Leaving Carolina (27 page)

The third time I was interrupted while making his sandwich, I was tempted to do just that.

“Admit it, Piper. You came because of Trinity.”

I startle.

“Uh-huh. The one who’s drivin’ me nuts with all that Cinderella-ing.” He grunts again. “Does she never stop and listen to the quiet? It’s a beautiful sound, I tell you.”

I shrug. “She’s good at what she does.”
When
she stays on task. “Uncle Obe, how did you know it was me at the Fourth of July parade?”

“Why, I was there.”

“So was most everyone, but they think it was Trinity.”

“That’s because they don’t know about your tush.”

“My… tush?”

“You remember. You were maybe three, and I had a sweet little dog named…” His brow crumples. “What was her name? O… O… Oleander! In a mischievous mood you were, and you did the poor thing wrong by stealin’ her steak bone. Got her so worked up she bit you—right back there.”

I do remember, but not this version. There was a little dog, and she
was
named Oleander, as in the highly toxic plant. But I didn’t steal her bone. Uncle Obe enlisted me to demonstrate she wouldn’t
bite if a child took her bone. He didn’t know his “sweet” little dog very well.

“Anyway, the scar from that bite gave you away. I saw it when you passed by in your Lady Godiva getup.”

There it is—my scandalous stunt spoken aloud. As for my getup, it consisted of a “borrowed” horse, a long blond wig, and undies cut down to a thong that I didn’t have the nerve to go without.

“And Trinity took the fall for that ungodly display, lost the trust of her grandparents. And her future.”

“I understand Trinity didn’t deny the rumor.”

He raises his eyebrows. “She’s a fruit of a different stripe.”

That’s an expression I’m not familiar with, probably an Uncle Obe original.

“Regardless, it doesn’t absolve the Pickwicks of wrongdoing.”

My
wrongdoing. “Until Artemis’s call, I didn’t know she had taken the blame.”

“You know now.”

And haven’t done anything about it, though there is a strong likelihood that Spangler will never be my last name.

Uncle Obe sighs. “Don’t go beatin’ yourself up. It will all come right in the end—when I’m good and dead—and no one will know you’re the one who pulled that harebrained stunt.”

I shake my head. “Your will is going to cause people to take a close look at those things that you make restitution for. They’ll find us in it.”
Well, that was all about self-preservation
.

“You’re sayin’ I shouldn’t do a thing?”

I hope my expression isn’t as pained as I feel. “It
would
be easiest to seek God’s forgiveness and let the past lie.”

He looks down at his hands, and when he looks up, fatigue has closed in around his eyes. “I’m burdened, Piper. I’ve asked God to help me put all the madness behind me, but I feel Him movin’ me to do this.”

“Are you sure it’s not Axel moving you?”

Anger returns to his eyes. “My conversations with Axel have opened doors to God I never thought to open, but it’s God who’s movin’ me. Whether or not my family agrees, I’m doing the right thing—absolvin’ them and my… self.” His voice cracks.

I think I know why. “Is this really about a Lady Godiva ride, a statue at the bottom of the lake, cheating the Calhouns out of their land, etcetera?”

His shoulders drop. “Artemis told you about my kids, didn’t he?”

“I’m sorry.”

He rubs a hand across his face. “All right, this is about them too. About puttin my inheritance before them and their mother. About not knowin’ them when I should have.” His eyes moisten. “I did them wrong—set them aside knowin’ if my father found out about them, he would leave the family fortune to charity. In the end, he left everything to me, the one upstanding Pickwick boy.” He shakes his head.

Remembering what Axel told me about how Uncle Obe convinced his father to throw off family expectations and enter the military, I understand his self-loathing. He couldn’t take his own advice. “What happened to your kids and their mother?”

“Your grandfather lingered for years with the illness the doctor said would take him in six months. By the time he passed away, Anita had given up on me.”

“Anita?”

His lips take a turn for the better. “The prettiest woman I ever knew, inside and out.” He sighs. “But my father would not have approved, would have said she was entirely unsuitable as a wife.”

“Why?”

“Part Hispanic. He was prejudiced that way.”

“But Grandpa Gentry forced my dad to marry my mom, and he didn’t approve of her.”

Uncle Obe winces. “Though it’s true your mother wasn’t of the proper social standing, she was Caucasian. With his churching and deep convictions, I do believe he would have had me marry Anita to legitimize our children, but there would have been no money for any Pickwick when he passed away. All of us would have been cut out of the will.”

He momentarily closes his eyes. “I enjoyed a privileged life, Piper, and I wasn’t strong enough to face life without those privileges. And I knew my brothers couldn’t make it either and would need help.”

He has always been there to bail them out.

“That’s why there isn’t much liquidity in the estate and why restitution can’t be made until everything is sold following my death. You understand?”

He’s going to see Artemis in my answer, but there’s no help for it. “I understand it would be painful for you to let go of the estate. What I don’t understand is why you don’t make things right with Anita and your children while you’re living. Contact them, apologize, meet with them to see if anything can be salvaged.”

“I told you, they gave up on me—got tired of waitin’. Antonio was three and Daisy was two the last time I saw them.”

Antonio and Daisy… “It’s never too late—”

“It was too late long ago. Anita left Asheville. The last time she wrote, she told me she was getting married and thought it best that we cease communication.” He clears his throat. “Three months later, my father died—a month after she married. It hurt, but I honored her request.”

He sags, and I have to clasp my hands to keep from putting my arms around him. “But that was thirty years ago. Your children are adults now; it’s
their
decision. Surely they ought to have the chance to know their father.”

He tenses. “You sound like Axel. And aren’t you supposed to be tryin’ to convince me to let the past lie? To keep further shame from the Pickwicks? If it comes out that I fathered Antonio and Daisy, it will mean more mud on the family name.”

