by Hope Ramsay
“Yeah.”
“Well, if you get sent there, just remember that I plan for us to grow old together.”
He laughed. “Are you going to make a list to go with that plan?”
“Don’t you laugh. This is not funny. You come home to me.”
“I promise. We’re going to be together forever, honey. We’ve got Miz Miriam Randall to thank for that.”
She kissed him, and her mouth was like a hot summer night, full of stars and moonshine and first-time love. She never really said yes. She just kissed him until he couldn’t breathe. And that’s when he got off his knees, and carried her all the way to his truck.
“Oh crap, Mother’s home,” Sharon said as Stone pulled his truck to the curb. He responded to this news with a truly filthy curse word, and for once, Sharon wasn’t of a mind to object.
“You’re sure I need my birth certificate? Wouldn’t my driver’s license be good enough?” she asked.
“Not according to what the Georgia authorities told me on the phone. Do you know where your birth certificate is?”
She nodded. “Yeah, it’s in a file in Daddy’s study. Mother doesn’t go in there very often. The room is kind of a shrine to Daddy. But still, if she hears me, I’m dead. She thinks I’m at the barbecue, and it won’t be long before I’m missed.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
She smiled at him. “Getting cold feet?”
“No, but I don’t want you to get into trouble with your mother. She already hates me.”
“She’s going to really hate you after we elope, but I don’t care. That’s her problem. You stay here. I’ll be back in no more than ten minutes.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Then you come busting in like the marine you want to be. Give me ten minutes.”
Sharon headed to the front porch, walking on her bare feet, her Watermelon Queen dress swishing with every step. She opened the front door.
All was dark in the house except for Mother’s room, down the hall. She could hear Mother stirring around in there, waiting for her.
Sharon turned the other way, toward Daddy’s study. She sat at her father’s desk and opened the top drawer. He always kept the key to the file cabinet there. She found the key without any problem. But she hesitated when she saw the little leather ring box sitting right there in the middle of the drawer.
She didn’t remember the ring box being there the last time she’d looked for the filing cabinet key.
She opened the box and gasped. It was Daddy’s wedding band.
She closed the box and pressed it to her heart for a moment. Daddy had always liked Stony. Maybe this was his way of giving her away.
She quickly opened the file cabinet and found her birth certificate. Daddy had been a very organized man during his lifetime.
Now all she needed was to sneak into her bedroom to collect a few necessities, including the diaphragm she’d gotten from Planned Parenthood. But to get to her room, she would have to walk down the hall right past Mother’s bedroom. That would never work. Mother’s bedroom door was open. She was clearly waiting up for Sharon’s return.
Sharon stood there weighing her options. She decided against going down the hallway. The very last thing she wanted was a big confrontation between Stony and Mother on the day she planned to get married. She would leave Mother’s house with nothing but her birth certificate, her Watermelon Queen dress, and Daddy’s wedding ring.
Somehow that seemed appropriate.
Justice Henry J. Pearsall had a little house with a room set up as a wedding chapel of sorts. He lived on the outskirts of Augusta and assured Stone that he was quite used to being awakened in the middle of the night for drive-by weddings.
The license cost less than twenty bucks.
And now Stone stood in an itty-bitty room wallpapered in pink roses and containing a dozen folding chairs arranged to make an aisle. Mrs. Pearsall, wearing a Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt and a pair of flannel PJ bottoms, banged away at the upright piano, playing the wedding march. The door at the other end of the room opened.
And suddenly the slightly tacky surroundings faded to gray.
Boy, Sharon looked like an angel wearing that Watermelon Queen dress. It wasn’t exactly the standard-issue white, but the cascading shades of pink and green suited her tanned skin. She had a carnation in her hair, and a bunch of them clasped in her hands.
Carnations were the only flower they could find at the all-night Bi-Lo. He would have bought her roses if he could have found some. But Sharon said that carnations were good enough for her, and besides, they were just the right shade to match her dress.
He didn’t know about that. He really didn’t know about much of anything, because one glance at her and his heart took flight. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the way she looked right at this moment, walking so slowly and softly toward him with a tiny smile on her pink lips.
He caught her spicy scent as she drew near. His heart nearly burst as she gazed up into his eyes. She was his—his beautiful, amazing, wonderful bride.
Mr. Pearsall started speaking words that floated beyond Stone’s complete comprehension. But when it came time for him to speak his vows, he said them solemnly and with his whole heart. He would honor and protect and keep her all the days of his life.
He put the ring on her finger.
And then she spoke to him, her eyes dark and wide and liquid. And when she suddenly came up with a wedding ring, it seemed almost like a miracle. She took his hand in hers and slipped the plain gold band over his knuckle. It fit perfectly. He smiled down at her. It was a comfort to know that he would wear that ring all his life.
And then it was time to kiss the bride. And time stood still until he carried her back to his truck and drove like a demon all the way back to Allenberg, where they rented the honeymoon room at the Magnolia Inn.
