by Hope Ramsay
“Good-bye, Woody,” she said as she slammed the door shut. “And good riddance.”
The Universe chose that exact moment to express its approval of this course of action by allowing the sun to make its first appearance of the day. Jane rushed to the windows and stared up into a sky that was changing from gray into a deep, endless Carolina blue.
When the lights went out, Clay sent Ray home from work. Now Ray sat at his kitchen table studying the slightly wrinkled sheet of paper he’d rescued from the trash can at the front of the store.
He needed to help Clay find a wife, because if Clay was married and settled down, then maybe he would stop feeling like he was responsible. Ray hated the way Clay always felt responsible.
He stared down at his list. So far it only had three names on it—in alphabetical order: April, Betty, and Dottie.
He thought for a long time. There were a couple of other names he could add to the list: Lurleen Wallace, who worked for the Sheriff’s Department; Amy Swallock, who had a job at the Rexall; Carolyn Mayfield, who ran a little antique shop in the old schoolhouse; and Jennifer Carpenter, who was a teller at the First National Bank and who lived with her invalid mother.
The names on his list had to be a pretty small percentage of the potential pool of marriageable women in Allenberg County.
Ray let go of a big sigh. How was he supposed to figure out which one was the right one for Clay? Clay had made it clear that just rating them by the size of their breasts and whether they owned a bar was pretty immature. And even if Ray’s brains were scrambled, he recognized that the Internet poem about the perfect woman left a few variables out.
He needed a better empirical test.
He stood up and went to the drawer in the kitchen where he kept a pad and pencils. He sat down, lit a candle in the deepening afternoon gloom, and started to make a list of the things that would make a woman perfect:
Well, first of all, the perfect woman would understand the geometry of pool and the probability of poker. Although Clay probably didn’t care about the mathematical aspects of these games, he did know how to play them. So Clay’s perfect woman would have to know how to play them, too. So he wrote pool and poker down on this list.
She would have to love baseball and know the difference between on-base percentage and slugging percentage. Well, at least, she would have to know how to keep score, because Clay loved baseball almost as much as Ray did.
He wrote that down.
She would have to know how to bake a cherry pie, which had nothing to do with math (unless you were trying to figure the circumference of the pie, which would require the use of pi). He smiled at his own pun. Still, the pie baking was important. The perfect woman needed to know how to bake.
The perfect woman would not be afraid of Lillian Bray. So any member of the Ladies Auxiliary was out. Not that there were any unmarried members of the Auxiliary, but that was an absolute ironclad requirement. Clay didn’t need to be saddled with one of those women. Or any woman who might be inclined to join the Auxiliary. Although, since Clay was an Episcopalian, Ray reckoned that his perfect mate would, at least, have to be Christian.
He wrote that down.
She would have to like more than country music, because even if Clay was an accomplished fiddler, the fact remained that Clay listened to jazz and classical music whenever he thought folks weren’t looking. That was going to be a tough one because he reckoned no one in Allenberg County except Clay Rhodes liked that kind of long-haired stuff.
She would have to be willing to relocate, because the entire point of the exercise was to get Clay to move back to Nashville so he would quit hovering over Ray and trying to look after him. He wrote that down. He suspected that finding folks willing to leave Allenberg County wouldn’t be all that difficult. The difficult part would be in finding an eligible woman, since women in these parts all seemed to be hot to leave town.
He studied his list for a long time as the gloom outside receded and the storm passed over. He added several criteria and then began writing out the algorithm for determining each potential candidate’s overall score on the test—a score he termed the “desirability index.” If the electricity had been running, he would have started programming the application directly into his computer, but that wasn’t possible.
So he wrote the computer code longhand and would transfer it to the computer later. Now, with that finished, he needed to collect the data.
Ray folded up the original list and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he took the sheets of paper and put them carefully by his computer in the den, where he wouldn’t forget them.
The sun had come out, although the electricity was still off. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry. He wondered if the Kountry Kitchen was open.
He smiled at the thought. Betty was probably still on shift. He blew out the candle he’d been using in the kitchen. Then he left the house, forgetting to lock up after himself. He turned left on Oak and walked two blocks to the corner. Then a right on Palmetto Avenue.
Clay knew the exact moment Jane walked into Dottie’s place, even though he had his back turned toward the door and his head deep in the music he was playing on the upright piano. The hairs on his neck stood on end, gooseflesh prickled up his back, and his whole body went zing.
He missed a note with his left hand and stumbled through three entire measures of “Honky Tonk Moon,” losing the meter of the song in the process. The air became thick with charged electrons. He forced himself to concentrate on the piano, but it took almost all of his will not to look over his shoulder to confirm that Jane had arrived.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sashay up to the bar on those high-heel boots and ask Dottie about the free hash.
And Dottie, warm-hearted woman that she was, smiled that Amanda Blake smile of hers, ignored Jane’s baggy fatigues and shirt, and said, “Darlin’, I certainly am handing out free hash. I borrowed Clay’s Coleman stove, and I’ve got two whole cases of that stuff left over from that hash-eating contest we ran last summer. You just set yourself down, and I’ll get you a whole plateful. I figure there are lots of folks without warm food tonight, and it’s the least I can do.”
