Restless in Carolina by Tamara Leigh Page B

certain than her speech. Uncle Obe may be the best in the line of Pickwick men, but when his streak of stubborn meets the disease of dementia, he’s difficult to handle.
    I shake Mary’s hand and am surprised by her firm grip. “Bridget Buchanan.”
    As we part hands, her eyes shift to my ring finger, and my heart goes bump. What if she thinks I’m divorced? That Easton left me?
Since when do you care what people think?
    Since I took off my ring. It wasn’t hard to go from being Bridget Pickwick to Bridget Buchanan, wife of Easton. Hard was going from wife to widow, and now widow without a ring that might make somethink I’ve shed my husband and his memory as easily as my dreads. That fear visits me when someone who doesn’t know about Easton glances at my left hand, and I long to pull the ring from my shirt and say, “See, not divorced! Happily married. Unhappily widowed.” But I don’t. And I won’t. If Mary Folsom is hired, she’ll learn more about our family than she cares to.
    “It was nice m-meeting you,” she says.
    Maybe that’s not shyness but a stutter. “And you, Mary.” I turn again and cup Uncle Obe’s elbow to urge him to his feet.
    Frowning at the woman, he says, “It was good to meet you, Marie.”
    She appears taken aback, but while I expect her to correct him to “Mary,” her slightly gaped mouth turns into a smile. “I hope to see you again, Mr. Pickwick.”
    “That would be n-nice.”
    They share a speech impediment, though his is dementia based. I give Mary a parting smile and step aside to allow my uncle to precede me across the coffee shop. It takes some zigging and zagging to get past the press of customers, but finally we exit onto the sidewalk.
    “Pretty woman,” Uncle Obe says.
    “She is.” I peer across the square at the church where J.C.—
    He’s gone, and I’m part disappointment that I missed an opportunity to connect, part relief that I won’t have to hide Reggie after all.
    “Over here, Bridget!”
    Piper stands in front of the old theater Maggie recently purchased from the Pickwick estate to serve as her auction house. On the other side of her is the Jeep that Axel has pulled to the curb. Her face is anxious, and for good reason.
    J.C. is with her.
    As I stare at them, he looks up from where Reggie’s head peeks above the fanny pack Piper gingerly holds before her. His eyes no longer hidden by sunglasses, he smiles. He knows, and all because I had to chase after Uncle Obe. Which is my fault—and J.C.’s! What does he think he’s doing, showing up here after weeks of silence and without a word of warning? Come to think of it, this whole thing is more his fault than mine. Maybe I will give him a piece of my mind.
    Don’t go burning bridges that may still be passable
.
    I force a smile for J.C., who shifts his gaze to Uncle Obe and frowns. Doubtless, he’s drawn a connection between my flight across the park and the man at my side. For fear he’ll identify Uncle Obe’s affliction and use it to his advantage in acquiring the property, I determine to avoid introductions.
    “Piper and Axel are over there, Uncle Obe.” I ease him to the right.
    “My godson,” he says as Axel exits the driver’s side. “Goodness, that boy’s gotten big.”
    Oh dear.
    Leaning into me, Uncle Obe allows me to guide him down the sidewalk, which makes me sad. I wish he would grumble and shake me off. But not today. Maybe not ever again.
    No, it’s just been a long day. Tomorrow he’ll be more himself. I hope.
Okay, Lord, I give in, but don’t think this means we’re good. Here goes: Please don’t let my hope be in vain
.
    As Uncle Obe and I continue forward, Axel moves toward us with a slight hitch that draws one’s eye to his prosthetic leg, a mechanical marvel he is unashamed of. Rightly so.
    As sometimes happens, the smile in the middle of his goatee makes me regret I wasn’t ready to reset my life when he came to Pickwick several years ago. He’s a good man, but he