by Hope Ramsay
“There is no such thing in Last Chance. My life is utter crap, you know that?”
“It could be worse, honey. Your career might hinge on convincing a bunch of church ladies to give up on saving a putt-putt place dedicated to the Lord. And also you could be the focus of one of Miriam’s matrimonial forecasts.”
“Uh, Rocky, I wouldn’t mind being included in one of Miriam’s forecasts. It’s you who want to go off and have a career. Me, I’d like to settle down with a nice guy and maybe raise a few kids.”
Caroline gritted her teeth. Rachel could be maddening sometimes. She’d gone to college and had worked in Columbia for a bank until an unhappy love affair had sent her home three years ago. Now she seemed to think being an administrative assistant at the chicken plant was the pinnacle of achievement.
She just didn’t seem to understand her own worth.
“Look,” Caroline said, “call me if you hear any more rumors at the chicken plant. I’ll be at the meeting of the Committee to Resurrect Golfing for God.”
Caroline ended the call and drove from Allenberg to Last Chance. She parked her brother’s truck in the parking lot behind the Cut ’n Curl. It was still early so she strolled into the doughnut shop that shared the alleyway. She inhaled the scents of powdered sugar and frying oil like an addict. Despite the state of her waistline, she ordered a Boston cream and a cup of coffee.
Her plan was to hide out for a few minutes while she ate the doughnut and checked her e-mail on her smart phone. Caroline needed the sugar fix before she met up with Lord Woolham. There were just too many things going wrong with her life at the moment for her to face him—or a meeting of the Committee to Resurrect—completely cold turkey.
But as so often happens to the best-laid plans, hers fell apart a minute later when Dash Randall sauntered into the shop and ordered a cup of coffee to go.
He was dressed in full-out western mode. His Wranglers were cowboy worn, his alligator boots had pointy toes and stacked heels, and his hat was a dusty gray Stetson.
He looked like he’d been born in the saddle, which wasn’t too far from the truth, seeing as Dash had started his life in Texas. He’d moved to Last Chance to live with his great-aunt and -uncle after his granddaddy died. The whereabouts of Dash’s parents had always been a mystery—one he never spoke about.
He ambled over and dropped into the molded plastic seat at the little round table where Caroline was devouring her doughnut.
“Sneaking junk food again, huh?” he asked, taking a noisy sip of his coffee.
“Did I ask you to sit down and insult me?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “I reckon you’re allowed to be nasty this morning. And I can fully understand the need to fortify yourself before your Englishman makes a fool of himself in front of the ladies of the committee.”
“You can go away now.”
“Did I miss something? Are you mad at me?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?” His big blue eyes opened wide, and he gave her an innocent “who-me?” look. Dash was way too cute for his own good.
Luckily Caroline had learned how to ignore his antics a long, long time ago. She stared up into his face, making eye-to-eye contact while she explained his most recent transgression. “You did nothing to stop that whole scene at the Pig Place last evening. I mean really. I could have used your help before it came to blows.”
“I didn’t think it was going to come to blows. You and Rachel looked like you had things under control.”
Caroline took a long sip of coffee and considered her next words carefully. “Look, Dash,” she said, “I just talked to Rachel, and I know what everyone in town is saying about last night. And they’re all crazy. I’m not in love with Bubba. In fact, Bubba needs to realize that his behavior last night triggered that fight. And the town needs to quit enabling him.”
Dash’s eyes lost their spark of humor. “For once, Rocky, I agree with you. But what can I do about it? You know how it works in this town when Aunt Mim makes a prediction. And you combine that with Bubba being a football hero and you being a Watermelon Queen and you’re dealing with the power of myth.”
“Could you please get your aunt to clarify her forecast for me? I’m sure Miriam knows that Bubba is not my soulmate.”
“Right. That’s like asking the Edisto to stop flowing to the sea. And besides, even if you and I try to clarify things, no one will listen. The last time Aunt Mim got up to her tricks, Thelma and Millie were convinced she intended to match up Sarah Murray with Bill Ellis, and all the while it turned out she was talking about Tulane. You know how this stuff goes. I think gossip is like the national pastime in this town. It doesn’t matter whether it makes sense or not, it’s just something to do.”
