Last Chance Summer: A Short Story

by Hope Ramsay

  He had fallen in love with Allenberg County, and the little town of Last Chance, South Carolina.

  He checked his watch. It was ten to noon. Just enough time for one last interview.

  He toggled the switch and spoke to Nancy. “So who am I interviewing? What’s his story?”

  “He’s got an interesting theory on how radio works. And I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  Nancy was playing coy. She’d been testing him all day, throwing quirky people at him. He’d never had more fun.

  Grant’s fairground “broadcast booth” wasn’t more than a couple of card tables, with a boatload of wires going back to the remote trailer, located behind him. He was stationed right by the ticket kiosks for the rodeo corral, which became a Demolition Derby track every year at festival time. Nancy and her crew of one took care of spinning the music from up in the trailer and lining up interviews for him. Grant got to wave and smile and watch real people having real fun.

  He looked over his shoulder in time to see Lester Weaton emerge from the trailer, carrying a kid who couldn’t be more than about four or five.

  Grant toggled the intercom. “Nice, Nancy. You’re expecting me to do an Art Linkletter thing?”

  Nancy chortled. “Nope. I’m seeing if you can do a Russell Howe. He had a knack for interviewing kids. By the way, this kid is the one who went missing, so you might want to make an announcement. His momma is Russell’s granddaughter. And Russell’s wife, the missing old lady, is up here in the trailer with me, enjoying the AC.”

  “Oh, that’s good news.”

  “Oh, and by the way, Russell’s granddaughter is a real looker.”

  “If she has a kid, then I’m sure she’s married.”

  “On no, she’s a war widow.”

  Obviously everyone in Allenberg County was pitching in to help Miriam the Matchmaker. Grant was kind of enjoying the attention.

  The kid was cute, with light brown hair, fair skin, and a million freckles. He was clutching a Transformer and looked kind of wide-eyed as Lester sat him down on the table, next to the secondary microphone. The kid was too small to sit beside him in the other folding chair.

  “Is that a Decepticon?” Grant asked.

  The kid nodded. “You’re the man in the radio?”

  Grant gave the kid a reassuring smile. “Uh, yeah, but I’m not in the radio. I would have to be a lot smaller for that.”

  The kid didn’t say anything. He just sort of looked back at Grant all awestruck or something.

  Darn. He’d come a long way this morning in reassuring Nancy and the rest of the WLST staff who had worked with Russell Howe that he wasn’t a big city slicker and could handle the festival coverage. But Nancy had given him a tall order this time.

  Grant had never in his life interviewed a kid.

  * * *

  Amanda elbowed her way through the crowd at the WLST broadcast booth. She was frantic and practically nasty to the people in her way. And then the sound of Grant Trumbull’s voice came barreling out of the loudspeakers set up around the booth.

  “Son, what’s your name?”

  “Ethan Thomas Wright.” Ethan’s voice sounded like a piping reed. And the moment she heard him speak something inside her broke.

  “Oh thank God.” Tears filled her eyes, and she was seconds away from sobbing, right there in public.

  The next thing Amanda knew, Stone Rhodes was clearing a path for her. “Come on, they’re both safe.” Stone took her by the arm and guided her up to the booth.

  Ethan was sitting on the table beside a microphone talking to Trumbull. Her boy was looking at Grant, so he didn’t see her standing there.

  And Grant Trumbull was worth looking at.

  He wasn’t sixty and balding. He was closer to thirty, and he had a square chin, a golden complexion, dark hair, and big, brown eyes. He was smiling at Ethan, and there was something in that smile that made Amanda’s racing heart pick up speed, even though she’d stopped running.

  “How old are you, Ethan?” Trumbull asked.

  “Four and a half.” Ethan put up his fingers, like he always did when he answered that question.

  “Miz Nancy, my producer, says you have a theory about how radio works.”

  Ethan gave Trumbull one of his I-don’t-understand-a-word-you’re-saying looks. Really. Did Trumbull think a child Ethan’s age would know what the word “theory” meant?

