Home at Last Chance

by Hope Ramsay

  Thinking about Andrew always made her feel hollow inside, like she might be on the verge of tears. But she never cried.

  She unlocked the top drawer and drew out a photograph in a sterling silver frame. If she were a braver woman, or one not so given to self-indulgent guilt, she might have allowed this photo to sit on her desk, along with the photo of Andrew. But she was not brave or guilt-free.

  Deidre studied Kelly’s smiling face: just two years old, the image of her father, with her curly blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. If she had lived, she would be seventeen now, and planning for college.

  Deidre could rationally explain that Kelly’s and Andrew’s deaths had been caused by a drunk who had already paid the ultimate price for his mistake. Guilt would not bring them back. There was no revenge to be had.

  But for years, no one could solve the riddle as to why Deidre had walked away with only a couple of broken ribs. As a supremely rational woman, she had spent the last fifteen years searching for an answer to that question.

  Her current high-powered corporate life would not have been possible without the central tragedy of Kelly’s and Andrew’s deaths. It was normal to ask why. But the answer to that question had always worried her, as if their deaths had somehow cleared the path for what she had become.

  She would gladly trade her current life if she could go back in time and make sure Kelly’s car seat was compatible with the station wagon’s seatbelt system.

  She couldn’t go back. But suddenly, from out of the blue, Tulane Rhodes had handed her one answer to the impossible questions she asked every day. He had given her a way to go forward and make sense of something that would never be sensible.

  She put Kelly’s photo back in the credenza and locked it. She took three or four deep breaths, composing herself.

  When she was ready, she drew herself up, straightened the seams in her Armani skirt like a knight checking his armor, and headed out in the direction of the CEO’s office. She had a few corporate dragons to slay, a car seat program to launch, and, after that, she needed to rescue the young market researcher Steve Phelps had insisted on sending down to South Carolina.

  What was Steve up to? Sarah Murray had no business advancing any National Brands spokesperson, least of all the difficult but oddly articulate Tulane Rhodes. Sarah belonged in the research department, and Deidre aimed to put her back where she belonged.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Ruby and Elbert’s dining room was large, with a blue floral wallpaper pattern set off by white crown and chair moldings. The room was on the formal side, but the people in it—especially Elbert Rhodes—were not.

  Tulane’s father, dressed in black with a gray goatee and a long braid, would have fit right in with a pack of biker boys. He stared at Sarah with a pair of pale wolf eyes, and she had the uncanny feeling he could see right through her.

  Ruby sat at the other end of the table, looking like a Southern Living fashion plate. To say that Ruby and Elbert were a pair of odd bookends was to understate things by a mile.

  Sarah was directed to a seat sandwiched between Stone’s older daughter, Lizzy, on her right, and Tulane on her left. Stone and Haley sat across the table.

  Spread before them on an everyday tablecloth was a cornucopia of food in steaming platters: pot roast, black-eyed peas and rice, lima beans, and something green and gooey that had to be okra.

  Elbert said grace, and then Ruby started passing around bowls so the family could help themselves. Tulane tucked right into the peas and rice and pot roast.

  When he handed the okra off to Sarah, everyone at the table paused and glanced up at her as if waiting to see what the woman from up north might do.

  “Okra is one of Uncle Tulane’s favorites,” Lizzy said with a teenage sneer. “Isn’t it, Uncle Tulane?”

  “Uh-huh,” Tulane said mechanically as he conveyed a big forkful of the stuff from his plate to his mouth.

  Sarah stared down at the disgusting vegetable, gritted her teeth, and spooned out a little serving onto the pretty blue willowware. It immediately left a trail of slime on her plate.

  An uneasy silence settled over the table, punctuated only by the sounds of silverware scraping on china. The Rhodes family was single-minded about their eating.

  Sarah stared at the food on her plate and wished she were somewhere else, like at the hotel in Florence, South Carolina, where she was supposed to have spent the night. Why oh why had she chosen to wear the black suit? And why had she mouthed off about the stupid car seat idea? And why had she written that stupid pink car memo? All her problems traced back to that one single decision—where she had broken all the rules.

