by Hope Ramsay
“Did Ms. Chaikin take this photograph, too?”
“Yeah. She did. She won a Pulitzer Prize for this one.”
“Wow. I didn’t know she was a photojournalist.”
“Apparently one of the best. She specializes in wars and disasters. And she’s been through a wringer recently. Look.” He clicked on another web page. This one had a photo of Lark dressed in battle fatigues, a helmet, and a flak jacket. She was covered in blood.
“Oh, my God, was she wounded?”
“No, she was with those journalists in Libya earlier this year. You know, when the TV guy was killed. She was one of the eyewitnesses.” And by the deer-in-the-headlights look on her face, she’d seen some pretty gruesome things.
“Oh,” Lizzy breathed out.
“Yeah.”
“You’re checking up on her, aren’t you?” Lizzy said.
He shrugged. “That’s what I do.”
“Well, that totally stinks. She rocks as a photographer. All she wants is to lay her father to rest. You and Granddaddy should let her do it. Ashes are just dust anyway. What’s the harm?
“But, oh no, instead you’re in here conducting an investigation into her past, like she’s carrying some kind of plague or she’s a bad influence. As you can see, she’s not. She’s pretty brave and talented.”
Lizzy shook her head. “Sometimes I hate living in this town. People just don’t seem to be able to let go of the past and move on. You know that?” Lizzy’s voice cracked, and her composure slipped.
Before he could even formulate something useful to say, Lizzy turned on her heel and stalked out of the room in a huff. Damn, she was angry at him again. And that was strange because he actually agreed with her.
Sometimes he hated living in this town, too.
CHAPTER
4
David Raab opened his locker and found the note inside. The language was mean and hate-filled. He stood there with his hands shaking, feeling scared and out of place.
Maybe he should talk to Dr. Williams, the principal of Jefferson Davis High School. This new note was covered in swastikas.
Dr. Williams, an African-American, would be horrified by the notes. But that made going to him even more difficult. David had a feeling the idiots expected him to say something to the authorities. Doing that would only escalate the situation.
And besides, he didn’t want Mom to know about these notes. Mom would get angry. And she’d probably blame Dad. And Dad needed the job he’d gotten here in South Carolina. David didn’t want to be the reason Mom finally made good on her threats to leave Dad and take David and his brothers back to Michigan.
He didn’t want to be the reason Dad gave up his job either. It was a good job, supervising the construction of a new textile machinery plant. Dad was a talented engineer, but he had been unemployed for more than a year, all because Mom had been unwilling to relocate. They had come here to South Carolina because Dad had finally put his foot down—and because this particular job paid more than Dad had ever made working for Ford Motor Company.
No, David was not about to tell Mom or Dad or Dr. Williams about the notes. He was going to do his best to fit in.
Just then, Lizzy Rhodes strode up to the locker next to his and completely distracted him. He tucked the note into the back of his locker with the other ones he’d received and grabbed his social studies notebook. He closed his locker, then snuck a look at Lizzy.
She was wearing a short skirt, a pair of black tights, and a dark sweater. The outfit was part Goth and part Emo and totally awesome and unique because Lizzy wasn’t a Goth or Emo. She was just herself. Kind of weird. And opinionated. And smarter than all the other girls.
And she had a pair of awesome green eyes.
David wanted to be her friend. But Lizzy intimidated him. Just being near her made his heart pound and his mouth get all dry and cottony.
Uh-oh. She had noticed him looking at her. His face got hot. “Hi,” he murmured, shifting his gaze away.
“Hey,” she said in that soft, amazing drawl of hers.
He looked back. She smiled. David’s day improved three hundred percent.
“You going to the editorial meeting today after school?” he asked. Jeez, what a lame question. Of course she was coming to the meeting after school. She was the assistant editor of the politics and nation section of the school newspaper. She probably thought he was a complete dork.