  The smile on Trumbull’s face deepened, as if he actually understood his mistake.

  “What I mean, Ethan,” he said in that deep voice that had a little echo to it now that she was hearing it for real as well as over the loudspeakers, “is that you have an idea about how radio works.”

  Ethan continued to look at Trumbull like he was a big dummy. Oh good lord. Granddaddy always said that interviewing kids was the hardest thing to do. Amanda didn’t know whether to start laughing or keep crying.

  Cassie came up to stand beside her and handed her a tissue. “You need to blot, Mrs. W.” she whispered.

  Amanda took the tissue and wiped her eyes and nose. And all the while, Grant Trumbull kept smiling at Ethan. He was losing control of this interview.

  “Son, why don’t we try something else,” the broadcaster finally said. “Your mother is probably looking all over for you. Why don’t you tell her she can find you and your great grandmother here at the broadcast booth?”

  Ethan cocked his head. “You mean I just say it and she’ll hear it?”

  “You say it into this.” Trumbull pointed to the microphone. “That’s how radio works.”

  Ethan smiled and leaned in. “Hi Mama, Granny found me at the Lost and Found, and then we both found the radio man. And he’s nice. And you know what? You were right. He’s not small. He’s regular sized.”

  “You thought I was small?” Trumbull asked. His eyes crinkled up when he smiled.

  “Yeah, I thought you lived in the radio. I thought that’s why you were lost,” Ethan said.

  Grant chuckled. “Son, there have been times in my life when I was most definitely lost. But not now.”

  Ethan nodded. “No, I guess you’re not lost now. But you were. Mama’s always saying how we lost you. And Granddaddy.”

  “Oh, God, no, Ethan…” Amanda tried to take a step forward but Cassie was right there, holding her back.

  “Don’t spoil it. Let him be on the radio without you,” Cassie whispered. “You might learn something.”

  “Your mother lost me?” Trumbull asked. Grant seemed surprised. And why not? Amanda was surprised too.

  “Uh huh.” Ethan nodded solemnly.

  “Son, I don’t think you and I know one another.”

  “Nope. Cuz you were away when I was borned, and then you got lost.”

  “I was away where?”

  “Uh, somewhere. I forgot. There was an army.”

  “Oh.”

  The look on Trumbull’s face was priceless. He was thoroughly confused.

  “I’m glad you’re not lost,” Ethan said, giving Grant one of his adorable boy smiles. And the broadcaster seemed to be completely drawn in by him.

  He tousled Ethan’s hair. “Son, you’re the one who was lost. I’m sure your mother is happy we found you.”

  And then the broadcaster looked up and snagged Amanda’s gaze. Wow. He was like her deepest fantasy. And then his eyebrow kind of quirked up with an inquisitive look that riveted her to the ground.

  “Oh no, I wasn’t ever lost,” Ethan said. “But I’ve been looking for you a long time.”

  Trumbull turned away from Amanda and gave Ethan an extremely intense look. “You’ve been looking for me?”

  “Uh huh. And now that you’re here, will you take me on the Ferris wheel? And maybe win me a goldfish, cuz Mama throws like a girl. And I’d like to learn how to play baseball.”

  Trumbull didn’t have anything to say to this speech. And neither did Amanda. They looked at each other, and even though Amanda didn’t believe in fate, or little men living in radios, or e
ven the power of Miriam Randall to predict the future, she was struck dumb by a magical moment of complete connection. She’d been waiting for Grant Trumbull. Maybe all of her life.

  “Son, who exactly do you think I am?” Trumbull asked.

  “That’s easy. You’re my daddy.”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to acknowledge singer-songwriter David Wilcox for his whimsical and thoughtful song entitled “Radio Men.” I would also like to thank my wonderful critique partner and friend, Carla Kempert, who gave me so many ideas for this story. Her help was invaluable. And many thanks to Alex Logan, my wonderful editor, who improves every first draft with her insightful advice.