It wasn’t much better than the Peach Blossom Motor Court, but he wasn’t paying that much attention to the decor. He was too busy taking off that incredible dress and discovering the wonderful woman underneath.
EPILOGUE
August 16, 1990
Sharon wrapped her arms around Stony and hung on for all she was worth. The hot summer sun beat down on her shoulders as she buried her nose in the soft fabric of his polo shirt. She looked up at him and gently pushed the lock of hair away from his forehead.
She was not going to cry.
“I guess the next time I see you I won’t have to worry about your hair.”
He nodded. His green eyes sober. “I’m going to be okay.”
“Of course you are,” she said, her voice oddly bright. But she wasn’t a fool. Just yesterday the U.S. Marine Corps had sent more than forty thousand troops to the Persian Gulf. The United States already had a naval blockade in place, and everyone was talking about the possibility of reservists being called up for active duty.
“I’m going to be fine, honest. You’ll come to my graduation ceremony in November?”
“Of course I will. I can’t wait to see you all spit and polished.” She ran her fingers through his hair again. “But I’m going to miss your cowlick.”
“You know I won’t be able to contact you much during boot camp.”
“I know. I’ll be busy at Carolina.”
He gave her a sober-eyed look. He was completely fine with her going to college, but she knew he didn’t like the idea of other guys hitting on her.
“I’ll be studying,” she said.
“I’ll be able to call you this afternoon to let you know I got to Parris Island, but I won’t be allowed to say anything else.”
“I know, Stony, I’ve read all the material the Marine Corps sent about the first call home.”
“Okay. Just so you know. I love you. I’m going to be okay. You have fun at Carolina, okay?”
She nodded and choked back the tears. She was not going to let him see her cry. She was not going to let him know how scared she’d been by
the news reports on CNN.
Of course he knew that already; otherwise he wouldn’t keep saying he was going to be okay. He was probably scared himself, but Stony would never show that.
She rose up on tiptoes and gave him the hottest kiss she could muster. She hoped with all her heart that her kiss told him what he needed to know. She would be waiting for him when he got home.
She let him go. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
His mother, father, little brothers, and sister were there. He hugged them all, even picking Rocky up and giving her a toss into the air that had her giggling. Boy, that little girl adored her brother. God keep him safe, Sharon prayed.
“I’m going to be okay, everyone. Stop with the long faces.” He grinned. Then he squared his shoulders, turned, and walked purposefully toward the waiting Marine Corps van, which would take him from the Orangeburg recruiting office to Parris Island.
He didn’t look back.
Sharon’s stomach lurched. She was afraid she would be sick, like she had been this morning. She swallowed back her emotions along with the bile.
They were going to be okay. Miriam Randall had matched them up, and that meant they would have their happy-ever-after ending. It was guaranteed. In fact, they were already the talk of the town. No one had ever run off with a Watermelon Queen. No one had ever gotten married in a Watermelon Queen dress.
Their happy-ever-after ending was guaranteed. And besides, everyone in Last Chance was expecting it.
Sharon and Stone would just have to wait a little bit for it. But it would come. She had no doubt.
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 Award 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.
Head home for the holidays…
Last Chance Christmas
Please see the next page for a preview.
CHAPTER 1
Jesus looked like he’d been hit by a Mack truck. The statue of the son of God lay on its side, its fiberglass infrastructure torn and ragged. Scattered on the gravel beside the bleaching carcass were the remnants of a sign that read, “Golfing for God.”
Lark Chaikin hugged her elbows and tried to keep warm against the December gust that blew her bangs into her eyes. Who knew South Carolina could be so cold. She looked up at the tops of the pine trees, swaying in the wind. She shivered.
She had to be crazy to have driven all the way from New York on this fool’s errand. Roadside America was littered with the corpses of mini-golf courses, their windmills suspended in time, their giant Paul Bunyans toppled. And it sure looked like Golfing for God had gone the way of all the fiberglass dinosaurs.
Pop should have checked before he made his last request. But, of course, Pop had been sick for a long time.
Lark turned back toward her late father’s SUV, a giant silver thing that drove like an ocean liner and guzzled gas like one, too. She opened the back door and stared down at the cardboard box containing Pop’s ashes. The box was eight inches square with the words “Chaikin, Abe” scrawled across its top.
She pressed a couple of fingers against the ache in her forehead that had been growing all day. “Why’d you make a big mahgilla about being buried here in the middle of nowhere on a closed-up mini-golf course?” She couldn’t go on. Her throat closed up, and tears threatened her eyes. She swallowed back the grief that was too new to be expressed yet.
Lark leaned on the tailgate, her gaze shifting from the box to the canvas camera bag sitting beside it. Her fingers itched to pick up the Nikon, maybe shoot a few photos of the broken statue. She might be able to capture the Picasso-like perspective of its smashed face. Maybe shooting a few photos would help her get back the balance she’d lost during the Libyan civil war. She had experienced a lot of heavy fighting during the battle for Misurata.
