Take a Chance

by D. Jackson Leigh

  She closed the trunk and opened the patrol car’s door for Petunia, who obediently jumped in, emitting another gastric symphony with the effort.

  “You guys stay cool, now.” She waved once more as she pulled out of the lot and, this time, they waved back. Or maybe they were waving away the blue cloud Petunia left in her wake.

  Chapter Two

  “Hey, Jolene. Does Bud have my lunch order ready?” Trip waved to the five men enjoying lunch at the big round table in the front of the diner. “I parked in the shade, but I’ve got two of Virginia’s pregnant mares in the trailer out there. I don’t want them to get too hot.”

  “I’ll go check.” Jolene plunked a sweating pitcher of sweet tea down next to one of the men. “Y’all go ahead and pour your own refills.”

  “Sure thing, Jolene,” one of the men said.

  “If you’ve been out to Virginia’s place, you must have seen that new stallion she had shipped all the way over from Spain,” another man at the table said.

  Trip went to the chipped Formica counter and lifted a glass-domed cover to swipe a glazed doughnut from the stack on the plate underneath. “Saw him and rode him this morning. He’s plenty impressive. Once she hits the show circuit with him, she’ll be raking in the cash for his semen.”

  “I reckon that will shut Jonathan up. He’s been complaining to anyone who’d listen about the cost of flying that horse across the Atlantic.” The other men nodded in agreement.

  “He should listen to his wife. Virginia knows horses.” Trip licked chips of doughnut glaze from her finger and pointed at her conversation buddy. “Her operation is one of the few I know that makes money, rather than just being a tax write-off.”

  Jolene huffed through the kitchen’s swinging door and set a white plastic bag on the counter. “I swear. How long has Bud been the cook here?”

  Trip and the table of men shrugged in response.

  “Longer than I’ve been waiting tables here. Do you know how long that’s been?”

  More shrugs.

  “At least twelve years. And he still don’t know to put more hush puppies in the fryer before you run out.” She began to ring up Trip’s ticket. “I’m sorry, hon. It’ll be another three or four minutes before your hush puppies are ready. Will the horses be okay?”

  “They’ll be fine for another few minutes.” Trip grinned. “Don’t be too hard on old Bud. He couldn’t have been the cook here that long, because I know you haven’t waited tables here for twelve years. You’d have been twelve years old when you started work because I’d swear you aren’t a day over twenty-four.”

  The men erupted into guffaws, their hands slapping down on the table. A glare from Jolene silenced them, but didn’t wipe the smiles from their faces.

  Jolene’s blue eyes softened when she turned back to Trip. “Sweet talker. You know good and well that I’m old enough to be…well, to be your older sister. And you’re a bit past twenty-four yourself.”

  Bud nudged quietly through the swinging door and nodded an apology to Trip as he slid a grease-stained brown paper bag into the plastic bag holding her order. “I gave you extra since you had to wait,” he said.

  “Appreciate that, Bud, but you didn’t have to. I didn’t wait very long,” Trip said, smiling to let him know it was really okay. “Tell your mama I said hey, and I’ll be by soon to check up on Henry. It’s time for his vaccinations.”

  He nodded and retreated to the kitchen.

  Jolene hit the total key on the cash register. “That’s ten dollars and twenty-eight cents. Lunch for two?”

  It was impossible to keep anything a secret in a small Southern town. This bit of news, however, wasn’t a secret. “I hired a vet, Dr. Dani Wingate, to work with me so I won’t have to close the clinic when I go out on farm calls. She got into town day before yesterday and is just settling in at the clinic today.”

  “Where’s she staying?”

  “At the bed and breakfast for now.”

  Not as juicy as a new girlfriend but news worth spreading, and Trip had given it to Jolene first. “I didn’t charge you for the doughnut you snuck while I was in the kitchen.”

  “Doughnut?”

  Jolene laughed. “Yes. The one that left little pieces of glaze on your upper lip.”

  Trip swiped her tongue along her lip, then took the napkin Jolene held out and wiped her mouth. “I was going to tell you to add it to my check.”

