Home at Last Chance

by Hope Ramsay

  “Okay,” he said, leaning down and talking into her ear above the music. “All you have to do is remember that this is like walking. You start back on your right foot and just alternate right and left.”

  “Uh-huh. Right.” Her voice sounded tight. Good, he wanted to keep his nursemaid a little off balance.

  “Okay,” he whispered, trying to focus on the dance and not his raging hormones. “It’s six beats and four steps. One, two, three, hold, four, hold. Got that?”

  “Uh, no, not really.”

  “Okay, don’t worry. I got you. I’m leading, and I’m in control. You just follow me. Start on your right foot.”

  He waited for the beat to roll around and then he gave her a little nudge backward. She stumbled a couple of times and stepped on his toes once. But in about three minutes, the girl was two-stepping like someone born in Texas. She had a talent for this that seriously outstripped her abilities to talk a mile a minute and wheedle information from his family.

  He pulled her close enough to get his nose down into that glorious crown of red hair and smell her earthy scent. A moment later, just as they were beginning to get a rhythm going, someone tapped on his shoulder.

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  Tulane turned to find a seriously inebriated Bubba Lockheart standing behind him. Bubba, who had once been Pete’s main mechanic, outweighed Tulane by a good eighty pounds. He was dressed for work in a greasy blue shirt with his name—Bubba, not Frank or Francis—embroidered right above the right shirt pocket.

  Bubba was drunk as a skunk, a turn of affairs that had become something of a habit with the boy recently.

  “No, Bubba, you can’t cut in. You’re drunk and dirty.”

  Bubba’s brow lowered. “Aw, c’mon, Tulane, there ain’t no other women in here.”

  “Well, this one is with me, and she isn’t interested in getting grease on her black suit.”

  “Um, maybe we should just leave, okay?” Sarah said, pulling Tulane in the general direction of the door. “We don’t want any lawsuits, remember? That would be bad for the Cottontail Disposable Diaper image.”

  And wasn’t that just like his little nursemaid? Not that Bubba would ever think about suing anyone he picked a bar fight with. But, just the same, it was nice to know that Sarah Murray, librarian, was in Tulane’s corner.

  “Yeah, Tulane, you wouldn’t want to be caught dead fighting, especially wearing pink.” This came from Roy Burdett, who worked the day shift down at the poultry plant out on Route 321. Roy was in his mid-fifties, with a red face, a Country Pride Chicken hat perched on his head, and a nasty disposition that had been fed by his nagging wife and more than a couple of beers.

  Tulane consciously unclenched his fists and worked at controlling his temper. Maybe he should have taken off the pink shirt before walking into this place. He would never hear the end of this. Especially if he let Sarah yank his chain.

  On the other hand, if he got into a brawl with his sponsor’s nursemaid standing right there, it wouldn’t be good. Jim Ferguson would be angry and disappointed. National Brands would be outraged. And just about everyone else would nod their heads and say that it was just Tulane being Tulane.

  But, most important, Pete would be disappointed. Pete wanted him to grow up and be a man. And sometimes a real man had to walk away from a fight. It was counterintuitive, but Tulane knew that having a brawl right now would be stupid.

  So he choked back his pride, and he smiled his best smile, and tried not to get angry. He was going to walk away from this fight and make Pete proud of him.

  “Roy, Bubba, I don’t want to fight with anyone. I just want to teach this Boston girl how to two-step. Now, if y’all would just back off, we can avoid a sticky situation.”

  He turned his back on Bubba, intent on continuing his dancing lesson with Sarah.

  Unfortunately Bubba wasn’t interested in making anyone proud of him. Bubba was, in fact, too drunk to be thinking rationally. So the big, greasy mechanic shoved Tulane in the back and sent him careening into the jukebox.

  Tulane stopped thinking when that happened. His natural instincts took over. He turned and rammed his fist right into Bubba’s nose. Bubba hit the floor, whimpering like a wuss.

  That was a huge mistake, because Roy Burdett wasn’t about to stand by and watch his drinking buddy get punched. Roy stood up and came at Tulane with blood in his eye. Tulane braced himself for Roy’s charge.

