Leaving Carolina (21 page)

I consider the box that features a cartoon brain. “I’ve never played it.”

“There’s also Apples to Apples, Scattergories, and Scrabble.”

“Actually, I’m not much for games.”

Disappointment transforms her face. “But they’re the perfect way to spend an evening together. And since there are three of us, we can make it a girls’ night.” Her face lights. “I’ve never done that. It’s usually just Mom and me.”

I knew the feeling at her age. Not that I didn’t have the odd friend—literally
and
otherwise—but time together outside of school or study was rare. Remembrance makes me ache for Maggie’s polar opposite. “You’ve never had a sleepover?”

“Oh, I have, and Mom has encouraged me to connect with my peers outside of school.” She sighs. “But I always end up in a corner with a book or outside poking under rocks. Believe me, that doesn’t go over well, no matter how nice the girl is.”

“And you think a girls’ night will be different with me and your mom?”

“Absolutely. No talk of guys or clothes or hairstyles”—she hikes
up her lip—“or painting each other’s nails. For goodness’ sake, I’m still highly receptive to learning, so why waste time on stuff like that? Now these games are fun, interactive,
and
educational.”

I don’t know who I feel sorrier for—the girl I was or the girl she is. Though she’s also the odd girl out, it seems, by choice. On the other hand, I longed to fit in and be accepted. Only failing that did I turn to intellectual pursuits.

“What do you say, Miss Piper?”

“All right.”

“Excellent. I’ll set these out, and you pick the one you want to play first.”

I start to follow her to the kitchen island, but Maggie’s voice carries. “How is your grandmother, Trinity?”

That Maggie knows she has one surprises me.

“She’s fine, thank you. Of course, there are days when she misses her knitting shop somethin’ terrible.”

The family business that Artemis said Trinity’s grandparents didn’t believe could be entrusted to her after that night. Ugh.

“It’s unfortunate it closed,” Maggie says.

“Yeah, but they couldn’t keep it open without reliable help, and my grandparents didn’t feel I… Well, I’m a much better cleaning lady, I guess.”

Could
Trinity have kept the shop afloat?

“Miss Piper, come see!”

As I cross to the island on legs that feel heavy, Devyn looks up from the boxes laid out in the shape of a pyramid. “So?”

I tap the Apples to Apples box.

“Wonderful. It’s not as educational as the others, but it opens
the door for discussion and will help us get to know one another better.”

“I see you talked her into it,” Maggie says.

We turn as she enters the kitchen.

Devyn nods. “She’s very receptive.”

Maggie shifts her focus to me. “I’m glad to hear it. Would you like to ride to Asheville with us to visit Uncle Obe?”

“Oh yes!” Devyn tugs my arm.

Reluctance raises its head, but I say, “Sounds like a plan.”

“If I hadn’t been there when she was born, I probably wouldn’t believe Devyn was mine either.”

Once more, my face is saying things it shouldn’t, and Maggie has found me out, just as she did this morning when we watched her daughter scrabble in the dirt.

I look from where Devyn is asleep on the sofa to my cousin as she straightens from tucking a throw around her daughter. Even with so slight a smile and the wee hours fast approaching, she’s a stunner.

Having spent half the day with her and Devyn, which included the drive to Asheville to visit Uncle Obe, Szechwan takeout, Apples to Apples, and talk of the progress in Pickwick, I feel a connection with my cousin. It’s unsettling but prompts me to be frank when I would normally advise a change of subject. “As I said earlier, she isn’t what I expected.”

Maggie walks forward and, as we leave the library, says, “Thankfully, hmm?”

I’m unsettled further by a need to soften the blow she dealt herself. “I didn’t know you well.”

We take the long way around Errol where he’s sprawled on the floor, and Maggie flips the light switch alongside the doorway. “That’s the point.”

I falter when we enter the dimly lit hallway, but my cousin’s long-legged stride carries her to the staircase and up half a dozen steps before I begin my own ascent. Suddenly, she halts and swings around. “I’m sorry, Piper.”

