by Tamara Leigh
Praise for
Leaving Carolina
“Tamara Leigh always manages to wrap biblical truth in a fun, light-hearted package. Leaving Carolina reminds us that the good stuff may require a little digging. This wonderful romance does not disappoint.”
—KRISTIN BILLERBECK, author of What a Girl Wants
“Want to be drawn into a story rather than just reading it? Then allow me to suggest Tamara Leigh’s Leaving Carolina as your next ‘gotta have it’ story—because this is more than just a novel. It’s an adventure. It’s entertainment. It’s why you turn off the TV and pick up a really good book!”
—EVA MARIE EVERSON, author of Things Left Unspoken
“Tamara Leigh is a must-read for laugh-out-loud humor and soul-bearing honesty! And Leaving Carolina is classic Tamara Leigh, with quirky Southern characters, feel-good giggles, and many deep truths to ponder. Come spend some delightful hours in Pickwick, North Carolina, and see why Leaving Carolina has a bright spot on my keeper shelf.”
—AMY WALLACE, author of Enduring Justice, Book 3 in the Defenders of Hope series
“This is definitely a book I would recommend to my friends. Piper Pickwick is charming!”
—ERYNN MANGUM, author of Miss Match
“Of all Tamara Leigh’s novels, this one is my favorite so far! The colorful characters in Pickwick invited me to sit down to Sunday brunch and dig into the biscuits and gravy! A fun novel not to be missed!”
—CAMY TANG, author of Single Sashimi and Deadly Intent
“Leaving Carolina is a soul-stirring sip of inspiration. With a Southern twist, Leigh draws us back to core values sweetened with a hint of romance. Good to the last drop!”
—LOIS RICHER, author of A Ring and a Promise
“Leaving Carolina is the first book in Tamara Leigh’s Southern Discomfort Series, and I can’t wait to get my hands on the next one! Leigh’s cast of eccentric down-home characters, her warm-hearted and harried protagonist, and her charming Southern style provide readers with a story that is warm, witty, and wise.”
—MARTA PERRY, author of Twice in a Lifetime and Leah’s Choice
“Leaving Carolina was a joy to read. It is delightfully funny, heart tugging, and honest. Tamara has a unique voice, a wonderful way with words, and has created a memorable story with great characters. I loved it, and I am looking forward to her next book.”
—PATRICIA H. RUSHFORD, author, speaker, and OCW Summer Conference Director
ALSO BY TAMARA LEIGH
Faking Grace
Splitting Harriet
Perfecting Kate
Stealing Adda
To my mother, Zola Mae, who gave me my Southern roots, pouring out love, wisdom, and discipline in her silky Southern drawl and serving up pickled corn, biscuits and gravy, and tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches straight out of her mama’s kitchen.
Yes, Mom, I always wear clean you-know-whats in case of an accident; I work at remembering that if a lady can’t say anything nice, she shouldn’t say anything at all; and I haven’t forgotten my “Yes ma’ams” and “No ma’ams.” I hope I’ve made you proud.
He who conceals his sins does not prosper, but whoever confesses and renounces them finds mercy.
—PROVERBS 28:13
1
Family is rarely convenient. Case in point: Uncle Obadiah Horace Pickwick. Despite his summons to discuss his will, likely brought on by hospitalization for chest pains, I won’t be flying to Pickwick, North Carolina. As I explained to his ancient attorney before he put me on hold, as much as I like my uncle, I can’t get out from under my work load on such short notice.
Of course, neither am I ready to return to the town I escaped twelve years ago.
Staring at the phone on my desk, I will Artemis Bleeker to return to the line, but the music continues to drone from the speakerphone. Whine, whine. “Oh ma darlin’…” Groan, groan. “You left me standin’ here…” Wah, wah. “Left me starin’ after you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I flop back in my chair. “Cry me a river.”
“Well, ma dear”—the nasal voice drops several octaves—“I’m back.”