The bartender turned to fetch the food. Jane hopped up on the stool and turned her head. She looked right at him.
And he, like some stupid sixteen-year-old, turned his head and looked at her. And missed another beat.
Crap.
He needed to get this girl out of town before he took her back to the Peach Blossom Motor Court—or, worse yet, invited her home to sleep in his own bed. Forget about Ray and his delusions about this girl. This woman was dangerous. Clay’s body was telling him, in no uncertain terms, that he wanted a second round. And she looked so forlorn in those baggy clothes. Feeling lust for a needy woman could set him back on his plans of finding a real relationship with a mature, straightforward, and self-reliant woman.
He turned his attention back to the keyboard and tried hard not to think about her. He failed.
• • •
Jane was in serious trouble. The Universe might have provided free food and beer, but it required her to sit here at the bar and listen to Clay play piano.
He had skills as a fiddler, but when he sat at the piano, he blew her away. She had heard that piano all the way down the sidewalk as she searched, in vain, for an open grocery or convenience store. The music had drawn her into Dot’s Spot more than the sign for free hash.
She listened as he ran through a bunch of country standards. But when he started playing “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places,” it was almost as if he conjured up Ray.
With the opening verse, the little guy sauntered through the doors. He waved toward Clay, then he marched right up to the bar and hopped up on the bar stool next to Jane.
“Hey,” he said with a goofy smile and a bobbing Adam’s apple.
Clayton P. glanced over his shoulder, watching Ray. That was interesting. It sure did look like Clayton P. thought he was
Ray’s bodyguard or something. The big question was why.
Dottie worked the hand pump on the keg she’d hauled behind the counter and drew a lukewarm draft that she set in front of Ray. “So,” the bartender said as she picked up a dishtowel and started wiping glasses, “where are you from, sugar?”
Yup, this was definitely small-town America. “I’m from Florida,” Jane said, not willing to give the whole sordid story of her life and the bad choices she had made.
“She’s April,” Ray said with a bob of his head.
“Uh, no, Ray, my name’s Jane,” she said. Behind him, Clay rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Well, Jane, welcome to Last Chance, home of Golfing for God,” Dottie said.
Clay squeezed his eyes shut as if he were experiencing a sudden, swift pain.
“I’ve heard about that. I’m going to have to get a ride out there just to take it all in.”
“You do that. It’s good for the economy.”
“Hey, Dottie, I got a question for you,” Ray said, changing the subject.
“Okay.”
“Do you know how to play pool?”
She smiled. “I do, as a matter of fact. Met my late husband playing pool. He was something of a hustler, though. Which is why I don’t have a pool table in my bar. I’m afraid it would remind me of him and make me sad. That, and I’m already in trouble with the holy rollers around this town. Bad enough I serve liquor without the inevitable gambling a pool table brings.”
“That’s good,” Ray said bobbing his head, and Jane wondered what, precisely, was good about it. But before she could ask, Ray turned toward her. “You know how to play pool, April?”
Ray was challenged, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, it was clear Clayton P. considered Ray one of his friends, and Clayton P. was, actually, a pretty okay guy. “Um, actually, no, I don’t know how to play pool,” she said.
He stared at her for a long moment, and Jane got the impression that she had somehow disappointed him. “That’s too bad.”
“Ray, why do you have pool on your mind?” Dottie asked.
“Oh, no particular reason, Dot. Just doing a survey.”
“A survey?”
“Yeah. I’m collecting data on the women of Allenberg County.”
“Uh-huh. And why are you doing that?”
“Because it interests me.” He gave her a speculative look. “Do you know how to play poker, Dot?”
“My late husband and I were both pretty good Texas Hold ’Em players. Donnie was practically a professional before he died.”
“That’s good, Dottie.” Ray turned on his bar stool. “How about you, April?”
“I’m afraid not, Ray. I wouldn’t know a good poker hand if it came up and bit me,” Jane said.
He frowned. He looked really forlorn. “That’s too bad,” he said.
“Ray, honey, is this survey about games of chance?” Dottie asked.
“Oh, no, it’s a more widely ranging survey than that,” Ray said.
“Uh-huh, you got any more questions?” Dot asked.
“Well, yes, I do.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Can you bake a cherry pie?”
Dottie snorted. “From scratch or with a crust from the freezer section at the Piggly Wiggly?”
“Hmmm. That’s a good question. I hadn’t thought about that variable.” Ray frowned.
“About what?” Dottie said.
“Whether it’s necessary to bake the pie from scratch?”
“Well, using Flako is practically like making it from scratch. I mean you still have to roll the crust,” Dottie said.
“Good point. So can you?” Ray asked.
“Of course I can. Donnie used to especially like my peach pie. But peach or cherry, it’s all in the crust. For the record, I usually make my piecrust from scratch.”
Ray turned on his stool. “How ’bout you, April?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Can you bake a pie?”
