Home at Last Chance

by Hope Ramsay

  “Are you sure?” Jim asked.

  Tulane nodded. “I need to know the truth.”

  Jim pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Before you call her, I want you to remember one thing—in this business you have to roll with the corporate punches.”

  “Right.” Tulane found Deidre in the contacts list and pushed the call button.

  “Jim?” Deidre answered.

  “No, it’s Tulane Rhodes. Why was Sarah fired?”

  “Because she’s a lying, conniving, heartless person.”

  This described Deidre, not Sarah. “What did she do, aside from keeping my secrets from you for the last few months?”

  “Kept your secrets? Ha, that’s a laugh. She kept secrets from you. Like the fact that she wrote the memo that put you in the pink car.”

  “What?”

  “Everything was her idea—even the baby-changing races. I’ll send you the memo. In fact, I’ll send you all the memos—even the one that explains why you’re more valuable to National Brands wearing pink than any other color.”

  His body went numb.

  Deidre continued, “She put Steve Phelps’s name on her first memo. I was fooled by that. I thought she wanted revenge, but now I’m certain that she and Steve are in it together.”

  “In what together?”

  “They set us both up. We fell for their car seat safety gambit like a couple of rubes.”

  “The car seat, what?” Tulane asked.

  “Sarah knows how to research. She discovered you and I have something in common. And she used it.”

  “Used what?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone before Deidre spoke again. “Fifteen years ago, I was in a car accident. My two-year-old daughter’s car seat wasn’t compatible with the car’s restraint system, and she died in the crash. Sarah found out about that. And she found out about your niece. She played us, Tulane.”

  Tulane connected with the sudden emotion in Deidre’s voice. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

  “She and Steve Phelps used our interest in starting a car seat program to undermine me with the Board of Directors. First she suggested the program; then she made me look like a crazy woman for pursuing it. I’m going to lose my job over this.”

  The cold that seized Tulane turned lethal. He didn’t think he would ever feel warm again. Anger was not the word for this. It was something else. Something he had no name for.

  The bullies had just struck again.

  But Sarah couldn’t be a bully, could she? He wanted to trust her. But he also knew that Sarah was a capable and devious liar.

  She had lied to Deidre for weeks. She had lied about her father.

  He’d been free-falling without knowing it. But he knew it now. Hitting the ground hurt. Bad.

  He said good-bye and handed Jim the cell phone. Sam slapped him across the shoulders. “Son, take my advice. Find yourself a nice little Southern girl next time.”

  After that, Sam, Doc, and Jim didn’t give Tulane any time to think. They escorted him to his mobile home, where the No. 57 Team had organized a party to celebrate winning the pole position for Sunday’s race.

  Thank goodness Lori Sterling had brought plenty of rum punch.

  CHAPTER

  19

  When Sarah finally walked into her temporary apartment, the immensity of what had happened hit her like a slap across the face.

  She was a failure. They had even taken away her corporate-issued BlackBerry and laptop, which meant she had no one’s contact information. She couldn’t even make travel arrangements without finding a pay phone.

  Even if she had been able to contact an airline, where was she going to go?

  Back to New York? Her apartment in Brooklyn was sublet through November, the end of the racing season.

  Back to Boston? Her parents were not currently speaking with her, since they hadn’t forgiven her for behaving like a slut.

  So without a laptop, phone, or future, she sat on her couch like a zombie until around five o’clock, when her doorbell rang.

  She experienced a moment of wild hope, which was utterly dashed when she opened the door to find Steve Phelps standing on the other side.

  He was handsome, in a preppie, frat-boy kind of way, with his blond hair hanging over one of his half-mast blue eyes. He looked all Madison Avenue in his buttoned-down, Polo-logo oxford shirt and gray slacks. He’d ditched his jacket and tie, but he appeared to be carrying Sarah’s laptop case.

  “I’ve come to take you back,” he said.

  “Back where?”

