Leaving Carolina (14 page)

“Apparently so.”

“He can’t be all bad, then.”

I smile. “Well, it’s getting dark, and I want to explore the mansion like I keep promising myself.” Too, there’s the devotional I have yet to make time for, unless I count the prayer time with Uncle Obe. Hmm. That was pretty intense. “Tell Rufus hi for me when you go out again.”

“Of course. Goodnight, dear.”

I disconnect and dial my voice mail. Still nothing from Grant, but that doesn’t mean Mom is right about him. He’s just busy.

Pushing thoughts of him aside, I embark on an exploration of the mansion. It’s an adventure in dust and cobwebs and neglect and unexpectedly gives rise to a memory of when I was seven or so and Uncle Obe invited Mom and me to join him for Christmas Eve dinner. Every goose bump raised by the chill walk from the cottage melted when I saw who was waiting for me—Uncle Obe in Santa’s clothing. Of course, at the time I was certain it was Santa, and I had further proof the next morning when I found Daddy under the Christmas tree. He took us home to be a family again, and I was so happy.

It didn’t last long.

E
rrol stands guard at the foot of the stairs again—the last place I expected to see him, since Axel didn’t come knocking last night. Convinced that Artemis must have collected Mrs. Bleeker’s “big boy,” I went to bed happy to be rid of the dog. Obviously, Axel let him in. I want that key!

I descend the last steps and, as Errol dances around me, head for the front door. Sure enough, once I coax him outside, there are more dribbles to mop up. And I do, all the while promising myself that a housekeeper is in Uncle Obe’s near future, especially considering what I found last night. Though most of the rooms are no longer in use, that’s no reason not to take a vacuum and furniture polish to them from time to time.

I go the bagel route again, this time smearing it with peanut butter. Chewing thoroughly to give my pituitary gland time to alert me to the feeling of fullness, I open the back door. I walk out into the morning air, and I’m struck by the beauty of Uncle Obe’s garden and the scents that wend toward me as if by way of a calligrapher’s pen—the extravagant sweep of sweet lilac and spicy viburnum, the bold stroke of spring roses and glorious magnolias, and the subtle curlicues of spearmint and basil.

Guessing my heightened reaction has something to do with the twelve years I’ve put on since I was last here, I step to the path that lazily winds among clusters of blues and reds and yellows and oranges.

When I pause beneath a Bradford pear tree at the center of the garden, all that’s left of my bagel is crumbs. I peer into the leafy branches and sweep back to an eight-year-old Piper clinging to limbs of smaller diameter. I shouldn’t have been in Uncle Obe’s garden, as Mom said the best way to show him gratitude for opening up the cottage to us was to honor his privacy. But I was bored and certain that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, as my father was fond of saying. If I hadn’t panicked when a limb snapped underfoot, I could have been out of the tree and halfway back to the cottage before Uncle Obe made it down the path, but I froze.

“Piper Pickwick.” He sighs. “I am particularly fond of that tree, and you’re busting it up. Come down here.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll fall.”

“Not if you come down the way you went up.”

“I don’t remember the way I came up.”

“So you’ll be sleeping up there tonight?”

Wishing he were normal like other kids’ uncles who would have scaled the tree to bring their poor little niece down, I say, “No, I want to sleep in my own bed.”

“Then you’ll have to work out a way to get down.” He turns and tosses over his shoulder, “Don’t be breakin’ any more branches.”

I pray for my courage to return. It doesn’t, but Uncle Obe does—
with a ladder. I scramble down, mumble my thanks, and run as fast as my sturdy legs will carry me back to the cottage
.

So long ago… I lay a hand on the trunk that is far rougher than it was then. Even trees get wrinkles, deeply craggy wrinkles. Considering it’s not much older than me, I should be grateful mine can still be classified as “fine lines.”

“I am not chasing you!” Axel’s voice sounds from a distance.

