by Hope Ramsay
Last Chance Summer
Hope Ramsay
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Chapter One
“Let’s listen to WLST,” Granny said, as she leaned forward in the passenger’s seat and started fiddling with Amanda Wright’s car radio. “I wonder who Russell will interview this morning? I sure hope it’s not Jenny Carpenter. He always interviews her, and she’s so shy and awkward. But then I guess he’s required to interview her, since she always wins the pie-baking contest.”
Amanda vaguely nodded her agreement. It wouldn’t do to encourage Granny too much. Russell Howe, Amanda’s granddaddy, had died six months ago. But Granny didn’t let that stop her from believing that Granddaddy was still broadcasting on WLST—the low-powered FM station serving Allenberg County, South Carolina, with country music, agricultural extension talk, fishing advice, and twenty-four-seven coverage of annual events like the Watermelon Festival. Which was Amanda’s destination on this hot August morning.
Granny found WLST with surprising speed for someone with poor eyesight. The velvet tones of the announcer filled the small interior of Amanda’s car. “It’s Trumbull in the morning, broadcasting live today from the Allenberg County Watermelon Festival. My guest is Miss Myrtle Smith from Last Chance. Miss Myrtle, as you may know, is one of about a hundred crafters who—”
“Oh poop,” Granny said, turning down the sound, “who wants to hear about Myrtle and her ugly jewelry boxes? She’s been selling those things for years.” Granny stared at the radio for several moments. “I wonder why Russell isn’t broadcasting. He would never interview Myrtle. He thinks her boxes are trash.”
Amanda gripped the steering wheel of her over-the-hill Honda Accord and said not a word. She didn’t want to set Granny off by reminding her that Granddaddy had passed on. And she wasn’t saying one word about Grant Trumbull, the new morning voice of WLST.
Amanda had never met Trumbull. But he had saved the radio station from going under. He was an experienced announcer who’d blown into town three months ago and bought up WLST for the proverbial song.
He was changing things at the radio station, which was always a challenge in Last Chance, where inertia was a way of life. The Saturday morning gospel hour had been moved to Sunday morning, and he’d started a great new Saturday show featuring Clay Rhodes, a local musician and songwriter who introduced listeners to country and folk music recorded by local, Carolina musicians.
But it was Trumbull’s show that Amanda liked best. She listened to him spin country music every weekday morning as she drove to work. Those deep, resonant, slightly Midwestern tones made him sound like Sam Elliott on steroids.
“I really don’t like this new radio man,” Granny said with a grumpy sigh as she punched the off button.
Ethan, Amanda’s almost five-year-old son, piped up from the back seat. “Why not, Granny? I like the man inside the radio.”
“Honey,” Amanda said, “I told you, the man isn't inside the radio. The sound is broadcast by—”
“Oh poop, the boy’s got a miracle, and you have to go and explain it to him,” Granny interrupted. She half-turned in her seat and flashed her dentures at Ethan. “Honey, you take it from me, radio is magic. Now you just be patient and sooner or later your great granddaddy will come on. Won’t that be fun? I think he’ll be broadcasting the watermelon eating contest this afternoon.”
“Uh huh.” Ethan accepted Granny’s explanation of the world with complete trust and equanimity. Which was increasingly disturbing. The innocence of youth was all fine and good, but Ethan was old enough to know how radio broadcasting worked.
And Amanda was a science teacher, so having her child believe in magic was something of a problem. Just yesterday, Amanda had taken apart an old transistor radio and showed Ethan how it worked. But her science lesson had backfired.
Badly. Ethan had cried big crocodile tears and wanted to know when Granddaddy was going to be coming back.
Granddaddy had been the only man in Ethan’s young life so it was normal that he should be taking the old man’s death hard. Ethan’s father had died when he was just an infant. Tom Wright, Amanda’s husband, had been killed by a sniper while serving in Afghanistan.
So Amanda knew what Granny was going through. It was hard to lose a husband. Really hard.