  That’s when little bitty Sarah picked up a chair and blindsided Roy right upside the head.

  Roy went down without a sound.

  “Nice shot, girlfriend,” Dot Cox said from her spot behind the bar. The proprietor of Dot’s Spot was on the long side of fifty, and her flame-red hair came straight out of a bottle. Trashy from the tassels on her neon-green western shirt right down to her snakeskin cowboy boots, Dottie Cox was the antithesis of every one of the old biddies in the Ladies Auxiliary.

  Which made her okay with Tulane.

  “Reckon I better call the EMTs. Ya’ll may want to make a quick getaway before Stone gets here. ’Cause you know every time I call the EMTs, Stone hears about it.” She smiled and batted her false eyelashes at Tulane. “It sure is nice to have you home, Tulane. It’s been boring around here with you gone.”

  Dottie flicked her gaze to Sarah and then back. “Y’all are in some high cotton now, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, Dottie, meet Sarah Murray. Sarah works for my sponsor. And, as you can see, she has a wicked way with a chair when she’s backed into a corner.”

  Dottie turned toward Sarah. “You the one put him in a pink car?”

  Sarah stood there like a one-eyed cat watching a bird. Tulane wasn’t entirely sure how to read the sudden tension radiating from Sarah’s straight, puritanical spine.

  Did Sarah feel guilty about the pink car?

  Or was she just now realizing she had knocked Roy Burdett unconscious?

  “No,” she finally said, shaking off whatever it was that had frozen her in place.

  Tulane grabbed her by the arm of her black suit. “Honey, it’s time to get out of here. We’ve broken enough rules for one night, and while I know that rule breaking can be fun, the point is to not ever get caught.”

  A few minutes later, Sarah found herself riding shotgun in the old Ford pickup. She rested her head on the seat back and tried to figure out whether she was embarrassed, frightened, or merely turned on by the sudden adrenaline rush.

  “I reckon we’re even-steven now. I swear I won’t tell anyone about the bar fight or you fainting, if you won’t tell about all that stuff you heard at dinner,” Tulane said, the dashboard lights illuminating his handsome profile.

  “You’re serious about this?”

  “Sure I am. Besides, I owe you one for taking out Roy tonight.”

  “I’m so embarrassed—”

  “Embarrassed? Honey, you got a real talent there. I reckon you’re a bar-fight virgin, too?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess. My father and mother would be mortified by what I just did. Not to mention my boss.”

  “Ah, the Dragon Lady—Deidre Montgomery. So, it’s a deal then. Mum’s the word on both sides.”

  “Good grief, I’ve made a total hash of this assignment, haven’t I?”

  “Uh, no, you just saved me from getting a black eye. And, truth to tell, you probably saved yourself from getting grease all over that nice black suit. But, see here, there’s just one thing. Even though I swear on a stack of Bibles that I will never tell Deidre Montgomery or Jim Ferguson about what happened tonight, you gotta understand that everyone in Last Chance is going to know what you did before the night is out. It could go either way with the Ladies Auxiliary.”

  “Either way?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Either they’ll think you’re a floozy and a tramp, or they’ll think you were justified in taking Roy out, seeing as he’s a married man and was drunk. The ladies take a dim view of drunks in our town.

  “Now the way I see it, you are proba
bly going to get a pass from the Ladies Auxiliary on account of the fact that every one of them already knows you are a descendant of Pilgrims and you were only at Dottie’s because I took you there.”

  She managed a little laugh. “That’s funny.”

  “You think I’m funny?”

  “Yeah, I do. And I know you don’t like being laughed at, which is probably why you make a big joke out of everything. But what just happened isn’t a joke. I could have hurt that man. I don’t know what I was thinking, really.”