But she couldn’t find the courage to pick up the camera. She slammed the tailgate and turned toward a gravel path clearly posted with “No Trespassing” signs.
Something violent had damaged the stand of pines growing on the right side of the path. The trees looked as if they had been blasted by napalm or something. A wave of nausea gripped her. Man, she was really losing it. The nightmares were bad. But the waking flashbacks were worse.
She took a few calming breaths and focused on the noise of her feet crunching on the gravel. She looked up. Clouds, heavy with rain, scudded across the sky, and a lone hawk circled, watching and waiting. She felt light-headed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten or slept.
She lowered her gaze. A medium-sized structure resembling Noah’s ark loomed ahead of her. Scaffolding had been set up around it, and it looked as if someone was giving the ark a fresh coat of paint. Still, for all that, the place seemed sad and abandoned. A few dead leaves, driven by the wind, swirled across the path.
She turned right and made a circuit of the place, hole to hole, past Adam and Eve, the Tower of Babel, and David and Goliath, feeling as if she’d slipped through the bounds of reality. She stopped at the tee box labeled “Plague of Frogs.” Something terrible had happened here. She remembered Pop talking about how the frogs used to spit water over the fairway. But there weren’t any frogs left. Just random frog legs stuck onto concrete lily pads.
She turned and walked past the undamaged Jonah and the Whale, then cut through the Wise Men with their bobbing camels and Jesus walking on water, until she reached the eighteenth hole.
She halfway expected this hole to be the much-laughed-about Tomb of Jesus. It would be just like Pop to want to have his ashes installed in the ersatz tomb of a messiah that wasn’t his. She could see him laughing his ass off as people putted golf balls across his grave. After all, Pop had a murderous short game.
But the eighteenth hole wasn’t a tomb.
It was a statue of Jesus. The sign beside the tee box displayed a quote from Mark 16: “Go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.”
Apparently, the eighteenth hole was a celebration of the resurrection.
Stonewall Rhodes, the chief of police for the incorporated city of Last Chance, South Carolina, drove his cruiser south on Palmetto Avenue, taking his second-to-last circuit of the day. It was nearly five o’clock, and the light was fading quickly into dusk. It would be dark by the time he drove out to the edge of town and back.
He got about halfway to the Allenberg County line before he saw the silver Cadillac Escalade parked in the lot at Golfing for God. The New York tags caught his attention.
Cars with New York plates didn’t come through this neck of the woods very often—unless the folks in them were lost tourists searching for the road to Hilton Head or people making a pilgrimage to Golfing for God.
At one time, Golfing for God had attracted a fair number of pilgrims. The place was listed on RoadsideAmerica.com and had made it into a couple of tour guides. But it had been closed up for more than a year—ever since its propane tank had been struck by lightning.
Of course, Hettie Marshall and the Committee to Resurrect Golfing for God had just hired a contractor to begin fixing up the place. They were aiming for a big reopening in the spring. In the meantime, though, the “No Trespassing” signs were designed to keep the pilgrims and the pranksters away.
Stone pulled his cruiser into the golf course’s parking lot, the gravel crunching under its wheels. He eyeballed the Cadillac. It appeared to be unoccupied, but appearances could be deceiving. Before getting out of his car, he keyed the plate information into his cruiser’s
computer. An instant later, the Cadillac’s history came back to him. There were no outstanding warrants involving the vehicle, which was registered to one Abe Chaikin of Kings Point, New York.
Stone stared at the name for a long moment as the little hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end.
The past had come back to haunt his town.
He snagged his Stetson from the passenger seat and dropped it on his head as he left the cruiser. He pulled his heavy-duty flashlight from his utility belt as he cautiously approached the vehicle. He shone the light through the driver’s side window and confirmed that the car was unoccupied.
The SUV was a late model, clean and fully loaded, with a GPS system and satellite radio in the dashboard. A well-worn canvas bag in army green occupied the cargo area, loaded with what looked like expensive camera equipment. The SUV was locked.
He turned away from the car and walked up the charred remains of the main walkway. He saw the woman as soon as he turned the corner by the first hole. She sat on the wooden bench at the feet of the resurrected Jesus on hole eighteen, with her head bowed as if deep in prayer. For a brief moment, it appeared as if the Savior’s hand moved outward toward the praying woman, as if He were trying to comfort her.
A shiver inched down Stone’s spine, and he blinked a couple of times. Only then did he realize that the deepening dusk had played a trick on him. A little sparrow sat in the hand of Jesus. It turned its head this way and that and gave the appearance of the statue’s hand in motion.
The woman was as tiny as a bird herself, with short-cropped dark hair that spiked around her head. She wore jeans and a peacoat. A stiff wind might blow her away.
She looked up, turning a pair of dark, hollow eyes in his direction. All the breath left his lungs as he found himself caught up in her stare. For an instant, he felt as if he might be looking at a ghost from some forgotten past. Her face was oddly gray in the fading light, the skin beneath her eyes smudged with the purple of exhaustion.