She banged her locker closed and looked straight at him. He had to raise his own gaze to meet hers. His whole body flushed. Why had he even looked at her? She was too good for him.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” she said, oblivious to the mayhem she was creating inside him. She looked so cool and confident.
He expected her to hurry off to her first-period class. But she hesitated for a minute, leaning her hip into her locker. “Guess what?”
“What?” he said, utterly amazed that Lizzy Rhodes was actually talking to him.
“There’s a Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer staying in Last Chance,” she said.
“Really? Here?”
“Yeah, I know, compared to Michigan we’re a little off the beaten track.”
His face flamed so hot that even his ears started to burn. He shouldn’t have said that. She thought he was a snob. But he wasn’t. He was just surprised. Ann Arbor wasn’t a big town, but it had a university. Last Chance was tiny. In the middle of nowhere.
Right, that was the sort of stuff Mom was saying all the time. Mom hated living here, and she never stopped whining about it.
“Uh, I didn’t mean that the way it—”
“Yeah, you totally did. You’re always talking about Michigan. But it’s okay. I know what it’s like to move away from home. And besides, we don’t get semi-famous photographers through here very often because it’s a fact that Allenberg County is totally in the boonies.”
“Are you teasing me?” he asked, suddenly forlorn. Lizzy had this way of talking that was kind of snarky and wise. He never knew if she was kidding about things.
“Why would I tease you?”
He shrugged. Because girls always do.
She let go of a sigh that sounded totally exasperated. “No, David, I am not teasing,” she said, rolling her eyes a little bit. He wanted to slink away.
That’s when she reached out and patted his arm. Her touch made him freeze in place. “It’s okay. I like you, David. There is a professional photographer in town. Her name is Lark Chaikin. I looked her up online last night. She’s photographed wars and famines and stuff like that. And her father is semi-notorious.”
“For what?” His arm was tingling where she had touched him.
“For taking Nita Wills to breakfast at the Kountry Kitchen in 1968. In those days, the Kitchen was owned by a white man, and Nita is African-American.”
“Oh.” David wasn’t sure exactly how to react to that. “Why’s this photographer here?”
“It’s weird. Her father died, and she wants to scatter his ashes at Golfing for God.”
He almost laughed before he remembered that Lizzy’s grandfather owned Golfing for God. He pressed his lips together.
“It’s okay, David, you can laugh. I think the situation is totally hilarious myself. The guy wants to have his ashes scattered on the hole depicting the resurrection, and according to my grandmother, Abe Chaikin has never been a Christian.”
“He’s a Jew?”
She leaned in a little closer. “According to the rumors around town he was. Daddy says maybe not. Granny says he probably had a conversion. I personally think there’s more to this story than the grown-ups are telling me. I’m thinking we should team up, do some investigative work, maybe interview Ms. Chaikin for the paper. You could take some head shots of her, you know.”
“We?” David’s heart took flight in his chest. He’d been wanting to find some way to make friends with Lizzy for weeks. But she was cool, and he was kind of a geek with braces on his teeth. Why was she even talking to him?
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“Don’t you want to talk to a Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer?” Lizzy asked. “I just figured that you’d jump at the chance. I mean, you’re always lugging around that camera of yours.”
He touched the Canon SLR with the telephoto lens that his father had given him as a consolation prize when he’d announced that he was taking the job in South Carolina. David wore it around his neck almost all the time. “Yeah. Talking to a professional photojournalist would be awesome,” he said.
“So, let’s propose an interview for the school paper today at the editorial meeting. I’ll write the story, and you take the head shots.”
“Okay.”
The bell rang. “Darn, I’m late for biology. We’re dissecting earthworms today.” She made a yucky face.
“It’s not so bad. Just hold your breath when you make the first incision, otherwise the formaldehyde will get to you. Also, they don’t wiggle when they’re dead.”
She stared at him like he was a dweeb. “Thanks for the advice.” She started down the hallway then stopped and turned. “For the record, David, I’m not like those city girls you know. I don’t mind wiggly live worms. My daddy taught me how to bait a hook when I was about four. Do you know how to bait a hook?”