  He snorted a laugh and sauntered into her apartment. “Back into the fold, Sarah.” He stopped and gave the living room the once-over. “I see National Brands spared no expense with their housing allowance.” As usual Steve’s sarcasm was dripping all over the place.

  He settled onto the couch, leaned back, and cocked one leg over the other. “So, you got anything worth drinking in this place?”

  Did he expect her to be his servant? Or was he trying to make her feel small because she didn’t keep beer in her refrigerator?

  “I have water,” she said with all the puritanical dignity she could muster.

  He let go of a sigh. “Look, Sarah, you’re a smart woman, so lose the attitude and sit down.” He pointed to the facing easy chair.

  He was kidding, right? She had attitude? Maybe she should actually display some and employ the profanity Tulane had taught her. It was an enticing thought. On the other hand, the quickest way to get the jerk out of her apartment was to play by his rules.

  And after he left, she could shower off the slime.

  She sank into the easy chair.

  He smiled like the proverbial evil nemesis. “David Ahearn disapproves of your methods, but he’s very impressed with your research abilities and your hardhearted business sense. David thinks you’re a player.”

  “What?” A frisson of surprise and shock shuddered through her. “David Ahearn doesn’t have the slightest idea that I exist. I’m a peon.”

  “Not anymore, thanks to me. In fact, your memo on the Penny Farthing negotiations has definitely improved your cachet. I’m sorry David wasn’t more amused by it, but he was very impressed. And in my experience, impressing a CEO is way better than amusing one of them.”

  “What memo on the Penny Farthing negotiations?”

  Steve cocked his head. “Deidre didn’t explain why she fired you? You didn’t ask?”

  “She said she was angry about the memo. I assumed she was angry about the pink car memo. Although, to be honest, I couldn’t quite understand why she would be that angry about a memo that has been selling diapers like mad.”

  The snarky smile remained plastered on Steve’s face as he unzipped the computer case and pulled out some papers stapled at the corner. “You need to read this.”

  She took the papers and began to read, her heart rate climbing right into the stratosphere with every word.

  When she finished, she felt like she might be sick. “Deidre had a kid who died in a car wreck? How did you find that out? And how did you get these numbers about the Penny Farthing deal?” The numbers were accurate, but they were dated. Deidre had done a masterful job in negotiating down the license fees for use of the cartoon character. That memo with Sarah’s name on it was misleading—and completely nasty.

  Steve shrugged. “I have friends in the IT department. I hacked Deidre’s computer.”

  “Deidre really believes I wrote this crap?”

  Steve leaned back into the couch pillows. “Oh, yes. She does. Don’t you think that’s fabulous? I mean, no one gets the drop on the Dragon Lady. But you did.”

  “I did nothing of the kind.”

  “Hmm, that’s true. But then again, I’m not the one who dreamed up those baby races. Kind of evens up the score and puts us back into the same boat, doesn’t it?”

  Sarah shot him her best dirty look.

  “Oh, c’mon, Sarah, quit looking at me that way,” Steve said.
“David Ahearn thinks you rock. He thinks you have the potential to be another Dragon Lady. And since the old Dragon Lady is… well… a little off her rocker…”

  “David Ahearn thinks I’m a Dragon Lady?” Her voice sounded small and insignificant.

  “Well, not yet, but you have potential. He told me that you needed to get out of the library.”

  She stood up and paced to the window and looked out onto the parking lot and the suburban scene beyond. “You came to give me my job back?”

  “Yes. And no. I don’t want to give you a job in the research department or as the sponsor liaison to Ferguson Racing. I want you on my marketing team. But there are rules.”

  “Ah, rules.” Weren’t there always.

  “Your job is to make me look brilliant. You’ve already done a good job of that. And in return for making me look brilliant, I will take care of you and make people afraid of you. Oh, and you’ll get a lot more money.”

  “You trust me that far?” She turned around and stared at him.

  He gave her one of his phony innocent-me looks. “Sarah, please don’t make me laugh. We both know you have no talent for nasty corporate games. But you do have a talent for marketing. Together, we’re a team made in Heaven.”

  “No.”

