Leaving Carolina (32 page)

Not because the church is overrun by Pickwicks. Not because Pastor Thurgood retired several years ago. No, it’s for fear that once I step into the sanctuary of my youth, I may reconnect with my hometown on a more meaningful level than is good for L.A.-bound Piper Wick. Then there’s God’s voice, which has always sounded clearest to me when I attend services. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is, as if we’re meeting one-on-one in the only place where He can get my full attention.

“I won’t let anyone bite you.”

I snap my head around.

Axel pushes the passenger seat forward and reaches a hand to me. I accept it, and he steadies me as I unfold from the backseat and step down beside him.
So
glad I wore the dressy capris I purchased at Le Roco Roco this past Friday, when Maggie talked me into going into town with her while Devyn and Uncle Obe hunkered over a chess game. The outing was surprisingly fun, in an alternate universe way.

Axel releases me, and disappointment is my middle name.
It is not! Your attraction for him is merely a wrinkle in the big scheme of things. Once you return to L.A., it will all iron out
. Unfortunately, the trips I’ll be making to Pickwick to orchestrate the liquidation of Uncle Obe’s assets will make it more difficult, but I will forget how Blue Axel’s eyes are and how nice he kisses in the rain…

“We’re late,” Uncle Obe says.

Realizing I’m staring at Axel, I cross to where my uncle stands on the sidewalk, his cane planted on the cement.

“Bad wig,” he says, looking past me.

“What?” I follow his gaze to the Pickwick Arms and catch sight of a blond woman just as she turns away. He’s right. Her wig
is
bad, and not just because it sits crooked on her head. Kind of reminds me of—

No “kind of” about it. Recalling the picture on my desk in L.A., I see the woman behind Grant—the one who asked so many tough questions, wore a crooked blond wig, and had a New England accent…

Hello, Janet Farr/Jane Farredy. So you’re still digging, are you? You really ought to keep up with current events since Grant and I are no more
.

“We aren’t gonna stand out here all day, are we?” Uncle Obe says when Axel joins us on the sidewalk.

“Let’s go.” I walk alongside my uncle as we head for the ramp at the church’s side entrance. Axel follows us into the lobby, and the muffled sound of singing greets us. As does Uncle Obe’s nearest neighbor and year-round Christmas light enthusiast, Bronson Biggs. Despite his name, which one would expect to belong to a hulk of a man, Bronson is little. And age, which has put a curl in his shoulders, makes him more so. Guessing he’s barely five feet tall and a hundred and ten pounds on a “buffet” day, I return his smile.

“Piper Pickwick, it’s mighty good to have you back.” He clasps my hand. “I’ve been prayin’ for you.”

I blink. “You…have?”

“Yep, ever since your name popped up on the prayer chain.”

I was on a prayer chain?

Uncle Obe touches my arm. “I called in a prayer request when you got into that poison ivy.”

“Oh.” I know I shouldn’t wish he hadn’t done it, but it makes me feel a part of this community that I am not a part of. “Thank you.”

“So, no nasty rash?” Mr. Biggs says.

I turn up my hands. “Either I’m immune to poison ivy, or the lotion I used to remove the oil did its job.”

His brow lowers. “Are you discountin’ all the prayers I said for you?”

Oh dear. “I’m sorry, Mr. Biggs. I’m sure it was the prayers. So, how is Mrs. Biggs?”

His brow eases. “Mrs. Biggs is fine, though you’ll find she’s scarce as hen’s teeth this morning.” No sooner do I translate that to mean she’s not here than he exclaims, “Teeth!” His parched, whiskered face jerks as if by puppet strings. “Why, that’s funny.”

That
I cannot translate.

“Mrs. Biggs ain’t here ’cause she couldn’t find
her
teeth. Get it? Hen’s teeth. Mrs. Biggs’s teeth.”

I glance at Axel, who certainly gets it with
his
show of teeth, then Uncle Obe, who can’t have gotten it with his attention on the doors of the sanctuary.

I squeeze Mr. Biggs’s hand. “That is funny.”

He releases me. “I’d best seat you before Pastor Stanky starts pounding the podium.”

Stinky? Surely he didn’t call—?

Axel’s breath in my ear makes me catch mine. “Stankowitz.
Damien Stankowitz. The older members had an issue with
Damien—”

No doubt due to the movie
The Omen
.