Caroline let go of a deep breath. “Well, right now I wish your aunt had kept her mouth shut. Why couldn’t she just find some kind of matrimonial forecast for you? I mean you’re just like Bubba, carrying a torch for someone you loved in high school. When are you going to put that torch down, Dash?”
Everyone in town knew about Dash and Hettie’s high school fling. Hettie, the daughter of a judge, had selected Dash, the son of no one in particular, to have her one rebellious moment. Hettie had gotten over it. Dash had not.
Dash glowered at Caroline. “I don’t want to talk about Hettie. And the idea of Aunt Mim trying to match me up with anyone makes my skin crawl.”
She held his stare for a moment—just enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Then she popped the last bite of doughnut in her mouth and closed her eyes, savoring every calorie-laden moment. She let go of a little groan of pleasure.
“That good, huh?”
She opened her eyes. “Dash, I mean it. If you care about Bubba—and I think you do—I need your help. We need something big to shake up his world. The stuff folks are saying this morning about Miriam’s marital forecast is only going to encourage him. It has to stop, for his sake as much as mine.”
Dash took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “I reckon you have a point.”
“You know I do. You have any ideas?”
He shook his head. “Nothing that comes immediately to mind. But let me think on it for a while.” He nodded toward the front window of the shop. “Here comes the champ. That was some kind of punch he laid on Bubba. I thought he was a sissy until he took that swing.”
Caroline looked out the front window just in time to see Lord Woolham coming up the sidewalk, his shoulders back, his stride confident, his suit impeccable, and his hair an unruly mess.
God. He looked as sweet as the doughnut she’d just ingested. And about as bad for her, too.
“Guess you gotta go back to work, huh?” Dash said.
“Yeah. This should be fun. Maybe the ladies will scare some sense into him.” But she wasn’t sure she wanted to scare Lord Woolham away anymore.
The churchwomen of Last Chance wore flowered dresses, drank tea, and brought chicken salad sandwiches to their meeting.
This made them practically identical to their sisters across the Atlantic in Woolham. Although, to be fair, the women of Woolham drank their tea hot and used flowered china cups and saucers instead of tumblers with ice.
But aside from that minor difference, the women of Last Chance and Woolham were identical in every respect. And Hugh had always been very good at charming church ladies.
He put on his best Sunday manners and handed out several flyers about his factory project, which contained information about the jobs he would be creating and the employment benefits and the multiplier effect that his business would have on their community. He also handed out technical sheets with information about his loom.
No one was very interested in those, unfortunately. If they had been, he’d have probably talked for an hour about the revolutionary design that had won Hugh several patents. Instead, he kept it almost entirely nontechnical and spoke for twenty minutes before opening it up for question time.
A middle-aged woman named Millie, wear
ing a pink sundress, kicked things off. “So, Lord Woolham, do you personally know Prince William?” she asked.
His face prickled with heat. “Uh, no, I don’t.”
“Have you ever been presented to the Queen?” another lady wanted to know.
“Um, no, I haven’t, I’m afraid.”
“Have you ever gone to Ascot?” came another.
“I’m afraid not. I’m not much of a horse lover, you see.”
A pall of silence fell over the ladies. “Really?” one of them asked in a hushed tone. “Don’t all English gentlemen love horses?”
“Uh, well, you see, I’m rather allergic. I much prefer motorcars, to be honest.”
Behind him, Caroline snorted a laugh.
He turned to glare at her. A pixie light danced in her green eyes. She really was quite lovely. And she had a very good sense of humor, all things considered.
“Does anyone have any questions about the factory or the loom?” Hugh asked.
“Not really.” This came from the blond woman named Hettie Marshall, who was the chairwoman.
“Nothing at all?” he asked.