  She was so going to lose her job when she got back to New York. Unless, of course, she could score some points with Tulane Rhodes, who, let’s face it, was never really going to be fired no matter how badly he behaved, because he was a talented stock car driver.

  She stared down at the okra in its puddle of ooze. Here was the acid test, like some challenge on Fear Factor. If she ate this awful stuff, it might win her a few points with the man sitting to her left.

  So she snapped her spine straight, braced herself, and daintily conveyed a little bit of the okra from her plate to her mouth. She managed to choke it down and had to admit that while its texture was an odd combination of fuzzy and slimy, it had an interesting taste.

  Tulane chuckled from his place to her left. “Honey, you don’t have to eat the okra if you don’t want to.”

  Sarah looked up. The spark of humor in his verdigris eyes made something hot and wicked ignite in her midsection.

  Elbert took that moment to clear his throat. “So, Sarah,” he said. “I need to clear something up with you.”

  “Yes?” She braced herself, expecting to get an earful of complaint about the pink car.

  “I’ll bet you read Tulane’s official biography where it says I’m a mechanic, didn’t you?” Elbert said.

  Sarah clamped her lips closed and nodded, afraid to say anything more.

  Beside her, Tulane slammed his tea glass down on the table so hard it made the food dishes jump. “Daddy, don’t—”

  Elbert stared at Tulane. “You hush up. To be honest, I’m disappointed in you.” Elbert turned his head and gave Sarah a winning smile. “I don’t suppose you saw the old putt-putt place outside of town?”

  “Um, no. But Haley said something about it. Golfing for God?” She stifled the urge to duck under the table. World War III was about to erupt any minute.

  “That’s the one. You need to know that that’s what I do for a living. Well, that’s what I did for a living before the lightning strike hit the place and caused the explosion.”

  She frowned. “You play putt-putt golf?”

  Elbert shook his head. “No, ma’am. I own Golfing for God. And I ran the place until we had to close it down last October. See, my daddy built it back in the 1950s. There are angels who live on that land, and they’ve been whispering to the Rhodes family for generations.”

  Angels and miniature golf. Wow. She could understand why Tulane had lied about his father and didn’t want his niece to be a poster child for car seat safety. “Really?” She tried to sound polite in order to mask the utter surprise of this revelation.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Elbert said as he leaned his elbows on the table. “Golfing for God had been serving the people of Allenberg County for years until last October. Did Tulane tell you about the explosion out there?”

  “It wasn’t an explosion,” Haley said earnestly. “The Sorrowful Angel had to stop the bad men from hurting me, and your angels helped.” She turned toward her grandfather. “The angel is really, really sorry about what happened, Granddaddy.”

  It was Stone’s turn to slam his tea glass down. True to his nature, though, he only glared at his father. He didn’t say a word.

  Elbert ignored Stone and smiled down at his grandchild. “I know, darlin’, and it wasn’t all her fault.” Elbert’s benign and adoring gaze lasted
only a moment. He turned on Tulane. “Son, are you ashamed of me?”

  Sarah glanced sideways. Tulane’s face and ears went red. The tendons in his cheeks and jaw bunched for a moment as if he were gritting his teeth. “Daddy,” he finally answered in a tone that suggested he was trying to keep his temper, “don’t you think it’s about time you retired? I could buy you and Momma a nice house someplace, like Palm Springs, on a real golf course.”

  “You know, Jimmy Marshall has been after me for weeks now. He thinks I should sell out, too. But even though I’m at a loss as to how to get Golfing for God back in business, I still don’t want to move to Florida.”

  “But Daddy, even before the explosion, not too many people were visiting Golfing for God. It doesn’t make much sense to—”

  “That’s not true,” Ruby said. “Ever since the golf course got listed on roadsideamerica.com last year, we’ve been getting a steady stream of visitors. In fact, the Professional Miniature Golf Association has been in contact with your daddy about the possibility of hosting an association championship.”

