by Hope Ramsay
She looked hopelessly lost, like a small waif or street urchin.
A hot, tight feeling slammed into his chest. The unexpected intensity of the emotion was tempered by the immediate clanging of alarm bells in his head. She was trouble.
She had arrived in a car registered to Abe Chaikin—a man who had so upset the balance of things in Last Chance that practically everyone still remembered the incident.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman was here for the same purpose. This tiny person was going to rend the daily fabric of life in his town, and he couldn’t let that happen.
She looked up at him, and he recognized his doom right there in her hollow eyes, just as he recognized something about her that he couldn’t even put words to. He had the odd feeling that he had known her for a long, long time.
Lark gripped the edge of the bench and stared at the fiberglass Jesus. This had to be the Excedrin headache to end all headaches. Was this Pop’s idea of a joke?
The sound of boots on gravel drew her attention to the walkway by the ark. A policeman came into view.
Holy crap, she was in trouble now.
“Ma’am,” the cop said. “What part of ‘no trespassing’ do you not understand? Golfing for God is not in business, and I’d be obliged if you would move on.”
She stood up, feeling dizzy and disconnected as she focused on the cop’s face. She recognized the green eyes, dimpled chin, and meandering nose. Crap. She was going crazy.
“Carmine?” she asked. Her throat hurt.
“Ma’am?” The cop went on alert. His shoulders stiffened, and his body coiled in that ready-for-action pose she’d seen in the marines patrolling the streets of Baghdad.
She blinked a couple of times, trying to clear her vision. He wasn’t Carmine, of course. And she was not losing her mind. She cleared her dry throat. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find Zeke Rhodes. I need to speak with him about something.”
“Ma’am, Zeke Rhodes has been dead for more than forty years. I would have expected you to know that.”
“Oh,” Lark said as she fought a wave of disappointment. “More than forty years? Really?”
“Yes, ma’am. He died the day Abe Chaikin left town.”
Her head throbbed, and her face went from hot to cold. “You knew my father?” That seemed unlikely.
“No, ma’am. But I’ve heard the stories about him. He hightailed it out of town the same day Zeke Rhodes died. They found Zeke’s body right where you’re standing now.”
She took a reflexive step backward, as if to avoid the long-dead body of Zeke Rhodes.
“Of course, not everyone thinks Zeke was murdered. There’s a big debate on that topic.”
“But you think he was.”
The cop’s shoulders moved a little. “Maybe. It happened before I was born. So you’re Abe’s daughter?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m his daughter.” The world started tilting sideways.
“Well, ma’am, some folks think your daddy murdered Zeke.”
All’s fair in love and literature…
Last Chance Book Club
Please see the next page for a preview.
CHAPTER 1
Savannah White pulled her twelve-year-old Honda into Aunt Miriam’s driveway. She set the parking brake and studied the old Victorian house through the windshield. It had seen better days. Mauve and gold paint peeled from the shingles and trim, the porch steps sagged, and the azaleas along the front porch were overgrown, even if they were in full springtime bloom.
She studied the azaleas for a long moment. Savannah had visited Aunt Miriam only in the summertime, so she had never seen the azaleas in bloom before. The bright pink blossoms were a reminder that she was taking a huge risk. Savannah had no idea if she would even like living in Last Chance year-round.
Of course, no one knew yet that she planned to stay. If she had announced her plans, her ex-husband and his parents would have done everything in their power to stop her from leaving Baltimore with her son, Todd. But leaving for a few days to attend a funeral was acceptable. A death in the family trumped everything.
She turned toward Todd. He sat in the passenger seat, completely engrossed in a video game. His brown hair curled over his forehead, and the tip of his tongue showed at the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. His eyelashes were still amazingly long for a boy, but his skin was so pale that he looked like one of those teen vampires from Twilight, albeit a slightly chubby one.
“It’s time to put the game away,” Savannah said.
Todd didn’t acknowledge her request. Tuning her out had become a pattern.
“We have to go now. It’s time to meet Aunt Miriam.”
No response.
She reached over and took the game from his hands.
“Mom,” he whined, “I was just about to win that level.”
Savannah turned the damned thing off and tucked it into her oversized purse. “Sorry, kiddo, we’re here. It’s time to join the real world.”
He rolled his pretty brown eyes. “Aw, couldn’t I just stay in the car?”
“No.”
“But I didn’t even know Uncle Harry, and I’m sure Aunt Miriam is just some dumb old lady.”