“—so they started calling him Stankowitz, which has become Stanky.”

As Mr. Biggs opens a door to the sanctuary, causing the singing to pour out, I look up at Axel.

“With his blessing,” he adds.

“I see.” And I do a moment later when the congregation, numbering a hundred and fifty or so, lower to their seats, and a man in his early forties strides to the podium.

As we traverse the center aisle, causing heads to turn, I catch a wave. It’s Devyn, where she peers past Maggie. Three pews ahead, my eyes meet those of Martha, formerly of Martha’s Meat and Three Eatery. I recognize others, most of whom nod and smile.

Here come the warm fuzzies. I am no longer part of this community, and yet—

Trinity comes into view, looking as if she might burst at seeing me here. The warm fuzzies take flying leaps when she jerks her head toward the elderly, pinch-faced woman at her side. Ugh. I still haven’t talked to her grandmother, and every day Trinity asks me to make good on my promise, but I haven’t had time. Of course, neither do I look forward to the encounter for fear my support of Trinity’s innocence won’t be enough and her grandmother will probe as Trinity failed to do.

“Good morning, beloved ones of God!”

I turn my attention to the pastor just as his eyes light on Uncle
Obe. An instant later, he’s bounding forward. “Why, Obadiah”—he lays a hand on my uncles shoulder—“it’s good to have you back.”

I expect Uncle Obe to shrink in the spotlight, but he’s all grin and chuckle. “Good to be back, Stanky. And thank you again for visiting me while I was in the hospital.”

“My pleasure.” The man nods at Axel and looks to me. “You must be Piper.” He thrusts a hand forward. “Pastor Stankowitz—Stanky, if you like.”

Catching Luc’s eye on the left, I’m struck by how strange this man’s behavior is. He ought to be preaching, not greeting the conspicuously late. I accept his handshake. “I’m sorry we’re late.”

“Not a problem.” He looks to Mr. Biggs. “Thank you, Bronson.”

Bronson ambles away.

“Well, come on down here.” Pastor Stanky falls into step with Uncle Obe as they head for what I hope isn’t the front pew.

“You’ll like him,” Axel says, bending near. “He’s spontaneous.”

“What makes you think I like spontaneous?” I whisper back.

“You would if you tried.”

His smile is catching, but as I give in to it, I feel Luc’s gaze. Though he shaved his mustache, he still has the shifty-eyed look, especially when he narrows his lids at me. On the one hand, I’m thankful he finally stopped badgering my voice mail; on the other, I’m suspicious. Hoping he isn’t up to anything, I look away and run aground on Artemis’s rumpled brow. He is not happy with my solution to the will dilemma, so any help he has given has been with mutterings of, “Don’t know why I bothered to call ya, Piper Pickwick—pardon me,
Wick
.”

As Pastor Stanky returns to the podium, I seat myself beside Uncle Obe—in the front pew—and Axel settles on my opposite side. While the distance between us is respectable, I scoot nearer my uncle in an attempt to dislodge any eyes that might be boring into the back of my head.

Pastor Stanky jumps into today’s sermon, and I look up in anticipation of the presentation of key ideas on a screen. Though Pickwick is in the midst of renewal, that doesn’t extend to technology where Church on the Square is concerned. And I’m glad. This sermon is about spending money wisely and using it to do good, and Uncle Obe is all ears. When the pastor references 1 Timothy 6:18, which encourages Christians to be rich in good deeds and generous and willing to share, Uncle Obe murmurs, “Amen.” When Proverbs 15:16 is cited, about it being better to have little with the fear of the Lord than great wealth with turmoil, Uncle Obe adds, “Amen to that too.” And when the sermon concludes with Luke 6:38, which tells us that if we give, it will be given to us, Uncle Obe pats his Bible. “Better believe it.”

Soon I stand with the others to sing the closing hymn, and then we all try to leave at once. Except Trinity, who goes against the tide to reach us where we bring up the rear. As she nears, I get a good look at her and am surprised by her transformation from Cinderella to Susie Churchgoer. Her dark brown hair is pulled back from her face with a tortoiseshell headband, and the hair that sweeps her shoulders has a curl to it as opposed to its usual kink. She’s also wearing makeup, and the softly smudged eyeliner makes her green eyes pop. She looks pretty.