Squinting against the rising sun, I scan the cottage, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

So who is he
not
chasing so early in the morning? Might he be entertaining someone who spent the night? I hurry back onto the garden path and shoo away any attempt by the beauty I pass to impinge on my senses. Opening Uncle Obe’s eyes to the kind of person he’s allowing to influence him might not be so hard after all.

“I mean it,” Axel calls. “You’ve worn me out.”

I break into a run. If what’s happening up there is what I think it is, I could be winging back to L.A. before long.

“That’s it, bring it here.”

Bring what where?

As I hurry up the grassy rise, I mentally steel myself for the debauchery to which I may be an unwitting—sort of—witness.

At the top of the hill sits the cottage. Seeing it up close makes my heart tug, but I shake the sentiment. It’s Axel and his shenanigans I need to focus on.

“Good boy!” he calls as I head around the side of the cottage.

Boy?

“Go get it!”

Rounding the corner, I glimpse Axel with his arm flung out
and a blur of fur hurtling toward me. Then something knocks me backward.

Black is my new favorite color…

“Piper?”

“Umm?”

“Open your eyes.”

Why? I’m content, except for a pulsing above my right eye. Actually, it’s more like a throb. And it stings.

I startle at two sharp pats to my cheek. “Open your eyes.”

I let in just enough light to confirm the identity of the one whose face is directly above mine. “Did you just slap me?” And is that slurred voice mine?

Axel nods. “A necessary evil.”

Evil, yes, but necessary? The throb above my right eye begins to pound, and I squeeze that lid closed to ease the pain. “What do you mean necessary?”

“The stick hit you straight on.”

Peering at his wavering face through my watery left eye, I touch my swollen right temple. “That was a stick?” I would have said it was a lead pipe.

His mouth turns down. “A big one.”

I consider my red-tinged fingers. “You threw a stick at me?”

From where he’s down on his haunches, he leans nearer. And I have half a mind (that
is
possible under the circumstances) to push him away.

“Your pupils appear to be the same size.” He draws back.

I lift my head, but the world tips on its edge. “What do my pupils have to do with you throwing a stick at me?”

“I didn’t throw it
at you
. I threw it for Errol. You came around the side of the cottage as I released, and my throw knocked you out.”

To say the least. I
am
bleeding and—“It was Errol you were talking to?”

He inclines his head. “I do live here alone and, besides your uncle, rarely have visitors.”

I’m too muddled to recall exactly what I heard, but something tells me it should have made perfect sense that his one-sided conversation was with a dog. So relieved that he doesn’t suspect what I suspected.

“Did you think I had a woman up here?”

What is with this guy? “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.” For a moment, he looks alarmingly severe, but then he grins. “And here I thought you dropped by to check on me like a good neighbor.”

His mock disappointment tempts me to squirm. Or maybe it’s his smile—not! I am merely incapacitated. And the sooner I distance myself, the better. I push up on my elbows, but darkness drags at me again.

“Easy!” Axel grips my shoulder.

“If everything would stop moving…”

“Lie back down.”

“I’m all right.” I sit up. My head feels like it’s about to bust its seams. I probe the lump. “Do I need stitches?”

“Not likely. The cut isn’t deep.” Axel looks pointedly at my hand. “But if you keep that up, you might need antibiotics.”

I pull my hand from my head and consider my dirty fingers. “Oh.”

He stands, almost fluidly despite his bum leg, and reaches to me. “Let’s get it iced and cleaned.”

His arms are bare. My eyes travel up a thick wrist and forearm, across a defined tricep, and onto the solid deltoid that thrusts out from the armhole of his sleeveless T-shirt. He looks powerful, like a heavyweight boxer—

“Piper?”

There’s a frown between his eyes, but in the depths of the Blue shines a glint of…interest.

Why are you gawking, Piper?! He is not your type. See any resemblance to Grant? None. This is a different breed of man—too broad, too rugged, and from his woodsy smell, he probably doesn’t own a single bottle of cologne. In short, he’s sophistication-challenged
.