Savannah ground her teeth. “You will show respect to Aunt Miriam, is that clear?”
“Yes. But I hate it here.”
“You’ve been here for five minutes, during which time you’ve done nothing but zap zombies.”
He rolled his eyes. “Mom, Semper Fi doesn’t have any zombies. I was shooting members of the imperial Japanese forces occupying Iwo Jima.”
Savannah stared at her son. “You know that World War II is over and the Japanese are our allies now, right?”
Todd crossed his arms over his chest and sank back into the seat. “I’m not going to some dumb old funeral.”
“The funeral isn’t until tomorrow. And you will get your butt out of this car and go be nice to your Aunt Miriam or I will put your PSP in a microwave and nuke it.”
“You wouldn’t. That would kill the microwave and blow up the apartment.”
“Don’t bet on it, kiddo.”
“If you did that, Dad would buy me another one and Grandmother would yell at you.”
And that was the problem, right there.
She drew herself up into full-out mommy mode. “I don’t care what your father or grandmother might do. You are with me right now, and you will get out of this car. Right now.”
He gave her a sulky look and then opened the car door.
She did the same and stepped out into a balmy March day.
“I’ve never seen a house painted puke green, gold, and purple before,” he said.
“It’s not that bad.”
The boy wrinkled his nose in disgust. “It’s hot. Are we gonna stand here looking at it all day?”
The muscles along Savannah’s shoulders knotted, and the headache she’d been fighting since they’d crossed the South Carolina border was beginning to actually throb.
Just then the front door opened with a bang, and a white-haired lady wearing a blue polyester pantsuit and a pair of red Keds appeared on the porch. Dark, almost black, eyes peered at Savannah through a pair of 1960s-style spectacles festooned with rhinestones. “Well, look who just turned up, pretty as a daisy. C’mon up here, sugar,” Aunt Miriam said, opening her arms.
Savannah took the rickety porch steps in two long strides and gave Aunt Miriam a bear hug.
“Oh, I’m so glad you came,” the old lady said.
Savannah pulled away and looked down at her great-aunt, noting the changes recorded in her face. Her apple cheeks now drooped a little along her jawline. Her skin looked pale and papery. Even the ever-present twinkle in her eyes was dimmed by time and sorrow. Savannah felt a sharp pang of regret that she had allowed so much time to elapse between visits. Aunt Miriam was getting old. Savannah wished with all her might that she could turn back the clock.
“I’m so sorry about
Uncle Harry,” Savannah said.
Miriam nodded. “He was as old as dirt. And sick these last few years. I know at the end he just wanted to lay his burden down and go on home.” Her voice wavered.
Savannah gave Miriam another big hug and whispered, “I’m sure he did. But I know you would have liked him to stay a while longer.”
Miriam pushed back and wiped a few tears from her cheeks. “Enough of this maudlin stuff. Let me see that boy of yours. Last time I saw him, he was no bigger than a minute.”
Miriam turned her gaze down into the yard, where Todd slouched. Savannah’s son had assumed the preteen position: arms crossed and disinterest written all over his face.
“Hmm,” Aunt Mim said, “he’s a big boy, isn’t he?”
Savannah sighed. “Yes, he is.”
“Too bad he doesn’t live around here. I’m sure Harlan Atwater would be all over you to recruit him for Pop Warner football.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I think Todd would make an excellent center.”
Savannah filed that information away. Todd probably had no interest in playing football. But Savannah was determined to get her son off the couch and out into the fresh air. Last Chance had lots and lots of fresh air.
“Well, son,” Miriam said with a wave, “c’mon up here and meet your old Aunt Mim. I know you don’t remember me.”
The boy walked slowly up the stairs and stoically allowed himself to be hugged.
“Y’all come on in,” Aunt Miriam said, once she let Todd go. “I’ve got cookies and pie and enough food to choke a horse. The casserole brigade has been doing overtime these last few days. To be honest, I got so tired of Lillian Bray trying to take charge of my kitchen that I shooed them all away this noontime. They mean well, I suppose, but a whole day with Lillian is enough to try even the most patient of souls.”
She turned toward Todd. “I’m sure you’re hungry, son.”
Todd nodded. Todd was always hungry.
“Well, come on, then, I’ll show you the way to the kitchen.”