Mrs. Marshall gave him a cool smile. “Well, Lord Woolham, it’s really very simple. We’d love to have your factory. Just not where you want to build it.” She turned to the rest of the assembled ladies. “Is that a fair representation of everyone’s view?” she asked.
“Yes,” they chorused.
The chairwoman turned back toward Hugh. “Thank you so much for your presentation. We were all quite excited to have a real English baron come and talk to us, although, bless your heart, we’re all a bit disappointed that you don’t know the Duke of Cambridge. We think he’s very handsome.”
“I’m sure the Queen would be happy to know that you approve of her grandson,” Hugh managed between his clenched teeth. What a bloody waste of time this had been.
“Well,” Mrs. Marshall continued, “if you knew the Queen, you could convey our message. Now, if ya’ll don’t mind, we have plans to make for our booth at the Watermelon Festival. Be sure to stop by. We’ll be selling pies, preserves, and kisses.”
“You know, Hettie, I’m not really sure about the whole kiss thing,” Miriam Randall said, her eyes twinkling behind her upturned glasses. “I mean who’s going to spend money to kiss any of us? Except maybe our husbands.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jane might sell a few kisses,” Caroline’s mother said. Ruby Rhodes looked like an older version of her daughter, right down to the mischievous green eyes.
“Uh, um, I’m having a little trouble with Clay on that score,” a young woman in the front row said. She had spent the entirety of Hugh’s speech knitting something in dark green yarn.
“I’ve got an idea,” Miriam said.
“Oh, no,” Caroline said, taking a step back toward the door. “I’m not selling kisses. Not for this cause. It would be unprofessional and—”
“I think that’s a great idea,” the woman named Millie said. “I figure Bubba will buy a few.”
“Bubba’s mouth is broken,” Caroline said.
Hugh turned around. “Oh, dear. Broken?”
“Well, you knocked out his front teeth, and he needed a plastic surgeon to stitch up his lip. Which, thank goodness, puts him on the disabled list when it comes to kisses.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to hit him that hard,” Hugh said. His face got hot.
“Well, you did.”
“Yeah, you did,” Jane said. “We ought to make you pay for that damage by having you sell kisses, Lord Woolham. I’m thinking we could really make a killing on that.”
The ladies tittered, and he turned toward Caroline and gave her one of Granddad’s “we’re not amused” looks.
Caroline looked unimpressed.
In fact, none of the ladies seemed impressed.
He cleared his throat. “Well, ladies, thanks for the offer. I’m sure there are many lovely women in Allenberg County that I would enjoy kissing. But I would rather give my kisses away than sell them.”
“Ooooh,” the ladies said in unison, just as Hugh realized that his comment had come out all twisted and wrong. His face got hotter still. “Um, well, what I meant to say was that I don’t sell myself to the highest bidder. I mean I…”
“I think we got the message, Lord Woolham,” Caroline said. Ire sparked in her eyes. No doubt she thought he was a snob. That was good. He had her right where he wanted her. Didn’t he?
CHAPTER
7
Caroline sat in the passenger seat of the rented Mustang as Hugh drove it at a sedate pace down Palmetto Avenue, past the Kountry Kitchen on the right and The Kismet, the derelict movie theater, on the left. They reached the southern edge of town and left the fifteen-mile-an-hour speed limit behind. With each passing mile, Caroline got more worried.
His Lordship had just been teased and practically humiliated by the committee, and aside from a really cute blush when the subject of selling kisses had come up, the guy had kept his cool, remained polite, and continued to believe in his factory.
Heck, after listening to him talk—especially the ten minutes he spent on the technology he was putting into his looms—even Caroline believed in his factory. It was precisely what Last Chance needed. Especially if Jimmy Marshall was fiddling while the chicken plant failed.
But Hugh needed her help.
Even if he convinced Daddy to sell out, he was going to need help negotiating the wetlands permits. He would need additional financing to do the wetlands reclamation. It would take months. It would be expensive. Maybe more expensive than walking away from this overpriced land and starting over somewhere else. She would pull together some numbers for him. Maybe numbers would speak louder than her daddy would.
