Restless in Carolina by Tamara Leigh Page A

head opposite. “Be gentle.”
    “I … but … this …” As I turn the corner of the statue, Piper says sharply, “Where’s Uncle Obe?”
    That stops me. Surely he’s here, having come around the statue ahead of me. However, when I scan the area, there’s no sign of him. But I was only momentarily distracted by J.C. Or maybe not …
    “He was just in front of me.”
    The concern on Piper’s face doubles. “He’s wandered off again.”
    On my watch. But he can’t have gone far. He has to be near. I look across the street to where J.C. sits, but my uncle is not among those strolling the sidewalk in front of Church on the Square, the boutique, or the ice creamery. I turn to the west side of the square. Not in front of the gift shop, Maggie’s auction house, or the coffee—
    Back up! That’s him going into Copper’s Beanery and Lending Library. “I see him!” I show Maggie’s dress no mercy as I cut diagonally across the park. Fortunately, the shoes are flats. Not so fortunately, I’ll bet my little scene doesn’t escape J.C. But at least he won’t witness my opossum-toting side.
    I enter Mr. Copper’s shop and am assailed by the scent of ground coffee beans. Though the place is a local favorite, especially since the recent opening of a chain coffee shop forced him to renovate and add the lending library, today it’s busier than usual owing to the dedication.
    I stand on tiptoe and spot my uncle in the back corner. All the tables are occupied, but he stands in the middle of the area frowning from one table to the next.
    “Uncle Obe!” I call but am drowned out by the buzz of customers and the hiss, grind, and roar of the monstrous espresso machine. Squeezing past those in line, I slowly advance across the shop. As I near, a woman with dark auburn hair, who appears to be about my age, rises from a two-person table. She says something to my uncle and gestures for him to join her.
    He stares at her for a long, socially inappropriate moment before nodding.
    I’m grateful for her compassion, though it’s almost unnecessary. No sooner are they seated than I reach them. I claim my uncle with a peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry we were separated, Uncle Obe.”
    “Were we?”
    “Just for a moment.” I look at the woman. “Thank you for offering my uncle a seat. It’s been a long day, and he’s tired.”
    Her smile is tentative, gaze faulty. Still, she’s pretty in a Catherine Zeta-Jones way. Of course, that’s an understatement, since anyone in a Catherine Zeta-Jones way is beyond pretty.
    “I imagine he is.” There isn’t an ounce of the South in her voice. “I attended the d-d-”—cheeks coloring, she swallows—“I attended the dedica-cation.”
    Either she’s terribly shy or it’s me. Though I’m used to bringing out the nervous in people (that Wesley woman was an exception), it doesn’t happen as frequently since the shedding of the dreads. Too, today I’m dressed “civilly.” Terribly shy, then.
    “It”—her smile is apologetic—“ran a bit long.”
    Not my uncle’s fault. That honor goes to our yackety mayor. “Well, I’m glad you could attend. It was a special day for our family.”
    Her gaze becomes more certain, and I wonder if the glimmer in her eyes is silent laughter. “The Pickwicks.”
    Our reputation for dysfunction precedes us again. “That’s right.” I touch my uncle’s arm. “Time to head home, Uncle Obe. Piper’s waiting.”
    “Oh, Piper,” the woman says. “I have an appointment with her—your cousin, I believe—on Monday.”
    I look more closely at her. “For?”
    She glances at Uncle Obe, presses her lips together, and raises her dark, thinly shaped eyebrows.
    Oh.
That
. I forgot Piper is seeking a live-in caregiver. Maybe compassion wasn’t what made this woman rescue Uncle Obe. Maybe she wanted to see what she was getting herself into.
    She stands and sticks out a hand. “M-Mary Folsom.”
    Hopefully her caregiving skills are more