Piper Wick the image consultant heartily agrees, but Piper the niece aches for him and all the lost years. “This is different, Uncle Obe. They’re your children.”

Struggle twists his face. “I agreed to cease all communication, and I’ve kept my word despite being sorely tempted to break it.”

“Is their mother still alive?”

He sags further. “I don’t know. For ten years after they left Asheville, I had a private investigator check in on her and the children. As much as I resented her husband, he was good to them. And the report never changed, so I let them go. I have no idea what path their lives have taken.”

“Then you’ll go to the grave not knowing what became of them, hoping the money you leave them will make up for your absence from their lives?”

He shifts his gaze to the windows.

I wait, but he doesn’t come back to me. “Are you all right?”

“You’ve given me a lot to ponder, Piper. Now I’d like to be left alone.”

I stand. “Thank you for talking with me, Uncle Obe. Good night.”

He continues to stare out the window, as if the life he was too weak to claim as his own is staring back at him from the other side… taunting him with what might have been.

Lord, please don’t let that be me thirty years from now. Don’t let me settle for something that is shiny today but will turn fluid tomorrow and slip through my fingers to leave me wanting
.

“Grant!” I jump up from the edge of my mattress. “I can’t believe I got through.”

“Caller ID. I knew it was you.”

So what does that say about when he doesn’t answer?
“You got my message?”

“I did, and it was annoyingly cryptic. You should have left a detailed message. It’s bothered me all day.”

Had you called me back, I could have cleared up everything
. Reminding myself of the conclusion I drew earlier when I went for a run—that until he proposes
and
I accept, he is first a client—I hold my tongue.

“So what else do I need to know about your past before I decide whether or not a serious relationship with you is possible?”

Ooh! I pull my iPhone from my ear and clasp it against my
chest as I struggle to hold back words my partners would not approve of.
You are a professional. Act like one. Talk like one
. I return the phone to my ear.

“Are you there, Piper?”

“Yes, and what I had to tell you has no bearing on the matter at hand, which is putting that nasty rumor to rest.”

After a long silence, he says, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“A simple one.” I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “You are going to go on a date and do all the things that respectable, highly heterosexual bachelors do.”
His
words, not mine.

He quiets but finally says, “That does sound simple. I can do it.”

“Good.” For
him
. “Now all we need to do is find you a date.”

“Actually, I met this woman at a fund-raiser last week. Gorgeous.”

Well, I feel better.

“She has your hair color but longer, more feminine.”

I grab a hank of red hair and pull it forward. I could grow it longer…

“I’d say she’s about twenty-five. And connected—the daughter of a tire tycoon.”

I’m afraid to ask. “Did you get her number?”

“No.”

Okay, I do feel better, somewhat.

“But she shouldn’t be hard to track down. I’ll put my assistant on it. You’re the best, Piper.”

If “best” is defined by the rather obvious solution of him going
on a date, anyone could do that. I can’t believe I am being paid for this. “Thanks, Grant.”

“I’ll call you.” He hangs up.

I set my phone on the dresser and look at my face in the mirror. Pretty, even if I did sweat off most of my makeup during my run. And while my red hair isn’t long, it’s feminine, the length a good fit for my face and figure.

Drawing on my inner image consultant, I point at my reflection. “U.S. Congressman Grant Spangler is your client, a well-paying client you cannot afford to lose. Remember that. If something more is meant to be, it will be. Now be cool.”

I’m cool. Everything under control. However, a moment later I fall back on my bed and peer upward. “Is he part of Your plan for me or not, Lord?” And what about Axel?

M
y partners are getting antsy. It has been a week since Uncle Obe returned home and two weeks since I arrived in Pickwick, and I’m no nearer to settling the matter of the will. Whether I push to leave the will as written or try to convince my uncle to reconcile with his children, he sets his jaw and says he’s thinking on it or gripes about Artemis picking this most inopportune time to take his wife on a cruise.

Still, Artemis calls every day to check on my progress and say how disappointed he is with my “glorified” PR skills. The same goes for Luc, except his calls come twice a day. Despite my bristling, I’m also disillusioned by my inability to accomplish what I’m here for. After all, my clients need me.

Last night, as I pulled the covers over my head, Cootchie called. It was nothing pressing—a little advice on how to handle the positive feedback from her interviews and a strong recommendation that she not talk with the seediest tabloid in the U.S. Still, she was upset at not being able to meet with me.

So today is the day. For the sake of my career and peace of mind (the memory of Axel’s kiss is showing on four to eight screens daily depending on how often I have to avoid him), I am going to get an answer out of Uncle Obe.

“Ready?” I step into his bedroom and smile when he turns his thoughtful expression from the carved handle of his cane to me.

“More than ready.” He pushes up off the mattress.

Suppressing the impulse to offer assistance, which he calls demeaning, I stand in the doorway as he transfers his weight to the cane. Though the physical therapist is pleased with his progress and supportive of his independence, I worry that my uncle is pushing too hard. As if he did have a massive heart attack and his days are numbered.

“See?” He works his way toward me, strain in his jaw despite the smile. “Getting’ better everyday.”

“You are.” Ooh, I did it again—drawled the
a
and practically dropped the
r
from
are
. If I’m not careful, the time spent with Uncle Obe and Trinity will require emergency vocal rehab when I return to L.A.

Uncle Obe pauses. “Have you seen Axel this mornin’?”

Too much of him while he was putting handrails on the ramp he built to give Uncle Obe access to his garden. Not that I meant to watch him through the kitchen windows, but my working breakfast of making calls to East Coast clients placed me firmly in his orbit.