by Marina Adair
A few murmurs of approval sounded, and Charlotte sighed in relief as some of the grayer heads began to nod. When Darleen didn’t even mumble an objection or point out a flaw with the plan, Charlotte asked, “Are there any questions?” She paused, giving the members time for consideration. Nothing but smiles. “Great! Then, as the regent of the Sugar Peaches, I propose that we change the route of the parade to end at the Sugar Medical Center. All those in favor say aye.”
A resounding aye went up and Charlotte blinked. Almost burst out in a giddy laugh. Could it really be that easy?
“Great,” she said again, still in shock. “That’s really great. I guess the next item up for consideration then is the recipient.” And because part of winning the argument was going to come down to etiquette, Charlotte said, “Darleen, would you like to go first?”
Darleen stood, smoothed down her lavender shirt, and smiled. “Sure. I’ll make this quick. I know that we have spent the past few years focusing on the Grow Clinic and the new pediatric ward. It is only natural that we’d want to spread the love, pick a new cause.”
“I agree that we have focused a lot of time and money on the medical center,” Mable said, and Charlotte felt her chest pinch. If Mable sided with Darleen then Charlotte was sunk. “Bluebell Hall will be there next year, and we’re almost there with the center, so I think I speak for the rest of the board when I say it would need to be a really compelling reason to switch in the last leg of the race.”
Charlotte sat back and smiled, wondering why she’d doubted her Peaches. They were about tradition, honor, and serving this wonderful community. They might be temporarily entertained by the idea of grandeur and glory, they were former debutantes after all, but when it came down to it, nothing could sway them from following their heart.
Darleen whipped her hair back and shot her shoulder out. “I have it on good authority that the Sons of the Revolution are telling everyone who will listen that they are going to revive old Blue.”
Nothing except a good old-fashioned competition.
Chapter 12
One excruciatingly long hour later, Charlotte stood at the head of the table and tried her best to come off confident and unfazed, but truth be told, now that the board had reached its conclusion, she wasn’t feeling all that well. The doughnuts she’d eaten earlier had settled into a solid lump in her stomach, and the idea that she might go from front-runner to Darleen’s runner-up was more than she could say grace over.
She wanted the board to vote her way, but Lord knew a girl didn’t always get what she wanted.
Still, Charlotte had busted her backside for three years, dedicated her entire being to this town, the Peaches, and this center, so she was going to make it go the distance even if it killed her. Which her father might do for her if he heard that the Peaches were contemplating this year’s benefactor.
“Have you reached a decision?” Charlotte asked with as much decorum as she could muster. After the two sides had presented their cases, the group had been split, right down the middle. So Mable suggested that Charlotte and Darleen wait in the hallway so that the members could voice their concerns without the pressure of pleasing either party.
Most of the senior board members had agreed with Charlotte that ending support when the Grow Clinic was weeks from reaching its goal didn’t set the kind of example of follow through and dedication that the Peaches were known for. Others didn’t feel the same. And it was the others Charlotte worried about. The ones who shared their last name or deepest secrets with Darleen.
“We have,” Mable stood, surprisingly agile for a woman who was older than the town. “We have decided to postpone the decision until after the Founder’s Day Fair.”
“After the fair?” Charlotte asked, wondering when that elephant decided to crawl up and sit on her chest.
“It appears that the vote didn’t come down to beneficiaries so much as leadership styles.”
This did not sound good. “Is there concern about my ability to run this group?”
“You mean besides Ms. Vander?” Hattie asked.
“Yes, dear,” Mable said diplomatically. “There is concern that some of your past ideas aren’t in line with the forward direction some members feel is essential to the group.” Wow, that stung. “There is also concern among those who want to focus the next few years on Bluebell Hall that you are not the best person to spearhead that project.”