A burst of cool air greeted them in the hallway. It took a moment for Savannah’s eyes to adjust to the dark interior. The house had changed little in the eight years since her last visit. To the right stood the formal dining room, with its gleaming mahogany table and chairs upholstered in light green moiré. The china closet filled with blue willow ware still dominated the far wall. She could practically smell the ham and butter beans that Granny had served on those dishes all those years ago.
She turned her gaze to the left. The front parlor still contained Victorian settees upholstered in red velvet and striped damask silk. The baby grand piano, where she’d practiced endless scales and learned Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, still stood in the corner between the bay window and the pink marble fireplace.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the scents of lemon oil and beeswax and memory. This house had once belonged to her grandfather, Aunt Miriam’s older brother. And she had spent most of her summers here. Those had been happy times, for the most part.
Miriam came to a stop beside the oak stairway. “Oh, there you are. I called you to come down five minutes ago,” she said as a dark-headed man of about thirty-five two-stepped down to the landing and leaned into the newel post.
He hooked his thumbs through the loops of his Wranglers, lazily crossed one cowboy-booted heel over the other, and assumed the traditional western pose. Too hard and rangy to belong to the house, with its 1940s cabbage rose wallpaper, lace doilies, and china figurines, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a grade B western.
He gazed at Savannah with a pair of sexy eyes as blue as Bradley Cooper’s, and the corner of his mouth tipped up in a craggy smile. “It’s been a long time,” he said in a deep drawl.
She blinked a few times, taken by her visceral reaction to the obvious twang in his drawl. And then recognition flashed through Savannah like the Roman candles Granddaddy used to set off on the Fourth of July.
“Cousin Dash,” she said, “you still sound like a Texan.”
Dash’s gaze did a slow circuit of her body, and she felt naked as a jaybird under his intense inspection. “You’ve grown up some since I saw you last, Princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m not ten years old anymore.” Granddaddy had called Savannah Princess until the day he died, but in Dash’s mouth, the word came out as a twisted insult.
“No, I guess not.” His eyes flashed to Todd and back. “And I see you’ve become a momma.”
She turned toward her son. “Todd, this is Cousin Dash. When he was fifteen, he put a snake in my bed and blew up my favorite Barbie doll with a cherry bomb. I’m sure he is very sorry for what he did. And I am very—”
“Did the Barbie doll melt?” Todd asked.
Dash chuckled. “As I recall, it blew apart in about a dozen flaming pieces. But yeah, it melted.”
“It was my favorite, Twirly Curls Barbie. And—”
“Cool. What kind of snake did you put in the bed?” Todd asked.
“A garter snake, entirely harmless. Scared your momma to pieces, though. You should have seen her running through the hallway in her baby-doll nightie. It was the—”
“Dash, I really don’t think we have to rerun our entire history for Todd’s benefit, do we?” Savannah said.
“If we’re talking about the past, Princess, it’s because you raised the issue.”
Aunt Miriam entered the fray. “I declare you two sound just like you did when you were children. Now, both of y’all act like the adults you are and c’mon back to the kitchen and have some dinner. I’ve got one of Jenny Carpenter’s pies. A cherry one, I believe.”
Dash flashed a bright smile in Miriam’s direction. “Yes, ma’am, I will try to behave. But no thank you, ma’am, to the dinner and pie. I have errands to run up at the stable. Aunt Mim, will you be all right if I leave you with Savannah for a little bit?”
“You go on, Dash. I’m fine,” Miriam said.
He nodded to Savannah. “Welcome back,” he said without much enthusiasm. Then he strode toward the front door, his cowboy boots scraping across the oak floor. He stopped at the rack by the door and snagged an old, sweat-stained baseball hat bearing the logo of the Houston Astros. He slapped it down on his head and turned toward Miriam. “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be late,” he said, then turned toward Savannah. “Princess.” He tipped his hat and headed through the open door.
“Dash, don’t slam—” Miriam’s admonishment was cut off by the loud bang of the front door slamming.
Todd spoke into the silence that followed: “He’s really cool, isn’t he?”
Oh great. Dash Randall was the last person on earth that Savannah wanted as a role model for her problem child.
Don’t miss Hope Ramsay’s bestselling Last Chance series.
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“Ramsay strikes an excellent balance between tension and humor as she spins a fine yarn.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
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“Last Chance, South Carolina, is a caring community filled with the promise of hope. Come for a visit!”
—Lori Wilde, New York Times bestselling author
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“[A] little Bridget Jones meets Sweet Home Alabama.”
—GrafWV.com
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—Sherryl Woods, New York Times bestselling author
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