardship generations of Calhouns have endured, I am here to formally apologize on behalf of the Pickwicks.”
Parker smiles with what could be sorrow. “Thank you, Bridget.”
That’s it, then. If the Calhoun heirs decide to add to their property and take up their original plans, they’ll be in contact. If not, the land will be sold to another party. I stand. “If you have any questions, my cousin Piper will be happy to answer them.”
“Actually, I do have a question, but one only you can answer.”
The intensity of his gaze and tilt of his head give me pause. “Yes?”
“Is there something between you and my brother?”
Though my insides jump, I keep my features as immovable as possible. After all, Uncle Obe asked the same thing. “Why?”
“Because I know him, and it would take a stronger longing than that of justice to cause him to abandon the responsibility our father put on him. Even our mother, when she was dying, couldn’t completely bring my brother around to letting go of the past.”