  She turned and stalked into the kitchen. She yanked open the refrigerator because she needed something to do with her restless hands, and she was afraid to open the drawer where she kept her knives. Murder seemed like a fitting reward for Steve Phelps, but Sarah wasn’t ready to break any more commandments.

  The fridge was practically empty. Boy, she could use a beer right at the moment. Or a margarita. Or something stronger that would make her numb.

  Steve followed her and leaned in the kitchen doorway. “Well, okay, you can choose not to take this offer. But if you’re thinking that you have any kind of future down here with Ferguson Racing or any other NASCAR team, you can forget it. Deidre has pretty much told everyone you’re dishonest, and the yokels around here seem to value honesty. It’s kind of funny, actually.”

  Anger of a kind Sarah had never known hit her bloodstream. She felt hot all over. Her hands shook. Her head throbbed. She slammed the refrigerator door closed and almost launched herself at Steve.

  “You bastard.”

  Steve shrugged. “Me? I don’t think so. C’mon, Sarah, I’ve done you a favor. I’ve created an impression that you are cool and driven—just the kind of go-getter David Ahearn admires. I’ve just given you everything you ever wanted.”

  Sarah stood rooted to the cheap vinyl flooring and tried to keep from throwing up. Steve was right. Ever since that Cuppa Java thing had happened, Sarah had been working diligently to lose her niceness.

  So diligently, in fact, that she’d done a few heinous things she wasn’t proud of. She might not have written the memo that wrecked Deidre’s life, but she had written the pink car memo and put someone else’s name on it. That memo had hurt and humiliated Tulane and his pit crew. She had lied about that memo.

  All of that might be forgivable, except that she’d also used Tulane. She’d even slept with him, after going on about how all she wanted was a sex coach and a one-night stand.

  Mother and Dad were right to be disappointed in her.

  She was disappointed in herself.

  Sarah took two steps toward Steve, her fists balling up. “I don’t want your job. I don’t want to be a player. I want to be a nice girl from Boston.”

  “Sarah, are you crazy? I’m offering you everything.”

  “Maybe you are, but I value my soul. I’ve lost my way these last few weeks, but I’ve found it again. Now get out of here.”

  He pointed a long finger at her. “You’ll regret this.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Many other things, yes, but not this.”

  “Look, Sarah, I need you.”

  Was he whining? Oh yeah, maybe a little. “I’m sure you need me, Steve. I heard they gave you the Rice Doodles account. Good luck with that.”

  “Sarah, please, listen, I can get you everything you want.”

  “You mean everything I wanted. Past tense. I’ve grown. I don’t want what you’re offering. Now leave.”

  His shoulders slumped as Steve turned. He picked up the computer bag and headed for the door. He turned back right before he left. “You can kiss your relationship good-bye with the people at Ferguson, especially with that yokel of a driver.”

  Steve’s poison dart hit her heart, but Sarah stoically resisted the urge to cry out. She loved Tulane, but she hadn’t told him how she felt. And by not telling him the truth, she had hurt him—terribly. She saw that now. He was never going to forgive her. Not in a million years.

  After Steve left, the real crying jag hit. Sarah bawled herself to sleep. And when she awakened at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, even a hot shower couldn’t undo the damage she’d done to her nose and eyes.

  Her reality was so not good. She was alone in Florence, South Carolina without a friend, or a cell phone, or a computer. And Miriam Randall’s prediction loomed large in Sarah’s mind, as she imagined a boring new life in Boston, dating a seminary student.

  Well, there was nothing to be done about it. So, with a stoicism she had inherited from her New England ancestors, she set about making that future a reality.

  She made a to-do list. The first two items were:

  1. Get a phone.

  2. Call Tulane and apologize.

  She pondered these items. She had a problem, because Tulane’s telephone number had been stored in her BlackBerry. She had not bothered to memorize it. She added a new #2 to her list: Call Ruby and get Tulane’s number.

  She studied this new item for a long moment. The number of the Cut ’n Curl would be listed, but this to-do item seemed fraught with pitfalls.