I roll my eyes. “Nice lyrics.”
“What’d ya say, Piper?”
It’s him! I grab the receiver. “Mr. Bleeker—”
“You’re no longer a little girl, Piper Pickwick. Do address me by ma first name.”
As he had asked me to do when I took his call, after which I politely informed him I had dropped the “Pick” part of my name. Though he spluttered over my “butcherin’” of the family name, I didn’t defend myself. But had I, my defense would have been based more on the Pickwicks’ scandalous reputation than on the nursery-rhyme alliteration that plagued me through my school years.
Piper Wick clears her throat. “Thank you, Artemis. I’ll try to remember that. So you said the doctors are running more tests to determine the cause of Uncle Obe’s chest pains.”
“They are, but your uncle is certain it’s heart failure. And a man knows his own body. Um-hmm.”
“But so far the tests have come back negative.”
“These things can be elusive.”
Especially when it’s simply indigestion. Certain that has to be it, I’m relieved. I spent little time in my uncle’s presence, but he was never unkind to me, unlike the other Pickwicks.
You are over that. It’s Uncle Obe we’re talking about—a black sheep like you.
True, not only did he increasingly shun society the older he got, even forgoing marriage, but unlike his three brothers, he was always upstanding. Not a smidgen of inappropriate behavior—at least in the “criminal” sense. Now in the “odd” sense…
“Uh, what was Uncle Obe doing when he started having chest pains?”
“Just sittin’ in his hospital bed watchin’ a rerun—”
“He was in the hospital when he started to have chest pains?”
“What?” Artemis barks. “Ya think a man his age survives such a terrible accident without payin’ a price?”
Where is Scripture when I need it? Not committed to memory like I encourage my Christian clients. Fortunately, something of an alternative exists, Band-Aid strength though it may be: close eyes, breathe slowly through the nose, exhale slowly from the mouth…
“Piper! Did I lose ya?”
I clap a hand to my chest. Was Artemis booming when Uncle Obe’s chest pains started? “I’m just wondering why you didn’t say anything about an accident.”
“’Course I did.”
He’s old. Very old. And should have retired from practicing law years ago! “I’m sorry, but would you go over it again?”
He sighs. “Your uncle was in a head-on.”
Dear Lord!
“He was thrown clear but sustained cuts and bruises and messed up his knee. Unfortunately, it didn’t go so well for Roy. He had to be put down.”
“What?”
“Cryin’ shame. Of course, he wasn’t much use, what with them cataracts and that incontinence problem.”
Hold up. This is Pickwick, North Carolina. All is not as it seems. “Is Roy a… dog?”
“Ya all right, Piper? You’re not into drugs like all them folks out there in Hollywood, are ya?”
I will not bang my head. “It’s been a long day. So Uncle Obe hit a dog with his car.”
“Ya don’t listen too well, do ya? He hit the dog with his golf cart.”
Right.
“Musta been goin’ fifteen miles an hour. Traumatized your uncle, it did. The good news is, if he has to undergo heart surgery, the prognosis is good.”
I throw my hands up. “How can it be good if the doctors don’t know what’s causing the chest pain?”
“Why he’s in good health.”
&n
bsp; Sighing, I pull my desk calendar forward, and in the middle of June 3, I jot a note to send flowers. “I’m glad the prognosis is good.”
“For the surgery. But as for his will… ain’t nobody can talk him out of it. Nobody but you, maybe.”
Here we go again. “Talk him out of what?”
“The changes to his will. Your family is up in arms.”
Family. Hardly. “I assume it affects them monetarily.”
“It does.”
“Then he’s cutting them out of his will?”
“’Course not! He means to provide for his Pickwick kin, but he’s got it in his head to make provision for others.”
Up in arms is putting it mildly. “Uncle Obe’s money is his to do with as he sees fit, so even if I could influence him, it’s not my business.”
“If the changes to his will become public knowledge—and they will once he passes away—it’s gonna be as much your business as your kin’s.”