“I am not against resurrecting Bluebell Hall,” Charlotte explained. She knew Darleen was after her spot, she just didn’t think she could get enough support to make her any more annoying than a housefly. Charlotte had obviously underestimated the competition. “I just believe that taking on a project of that magnitude—”
“You mean like funding an entire pediatric ward and patient outreach center?” Darleen countered.
“Yes. But we didn’t jump into that project, there was a lot of time and energy put into strategizing, gathering the facts.”
“Facts that I have already presented.” Darleen beamed, then pointed to her presentation, which Charlotte was certain had very skewed facts that would support the idiotic decision to jump into renovating Bluebell without further exploration. A move that would no doubt cost the Peaches everything—and Charlotte her job. Because there was no way they could resurrect it on their own. “So I don’t see why this project is so different from yours?”
“The Peaches didn’t build the new ward or the Grow Clinic,” Charlotte said, then at the horrified gasps added, “although the Peaches were a big source of support, both financial and emotional, the town all pitched in for that center.”
“And I believe that the town will pitch in with Old Blue!”
“What if they don’t?” Charlotte put it out there, because if people were thinking about diving into the crazy pool with Darleen then someone needed to be the voice of reason. “What if they don’t, and the money spent is just another few grand down the Blue money pit? Then what will the town think?”
“That we’re as dumb as those big-city builders that came through here a few years back and lost the farm on that place,” Hattie said, and a few concerned whispers formed. “Only we’d be losing the town’s money.”
“Not with the right leadership,” Darleen countered. “Charlotte might not have faith in our abilities, but I sure do!”
“Which is why we have decided to divvy up the Founder’s Day responsibilities between the two of you.” Mable leveled Darleen with a glare, then picked up her reading glasses that were attached to a bedazzled chain and slid them on her nose. She glanced at her notes. “If you both agree, then Darleen will be handling the fair and Charlotte will handle the parade.”
“Oh, that sounds perfect.” Darleen said. “I already spoke to a guy in Atlanta who is willing to donate the booths this year.” A guy who, Darleen failed to mention, Charlotte had introduced Darleen to. “And I love helping local businesses and families connect, just like my grandmother did when she became the first female councilwoman at town hall.”
Saying her platform was upholding tradition would have been more subtle.
“Charlotte, you in agreement?” Mable asked, taking off her glasses. Charlotte nodded. “Then at the end of the weekend the board will hold a special meeting and vote. Whoever holds the title of regent will decide who gets the money.”
Darleen smiled. “So whoever does the best job wins?” And since she already had the tents donated and the booth map outlined, thanks to Charlotte, Darleen’s victory was looking strong.
“No, dear, the only way to compare apples to oranges is to measure their sweetness,” Mable explained. “So whoever keeps the best interests of this town and our organization at heart will win.”
“And if there is no clear winner?” Charlotte asked, because when it came to heart, she had this. But if it came down to looking busy, Darleen was a grand master.
“Then nothing changes for the board. You will remain regent, and the money will go to the beneficiary the board was go
ing to approve last week. The Grow Clinic.”
Darleen gave a disappointed gasp, and Charlotte felt her chest loosen a bit. This was hers to lose. And she had never lost to Darleen. She wasn’t about to start now.
“That sounds fair,” Charlotte said, knowing it would be the best Founder’s Day celebration Sugar had ever seen. Because not only was her position on the line, so was the endowment. If this fair came off more hick than heartwarming, Mercy Alliance would walk. And if Darleen triumphed, then the money would go to Bluebell Hall—and Mercy Alliance would think that the local support had dried up and they’d walk. “But the classic car display will fall under my direction.”
“But that’s going to be a big pull for tourists, and the display will be at the fairgrounds,” Darleen argued. Then she softened her smile and turned all five-bazillion brown-nosing watts on Mable. “I am friends with Jace, so I could just ring him up and get things going.”
Like hell. “Actually, they will be in the parade, which means they fall into the transportation category, and therefore are in my category.”