  About the Author

  Hope Ramsay grew up on the North Shore of Long Island, but every summer Momma would pack her off under the care of Aunt Annie to go visiting with relatives in the midlands of South Carolina. Her extended family includes its share of colorful aunts and uncles, as well as cousins by the dozens, who provide the fodder for the characters you’ll find in Last Chance, South Carolina. She’s a two-time finalist in the Golden Heart and is married to a good ol’ Georgia boy who resembles every single one of her heroes. She lives in Fairfax, Virginia, where you can often find her on the back deck, picking on her thirty-five-year-old Martin guitar.

  You can learn more at:

  HopeRamsay.com

  Facebook, www.facebook.com/Hope.Ramsay

  Twitter, @HopeRamsay.

  Molly Canaday is a tomboy with a passion for cars—

  and little time for romance.

  But Simon Wolfe is about to race in and change her priorities.

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  of Last Chance Knit & Stitch.

  Molly Canaday pulled the tow truck in front of the silver Hyundai Sonata. She killed the engine and used her side-view mirror to assess the stranded motorist.

  He was not from around these parts.

  For one thing, he was driving a rental car.

  And for another, he was standing in the hot May sunshine wearing a black crew-necked shirt, dark dress pants, and a charcoal gray worsted sport jacket.

  The sun lit up threads of gray in his dark chin-length hair. He hadn’t shaved today, but somehow the stubble looked carefully groomed.

  This guy was seriously lost, like he’d made a wrong turn in Atlanta and kept on driving.

  She straightened her ball cap and hopped from the truck’s cab. “Howdy,” she said, putting out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Molly Canaday from Bill’s Grease Pit. We’re located in Last Chance, just down the road a ways. The rental agency sent your distress call to us. What seems to be the problem?”

  Mr. I’m-so-cool-and-sexy regarded her hand, then let his gaze climb up to her battered Atlanta Braves hat, then back down to her favorite Big and Rich T-shirt, ending with her baggy painter’s pants. His mouth curled at the corners like a couple of ornate apostrophes. The smile was elegant and sexy, and might have impressed Molly if it hadn’t also been a tiny bit smirk-like.

  She was tempted to tell him that he had a lot of nerve smirking when he was standing in the blazing May sunshine wearing dark clothes. She refrained, just like he’d refrained from shaking her hand.

  She forced a neutral customer-service expression to her face, even as she dropped her hand. She sure wanted to leave Mr. Urban Cool to burn up by the side of the road. Maybe walking the six miles into town in the blistering sun would help him lose that smirk.

  He finally spoke in an accent that sounded like it came from nowhere. “Canaday, huh? Does Red Canaday still coach the Rebels’ football team?”

  Whoa, this guy didn’t look like your average football fan. Much less like anyone who would know anything about Davis High’s football program. “Uh, yeah, he’s my daddy.” She studied his face, trying to place him. He had dark brown eyes and a sturdy, straight nose. He didn’t look a lick like anyone Molly knew.

  His steady stare sucked her in and left her feeling unsettled. If he knew about the Rebels, then he wasn’t a stranger.

  He wasn’t lost.

  “Nothing ever changes here, does it?” he said.

  “Do I know you?”

  Something flickered in his eyes. Was it kindness? It was there and gone in an instant. “You might remember me. I mean, I knew your father. But that was a long time ago, and you were little.”

  “Are you saying you’re from around here?” No way.

  “I’m Simon Wolfe. Charlotte and Ira’s boy. I was a place kicker on the team a long time ago.”

  Oh. Wow. Talk about prodigal sons. She didn’t really remember him. But she sure knew all about him. He had been a member of the 1990 dream team—the one that won the state championship. He was also the player who hadn’t attended a single team reunion. The guy who left home, the guy who never came back, the guy who broke his daddy’s heart.

  And now his daddy was dead.

  Two days ago, Ira Wolfe had keeled over right in the middle of his Ford dealership’s showroom.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Molly said. Although Simon didn’t look all that brokenhearted. In fact, he shrugged like a cold-hearted idiot.

  And he proved his cool nature a moment later when he said, “So Red Canaday’s little girl grew up to become a mechanic. I guess that was totally predictable.”

