Home At Last Chance (Last Chance #2)(10)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“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.

She was never going to settle for a dull, boring, straight-and-narrow minister of the Word. Ever. Mother and Mrs. Randall and the world needed to quit pushing guys like that at her.

Sarah smiled sweetly, laying on the charm as she returned her cup to her saucer. “I will keep what you say in mind, Mrs. Randall.”

And run like heck in the opposite direction.

Chapter 5

Hettie Marshall got out of her Audi TT and leaned against its polished fender as she lit a cigarette. She kept half an eye trained on the alley by the Cut ’n Curl, just in case someone came by. She hated to think of the gossip that might ensue if anyone ever found out she had this hidden vice.

She took a deep drag and felt the muscles in her neck and shoulders ease.

Normally she would have gone out to the potting shed to indulge this secret habit, but she hadn’t had time this morning. Henry Dixon, of Dixon Investigations, had called her right before she left for her weekly hair appointment. Mr. Dixon said he had something interesting to share with her.

That was bad news. Hettie had been praying that her husband, Jimmy Marshall, the owner of Country Pride Chicken, wasn’t doing anything even remotely interesting. She wondered, as she dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with her Isaac Mizrahi pumps, what she might do about Jimmy and his interesting pastimes, whatever they might be.

Her meeting with Mr. Dixon wasn’t until 4:30 that afternoon. She would be a wreck by that time.

She popped a wintergreen Lifesaver in her mouth and headed toward the Cut ’n Curl. The odor of hot coffee and hairspray welcomed her as she pushed through the beauty shop’s doorway. The conversation halted the moment she stepped into the room.

That little pause was an affirmation of sorts. A lonely affirmation. Hettie had worked hard to maintain a distance between herself and the other women of Last Chance. It was required for a woman of her station.

Hettie was, after all, the Queen Bee of Last Chance, South Carolina, a member of the DAR, and a Southern aristocrat right down to her bones.

Queen Bee was an unofficial title, of course, never spoken to her face. The title carried little power, in reality. In truth, Lillian Bray was the bully everyone kowtowed to. Miriam Randall was the woman everyone listened to. And Ruby Rhodes was the woman everyone wanted as a best friend.

Hettie would have liked Ruby as a friend, too, but that was not possible. Not with Ruby’s husband being the kind of man he was. Sometimes it was a bitch being the Queen Bee of this little town.