  “Really?” The question popped right out of Sarah’s mouth before her brain caught up with it. She was getting another one of those gut feelings that usually ended up with a good idea.

  “Really,” Ruby replied, glancing at Sarah with a little half-smile. “I believe a thing like that would be good for businesses in Last Chance. I guess you would understand all that, being a businesswoman yourself.”

  Sarah felt a sudden flush of pride. Ruby thought she was a businesswoman. The moment of pride lasted until Tulane turned toward her and glared. He was really angry this time.

  “This is none of your business,” he said.

  Sarah sealed her lips. But her mind kept working on the idea. A PMGA championship held at a place called Golfing for God had some pretty amazing potential appeal. She figured there were dozens of politicians and ministers who might want to attend a thing like that.

  “Sarah, stop it.” Tulane’s voice sounded sharp.

  “Stop what?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Thinking?”

  “Yeah, thinking. I can tell something is running through that devious corporate mind of yours. Like how to connect me, Cottontail Disposable Diapers, Golfing for God, the PMGA, and car seat safety into one mega-big advertising and marketing campaign. I’m not interested.”

  “But—”

  “Not interested.” He pushed back from the table and stood up. He had not finished eating.

  “Momma, that was good. I forgot how much I enjoy your cooking. Now, if ya’ll would excuse us, I’m going to take Sarah over to Miriam’s.”

  Sarah stood up, too, knowing that it was probably best to get Tulane out of there before he and his father got into a donnybrook. She followed him through the front room and out onto the porch. “I guess you aren’t about to explain what just happened in there, huh?” she asked.

  “Nope. We’re shelving this conversation permanently. You’ve learned every last one of my secrets.” His body was drawn taut like a bow. He was furious and embarrassed. She felt for him. Parents could be so embarrassing sometimes.

  “I’m not going to tell people about your father, okay? Believe it or not, I actually understand.”

  He stepped down off the porch and headed toward a beat-up Ford pickup that he’d borrowed from his brother. His shoulders were straight, and every muscle in his body seemed tight.

  “I’ll give you my solemn promise. Okay?” she said to his back.

  “I’d like to believe you,” Tulane said as he reached the truck and opened the passenger-side door. He turned toward her.

  “I’m trustworthy, really I am,” Sarah said, and her inner Puritan whispered, Most of the time. Luckily her inner Puritan didn’t say that out loud.

  Tulane stopped and gave her a measuring look. “Okay,” he said. “If you’re so trustworthy, then swear that you won’t tell the world about Golfing for God. And when you swear, I want you to cross your heart and then spit on your hand.” By the gleam in his eye, he seriously expected her to do this.

  “Spit on my hand? No way. I’ll cross my heart, and that’s the limit.”

  “It ain’t any good without spit.” His eyes flashed with a deadly combination of amusement and something else she couldn’t quite decipher.

  “Well, as you have pointed out any number of times today, I am a lady, and ladies do not expectorate.”

  He chortled. “Another three-dollar word. Are you going to swear or not?”

  She held up her right hand. “I swear I will not tell anyone about Golfing for God. And even if you do something about car seats, I will keep Haley’s accident and problems to myself.” She crossed her heart. She did not spit on her hand.

  “It ain’t legal without spit.”

  He waited.

  She demurred.

  After about thirty seconds of silence, he shook his head. “C’mon, let’s go do something more fun, like get a drink down at Dottie’s.”

  “I thought you were taking me to Mrs. Randall’s house. And besides, I don’t drink much.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” He gestured toward the open truck door.

  She walked past him and stepped up into the cab. The man scared her a little, but she couldn’t deny the fact that every time she found herself in his presence, she lit up like a firefly. The idea of having a drink with him sounded like an adventure, the kind Mother would not approve of.

  He closed the door and leaned in to speak through the open doorway. “If you don’t want to get a drink, that’s okay.”

  The little glow inside her died. He didn’t see her as the type to go out drinking, did he? He expected her to be prim and proper. Well, to heck with that.

  “I could use a drink,” she said firmly.

  A slow, dangerous smile crossed his face.