Public knowledge gives me pause. But then, in light of the business I’m in and that the words were spoken in the context of the Pickwicks, they should. “Go on.”
“Even if the integrity of your inheritance don’t mean nothin’ to ya, I’m sure your reputation does.”
My reputation? Considering how far I’ve distanced myself from my family, that doesn’t seem possible, and yet… What have they done now? More, how might this affect Grant? Recently, a columnist noted that I’m the first woman he’s seen regularly in a while. “Business,” Grant had assured everyone. And it’s true. Grant hired my PR firm to aid in his reelection, resulting in trips between our office in L.A. and his headquarters in Denver. But now there’s a personal component to my relationship with U.S. Congressman Grant Spangler.
I look at the photo on my desk that shows us at a fund-raiser months back. We stood before a dozen of his supporters—well, nearly so. The woman in the crooked blond wig (chemo, she said) asked some tough questions, her New England accent setting her apart from the others. Though she warmed to Grant, her body language said she wasn’t convinced. But you can’t make all the people happy all the time.
“Did ya hear me, Piper?”
“I heard you.” I slide my gaze to Grant. At five foot ten, he stood lean and erect beside me. At five foot three, I stood passably fit beside him, curves contained by regular exercise and close monitoring of calories, jaunty red hair limp, smile tired. To Piper, Grant scrawled across the bottom of the photo. We make a good team.
“All right, Artemis, tell me about the will.”
“Well, see, the changes are confessional in nature.”
My uncle has something to confess? Whatever it is—watering his garden during the hottest part of the day or breaking up a family of earthworms to plant a rosebush—it can’t be scandal worthy. “What does Uncle Obe have to confess?”
“Vandalism.”
So he ran over a road marker with his golf cart.
“Cheatin’.”
Probably skim-read a novel.
“Tax evasion.”
Bought Girl Scout cookies and believes he should have paid tax.
“Theft.”
Took a fund-raising mint at the cash register thinking it was free.
“Illegitimate children.”
I cannot have heard right. “Surely you’re not saying that the one irreproachable son of Gentry Pickwick fathered children out of wedlock?”
“I am. Your uncle has a daughter and a son not much older than you.”
Oh, dear. “So there’s something to these confessions? And Uncle Obe is responsible?”
“Yes and no. They’re serious wrongs, but he ain’t responsible for them all. For instance, the cheatin’ was done by your great-grand-daddy when he won that big piece of land from the Calhouns back in the early 1900s.”
“That was just an ugly rumor.”
“Your Uncle Obadiah believes different. And if he provides for the Calhoun descendants in his will, it’s gonna be seen as true. Just as it’s gonna be believed your daddy conned Widow Stanley into investing her life savings in a shrimp farm that didn’t exist. As for the town square statue that went missing all those years ago…”
“That was a Pickwick?”
“Yep, and it’s somewhere at the bottom of Pickwick Lake.”
This could be bad. “Is Uncle Obe doing this because of his heart scare?”
“That brought it to a head, but I’d say it goes back two years to when his godson came to town.”
Godson? Since when?
“Ya see, this feller is one of them ‘near-death experience’ Christians—nearly died and decided it was time to join the club. The more time your uncle spent with this young man, the more I noticed a change in him. Obe started payin’ attention to sermons, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve caught him with his Bible open.”
The shame of it! “I didn’t know Uncle Obe had a godson.”
“’Course you didn’t—was a surprise to all the Pickwicks when he showed up.”
So my uncle is in the clutches of a con man.
“Now don’t be thinkin’ Obadiah is a bad sort—”
“Obadiah? Uncle Obe’s godson is named after him?” Must be ingratiation since no one in his or her right mind names a kid that. Take the Pickwicks, for example. Not in their right minds.
“That’s his name, but like I said, Obadiah Smith has given me no cause to believe he’s manipulatin’ your uncle.”