Jane stared down at the little guy. “To be honest, I try hard not to eat pie, because it’s fattening.”
“But can you bake one?”
“I haven’t ever tried, so I don’t really know.”
“Didn’t your momma ever bake pies for you, sugar?” This from Dottie.
Jane didn’t want to answer that one. Ma’s idea of cooking was running out to McDonald’s. “I’m afraid not.”
Ray’s eyes got round, like he pitied her or something. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” But somehow it wasn’t okay.
“So can you cook anything?” Ray asked.
“Why is this important?”
“I’m collecting data on the women of—”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard that, but I’m not a woman of Allenberg County. I guess all the women around here can cook, but I’m a call-up-for-carry-out kind of girl. Which is why I’m here eating hash.”
“That’s too bad, April.”
The music stopped abruptly. Jane, Ray, and Dottie all looked over toward Clay. He was glaring back at them, mostly at Ray. “Ray, what are you up to?”
“Nothing. I’m just conducting an informal survey of the women of Allenberg County.”
“Well, stop.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re pestering Jane and Dottie.”
“Aw, c’mon, Clay, I’m just working on that problem we discussed today at the store. And besides, Betty didn’t mind when I asked her these questions.”
Clay’s brow lowered into a scowl. “Ray, I told you to quit. Now quit, okay?”
“What problem?” Dot asked. Her gaze shifted from Clay to Ray with the avidity of a bloodhound on the hunt. No one had a nose for gossip like a bartender, unless it was a church lady.
“Never you mind, Dot,” Clay said. “Just watch him, will you?”
Clay’s gaze shifted and suddenly Jane found herself caught up in the light of those pale wolf eyes. That stare of his was so intense, it practically burned a hole in her middle.
It took almost all of Clay’s willpower to tear his gaze away from Jane. Even dressed in baggy fatigues and a sweatshirt, she looked good enough to eat. He flashed on the heat of her skin last night and felt his face burn.
He turned back to his piano. He gulped down a breath and blew it out. He needed to have a long talk with Ray. The boy seemed to be on a mission to find him the perfect pool- and poker-playing woman.
Although why Ray would think he wanted that kind of thing in a woman was beyond Clay’s understanding. But who knew how Ray’s scrambled brains worked.
Clay put his fingers on the keyboard. He noodled around for a moment in the key of G before launching into a syncopated progression of major seventh chords that took him into a genre of music that was not quite pop and not quite jazz and not quite folk. It was a genre all his own.
Of course, the inability to define a category for many of his own compositions explained his entire life. He, and they, didn’t fit. And so, mostly, these songs went unsold, even though they pleased him. Sometimes he thought it might be better to reach a small audience with something true and authentic than to reach for the world.
In a minute, Dottie would tell him to stop putting the customers to sleep with this crap. But right now she was busy welcoming folks to the One-and-Only Last Chance Hurricane Jane Party. The news that Dottie was handing out lukewarm beer and free hash had traveled fast. Customers were strolling in, and it was a sad fact that those rednecks and good ol’ boys didn’t much like this style of music either.
Clay played on, irritated at Jane for being there. And feeling increasingly angry with himself for falling into old patterns of behavior that made him want to take care of her and Ray.
He clamped down on his back teeth and focused on playing, intent on making his audience listen—just this once—to one of his compositions that didn’t have a fiddle or a steel guitar part in it, that wasn’t some canned Hallmark emotion, but something that requir
ed them to think and feel. He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and started to sing.
Now I mark the time like a metronome
A single heart, beating on its own
And I keep the time with a watch and chain
From the day you last said my name…
Jane found herself pulled into the song Clay played. The composition had an arresting tempo she couldn’t ignore. Jane counted the beats in her head. He was playing in seven-four time. The musical phrase was subtle and complex, yet it sounded simple. The man was a virtuoso.
Then he started to sing. And the lyrics touched something down deep inside her. They were all about time itself. About losing it, and losing love, and not fitting in. She connected with the message.
Jane watched him as he squeezed his eyes shut and seemed to travel off to some other place—a place of pain and emotion. He was carrying a torch for someone big-time. He had cried in the bathroom last night, and that could only mean he was seriously hurting about some lost love.
Hoo boy. An emotional man with a poetic streak and a broken heart was about the most seductive thing in the Universe. A girl could get screwed-up notions about rescuing him. A girl just naturally wanted to be the one to introduce him, personally, to happiness and to take care of him.
Which explained why her heart began to race and her lungs started to burn.
Fortunately, Clay ended the song before she burst into tears or did something foolish like start thinking she actually had the power to rescue him or take care of him.
Before Clay could launch into something else equally emotional, Dottie growled at him. “I declare, you know darn well, the folks who come in here want to hear country music, not jazz. Jazz is too complicated for most of ’em.” Dottie gave Jane a meaningful look. “Ain’t that right, sugar?”
Oh, crap. She was caught between the woman who had just given her free food and the man who had given her a hickey last night, fed her this morning, and blown her away a minute ago. Her entire future in this town might hinge on her response to this impossible question.
