by Hope Ramsay
She looked away. It was true. But she’d made a promise. “I can’t give up on Pop’s last request. You can understand that, can’t you?”
He put his coffee mug down. “I guess. You can find Daddy out at the golf course today. But if you want my advice, you’d be better off going home for the holidays. Daddy is stubborn as a mule on this subject.”
“And I’m patient.” Lark refrained from explaining that she didn’t really have a home and never celebrated the holidays.
“Just how long are you planning to stay?” he asked.
“Until December twenty-fourth. I have a plane to catch in DC on the twenty-fifth.”
“On Christmas Day?”
She shrugged. “That gives me a week to work on your father.”
“Good luck.”
“Any ideas on a place to stay? I don’t want to impose on Miriam for a week.”
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend the Peach Blossom Motor Court. They rent rooms by the hour, if you know what I mean. You’ll have to go to Orangeburg.”
“Thanks.” She stood up and threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter.
“There’s one other thing,” Chief Rhodes said, turning on his stool and looking up at her with a green-eyed glare. “There are folks in this town who think your daddy was some kind of hero, and others who wish he’d never come to town. Most of these folks are older than sixty. The rest of us have moved on. Last Chance has had African-American mayors since the mid-1990s, our town council looks like a rainbow. This café has been owned and operated by T-Bone Carter since 1970, and he’s the great-grandson of a slave. This isn’t the same place your daddy visited in the 1960s and I’m not going to stand by and let some fool Yankee come into my town and stir up trouble. Are we clear on that?”
“Fool Yankee? Really? I see that certain stereotypes are still alive and well in Last Chance.” She smiled as she said it.
He frowned. “Uh, I mean…”
“It’s okay. I’m not offended. But do me a favor. Don’t confuse me with my father. He was a troublemaker. I’m not. I just want to scatter my father’s ashes. If you let me do that, I’ll get out of your hair and return north of the Mason-Dixon line as fast as I can drive.”
She turned on her heel and left him to his breakfast.
CHAPTER
5
Lark arrived at Golfing for God and found it a hub of renovation activity. The parking lot was so crowded with pickup trucks and heavy equipment that she had to park on the shoulder across the highway.
She wandered through the construction site until she discovered Elbert Rhodes in a small, cluttered office located on the ground floor of the Ark. He was big-boned, with iron gray hair that he wore in a braid down his back. His goatee and black T-shirt gave him the appearance of one of those Vietnam-vet biker dudes who descended on Washington every Memorial Day. Of course, not many of those biker boys wore T-shirts that said “1 cross, 3 nails = 4given.”
Maybe that meant she could appeal to his sense of forgiveness and get her grim chore taken care of.
“Mr. Rhodes, can we talk?” she asked.
He looked up from his computer screen. His eyes were the palest shade of gray, verging on silver. He looked almost wolf-like. It didn’t make Lark feel any more confident.
“I’m Lark Chaikin,” she said, sticking out her hand.
He stood up and took her hand. She was struck immediately by the warmth of him. Like his son, Elbert Rhodes seemed to have some kind of internal furnace that radiated heat.
“I know what you want,” he said, then gestured toward a battered wooden chair that sat beside his messy desk. “Have a seat.”
“I spoke with Stone this morning,” Lark said. “He told me you were opposed to me scattering my father’s ashes on the eighteenth hole. I came to find out why.”
Elbert leaned forward. “I think you know good and well why. And I’m not going to change my mind. You should get in your big car and head back to New York or wherever you came from.”
Lark gritted her teeth. What was this negative thing everyone in town had for New Yorkers and “Yankees”? Had folks treated Pop this way, too? If they had, why did he want to come back here at the end?
She smiled at Elbert and tried her best to reach him despite his prejudices. “Miriam Randall gave me her version of the story. So I gather that you think my father was responsible for Zeke Rhodes’s death. But I know that can’t be possible. Pop could be a difficult man, but he was not a murderer. He fought injustice all his life.”