Amanda glanced in her grandmother’s direction. The old lady had decked herself out today. A crocheted scarf that looked like one long, continuous watermelon was wrapped around her neck, boa style. She’d donned a pink-and-green tie-dye tank top that exposed her bony arms. The color of her pedal pushers was closer to neon than watermelon rind. But nothing could top her Vans lace-ups with their watermelon-print uppers and bright green rubber soles.
Granny’s outfit made Amanda grateful that she’d dressed in a pair of beige shorts and a white T-shirt. There was a high probability she’d run into students who attended Stuart Middle School, where she taught general science. Her students all carried cell phones with cameras, and she had no wish to be embarrassed on Facebook or Pinterest.
A huge lineup of cars had backed up at the fairgrounds entrance. She took her place at the end of the line and followed the directions waved by half a dozen Boy Scouts who were doing a pretty good job of managing the parking in a huge grassy field.
“Mama, can I ride the Ferris wheel first?” Ethan asked as Amanda unbuckled him from his booster seat.
“We’ll see.”
It was a big cop-out answer. In truth, Amanda was terrified of heights. No one, not even her precious son, was getting her to ride some dinky, temporary Ferris wheel set up on a fairgrounds midway. She was determined to avoid it at all costs, even though Ethan was probably going to throw a tantrum about it before the day was out.
Ethan was a stubborn, headstrong, and determined little boy, much like his father had been. If Tom were here, he would take his boy on that ride. And Amanda could sit on a bench and relax. But Tom wasn’t here.
And that had been the story of Amanda Wright’s adult life. She’d married her high school sweetheart, and he’d gone off and joined the Marines. And then he’d gone to war, and he’d never come home again.
“We need to stop by the Knit & Stitch’s booth,” Granny said as she set off across the parking field at a surprisingly robust pace. Granny was healthy as a horse, according to Doc Cooper—except for her mind, which was definitely going.
Ethan followed after the old lady like Tigger. Amanda’s son wasn’t capable of walking. He skipped. He raced. He ran. But mostly he bounced.
Amanda brought up the rear, carrying a backpack with their water bottles, snacks, wet wipes, first aid pack, and assorted other emergency preparations. One did not travel with a bouncy five-year-old and a spry eighty-year-old without a supply of antiseptic ointment and Band-aids.
* * *
For a woman who often had trouble remembering the three-block walk from home to church and back, Granny managed to forge her way through the crowded fairgrounds to Exhibit Hall A with a directness that brightened Amanda’s mood.
It was hard watchi
ng Granny’s mind slip away. So Amanda savored every moment of every good day. And today was shaping up pretty well, despite Ethan’s whining about the Ferris wheel.
It didn’t take them long to find the booth space set aside for the Knit & Stitch, the local yarn shop that supported a group of older knitters called the Purly Girls. The Girls met at the yarn store every Tuesday afternoon and knitted for charity. Every year, the yarn store sold knitted mittens, scarves, hats, and stuffed toys at their Watermelon Festival booth. The proceeds were donated to St. Jude's Children's Hospital. Today, the colorful projects had been displayed on a metal grid that surrounded the booth.
Several of the Girls were there, sitting on lawn chairs, knitting away, every single one of them wearing a watermelon-inspired ensemble.
“Hey, Luanne, don’t you look pretty as a picture in your scarf.” Pat Canaday, the owner of the Knit & Stitch, gave Granny a big ole hug.
“Goodness,” Pat said as she let Granny go, “is that Ethan? He’s growing like a weed.” She squatted down to be on Ethan’s level. “You look just like your daddy, you know that?” She ran her hand through Ethan’s mop of wavy, golden-brown hair.
People were always saying this to Ethan, and it bounced off him. He had no connection to Tom. And that was so sad.
“Hey Miz Pat, my granddaddy is in the radio, did you know that? And Granny says he might be at the watermelon eating contest.”