Right. Floundering for a way to explain my behavior, I blurt out, “No tattoos.”

The interest in his eyes flickers. “Is that what you were looking for?”

“Of course.” I nod, which makes my head hurt more. “I mean, what else? You were in the military, and military guys have tattoos.”

“Standard issue, hmm?”

“Apparently not, because you don’t appear to have any.” Am I babbling? “Unless you keep yours hidden, which defeats the point of having a tattoo—you know, symbolic muscle flexing.”

It’s his mouth that flexes into a smile. “I don’t have any tattoos.” He reaches nearer. “Now let’s take care of your cut.”

I search his eyes, but the interest that was there is gone. Still, I should decline his offer, and I would if I weren’t so shaky. I thrust a hand in his general direction, and his big, warm fingers close around mine, causing my pulse to speed-It did not! If it’s going to do any speeding because of a man’s touch, it will be for Grant. I teeter as Axel pulls me upright, but he steps closer and slides his other arm around my waist. And there goes my pulse again.

“Lean on me.”

And risk a speeding ticket?

“What’s wrong?” Now his breath is in my ear.

I look around. Wow, his eyes are
really
Blue. “Er, what about your injury?”

His mouth constricts. “I assure you, I’m fully functional.”

My first thought is to tell him I wasn’t questioning his manhood, but my second is that I can’t tell him the truth—that he’s affecting me.

“Let’s get you inside.” Taking most of my weight, he walks forward.

“Inside?” I glance at the back door of the cottage.

“Would you prefer that I collect your pistol first?”

Actually, I would. Or am I being ridiculous? After all, if he had illicit designs, he could have done something before now. Not only have we been alone several times, but he has a key that allows him access when I’m at my most vulnerable.

“Well?”

And I could probably outrun him considering that hitch of his.

“Piper?”

And it’s not as if he just rolled into town and has no history here.

“Piper!”

And Uncle Obe trusts him. “Ow!” I clap a hand to my cheek. “You slapped me again.”

Axel raises his eyebrows. “That was a pat. And you looked dazed.”

“I was thinking!”

“And in the meantime, your bump is swelling. Do you want help or not?”

I nearly decline. “All right.”

He repositions his hand lower on my waist—
ripple, ripple—
and walks me forward. Though the movement intensifies the throb at my temple, I’m half grateful because it distracts me from all that inane rippling.

Finally we reach the single step, and Axel practically lifts me onto it. As he pulls the screen door open, a bowl of dog food catches my eye. “What happened to Errol?”

He nods over his shoulder. “There.”

Sure enough, the big lug lies on the far side of the yard gnawing on a stick—probably the one that knocked me out. Something is very wrong about that.

“If it would make you feel more comfortable, he can join us inside,” Axel says.

The king of dribble whose loyalty surely lies with this man? “I would hate to come between him and his stick.”

A moment later we’re inside the cottage, and memories unfold like crisp, clothesline-dried sheets that release the scent of sunshine
when shaken out. As Axel leads me through the shelf-lined room stocked with canned and boxed food items, I remember the little girl I was the first time Mom and I accepted Uncle Obe’s offer of a place to live—the Christmas he dressed up as Santa.

“Sit,” Axel says, and I startle to find myself in the unpretentious kitchen where Mom and I made our first and last attempt at canning. We simply couldn’t get the lids to pressurize.

I lower into the chair Axel has pulled out from the little breakfast table and look around. I haven’t missed this place. After all, what is there to miss? A knotty, old kitchen table that creaked alarmingly when I leaned across it to share a dessert with Mom? An ancient refrigerator that’s still humming and shuddering, the sounds of which probably wouldn’t be as comforting now as when I was a child settling down for the night in a bed not my own? A monstrously ugly oven that burned more than it baked? Distorted windows that had only the view of the backyard to recommend them and through which Mom kept an eye on me? No, nothing to miss, especially considering my kitchen in L.A. And yet…