“I didn’t say your daddy was a murderer. But when he decided to fight injustice here in 1968, he stepped on a hornet’s nest. And his actions had unforeseen consequences—like my daddy ending up dead.”
“If the consequences were unforeseen, then—”
“Why the devil did your father want to have his remains left here, anyway?” Elbert seemed visibly upset.
She backed away. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you. But I don’t know why he asked me to do this. It was his last request. I see that you loved your father. I loved my father, too. Even though he was not an easy man to love sometimes.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I never met your father. I wasn’t here when Daddy died.”
“How can you judge my father if you never met him and don’t really know what happened?”
Elbert leaned forward, and his wolf-like gaze sent a shiver down Lark’s spine. This man was filled with animosity. “All I know is that Daddy didn’t slip from any ladder out here. That’s just ridiculous. And your daddy was camping out here for a few days, just before Daddy died. So I figure your daddy was involved.”
She let go of a sigh of frustration. “Mr. Rhodes, I made a promise to my father. And I’m going to do whatever I can to keep it, even if it means digging up stuff that you and your son don’t want exposed. I really don’t want to make trouble. I would really much prefer to compromise. I could just scatter Pop’s ashes, say a few words, and then leave. No one has to know.”
“No, that won’t work. It’s not my decision alone.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “No. See, when the storm came through last year and damaged the golf course, I didn’t have any insurance. So the town created a nonprofit committee to raise money for this renovation we’ve got going. The committee owns a portion of the golf course now. I can’t just agree to have ashes scattered here, especially if the person is Abe Chaikin. I’d have to take your request to the chair of the Committee to Resurrect Golfing for God.”
“Who’s the chairman?”
“Chairwoman. Her name is Hettie Marshall.”
“She’s another member of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, isn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Probably at home. Although it’s Monday, isn’t it?” He checked his watch. “That means she’s at the Cut ’n Curl until at least noon. She has a standing appointment.”
Lark left Golfing for God, drove back downtown, and parked the SUV across the street from the beauty shop. It was only eleven-thirty—half an hour before Hettie would be finished with her appointment. If Lark stormed the beauty shop, everyone would naturally assume that she was some kind of rude, snotty northerner. So she decided to wait and catch up to Hettie Marshall when she emerged from the shop.
She had a few minutes to kill, so she pulled her camera bag from the backseat. She stared at it for a solid five minutes before she picked up her Nikon.
The camera felt cold and heavy in her hands. Goose bumps attacked her arms, and the hairs on the back of her neck stiffened. Every instinct told her to drop the camera, or maybe to smash it against the ground.
The assignment in Libya had damaged her. She’d lost her fearlessness. And for some reason her camera had become a reverse talisman. She touched it, and the terrifying memories flowed.
She’d been hiding out for the last few months, using Pop’s illness as an excuse not to shoot any photos. But now
she had to face those fears, or give up the thing she did best. The thing that defined her as a person.
She got out of the SUV and slung the camera over her shoulder.
The day was still warm, but Lark pulled her peacoat tighter around her middle. Then she turned up Palmetto Avenue, looking for something to photograph.
The buildings on the main street were constructed of red brick and probably built a hundred years ago. In addition to the beauty salon and the Kountry Kitchen, the main drag sported a hardware store, a small post office, and a little shop called A Good Yarn. Its window displayed a variety of red and green hand-knit sweaters and was so cute, it could have been a Hallmark card.
She kept walking—past four churches, each with an elaborate and life-like crèche. On the corner of Palmetto and Chancellor, she found the hulking wreck of a theater that looked like a downsized version of one of those movie palaces from the 1920s. The architecture was Moorish, with oriel windows and a tower topped with a tarnished golden minaret. The sagging marquee, which must have lit up Palmetto Avenue in its heyday, bore the name “The Kismet.”