Pat gave him the saddest smile. “Well, honey, I have heard your granny say things like that,” she said without missing a beat. Pat raised an eyebrow in Amanda’s direction, not willing to burst Ethan’s bubble. Obviously Pat knew all about Granny’s dementia.
“Can we turn up the sound on the radio?” the boy asked. “I like to listen to the radio man.”
“Sure honey,” Pat said. She turned up the volume, and the smooth tones of Grant Turnbull filled the air.
”I’m honored to be joined in the booth this morning by one of Last Chance’s leading citizens, Mrs. Miriam Randall…”
Ethan didn’t seem all that disappointed that it wasn’t his Granddaddy on the radio. But maybe that was because his attention had been momentarily distracted by the basket filled with knitted stuffed toys.
Granny, on the other hand, was more than disappointed. She was annoyed.
“Where is Russell?” she said. “He should be doing the interview with Miriam. And I swear if Miriam Randall gives that new man marital advice I’ll never forgive—”
“Shhhh!” This came from Mary Latimer, who was leaning forward with her hand cupped around the ear with her hearing aid.
Mary wasn’t the only one leaning forward. When Miriam Randall started talking, everyone listened. She was legendary in Allenberg County for her ability to match people up. Granddaddy had always interviewed Miriam during the course of the Watermelon Festival. And it wasn’t unusual for Miriam to make some kind of public pronouncement that would set off a matchmaking frenzy among every church lady in town.
Amanda was not a big believer in Miriam Randall and her marital prognostications. But she found herself listening to the old woman’s voice as it came from Pat Canaday’s radio.
”Well, Grant, I don’t rightly know how I come up with matches for folks. It’s just a knack, I guess.”
“Do you have any advice for me?”
You could hear Miriam giggling. ”Well, as a matter of fact, I have a feeling your soul mate isn’t too far away.”
”My soul mate, huh? What should I be looking for?” There was something in Trumbull’s voice that caught Amanda’s attention. The guy was from way out of town. Folks said he came from Chicago. You would have expected him to make fun of Miriam and her funny country ways. But his interview wasn’t like that at all. It almost sounded like Grant Trumbull was seriously looking for a soul mate. Like he believed in Miriam. Like he was having a lot of fun with her, the way Granddaddy used to every year.
Miriam didn’t miss a beat. She immediately came back with some advice for the lovelorn broadcaster. ”I think you might want to look at the Lost and Found.”
This shut Grant Trumbull up, and in that awful, static-filled moment of dead air, Amanda could have sworn she heard a voice, or a whisper, or something.
Man. She must be suffering from heat stroke already.
The broadcaster found his balance quickly. ”Well, all you single ladies, you heard it here. I’ll be signing off at noon, and I’ll be heading directly to the Lost and Found. Come on by and say hi. I understand there’s a big dance this evening, and my dance card is completely empty.”
“Honestly,” Amanda said, feeling a little disappointed in him for some reason she couldn’t quite explain, “the man has no shame. He’s trolling for dates over the air.”
“Well, you have to admit it’s a great way to get to know the community,” Pat said.
“Of single women.”
“So, what’s wrong with that?”
Ethan saved Amanda from having to find a comeback to Pat’s question. He gave Amanda’s T-shirt several good tugs. “Mama, can we go ride the Ferris wheel now?”
Apparently the knitted animals had lost their appeal. She needed to find something more fun than hanging out with old ladies or she was going to find herself sixty feet up in the air with no safety net. “How about we get some yummy funnel cake first?” she asked.
Amanda turned toward Granny. “Are you up for a walk around the midway?”
“Of course I am. I love funnel cake.”
Chapter Two
The line for funnel cake was ridiculously long, given that it was just a little after nine in the morning. But of course the delicious sweet smell was enough to snare all comers. It wafted over the midway, mingling with the ever-present fairground odors of corn dog and cotton candy. Amanda inhaled it. The scent brought back so many memories. She’d been coming to the Watermelon Festival since she was younger than Ethan. She wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.