  “And I was going to tell you it was on the house.” Jolene rested her elbow on the top of the cash register and her chin in her palm, her expression a bit wistful. “It’s a good thing I don’t play for your team.”

  Trip winked at her. “I’ve got horses to look after.”

  Jolene smiled. “Next time you look to hire somebody from out of town, how about hiring a handsome fellow to come sweep me off my feet and take me away from this luxurious life.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

  * * *

  The rest of Jamie’s morning was quiet. Farmers were in the fields. Her new boss, Sergeant Grace Booker, said the annual swell of migrant workers to help plant, cultivate, and harvest tobacco, cotton, peanuts, and other crops was still more than a month away. Most other folks were sheltering in air-conditioned homes, shops, and businesses. They wouldn’t come out to sit on their porches until after the heat peaked midafternoon or a thunderstorm blew through to cool things off.

  Her first couple of days on the job, Sergeant Booker warned Jamie not to go off half-cocked and arrest half the town. She filled Jamie in on the history of Pine Cone as they patrolled around the eclectic community, “to help Jamie better understand the culture.”

  The town of Pine Cone’s beginning was typical during a time when all you needed was a railroad depot, cotton gin, or a tobacco auction barn to seed the beginnings of a new community. Before you knew it, there was a church, a school, a bank, and a courthouse, Grace explained. Then, as certain citizens prospered, a golf course and country club sprang up because, obviously, you couldn’t hold the debutante ball in the high school gym.

  Pine Cone, however, took a turn that wasn’t typical.

  An itinerate artist came through one day and was enamored with the town’s rural texture, unique characters, and long sunsets. He settled there quietly, but his paintings of the town and citizens brought an uproar of praise when they circulated through big city galleries. More came—painters, sculptors, potters—to settle among the farmers and townspeople. The influx of quirky creative types was tolerated with a “bless your heart” because, well, Southerners were reared to be polite, and most every family had a crazy Uncle Earl, demented Aunt Edna, or a cousin who was flamingly gay or whispered to be lesbian.

  When Interstate 95 paved an East Coast corridor that came within a few miles of the town limits, tourists began to find the artsy enclave an interesting stopover on their way to the sunny beaches of Florida. The “bless your heart” turned into “thank the Lord” as the tourists’ money found its way into everybody’s pockets. A downside was that drug mules transporting their illegal products from marinas along the Gulf Coast also found Pine Cone a convenient overnight stop while they waited for their handoff to an I-95 runner traveling between New York City and Miami.

  That was why Jamie was here. Soon, she’d change to a later shift because the drug mules were like cockroaches. They mostly came out at dusk. But she had another week or two on day patrol because Grace wanted her to get to know the heartbeat and flow of the town and its citizens. So she spent her days writing tickets or the occasional report on a fender-bender.

  The highlight of her day would be patrolling with Petunia through the busy parking lot of the truck stop on the outskirts of town that afternoon. Unlike the motel managers who were afraid a drug bust in their parking lot would scare off tourists, the truck stop owner freely gave permission for Petunia to sniff among the trucks and travelers each afternoon.

  Until then, Jamie filled her morning by ticketing a speeding tourist out
on the highway, stopping a pickup leaving a trail of unsecured trash as it headed for the landfill, and turning on her blue lights to stop traffic while she helped a huge snapping turtle get across a two-lane highway.

  The duties of a small-town cop would take some getting used to, but Jamie was accustomed to the military “hurry up and wait,” so she’d bide her time until she was switched to night duty.

  The sun was high overhead, and Jamie’s stomach growled when the delicious scent of roasting pork drifted in her open windows. She inhaled. Pine Cone had a surprising variety of excellent dining options, but nothing beat the downtown diner for lunch. A big old Cadillac pulled out from a parking space just ahead, and Jamie smoothly glided into the space behind a horse trailer. Two sleek rumps were visible over the trailer’s ramp. Jamie’s jaw tightened. Parked right across from the diner, the truck’s driver was probably eating lunch and chatting with friends over tall glasses of iced tea while these horses sweated in the close quarters of the metal trailer. She checked her phone for the outside temperature and humidity, then climbed out of the cruiser, lunch forgotten.