She halts before me, lifts my hand, and presses a piece of paper
into it. “Don’t forget now.” Then she wiggles her way back through the crowd.

“What was that about?” Uncle Obe asks. While he was pleased when I told him
I
plan to make restitution to Trinity, I didn’t tell him I agreed to talk to her grandmother on her behalf for fear he might try to convince me to ditch the philanthropy angle.

“Probably just a list of cleaning supplies that are running low.” I feel Axel’s gaze. Has he figured out yet which wrong I’m righting? I crane my neck to see past those ahead. “If you don’t mind, I’ll push on so I can beat the rush to the ladies’ room.” I slip away, but when I step into the ladies’ room, there’s a long line. As no one looks familiar, I unfold the paper.

So today is the day I pay a visit to Trinity’s grandmother.

When I emerge from the ladies’ room five minutes later, the foyer is empty, and through the wide-open double doors I see Pastor Stanky talking with a group of teenagers. Beyond him, two elderly couples have their heads together, likely discussing where they should enjoy their after-church lunch.

A hand claps my shoulder. “We need to talk.”

I take offense at Luc’s self-satisfied smile.
How am I supposed to
make peace with someone like him, Lord?
I force a smile. “Uncle Obe is waitin’ for me.” Ack! I did it again—dropped a
g!

“It won’t take but a minute.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Dementia.”

The word stops my lips in their tracks.
He’s guessing…looking for a reaction to see if he’s in the right vicinity. I’d say a little confusion is in order
. “Why, Luc, I—?”

“I know all about Dr. Dyer and the diagnosis he made three months ago.”

How did he find out? Not Artemis or Axel, and I can’t believe Pastor Stanky said anything.

“Mentally incompetent, Piper. He has no business making changes to his will, and I’m going to see that he doesn’t—with or without your help.”

I fight my anger, not only because I know better, but because of my increased awareness of God in this place. “Without,” I say.

He removes a card from his jacket. “This is the attorney I’ve retained, and first thing Monday morning, he’s going to subpoena Uncle Obe’s records and put together a case that will preserve our inheritance.”

Peacemaking, my foot! Before I can talk myself down, I snatch the card from him, tear it up, and stuff the pieces into his pocket. “You will do no such thing. It’s Uncle Obe’s money, and he’ll decide what to do with it.”

He snorts. “You’re delusional if you think I’m just going to—”

“I don’t think. I know.”
Step back; think this through
.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”
You haven’t thought it through. Take a breather, walk it off
. “If you push this, I can almost guarantee you won’t see a dime.”
You’re not listening, are you?

Luc sighs. “You live in your little ‘do right’ world, and I’ll live in mine.” He pats his pocket. “Tomorrow.”

I catch his arm. “Let it go!”

He tugs to free himself, but I grip him harder.

Uh, remember Cootchie?
“How are you going to explain your actions when the doctor says that Uncle Obe
is
competent to make decisions about his will?”

He thrusts his face close to mine. “We’re talking
dementia
, Piper, as in ‘out of his mind.’ In… com… pe… tent.”

“I don’t believe he is. Not yet.”

He rolls his eyes. “We’ll see.”

I don’t let go, though he once more starts past me. “You don’t know about Antonio and Daisy, do you?”
You have crossed the line
.

“Nope.” He pries my fingers loose. “Dementia is all I need to know.”

“They’re his kids.”
You are SO Cootchie!
“And they have more of a right to an inheritance than any of us.”
Lord, please work this for the good of those who love You!

Luc stiffens and, after a long moment, points a finger at me. “You’re spinning, aren’t you, spidey woman? Trying to manipulate me, convince me that black is white.”

“No. Uncle Obe has a son and daughter near our age. If you push this, don’t be surprised if he leaves everything to them.”

His expression wavers. “If that’s true, he can hardly do it if he’s mentally incompetent.”

I prop my hands on my hips. “Number one, I don’t believe you can prove he’s mentally incompetent. Number two, I don’t think there’s a judge who wouldn’t allow his children the inheritance Uncle Obe wants them to have.”

“You may be right, but only if they truly are his.”

Recalling the day my uncle poured out his sad tale, I say, “They are his, and if necessary, a DNA test will prove it.”

Luc stares at me for what seems minutes, but finally he lowers his nose from on high.

“So leave Uncle Obe his dignity or kiss it all good-bye.”