  Ruby could hang up on her. And then where would she be?

  She crossed out “Call Ruby” and wrote “Drive to Last Chance and speak with Ruby.”

  Tulane’s head hurt. He cracked an eye and blessed whoever it was who had put him to bed the night before. They’d had the foresight to shut the blinds and put a bottle of Excedrin and a glass of water on the bedside table.

  He took his medicine and swore that he would never, ever again touch Lori Sterling’s rum punch.

  He checked his watch. It was nine in the morning. He should have been up and about an hour ago, checking in at the garage and going over the schedule for Saturday’s hospitality and sponsor events with Sarah. He squeezed his eyes shut. Thinking about Sarah made his heart hurt worse than his head.

  But last night, after he’d read the various corporate memos that Sarah had penned, he’d forgotten his rule about Lori’s punch.

  Boy, Sarah sure had a head for business. But her heart was missing.

  He hauled his butt out of bed. Even though Sarah was gone, sooner or later someone was going to show up and give him something to occupy his time. Usually, on a Saturday, his time was spent making the sponsor happy.

  And, the aftereffects of the rum punch notwithstanding, his sponsor had left a real sour taste in his mouth.

  He dragged himself into the shower and stood there until he ran out of hot water. That wasn’t very long, this being a mobile home. His hands weren’t steady enough to shave, so he just toweled off, threw on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, and declared himself dressed.

  It was almost ten by then, and Tulane had decided that he didn’t want to be found. So he jammed his old Braves ball cap on his still-wet head and snuck out of his mobile home. Without his pink bunny shirt and khakis, he looked like just another NASCAR fan. He was able to make it all the way to the parking lot without being asked for a single autograph.

  He found his Mustang and escaped. He turned onto one of South Carolina’s more obscure two-lane roads, punched the gas, and let the miles roll by.

  He needed to try to do what Daddy said and toss out all the garbage that had been cluttering up his mind. Sarah Murray was the first piece of tra
sh he needed to get rid of.

  It was a little after ten when the old-fashioned bell at the front of the beauty parlor announced Sarah’s arrival at the Cut ’n Curl. The aroma of shampoo and body wave hit her like a slap to the face.

  And maybe the ammonia smell of the permanent solution woke up a few of Sarah’s sleeping brain cells. Or maybe it was the six pairs of eyes that suddenly aimed in her direction. The leadership of the Committee to Resurrect Golfing for God appeared to be all present and accounted for.

  The president, Hettie Marshall, was getting a manicure. The secretary, Thelma Hanks, was under a dryer. The treasurer, Millie Polk, was getting a body wave. The vice president, Miriam Randall, was enjoying the company of the others, and the ex officio members of the board, Jane and Ruby Rhodes, were hard at work.

  “Good Lord, sugar, what happened to you?” Ruby said.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the track?” Jane asked with a frown.

  Thelma ducked out of the dryer and said, “I knew what we saw down at the golf course on Monday was going to be a problem.”

  “Hush up, Thelma; you should have more faith.” Millie rolled her eyes in Miriam’s direction.

  “Cried yourself to sleep, huh?” Miriam asked.

  Hettie looked down and said nothing. She was wearing Ralph Lauren casual today.

  Sarah hesitated. These ladies were going to run her out of town on a rail when they discovered the truth. Even if Sarah hadn’t written the memo that trashed Deidre’s career and the car seat safety program, she had still written the pink car memo and lied about it. She’d lied about Dad. She’d lied about her feelings. She’d even lied about those stupid ground rules she’d made up last Monday night.

  She was ashamed of herself.

  When she made huge mistakes like this as a little girl, she had been required to make a full and accurate accounting of herself in front of Grandmother Howland. Grandmother may have been from good Puritan stock, but she believed in the concept of penance.

  So facing Ruby and the rest of the members of the committee was nothing more or less than Sarah’s chance to make a full confession. Maybe if she accounted for all her actions, Ruby would take pity on her and give her Tulane’s telephone number.