Damn. He’d blown it, hadn’t he? “Uh, no, my parents don’t go fishing. My mother knits, though.” Someone please shut his mouth before he made a complete ass of himself. “I’ll see you later?” he said.
“Yeah.”
She turned and strode off toward the biology classroom. He watched her go, admiring the swing of her hips, the way she kept her head up, even if she wasn’t in with the popular kids. He liked her so much. There was something genuinely mysterious about a girl who knew how to ride a horse, bait a fishing hook, and was smarter than anyone else on the school paper.
His day might have gotten off to an incredibly awesome start if it hadn’t been for the sudden, unwelcome appearance of Michael Bennett, wearing his Davis High letter jacket and a stupid porkpie hat tilted over his eyes. Michael was a senior, a member of the football team, and the Davis High homecoming king. Michael traveled in a social set so far above David that David probably should genuflect whenever in Michael’s presence. He was school royalty.
And David was like a serf.
“You can forget about her,” Michael said as he leaned against the wall, blocking David’s view of Lizzy’s retreating back.
David swallowed but didn’t respond. There was nothing he could say to Michael that wouldn’t get him into trouble.
Michael grinned. His teeth were perfect. “You heard me, didn’t you?” Michael asked.
“Yeah,” David said, his heart suddenly hammering in his ears.
“Good. Because she’s too good for you.”
On Monday morning, Lark left her sickbed and walked into town. The day was sunny and warm, like the first day of spring, not mid-December.
The unseasonable weather hadn’t stopped the locals from decking out the two-block expanse of Palmetto Avenue in every manner of Christmas tinsel, lights, ribbon, and wreath. Not to mention the fiberglass sleigh with Santa and nine reindeer that hung across the main drag. The lead reindeer had a red bulb for a nose that Lark was pretty sure lit up the street from end to end. She strolled up the street toward the Kountry Kitchen, the first step of her new plan to figure out why Pop had asked to have his ashes scattered on a miniature golf course at the feet of a fiberglass Jesus.
The café had gold tinsel draped across its awning and a big red bow stuck on its door. A bell on the bow jingled as she entered the restaurant. New Yorkers would love this place. They’d think it was trendy and retro in a Mad Men kind of way. It certainly had a lot of stainless steel and red Formica.
Lark headed for the lunch counter and took a seat. As her tuchis hit the vinyl seat cover, it occurred to her that Pop might have sat at this exact spot with Nita Wills back in 1968.
Her gut burned with the thought. She was so angry at Pop—for keeping his secret. For dying before his time. For leaving her utterly alone in the world. And for a really long list of other things that had stood between them for so many years.
“Welcome to the Kountry Kitchen. What can I getcha?”
Lark looked up into the face of a thirty-something woman with platinum blond hair that didn’t look entirely natural. Her name badge said “Ricki.” And she had that small-town look about her—one part curiosity and nine parts get-out-of-town. It was clear Ricki already knew everything she needed to know about Lark.
Lark wondered what kind of reaction she’d get if she ordered a bagel with cream cheese and lox. Then she thought about her encounter with Lillian yesterday morning and rejected the idea. People were uncomfortable about her being here. There was no need to flaunt her differences. She smiled up into the waitress’s gray, kohl-ringed eyes. “I’ll have some whole wheat toast with butter on the side, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee, please.”
The waitress hesitated for an instant, her gaze flicking over Lark in frank inspection. The woman cataloged everything: her old coat, her spiky hair, and her nails, chewed to the quick. The inspection made Lark feel unwelcome. That was hardly surprising seeing as Pop had come here and upset the order of things. It was to be expected.
Still, it made her feel lonely somehow.
“That’s all you want?” Ricki asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind some information.”
“About what?”
“About my father’s visit to Last Chance back in 1968.”