  At nearly six feet tall, she could easily see over the lower panel when she raised up on her toes. The horses were nibbling from a full hay net hung below a fan that whirred softly as it rotated back and forth. Their rounded flanks were dry. Not satisfied, she stepped onto the sidewalk and walked to where the front panels were folded back to let air circulate through. The horse on that side paused eating and sniffed Jamie’s neck when she leaned in. Their chests were dry, too. The driver had apparently taken all necessary precautions, but if those were her horses, she wouldn’t dare stop for lunch and risk them overheating.

  Jamie backed up, dodging a bit of Spanish moss that hung a little too low from the branch above. Most of the trees in the heart of downtown were small, flowering dogwoods or crape myrtles, but two huge live oaks still thrived in the small park across from the diner. That was one lucky driver to snag prime shade for both a large truck and horse trailer. Her gaze slid over the truck, then its familiar logo, and then the fire hydrant by the truck’s front tire. Son of a bitch. It wasn’t luck. It was that damned arrogant Trip Beaumont parking wherever she wanted, as though she owned the whole town. Well, she doesn’t own this cop. Jamie whipped out her ticket book and slapped it down on the truck’s hood. She clicked her pen and began writing. She’d put so many tickets on this truck that she knew the license plate number without looking. She finished with a flourish and secured the ticket under the windshield wiper. Jamie hated rule breakers, and Trip Beaumont was one of those women who broke every rule she encountered. She’d also broken Jamie’s heart.

  * * *

  Trip pushed through the glass door and put her bag of takeout food in the back seat of the truck before peeking in the front windows of the horse trailer to make sure the interior fan was still running and the horses appeared comfortable. She’d been inside the diner maybe ten minutes and the gnarly old oaks had provided ample shade. The mares ignored her as they placidly munched their tasty orchard grass hay, so she climbed into her truck and started the engine. She’d just reached for the gearshift when the flutter of paper caught her attention.

  “Son of a bitch.” She growled in frustration as she climbed out of the truck and lifted the wiper blade to extract the offending parking ticket. She threw it on the ground and stomped it several times before picking it up again and climbing back into the truck. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths before stuffing the gritty ticket into the console compartment at her elbow, adding it to the twenty-odd tickets already there.

  Yeah, she was parked next to a yellow curb and a hydrant, but everybody knew her truck. If they didn’t, Beaumont Veterinary was clearly stenciled on the doors. Horses obviously had to be parked in the shade. Grace had mentioned that they’d recently hired several new police deputies, and this overzealous ticket writer must be one of them. Grace needed to explain to that rookie that Trip was a doctor and could park wherever she wanted. In case there was a medical emergency. That’s right. She might be a veterinarian, but people in the South took their animals seriously. Her emergencies were just as important as any physician’s.

  But it was more than that. Over twenty tickets in just a few weeks? It seemed as though this rookie was deliberately watching for her truck. If that was the case, this little pissant Barney Fife was going to find out exactly who owned that truck. The Beaumonts were one of the founding families of Pine Cone. Not that Trip ever gave any thought to old values such as the family’s standing in society. But she did give weight to her value to the community. And, by God, she was an important person in these parts, and she ought to be able to park wherever she wanted.

  Trip slid her sleek wraparound sunglasses down from atop her head to cover her eyes and scanned the Main Street square for the rogue cop. Not a hound dog was stirring in the afternoon heat.

  Trip shook her head in disgust, then checked her side mirror and pulled smoothly away from the curb, mindful not to let her temper translate into a rough ride for her very pregnant passengers. She wasn’t one to dwell on things. If she couldn’t charm her way over an obstacle, she just skirted around it. She’d spent her childhood managing her mother’s constant efforts to mold her into a proper Southern debutante. The parking violations filling her console were a very minor problem compared to Mrs. Olivia Anne Eastwood Beaumont. So she tucked the irritating ticket writer away into her I’ll-think-about-that-tomorrow file, and hummed softly to herself as she drove through the residential neighborhood that would melt into a two-lane blacktop flanked with renovated three-story, hundred-year-old mansions and a few recent replicas situated on picturesque farms with white board fences. One such farm was her home and the location of her clinic.