I stare at her. What am I supposed to say? That it’s okay? It should be. After all, it has been years since she belittled and snubbed me, and I did forgive her. Or did I? It still hurts. Not terribly, but enough to feel a part of me.

Maggie drops her hands to her sides. “I don’t know what else to say, except thank you for seeing Devyn as separate from me.”

How did I get here? I didn’t come to Pickwick for Maggie to make amends. Or to connect with her daughter. Or to be Trinity’s godsend. Or to be rattled by Axel. Or to have doubts about Grant. What happened to Get In, Get Out?

“And thank you for humoring her. Despite her quest for all things intellectual, she needs to feel a part of something bigger than the two of us.”

“It was fun. I’m glad we could spend time together.”

Maggie’s lips strain into a smile. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

Another round of awakenings, after which she and Devyn will go home. Which is what I want, as I have lots to do to prepare for Uncle Obe’s return, not the least of which is to corner Artemis, who
has forgotten the importance of our meeting before I talk to Uncle Obe about his will.

“Good night, Piper.”

“Goodnight.”

As Maggie turns, I glimpse the release of her smile, and I know I shouldn’t withhold what she was asking for in not so many words, but—
No “buts.” Yes, it still hurts, and it will until you do something about it. So do what God calls you to do!

“Maggie?”

She looks around.

“It’s okay.” I give a nervous laugh. “We’re different people now. All grown up.”

A vulnerability I don’t recall her possessing softens her face. “Thank you.” She inclines her head and continues up the stairs.

Shortly, I sit cross-legged on the pilled bedspread in my room, my iPhone beside me in anticipation of Celine’s call, my go-anywhere Bible in my lap, my jaw slack. I did the fan-and-search-for-yellow again, and there was another “dust-shaking” verse: Acts 13:51: “So they shook the dust from their feet in protest against them and went to Iconium.” Coincidence? I think not. More like divine counsel.

“Dusty,” I whisper just as my iPhone rings.

Ten minutes later, Celine has brought me current on everything, including Janet Farr. “She hasn’t called again.”

Should I take that as a good sign? Just because she’s disappeared back down the hole she stuck her head up out of doesn’t mean I’m in the clear. In fact, I’m certain I’m not, which is all the more reason I need to light a fire under Artemis. Surely together we can find some way to convince Uncle Obe to leave his will alone.

“Are you doing all right?” Celine asks.

“Yes and no.”

“What’s the yes part?”

“My relatives aren’t as bad as I remember. Well, some of them.”

“That’s good news. And the no part?”

“That would be my return to L.A. Everything is moving way too slowly here.”

After a long moment, Celine says, “Maybe God’s trying to tell you something and you’re not listening.”

Ha! I pick up the go-anywhere. “Actually, I’m hearing Him loud and clear.”

“Oh?” Her pert nose is probably wrinkling and her eyebrows lowering.

“I’ve been trying to work in a daily devotional during my stay, and every time I open to the New Testament, I land on a verse about shaking the dust from your feet if a town doesn’t welcome you—as in ‘Get thee out of Pickwick, Piper Wick.’”

Celine chuckles. “You and your Pickwick dust.”

I have mentioned it a few times. In fact, when Celine chose the New Testament as our book club pick several years back, I pointed out to the group how many times dust shaking was mentioned.

“Okay,” Celine says, “so whenever you randomly open the Bible and point, your finger lands on one of those verses.”

I scowl. “That would be too unbelievable.”

“Then?”

“I fan through the pages, and when I see something I’ve highlighted, it’s always Jesus telling His disciples that when a town doesn’t welcome them, they should shake its dust from their feet.”

“Oh.” This is the kind of “oh” without wrinkled nose and lowered eyebrows—drawn out with lips forming an O.

“What?” I wince at how defensive I sound.

“Do you have your Bible handy?”

“I do.” What’s this about?

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks those are the
only
verses you’ve ever highlighted.”