Ricki’s eyes went wide. “Um, uh, well, I wasn’t even born in 1968. So I can’t help you with that. Let me just get your coffee.” Ricki turned away and made a beeline to the coffeemaker, leaving Lark to wonder about Pop’s infamy in this town. Pop would have enjoyed the notoriety, but Lark didn’t. Not in the least.
Just then, the Christmas bell on the front door trilled. Lark turned. The local law strode through the door. Stone Rhodes wore his buff-colored uniform like a warrior. He was harder and more mature than the kids Lark had been embedded with in Iraq and Afghanistan, but the military bearing and haircut were absolutely the same.
His steps faltered for a moment when he saw her sitting at the counter. Then he squared his shoulders and advanced on her, taking his Stetson off as his long legs ate up the distance. The hat left a small red indentation on his forehead that Lark found oddly seductive.
His stare was as sober as the black coffee Ricki served up in crockery mugs. There wasn’t anything about his bearing or gaze that spoke of weakness. He not only looked like Carmine Falcone, he had the whole he-man, alpha-male, in-charge, slow-talking, take-no-prisoners attitude going. And all that without a Jersey accent.
He dropped the hat on the counter and sat on the stool beside her. “Morning,” he said in a deep voice filled with the blurred vowels of the South. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
Heat rushed through her. Chief Rhodes was handsome, and built, and reeked of testosterone and other male pheromones. And—judging by the wedding band on his third finger—he was also married.
Disappointment extinguished the fire burning in her middle.
Ricki intruded at that moment. “Hey, Stone, you want the usual?” she asked.
The chief nodded.
Not a man of many words, then. She liked him even more. A companionable silence settled over them as he drank his coffee. And she surreptitiously studied the pattern of his closely shaved beard. He looked so much like her fantasy that she had to stop herself from reaching out to touch his cheek to make sure he was real.
She picked up her toast and munched for a moment.
“That all you eating?” The chief finally spoke.
She nodded. “I’m not much of a breakfast eater.”
“By the looks of it, you aren’t much of an eater, eater.”
Chief Rhodes sounded like Miriam Randall. Kind of motherly, despite the weaponry at his hip. She needed to back away. “So, have you told everyone in tow
n why I’m here?”
His laugh sounded like a deep, rumbling earthquake. “Not exactly.”
“No?”
“No, ma’am. But Lillian and Miriam and Annie are all members of the auxiliary. And what one of those women knows, all of them know.” He paused a moment, taking another gulp of coffee. “Speaking of the ladies, I’m surprised they let you out of their sight.”
“I made a jail break. Miriam wanted to force-feed me more scrambled eggs.”
“Hmm.” He nodded. Heat poured off his body. “So, have the ladies tried matching you up with anyone yet?”
She almost spewed her coffee all over the counter.
“Ah ha, I see they have. And what did Miriam tell you?”
Like she was going to sit there at the lunch counter and tell Carmine’s doppelgänger that she needed to find someone she could talk to about the nightmares and the flashbacks. Not in this lifetime. “I think I’ll keep what Miriam said to myself.”
He snorted. “Good luck with that.”
She rolled her eyes in his direction. He was staring straight ahead. There were sparrow tracks at the corner of his mouth and eyes. They spoke of a life lived soberly. His face was like a storybook. She could get caught up in it and forget about what was real.
She changed the subject. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find your father?”
A deadly spark ignited in his eyes. “Talking to Daddy wouldn’t be such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because he isn’t going to give you permission to scatter your father’s ashes at Golfing for God.”
At that moment, Ricki showed up with a big plate of biscuits and gravy. She put them down in front of Stone with a flirty smile and a wink. The chief was oblivious to Ricki’s antics. Instead he tucked in to his breakfast like a hungry man.
“I’d still like to talk to your father about it,” Lark said after a moment spent watching him eat.
He swallowed a bite of biscuit. “He’s not going to change his mind. You should scatter your father’s ashes to the wind somewhere. He’s dead. He’s not going to know the difference.”