A loud commotion came from outside the door and what sounded like a herd of cattle tromping past caught everyone’s attention. Charlotte raced around the table and reached for the handle when the door blew open and a terrified bleating echoed down the hall.
“Dr. Holden,” June Ferguson said, obviously winded. Her face was flushed, her chest heaving, and her frosted hair was blown back as though she’d sprinted all the way from her farm.
“Ms. Ferguson.” Charlotte took the older woman by the arm and guided her to a chair. “What seems to be the trouble?”
The words had no sooner left her lips when trouble came barreling through the door. Making some kind of battle cry, a white cotton ball on black sticks raced around the conference table, bouncing off legs riddled with arthritis and knocking over chairs. Sitting atop the streak of white, Charlotte caught a flash of red and black bobbing up and down and side to side as Woolamena went from skittish sheep to bucking bronco.
Ba-aah! Woolamena wailed so hard her back feet came off the ground, then her front. And that’s when Charlotte noticed the wet white ring around the sheep’s mouth.
“It’s rabid,” Darleen cried, climbing on top of the conference table. Followed by utter hysteria. Pearls started clacking, and twenty sets of pastel-colored pumps headed for higher ground. Some climbed on their chairs, other shielded themselves with their sweaters.
“She’s not rabid,” June said, fanning herself. “According to an article I saw on Facebook, she’s going through the third phase of loss.”
“Anger,” Charlotte said, slipping her belt off her dress just in case she needed a leash.
“Poor thing can’t think straight she’s so angry. I was hoping we could move onto the bargaining part, but a trough of vanilla bean didn’t help.”
As sad as that was, having angry livestock in her hospital didn’t help, either. “How long has she been like this?”
“Since morning training.”
“I take it this isn’t normal?”
“Nothing’s been normal since that tumbleweed of a bull left town,” June explained. “Everything was fine at practice, we did calisthenics, a little Zumba, then I took her to the new track we had built in the back pasture, thinking it would be a nice surprise, help her get her mind off her heart. Only, we got there and she started doing this.”
June gestured to the sheep, who was running circles around herself, nipping at the red and black puppet-like sock attached around her belly to her back.
“It took three ranch hands and six gallons of ice cream to get her in the truck and drive her here. Three blocks from Maple she jumped out and I had to herd her here.”
Charlotte cautiously stepped toward the sheep. “What’s on her?”
“That’s Jockey Man Jack,” June explained. “He’s Woolamena’s rider for the Scurry. My great-grandmother crocheted him out of yarn spun from her biggest male. Jack’s maiden race was atop the first Ferguson sheep scurry champion back in nineteen-oh-nine. He’s been riding our champions ever since.”
“Even Woolamena?” Charlotte asked, stepping aside right as the champion in question bucked past and into the table leg.
“Yup, all six wins,” June said, her voice thick with confusion and fear. “Which is why I brought him out as a treat. To help up her game. Before the devil tarnished my baby’s fleece, dress runs would get her in the competitive spirit.”
Woolamena snapped her head back and forth until she got the momentum needed to crane it as far as it would go. With a satisfied grunt, she sank her teeth into Jockey Man Jack’s lower quadrant, and one whip of the head had him airborne. Everyone watched as the crocheted man flew across the room and hit the wall, his stuffing spilling to the carpet.
Woolamena peeled her lips back, showing off her extremely large teeth, then made a raspberry sound. Clearly exhausted, she sat back on her haunches and let out a tired little bleat.
Sadly, Charlotte understood the sheep’s frustration. “If some male had promised me a greener pasture, then cut out without so much as a good-bye, I wouldn’t trust any man riding on my back.” She picked up the tattered jockey, his pants sagging to his ankles. “I think the solution is simple. Lose the Jack.”
“Watch your words,” June said in horror, her hands clasping her heart. “Every scurry has to have a jockey to enter, and Jockey Man Jack has led every sheep scurrier in our family since before the dawn of time.”
“Well, this sheep doesn’t want some old-fashioned cotton-for-brains man telling her what to do,” Charlotte said. “So my professional opinion is to dump the sock man.”