Are they? No, I’m certain scores of Scripture have impacted me enough to warrant highlighting. “You’re on.” I turn to the New Testament portion. “Ah! Matthew 10:14—dust.” Further proof God wants me out of Pickwick. “Mark 6:11—dust.” Last night’s selection. “Luke 9:5—dust.” The night before. “Luke 10:11—uh, dust.” Maybe I need to fan slower. “Acts 13:51—um… dust.” Slower yet. But no matter how slowly I fan through the twenty-some books, that’s it. And no highlighting in the Old Testament. Meaning it wasn’t divine counsel that led me to those scriptures. Not even coincidence.

I sink back on the bed. “Okay, so ‘dust’ Scripture is all I’ve highlighted in this little Bible—which by the way I probably haven’t used since book club—but I’m sure that isn’t the case with my big Bible.”

“Uh-huh. Face it, Piper, you’re stuck on shaking the Pickwick dust from your feet.”

There are worse things. “Still, it applies.”

“Only if you’re out there spreading Jesus’s message and being received with contempt—
that’s
when you shake the dust from your feet.”

I sigh. “So what would you do if you were in my dusty feet?” There, I asked it, meaning I have only myself to blame if I don’t like what she has to say.

“I would try to make peace with my relatives,” she says softly. “And I’d pray that when I did leave, it would be in such a way that I didn’t mind taking some of that dust with me.”

She would let herself get close to those who hurt her… make herself vulnerable. That’s Celine for you. “You’re a bigger woman than I.”

“Yeah, by a couple sizes, but I am starting that new yogurt diet tomorrow.”

I come up off the bed coughing and spluttering. “That’s not what I meant,” I finally spit out, then hold my breath in hopes of laughter.

And she rolls it out—the real stuff, not the shallow laugh when her day is rough and she’s just being nice. “Sorry. It was too good to pass up.”

We talk a few more minutes. At the end she suggests that I take a more positive approach to my daily devotionals. I’ll probably regret it, but I bite again, and she tells me to look up Matthew 5:9 and Romans 8:28.

“Thanks, Celine. Have a nice evening.”

“Oh, I plan on it—a little online shopping to see what your hundred bucks will buy me.”

I groan. “Must you rub it in?”

“Just a reminder for you to stop with the dust.”

“Good night.” I set my iPhone on the nightstand and reach to do the same with the little Bible, but curiosity stops me. “Matthew 5:9…” I crack the go-anywhere just enough to locate the verse: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.”

“I’m trying, Lord.” And succeeding, even if only with Maggie.

Curiosity calls again, but I don’t take the call. Romans 8:28 will have to wait.

I turn out the light and burrow into my pillow. But sleep is long in coming as my mind mulls over Matthew 5:9, Celine’s advice, the curious case of Janet Farr, and the conscience-battering matter of Trinity. When I finally do sink into the deep, Maggie appears to awaken me, and I have to start all over again.

D
oes your uncle know ya hired Trinity Templeton?” are the first words out of Artemis’s mouth as he bustles past me.

Relieved that Trinity is out of earshot, I close the mansion’s front door. “I mentioned it when Maggie and I visited him yesterday.”

Brow beaded with the effort of climbing the steps, he turns his great bulk to me with a wobble worthy of the Weebles I played with as a little girl. “And did ya notice the terror on his face when ya
mentioned it
?”

“No.”

“No startle? No widenin’ of the eyes?” He wiggles his stubby fingers before his face. “No jaw droppin’?”

“I know what terror looks like, Artemis, and Uncle Obe was not terrified.”

He glares at me. “Then he was out of it—probably off visitin’ la-la land again.”

“La-la land?”

“Why, I’m talkin’ about—” His eyes bulge. “Ahem! A-hem!” He jerks a handkerchief from his breast pocket and pats his mouth. “It’s just that your uncle is a strange one.” He wipes the moisture from his brow. “But that ain’t no call for puttin’ a body away or makin’ like they’re mentally incompetent.”

So there is something beyond strange about Uncle Obe. He was definitely “out of it” yesterday, but I assumed it was due to his intense physical therapy session prior to our arrival. Now, it seems, la-la land may be responsible, at least in part.