Restless in Carolina by Tamara Leigh

here.”
    “You’re a sly one.”
    “Don’t tell my mother.”
    I catch my breath. Is he doing a bit of that back-in-time traveling that seems to be happening more frequently?
    “Something wrong?”
    “No!” I sweep a hand toward the statue. “I’m just impressed by all you’ve done. And I’m proud of you. We all are.”
    His smile comes out again, only to turn down. “Not all. They didn’t come.”
    His estranged son and daughter.
    “Piper sent invitations, but … nothing.”
    I long to tell him he’ll hear from them soon, but I can’t keep feeding into his hope.
    “My prayers aren’t being answered, Bridget.”
    Welcome to the club—
Oh, stop your woe is me-ing! This is about Uncle Obe and his last wish. A dying wish
.
    “I’m startin’ to think I might never see them again.”
    Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing since they appear unwilling to forgive.
    “Bridget?” He lays a hand on my shoulder.
    “Yes?”
    “I know it’s not your … thing … but would you pray for me?”
    It’s more than “not my thing.” It’s not
me
, Easton Buchanan’s widow. Unfortunately, the only way out is to hurt Uncle Obe. Or fake it. I give his hand a squeeze. “All right, but I warn you, it’s been a long time.”
    His face lightens. “Too long.”
    Is he using his dementia to his advantage again? Regardless, his need is real. “Okay. I think we bow our heads, right?”
    My attempt at funny bounces off him. “You can. I’m gonna look up.”
    Not a bad idea, especially if it keeps onlookers from getting the wrong idea about the state of my faith. Give them an inch, and they’ll be walking the quarter mile up my driveway to talk me into church.
Er, in case You get any ideas, God, this doesn’t change a thing. This time, I really am just the messenger
.
    Focusing on the blue overhead, I say softly, “God, You know my uncle’s heart and the hearts of his children. I pray You will give them peace and restore them to one another.”
Of course, knowing You, that’s asking a lot
. “Amen.” I pull my hand from Uncle Obe’s.
    He drops his hand from my shoulder. “That was sh-short, kind of sweet.”
    “My specialty. Now let’s rejoin the others.”
    He steps ahead of me. As I follow him around the statue, I once again have the feeling of being watched and look over my shoulder. That’s when I see him where he sits on a bench in front of the church. He’s here. In Pickwick. The dog!

8

    H ere’s my chance to tell J. C. Dirk what I think of his big-city manners, his superior attitude, his—
    Whoa! Bad manners aside, this could be good. What else would he be doing here if not to take me up on my proposal? Or at least consider it more fully? This means I’ll have to hold on to that piece of mind I was going to give him.
    Though I can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, I know from his closed-lipped smile to the palm-out hand he raises in acknowledgment that he’s looking at me.
    Suddenly grateful for Maggie dressing me—not that I would have worn
ratty
jeans to the dedication—I turn toward him. And feel a wiggle at my middle. Reggie. In a fanny pack around a silk dress.
    I hold up a finger, turn, and loosen the pack’s clasp as I hurry around the statue. Piper is the only one of the family who remains, and a look around reveals the others are heading across the park.
    “Axel went to get the Jeep so Uncle Obe won’t have far to walk.” Piper hooks her straight red hair out of her eyes.
    “Good.” I extend the fanny pack, out of which Reggie has stuck her pink nose. “I’m sorry about this, and I know you’d rather not, but he’s here.”
    “What?” She shakes her head and peers past me. “Where—?”
    “J. C. Dirk. The developer. Here.” I snatch up her hand and push the pack into it.
    “Oh no!” As she thrusts it back at me, my opossum’s head emerges; however, when my critter gets a gander at who’s holding her, she goes back under.
    “I won’t be long.” I