Lark raised her camera, her hands trembling. She framed a shot of the minaret, but couldn’t press the shutter. Damn it all to hell. This was not Libya. There was nothing to fear. Shooting this photo would not unleash some terrible disaster. She knew this in her head. But her hands seemed to have a different understanding of reality.
It was useless. Even at a high shutter speed, the shot would be blurry. So she lowered the camera and headed back up the street, trembling and defeated. And feeling terribly alone.
And then it hit her.
Pop was gone. Forever.
So was Jeb.
Her composure crumbled.
She ran up the street to the SUV, slid into the driver’s seat, and rested her head on the steering wheel. She didn’t cry. She sat frozen, trapped in an endlessly repeating loop of grief and guilt. She might have stayed there for hours if someone hadn’t tapped on her window.
“Are you okay?”
She raised her head, momentarily uncertain of her location. A woman dressed in a brown tweed suit stared at her from outside Pop’s SUV. She looked really concerned.
Lark lowered the window. “I’m okay. I was just resting.”
“You’re Abe Chaikin’s daughter, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “I’m Lark.”
“I’m Hettie Marshall,” the woman said as if that explained everything. Hettie gave Lark a Miss America smile, which fit her perfectly made-up face, exquisitely tailored designer outfit, and carefully coifed hair. Then Hettie opened the car door and slid her trim and shapely self into the passenger’s seat.
Well, so much for trying to stake out the Cut ’n Curl. Lark’s stalking skills were obviously rusty.
“I’ve heard that you want to scatter your father’s ashes at Golfing for God,” Hettie said, cutting right to the chase.
“It was Pop’s last request. Elbert Rhodes suggested I talk to you about getting permission.”
Hettie laughed. “Yes, I know. Elbert called Ruby earlier this morning to let her know that you were headed this way. We’ve been waiting for you over at the Cut ’n Curl. You disappointed Millie Polk. She was sure you were going to come barreling into the shop making loud and obnoxious demands.”
Lark said nothing in rebuttal. She just thanked her lucky stars that she’d left her favorite “I Love NY” sweatshirt at home.
“So,” Hettie continued, “why do you think your father sent you here?”
“I have no idea. It was the last thing he asked me to do, right before he slipped into a coma. He used to say that he found himself at Golfing for God. But no matter how many times I asked him about that, he never would explain himself. I thought he was being witty, or possibly ironic. I never took him seriously until he insisted on being buried there.”
“Oh, I didn’t know it was his last request. That does change things a little bit, doesn’t it?” Hettie looked out the window, deep in thought. On the surface, she seemed placid—practically serene. And yet Lark got the feeling that still waters ran deep.
“You know,” Hettie finally said, “I had my own moment of clarity out at Golfing for God. That place changed my life.” She turned back, her eyes glittering with an unreadable emotion.
“Really?”
Hettie smiled indulgently. “I know. It’s just a putt-putt place. But I’m serious. That place helped me to remember that every day is magic. That everything is a miracle.”
Lark had no desire to engage in a conversation about miracles. Her cynicism would pop up. She didn’t believe in miracles. So she pulled the conversation back on track. “Will you give me permission to scatter Pop’s ashes?”
“Is that all you want? Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious?”
Lark shrugged. “I guess. But I’ve been told a few times today that my curiosity is not welcome. I’m not the troublemaker. My father was.”
Hettie pursed her lips. “Have you spoken with Nita?”
“Nita? The woman Pop took to breakfast at the Kountry Kitchen? She’s still living here?”
Hettie nodded. “She’s our librarian.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were encouraging me to stay for a few days. That would make you unique.”
Hettie chuckled. “Maybe I am. Maybe you owe it to yourself to speak with Nita.”
“Will you give me permission to lay Pop to rest?”
Hettie shook her head. “Honey, this is complicated. Everyone has an opinion, and we all know each other. It takes time to find a consensus, you know?”