“Then she can’t race!”
Woolamena had to race. Mr. Neil was coming out specifically to see her race. However, this wasn’t her problem. Not anymore. “Actually, this is more of Darleen’s area of expertise since she is now heading up the fair.”
“Oh, no.” Darleen, still kneeling on the table, shook her head violently. “The sheep scurry is all about getting from one place to the next the fastest, which is clearly a transportation issue, and therefore your problem.”
“Plus, you’re her doctor!” June said, tears in her eyes. “What kind of doctor passes her problems onto someone else?”
Charlotte’s father immediately came to mind.
Charlotte looked at Woolamena, who looked back with big, trusting black eyes. “Bring her by my place after work.”
* * *
It was late afternoon before Jace headed into town. He’d spent part of his day on the phone, burning through his network of collectors and trying to find a couple of guys willing to donate their cars for a day—not nearly as easy a job as he’d let on last night. And the rest of it was spent thinking about breakfast with Charlotte.
Okay, so outside of the doughnut holes she had inhaled, they hadn’t really done much eating. But he considered their first morning tradition a success.
As a result, he’d accomplished jack shit on Hattie’s car. So when he pulled into the lot and saw a group of ladies sitting by the door, he swore. They weren’t just any ladies, but young, twittering, teen ladies dressed in cheerleader skirts and fancy sneakers. Then he saw Payton holding court and got a bad feeling in his chest. He threw his car into park and called Cal.
“I said I’d help Payton,” Jace snapped when Cal answered. “Not half the fucking cheer team.”
“Girls this age are like locusts, you know that. They move in swarms. You invite one and they all show up,” Cal said, and the fucker was laughing. “You scared?”
“And man enough to admit it.” Just looking at them bouncing up and down and flicking their ponytails side to side gave him a headache. “What the hell am I supposed to do with a gaggle of teens for the next hour?”
“Two hours,” Cal corrected. “And you’ll figure it out.”
Jace disconnected and opened his door. On cue, Payton squealed and came racing over. “Uncle Jace!”
He was barely out
of the car when she threw her arms around him in a sweet hug, and Jace decided that it could not be all that bad. Then someone yelled, “Group hug,” and Jace found himself suffocating in perfume and spray glitter.
When the lovefest broke up, Payton introduced each and every girl by name, grade, and squad ranking with perfect Southern etiquette. Jace wasn’t sure what being a “flyer” meant, but he understood that for his niece, the only underclassman in the group, this was a big deal.
“And this is my uncle Jace! He is not only the best uncle ever, but he is also the best mechanic in racing,” she said, hanging on his arm as though being his niece made her special, and damn if his chest didn’t puff out a little.
He couldn’t help it. Cal was the stellar single dad and hometown hero, Brett was as big a celebrity athlete as one could get. All Jace had ever been was a problem. Only, Payton was looking up at him as if he were in the same league as his brothers. And it felt good.
“I don’t know about the best,” Jace said, feeling himself flush a little. “But I know my way around a car.”
“Are you going to teach us how to hot-wire a car?” Ashley, a pocket-size redhead with big green eyes and freckles asked. “Or rebuild an engine?”
“Um, I was thinking we’d start with something a little more basic.”
“Basic,” Ashley said, sounding disappointed.
“I bet whatever he has planned is going to be awesome,” Payton said, her eyes pleading with him to bring on the awesome.
Jace had once found himself in the pits at one of the most dangerous raceways in the country, facing down eight hundred horsepower of runaway steel as it barreled right for him and his crew. The car had been on fire and spinning out of control. It took out two hydronic jacks and a couple tons of tires before sending Jace and two of his crewmates to the ER.
He’d been less terrified in that moment than he was now, looking at his niece who was banking so much hope on him making this day the talk of the lunchroom tomorrow. Only changing out spark plugs didn’t sound lunchroom worthy.