The sun beat down on them. And even at this early hour, Amanda found herself diving into her back pack for sun screen and a floppy hat for Ethan, who had unfortunately inherited his daddy’s pale complexion. Already his freckles were popping out all over his face. Lord have mercy, her child was going to be blistered before the day was out.
That’s if she didn’t murder him first. He wanted a ride on the Ferris wheel, and he whined about it for the entire fifteen minutes they waited on line for their funnel cakes.
They paid for their treats and found an empty spot at the picnic grounds that was blessedly shaded under a big, open-sided tent. Industrial-strength fans whirred overhead, and the WLST broadcast was being piped in live over several loudspeakers.
”So I’m here with Dale Pontius, the organizer of this year’s Watermelon Festival parade and a member of the Watermelon Queen Selection Committee. Dale, this is my first time, but I understand you’ve been organizing this event for more than twenty years. I’ve got only one question to ask: are the Watermelon Queens always so pretty?” Trumbull’s voice washed over Amanda like a deep pool of cool water. Drat. His voice practically oozed sex-appeal. And even if he was a big-city broadcaster, he sure did have that Willard Scott, down-home thing going for him.
“Well now, Grant, those girls are more than just pretty. Every Watermelon Queen is judged on her academic performance and her contributions to our community. In fact, those qualities are far more important than beauty.”
“Well, all of that shines through. I interviewed Sara Nelson this morning, and she is a truly remarkable young woman. And I get the feeling Allenberg County produces a lot of young people like her. Makes me proud to be a new member of this community.”
Dale laughed, which was unfortunate because he had a funny, high-pitched laugh that sort of sounded like a braying donkey. “I reckon you'll have more to celebrate pretty soon. It’s all over the fairgrounds that Miriam Randall gave you marital advice. You may not know this, but Miriam is never wrong. The church ladies of Allenberg are determined to ma
ke sure you never leave. And believe me, they can work some magic. You just ask my wife of forty years. So, if I were you, I’d get yourself down to the Lost and Found. Someone may be waiting for you. Someone a little older than our Watermelon Queen, I hope. Sara is only seventeen, you know.”
This time Grant Trumbull laughed, and he most definitely didn’t sound donkey-like. His laugh was smooth and refined, as only a broadcaster’s could be. “Dale, I have no desire to rob any cradles. And I’ve already heard that it’s perilous to ignore Miriam Randall’s advice. So I’d love to meet any grown-up ladies who want to drop by the Lost and Found today just a little after noon. That’s when I’ll be turning the mic over to Lester Weaton for the afternoon show. Lester will be covering the watermelon eating contest live, with on-the-scene interviews.”
“Oh brother,” Amanda muttered under her voice.
“Mama, we need to go to the Lost and Found,” Ethan said through a mouth full of funnel cake. He had powdered sugar all over his face, hands, and the front of his T-shirt.
“No, we don’t. I have no interest in meeting Grant Trumbull.”
“Good for you,” Granny said. “I think he sounds like a slick Yankee, don’t you?”
Well, no. She thought he sounded sexy has hell. But he had to be middle-aged or older. Besides, it was a huge mistake to judge a man by his voice. Of course, you couldn’t judge a man by his good looks, either. The next time Amanda fell, it was going to be for someone steady and kind, instead of a studly warrior alpha male who was never home until he couldn’t ever come home again.
“But we lost Granddaddy,” Ethan said. “So we should go find him at the Lost and Found.”
Amanda took an enormous gulp of air. “Honey, it doesn’t work that way.”
“But the radio man is going there.”
“Honey, I told you, I don’t want to meet Grant Trumbull.”
Ethan frowned. “No, but—”
Granny interrupted. “I don’t want to meet that city slicker either. And I just don’t understand why they have Lester broadcasting the watermelon eating contest. Russell should be doing that.” There was a note of panic in Granny’s voice.