I write Obadiah Smith in my planner. “Besides changing his will to make amends to those wronged by the Pickwicks, is Uncle Obe altering it in any other way?”
“No.”
“Then he’s not leaving anything to Obadiah Smith?”
“He most certainly is!”
I thrust a hand through my chin-length red hair. “Then obviously—”
“I see where you’re goin’, but this godson has been an heir since I drafted the first will twenty years ago, and his portion of the inheritance will be reduced by the same amount as the Pickwick heirs in order to provide for the new beneficiaries.”
Talk about naive! This guy shows up on the doorstep of a godfather he probably never met, then uses Christianity to lay a guilt trip on an old man to get him to right long-ago wrongs? He’s probably in cahoots with the new beneficiaries. Well, maybe not the IRS…
Ugh. Tax evasion could make for really bad press. Or, as we say here at the firm, “There will be headlines to pay.” “If Uncle Obe truly wants to make amends, why wait until he passes away?”
“Though there’s millions in the estate, much of it’s material—the mansion, its contents, the land, etcetera.”
“Uncle Obe has gone through his money?” Or someone did. Obadiah Smith?
“Your uncle has enough to keep up the estate in an acceptable manner, but not to make the kind of restitution he’d like. That will happen when his assets are liquidated followin’ his death.”
“But he could liquidate now and make amends quietly. Call the restitution a gift.”
“True, but the thought of standin’ by as the family estate is turned into a tourist attraction or mown down for some fancy development just kills him.”
“What about his illegitimate children?”
“That there is a sticky situation, Piper, one I’m not at liberty to discuss further.”
Just enough to make me bite. “What role am I expected to play?”
“As I suggested to your relations, there are two possibilities. The first is as the favored niece. Ya know, he always liked ya best.”
Considering he doesn’t much like anyone, that carries little weight.
“So he might listen to ya more than your cousins. Failing that, ya put on that PR hat I understand ya wear so well.”
I’m surprised he knows my line of work. Of course, my work with some of Hollywood’s biggest names was recently mentioned in an entertainment magazine.
“Who better to explain the consequences of this ‘tell all’ will,” Artemis continues, “than
someone who devotes her life to helping people out of nasty scrapes?”
Then it’s on me to get the Pickwicks out of this? Piper Wick? Not! While I don’t care to be exposed as “one of those Pickwicks,” it’s not likely to affect my career or my relationship with Grant, especially since my only crime is being born into a family I’ve completely avoided for twelve years.
“I had nothing to do with anything Uncle Obe wants to make restitution for.”
“Ya think?” Artemis rustles some papers. “Before I let ya go, I ought to tell ya that your uncle wants to include Trinity Templeton in his will.”
The name conjures remembrance of a girl who the meaner kids called Trinity Simpleton. “Why Trinity?”
“Your uncle believes she took the fall for a prank of Pickwick proportions, namely what happened at the Fourth of July parade the night before your mother and you up and left Pickwick.”
An invisible hand slams me back in my chair.
“Caused quite a stir, what with Hugh Lawrence capturing it on his video camera. Made the nightly news and quite a few papers. Ya recall?”
I rub a hand over my face. “Everyone thinks it was Trinity?”
“That’s right, though I hold with your uncle that it was one of his nieces. Problem is, y’all were accounted for.”
All?
“Maggie had given birth a few days before to little Devyn.”
Her illegitimate child that she refused to put up for adoption.
“Bridget was handin’ out them tree-huggin’, animal-lovin’ fliers up and down the street. And her sister, Bonnie, made a right spectacle of herself throwin’ that other girl off the float.” He smacks his lips. “So that leaves you. And everyone knows Piper Pickwick would never do somethin’ like that.”
Innocent by reputation, but Uncle Obe doesn’t believe it and neither does Artemis. “How is it that Trinity took the blame?”
“There was no accountin’ for her that night, she’s the right build, and everyone knows she don’t fire on all cylinders. Then, when rumors started circulatin’ that it might have been her, she didn’t deny it.”