  She clamped her back teeth together before she said something un-ladylike. Not that she was much of a lady. Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to be mindful about her feelings, like Momma was always telling her to be. She sucked at being mindful, and she was not about to take up meditation the way Momma had.

  “What seems to be the problem?” she asked in her sweetest voice, which admittedly was not very sweet. Sweet was definitely not her normal MO.

  “I have no clue what’s wrong with it. It stopped running,” he said.

  Boy, he might have been born in the South and even played football once. But he’d clearly lost his Southern accent and attitude somewhere. Any local man worth his salt would have already popped the hood and taken a look. Local men would also have dozens of theories about what had gone wrong.

  Not this guy. This guy spoke in short sentences, dressed like a GQ model, and didn’t want to get dirty. But then he’d been a place kicker on the team, and a good one too. But place kickers avoided dirt. It was a well-known fact.

  “Did it make any funny noises before it died?”

  “Nope.” He looked at his watch.

  “I’m sorry. You have a wake to get to, don’t you?” She didn’t mention that she, also, had to get to Ira Wolfe’s wake. She owed that man a great deal.

  Simon turned his back on her. He walked a short distance away toward the edge of the road and put his hands on his hips. He studied the soybean fields like he was looking at some alien landscape.

  “God, this place is like being nowhere at all.” The words were spoken in a soft, low voice and not intended for Molly to hear. But she was just annoyed enough not to let him get away with them.

  “Yeah, well, some of us like living here,” she said, investing her words with all the civic pride she could muster.

  She popped the hood and started poking around in the engine. “So, I take it you’re not planning to stay very long.” She aimed her flashlight down into the engine to check the fan belt.

  “No, I have to get back to Paradise.”

  “Paradise? Really?” The fan belt looked okay.

  “It’s a place in California.”

  “Of course it is.” He would live in a place called Paradise. She had a feeling he was about to discover that there could be hard times in Paradise, but far be it from her to be the bearer of bad news.

  Instead she inspected the battery terminals and connections but didn’t see anything obvious. There was probably a problem with the generator, or alternator, or maybe the voltage regulator.

  She pulled her head out of the engine. “I’m going to have to tow it.”

  He checked his damn watch
again. Boy, this guy was wound up tighter than a spring. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you to the church on time. Or the funeral home, as the case might be. You know, being late to a funeral is not the worst thing in the world.”

  * * *

  Simon stifled the laugh that wanted to spring from his chest. It wasn’t right to find Molly Canaday amusing on the day of his father’s wake. But it sure wasn’t surprising.

  She helped him transfer his luggage from the Hyundai’s trunk to the back of her truck. Then he stood back and watched while Coach Canaday’s daughter hooked the Sonata up to a heavy chain and then winched it onto the truck’s flat bed. The woman sure had a way with machinery.

  Which didn’t surprise him either.

  The last time Simon had seen Molly Canaday, she’d been a little kid in overalls, not much older than four, standing on the sidelines with Coach. She never missed a game. She never whined like other little kids. She never failed to inspire them all.

  And Simon never attempted a field goal without first patting Molly’s head. Her hair had been short and soft under his big teenager hands. Her hair was longer now, but still dark and barely contained by her ball cap. He had the sudden desire to paint a portrait of her, with all that glorious hair undone and falling like a curly, black waterfall to her shoulders.

  “It’s going to be tomorrow before we can figure out what’s going on with the car. So I’ll drop you by the funeral home. I’m sure Rob or Ryan Polk or one of their kids can give you a lift home from there. And you can use Ira’s car. God knows he has a lot of them.” Molly’s words pulled him away from his suddenly wayward muse.

  He climbed into the passenger seat and checked his watch.

  “So, I guess you’re just counting the hours until you can leave again? Paradise is calling, huh?”

  He kept his gaze fastened to the soybean fields that whizzed past as she pulled the truck onto the road and headed into town. He saw no point in responding to her question. She had summed up the truth. He needed to get back home and back to work, especially since the work hadn’t been going well.