  “Take my word for it, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We were defending ourselves. We didn’t pick the fight. We were sober, more or less, and Bubba and Roy were acting like a couple of bullies. I believe in putting bullies where they belong. Don’t you?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I don’t usually get involved with bullies. My goodness, Tulane, I had almost finished my margarita, so I wasn’t exactly—”

  “That one drink wasn’t enough to classify you as being wasted. Besides, I told Dot to make it weak.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I didn’t want to be blamed for getting you drunk. You being a librarian and all.”

  “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.” She was suddenly annoyed with him. She hated being treated like she was incompetent. Even if she was.

  “I promise you, this will not get back to your bosses,” Tulane said. “And the way I see it, if you promise to keep your mouth shut, and I promise to keep my mouth shut, neither one of us will get into any trouble.”

  “What if he sues?”

  Tulane snorted. “Neither of those boys will remember a thing tomorrow morning. And, trust me, this isn’t the first time they’ve been hauled off to Doc Cooper after a night at Dottie’s.”

  He turned the truck into a gravel driveway overhung with Spanish-moss-draped trees. A moment later, a large Queen Anne Victorian came into view. It was run-down, like something out of a ghost story. The yard and the foundation plants needed a good trimming, having grown up almost to the level of the porch railing. The only illumination came from a single porch light.

  Tulane set the brake and killed the engine. “Well, we’re here at Miriam Randall’s house. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the old gal.”

  Tulane got out of the driver’s side, circled around the truck, and opened the door for her. He gave her his hand and helped her down from the high cab as if he were a gentleman.

  Which he was not. But, holy moly, his hands felt incredible—rough and warm and dry and big and manly. Heat sizzled through Sarah’s core. It was a miracle her clothing didn’t spontaneously combust. She needed to cool it. Tulane was off-limits, and it would be professional suicide to develop a crush on the guy.

  They headed toward the house just as the front door opened, spilling light out onto the yard. A small figure stood silhouetted in the doorframe.

  “Tulane Rhodes, is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tulane said, using the polite voice one used when speaking with a church lady.

  Sarah recognized that voice. She had mastered it at a young age, since she had been surrounded by church ladies who had watched every step she ever made. Maybe she and the big, bad good ol’ boy had more in common than either of them might have thought when they first met.

  They walked up the porch steps. “Miz Miriam Randall, this is Sarah Murray, who works for National Brands.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” the old lady said. “I gather ya’ll stopped by Dot’s Spot on your way here.”

  Sarah’s mouth went dry, and her words of greeting died in her throat. Goodness, what now?

  “We did, Miz Miriam,” Tulane said into the sudden silence, as if he understood Sarah’s inability to speak. “I hope you weren’t expecting us earlier.”

  The old woman grunted. “I was. And you should be ashamed of yourself, taking a person like Sarah to that wicked place. I’m just so glad she studied self-defense.” Miriam smiled at Sarah. “Ya’ll come on in.”

  Sarah choked on a nervous laugh. Miriam shuffled back from the door, leaning on a cane.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I need to get along home,” Tulane said. “We’ve got to be up at the crack of dawn. So I’ll just leave Sarah in your hands.” He stepped back, retreating like the British at the Battle of Lexington.

  “I’ll pick you up at six o’clock on the dot,” he said to Sarah as he climbed into the truck and fired it up.

  “Come on in, Sarah,” Miriam Randall said. “I’ve already heard a lot about you.”

  Well, that was obvious. Sarah had no choice but to follow Miriam into a sizable front parlor, stuffed with Victorian settees upholstered in red velvet and striped damask silk. A baby grand piano stood in the corner between the bay window and the pink marble fireplace. Hardbound books and potted plants crowded together on a bookshelf that stood against the far wall. The place smelled of lavender and resembled a set from Arsenic and Old Lace.

  Miriam Randall wore her stark white hair in a set of crown braids and might have been the model for one of Norman Rockwell’s grandmothers, except for the red Keds slip-ons and the rhinestone-encrusted eyeglasses.

  Miriam sat down in one of the red velvet chairs and gestured toward the settee, her dark brown eyes sparkling behind the fifties-style eyeglasses. Sarah sat down and noticed the tray on the coffee table filled with a Royal Doulton tea service, featuring blue borders and old-fashioned tea roses. Ah yes, Miriam had been waiting for her in true church-lady fashion.