  She slowed to a soft halt at the stop sign next to the Clip ’n Curl, noting the line of cars parked on the adjacent street and absently searching her memory for some special town function that would have everyone rushing for a “do” fix. Had someone prominent died and she missed the newspaper obituary? The whup of tires hitting the curb behind her drew her attention to her side mirrors, and her foot instinctively moved to the accelerator to get out of the way. But the Mercedes had already swerved and bounced over the curb, narrowly missing the back corner of her horse trailer. She watched, frozen in her seat, as it took out the red azalea bushes Connie had planted in honor of her mama being elected the president of the local Red Hat Society chapter, kicked up ragged sprigs of the lush centipede grass as it tore muddy tracks across the lawn, and plowed into the family of deer lawn ornaments before slamming into the corner of the Clip ’n Curl with a resounding bang.

  “Holy crap.” Trip slammed the truck’s gearshift into park. She was barely out of the truck when the door to the beauty salon opened and women began to pour out, looking more like a cast of a horror movie than women in various stages of beautification.

  A plump, full-figured woman trotted down the front steps past the gruesome lineup. “Good Lord almighty! I thought we was havin’ an earthquake!” Connie, owner of the Clip ’n Curl and head beautician, rushed to the Mercedes and opened the driver’s door to peer in. Connie stepped back when the driver extended her arm to point at Trip’s truck and horse trailer.

  Trip stutter-stepped. Whoa. This day was definitely taking a turn for the better. The beauty looking her way had crystal blue eyes and fifty shades of shining brunette mane that hung straight and silky to just below her shoulders. Trip knew fine bloodlines when she saw them, and she’d be willing to bet this stranger had a pedigree a mile long. The woman was moving and talking to Connie, so Trip surmised she’d suffered no serious injuries. But one could never take these things for granted. Is there a doctor in the house? Trip smiled. Oh, that would be me.

  As Trip neared, she could see the reddening lump on the woman’s forehead. Time to take charge. “Connie, is she hurt?”

  Connie’s brow knitted and her mouth formed a soundless O. She was staring at the woman’s forehead,
apparently at a loss to evaluate the situation.

  The woman squinted up at Trip. “I just hit my head on the steering wheel. No airbags.” She fumbled with the seat belt and twisted to get out of the car.

  Trip knelt next to the open car door, blocking her exit from the vehicle. “Easy there. Are you all right?” Whatever the prospect of new date material, her concern was real. She looked into the blue eyes—clear but a bit unfocused. She appeared to be moving okay, but she’d have to stand to evaluate any balance problems or muscle strain.

  Trip stood and extended her hand to help her new patient out of the car. She was elegant in a sleeveless black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. The fact that she was also barefoot ran Trip’s sex-o-meter all the way to hot.

  The woman accepted the assistance, then propped against the side of the car and shaded her eyes with her hand. “I dropped my phone and looked down for just a second to get it. When I looked up, all I saw were horse butts.”

  “There are a few of those around here.” Trip extended her hand again, this time as introduction. “I’m Dr. Trip Beaumont, driver of those particular horse butts.”

  The woman’s fingers were long and her grip was light enough to be ladylike but not limp. Still, she blinked like she couldn’t figure out why her hand was in Trip’s.

  “Connie, did you call Grace?” Trip asked without taking her eyes from the woman’s face.

  “Lord, no. I just ran out here without thinkin’. I’m so glad you’re here to take charge.” Before Connie could turn to go inside, an alien with oversized curlers ringing her green face called out to them from the porch. “Grace is on her way!”

  “Thank you, Lula May.” Connie turned back to their wayward driver. “What’s your name, hon?”

  “I’m River…River Hemsworth.” She withdrew her hand from Trip’s. “I’m so sorry about crashing into your salon.”

  Trip liked River’s full, melodic tones. Attractive women with little girl or nasal voices were a total turnoff.