She stuffed all these thoughts into the back of her mind as Hugh guided his rental car to a stop in the parking lot of Golfing for God. First things first, she needed to convince him that Daddy wouldn’t sell out.
Then they could attack the other problems one by one.
Caroline smoothed her windblown hair back into its ponytail, turned in her seat, and gave his Lordship a long stare. “You were good with the ladies at lunch, I’ll give you that. They can be rough on outsiders, you know. But, um, Daddy is a whole different animal. So please, don’t confront him or anything, okay?”
“I wasn’t planning on any confrontations. I rather thought I’d talk with him.” He gave her a stiff smile and opened his door.
She did likewise, and followed him to the remains of a twenty-foot fiberglass statue of Jesus that lay on its side. Jesus had been pretty much totaled by a Country Pride Chicken truck. But at one time, he had presided over the parking lot with a sign in his holy hands saying, “Golfing for God.” His halo had included an additional sign telling the world that this particular mini-golf place featured a life-sized Noah’s Ark.
Hugh stared at the wreckage with the oddest expression on his face. By the way the corners of his mouth curled up, he seemed amused. That wasn’t the reaction Caroline had been looking for.
Shocked, awed, appalled—any of those she could have worked with. But amused was a big problem.
“You think it’s funny?” she asked, her words coming out just a tad sharp.
The words missed their mark. “It’s rather charming, actually.”
“Charming?” Boy, she hadn’t seen that one coming. “No one has ever called Golfing for God charming.”
“Well, it is, quite.” He turned on his heel and strode off toward the pathway that led to Noah’s Ark and the golf course. The truck accident was only one of the calamities that had befallen Golfing for God last October. A freak lightning storm had triggered an explosion that had taken out the propane tank that fed the tiki torches. The tikis had been blown to smithereens and ignited the woods that surrounded the golf course. The charred remnants of pine trees still lined the path, and it looked as if Daddy and members of the Committee to Resurrect Golfing for God had been out here trimming back the kudzu that had
taken over the last few months.
Caroline traipsed after Baron Woolham as he strode down the ruined path toward Noah’s Ark. The Ark wasn’t actually life-sized, no matter what the sign out front said. Caroline had realized this truth when she was about nine or ten and had figured out that the real Noah’s Ark would have had to be ginormous in order to carry all the species of life on earth. The Ark at the golf course was about the size of a modest horse barn. Two elephants would have been a tight squeeze, which made it kind of puny by Ark standards.
Of course, Daddy always argued that since the Ark at Golfing for God was big enough to house a petting zoo comprised of a longhorn steer, a llama, a goat, a sheep, and a bunny, it was, therefore, life-sized. Caroline had eventually conceded that point, but continued to feel a certain level of disappointment that the Ark was so small. To make matters worse, the older she got, the smaller the Ark seemed.
The Ark also housed Daddy’s office and the check-in where customers paid their greens fees and got their little colored balls and putters. The check-in counter was buttoned up with a shutter that needed painting, as did the Ark itself. Hugh stopped, put his hands on his hips, and looked up at the building, which towered about fifty feet above them. Caroline stood behind him and searched the grounds for Daddy.
She found her father over in the back nine pruning azaleas. Daddy turned toward them, as if sensing their arrival. “Hey darlin’,” he said, then leaned his lopping shears against the rock that sealed Jesus’s tomb. He headed in their direction—a path that took him through the hole representing the resurrection.
Caroline wondered what his Lordship was thinking about Daddy’s black T-shirt, which boasted the slogan “God is. Any questions?” across the chest in huge white letters. Daddy’s salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a long braid that reached halfway down his back. His goatee, beer belly, biker boots, and earring gave him the appearance of a motorcycle gang member, but not exactly a member of Hell’s Angels. Daddy’s angels were probably serious hallucinations, born of the time he’d spent in Vietnam.
Daddy walked up to her and pulled her into one of his big bear hugs. “Mmmm, how’s my littlest angel?”