  Sarah approached the margarita cautiously, like a little sparrow approaching a crust of bread. It amused Tulane in ways he didn’t wish to explore too deeply, any more than he wanted to explore the fact that she now knew the entire truth about his crazy family.

  They sat at a table at Dot’s Spot, Last Chance’s one-and-only nightspot. It was comfy at Dot’s. There was sawdust on the floor, boiled peanuts to snack on, alcoholic beverages of all kinds, and real rednecks who liked to talk bass fishing.

  There was also usually live music, provided by the Wild Horses, the local country-and-western band. But not today. The band had been getting gigs all over the place recently because Tulane’s brother Clay was sitting in on the fiddle. And his new wife, Jane, was singing lead.

  Tulane reckoned it was a lucky thing the Wild Horses were up in Columbia at the Bluebell Lounge, because that way Sarah could avoid meeting Clay. It was a lead-pipe cinch that if Clay ever had a moment to talk with Sarah, his brother would tell her all about that time Tulane had accidently set fire to Mr. Nelson’s cornfield.

  Clay just loved to tell that story.

  What was he going to do about Sarah Murray? She knew way too much about him now. Maybe he could get something to hang over her head. But that was unlikely, given that she was the epitome of a nice girl. Getting her into trouble would be immature. Besides, after his visit with Uncle Pete, he really wanted to behave himself. He wanted to man up and be mature.

  And he wanted to win a race before Pete died.

  Tulane took a long pull on his beer and forced that unpleasant thought into the back of his brain. He had no idea what to do about Sarah, or Uncle Pete, or his stupid pink car. He was tired of thinking about those problems. So he decided that he would just enjoy the moment.

  He launched a smile in Sarah’s direction. “So, tell me the truth. You’ve never had a margarita before, have you?”

  She angled her hazel eyes up at him. “Actually, I’m not that pathetic. I’ve had one or two.”

  “And how old did you say you were?”

  “Twenty-five.” She whispered the words, as if she were ashamed. He tried to ignore
the sudden urge to protect her. She couldn’t really be as naïve as she sounded, could she?

  “Honey, you’ve had four years to practice drinking margaritas legally. And more than that, if you were like any average college kid with a fake ID. So telling me that you’ve drunk margaritas once or twice makes you practically a margarita virgin, too.”

  “There is no such thing as being a little bit virgin,” she said, something naughty sparking in her eyes. “Either you are or you’re not.”

  “Well, that’s good, because I wouldn’t want to be corrupting the morals of a nice girl like you.” Much.

  Her mouth stretched into a sexy-as-sin grin. “Wouldn’t you just. And I’m not nice. I refuse to be nice. Nice is an insipid adjective.”

  He let himself smile, knowing for a certainty that there were some smiles women found irresistible. “Boy howdy, you do have a three-dollar-a-word vocabulary, don’t you? But don’t you worry. I do understand it. And if I weren’t trying to be grown-up and responsible, I might even try to help you get over being nice. I have this feeling that with practice, you might find you have a talent for sin.”

  She giggled—no doubt as a result of the alcohol she had just imbibed. She squirmed in her seat as she took in all of Dot’s Spot with a pair of wide, girlish eyes. Then her gaze returned to his, and she smiled up at him. He picked up his beer and downed it in several swallows.

  Someone punched up a George Strait two-step number, and Sarah started tapping her toe to the music. Every time her toe moved, her knee brushed up against his, setting off little electric shocks.

  “That’s it,” he said, pushing up from the table. “It’s time for you to learn to two-step.”

  “Huh? But I don’t know how to dance.”

  “Figures, you being a virgin and all.” This should be good.

  Tulane snagged her hand, registering her birdlike bones and the soft flesh of her palms. She was so tiny and so utterly female that it felt as if someone had just squeezed his gonads.

  He pulled her out onto the dance floor and turned her around to face him. Her head barely reached the bottom of his chin. He snaked his right hand around to the back of her waist, his palm warmed with her body heat. He suddenly felt as awkward as a fifteen-year-old.