Lark tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, her frustration mounting. “Maybe I should go to Golfing for God in the dead of night and pull off a drive-by funeral. What do you think?”
“That’s always an option,” Hettie said with a tiny smile. “But I think we can do better. Why don’t you let me talk to Elbert and the rest of the ladies of the committee? It’s always best to take everyone’s temperature on a thing like this. In the meantime, you should talk to Nita. She knows the whole story, and you owe that to yourself.”
“I’m sure the Rhodes family will be overjoyed to learn that I’m staying a few days. They’ve made me feel so welcome. Guess I need to go check out the Peach Blossom Motor Court, because I’m not going to impose on Miriam Randall for another night. She’s another person who has been kind to me.”
“Oh, no, you can’t stay at the Peach Blossom.”
“I’ve stayed at worse places.”
Hettie gave her an assessing gaze. “That would probably surprise a lot of people. Everyone thinks you’re a snob from up north.”
“I got that. So maybe they’ll change their tune when they see me staying at the local motel.”
“No, they might think you’re a floozy. I tell you what, why don’t you stay out at my river house. It’s very private. It’s just a little ways outside of town.”
“I don’t want to impose on you any more than I do Miriam. I can stay at the Peach Blossom Motor—”
“No, you can’t stay there. I won’t allow it. Besides, the river house is empty this time of year. It won’t be any imposition at all.”
“You’d let me stay at your vacation home?”
“Oh, honey, it’s not that grand. It’s just a small place down by the river, and besides, I want to help you. To tell you the truth, I’m intrigued by your father. Something must have happened to him at Golfing for God. Something that changed him. I’d like to know what it was, because I think he and I might be kindred spirits in some way.”
Kindred spirits? Ha, that was a laugh. Hettie was a sweet southern belle. Pop was a pain in the butt. They were as different as night and day.
But Lark was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. At last, someone in Last Chance was willing to help her. She was making progress.
Haley had to be a dumb ol’ shepherd wearing a stupid fake beard and an itchy headdress, while Maryanne Hanks got to be the
angel. All because there weren’t enough boys in the Sunday School class, and Maryanne was taller than anyone else, and the angel had to be tall.
It would be okay not being the angel, except that Maryanne kept messing up her lines. Like for instance, Maryanne kept saying, “Ye shall find the babe wrapped in waddling clothes.” It was pitiful. This year’s Christmas pageant was going to be lame.
Maryanne had told Haley at lunchtime today that she was scared of being the angel and having to say all those lines. Maryanne wanted to be one of the sheep. The sheep just said “baa baa.” But the sheep costumes were too small for her because Maryanne was kind of fat.
Well, Haley sure hoped Maryanne got over being scared because the Christmas pageant was less than a week away and this was their only real dress rehearsal. As usual, Doc and Miz Cooper, who were the Sunday School teachers for the third grade, were in charge of the pageant.
Haley stood there by the manger staring down at Bella Anderson’s Bitsy Baby doll who was standing in for Baby Jesus, while Doc Cooper made Maryanne repeat her speech over and over again. And then Maryanne said waddling for the umpteenth time and started crying.
Great. All the angels in Haley’s life were crybabies.
She scratched where the phony beard on the costume itched. The stupid headdress kept falling down over her eyes.
Just then, Maryanne’s momma arrived at the door to the fellowship hall where they were rehearsing. Maryanne’s crying got harder, and she threw herself into her momma’s arms. About that time, other mommas started to arrive, too.
Of course, Haley’s momma wouldn’t be picking her up from rehearsal. Haley didn’t even know who would be coming for her. It could be Aunt Jane, or Granny, or even Lizzy. It probably wouldn’t be Daddy.
Doc Cooper turned back toward the children in the third-grade Sunday School. “All right, y’all did really great. Keep practicing your lines, and we’ll have another rehearsal on Sunday morning.”
Haley didn’t need any rehearsal. She knew her one line: “Let us go unto Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass.”