  “So,” Miriam said, presenting a cup of tea, “Ruby says you’re from Boston, and your forebears came over on the Mayflower.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And one of my ancestors fought in the Revolution.” She neglected, of course, to point out that she also had a few hotheaded abolitionists in her family tree, as well as an ancestor who served with General Sherman in the Civil War. No sense stirring up trouble.

  “My, isn’t that nice. And you’re a Presbyterian.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sarah nodded and held her teacup just like Grandmother Howland had taught her. Miriam had met her match. The old biddy had no idea just how stuck up her mother’s family was. All Sarah had to do was pretend Miriam was her grandmother. Heaven only knew how many Saturday afternoons she had been expected to have tea with Grandmother. And Heaven help her if she spilled a drop or didn’t sit up straight.

  “I wanted to thank you for putting me up tonight. I’m afraid I made a fool of myself today in my black suit,” she said. Humility was always a polite way to start.

  Miriam smiled like she was thinking about what had just happened at Dot’s Spot. “Well, sometimes things work out for the best, you know. The Lord has a plan for us all.”

  “I’m sure He does have a plan,” she said agreeably.

  “Absolutely. You should never doubt. And speaking of the Lord’s plan, if you want to take my advice, the Lord wants you to keep an eye out for a man of faith who has his priorities in the right order.”

  Huh?

  Miriam snickered like a demented schoolgirl. “I know what you’re thinking, Sarah. You think I’m giving you banal Christian advice. But I’m speaking literally here.” Miriam stopped and slurped her tea. Then put the cup down with a pair of hands that were rock steady, despite her advanced years and obvious senility.

  Miriam settled back into her velvet chair and blinked at Sarah from behind her coke-bottle glasses. For a moment, she resembled Mr. Magoo with rhinestones.

  Sarah coughed and put her cup down in its saucer. She continued to hold the saucer the way Grandmother had taught her. “Mrs. Randall, really, I’m not looking—”

  “But of course you are. Everyone who hasn’t found their soul mate is always searching. The Lord made us to go through life two by two. That’s just a plain fact.”

  “Yes, but I don’t need—”

  “Of course you need help. It’s hard to find the right one. Either there aren’t enough eligible ones, or there are too many. And it’s so easy to make a
mistake. So when I—”

  “Really, Mrs. Randall, I don’t want to be—”

  “It’s all right. I understand. But see, the thing is, you should be searching for a man of faith.”

  “You mean like a minister?” Sarah’s voice cracked in alarm. A minister? Was Miriam crazy? Not ever. Not if he were the last man on earth. No, no, no, no. She wasn’t going to become her own mother.

  “Oh, well, he might be a minister,” Miriam said in a rational tone of voice. “I hadn’t really thought about that. Maybe a deacon? It’s not really important.” She waved her hand in dismissal.

  “But you said something about a man of God, and I—”

  “Oh, no, I said a man of faith. And besides, don’t take me literally, child. That would be a mistake.”

  She had no plan to take anything Miriam said literally, or even seriously. “Faith?” She failed to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

  “Oh, yes. You should be searching for a man who values the important things. A good man. A man who knows how to follow the straight and narrow. A man who values love before money. A man who knows what’s important in life.”

  Who didn’t want a man like that? But men like that did not really exist, proving that Miriam was a nut job.

  “Mrs. Randall, I’m not ready to settle down. There are some things I need to do first, but I’m sure when I’m ready, I’d like to find a man like that.”

  Miriam laughed and rocked a little in her chair. “Of course you aren’t ready to settle down. No one really is, are they? But then God has a way of putting the right one in your path. But recognizing him can sometimes be tough, so let me give you a little advice. Be careful not to judge the book by its cover.”

  Sarah involuntarily flashed on the long line of seminary students who had graced Mother and Dad’s dining table over the last few years. Not a one of them was blessed in the appearance department. If she didn’t know better, she would swear that Mrs. Randall had consulted with Mother, and the two of them were ganging up on her.