Home At Last Chance (Last Chance #2)(41)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“No.”

She turned and stalked into the kitchen. She yanked open the refrigerator because she needed something to do with her restless hands, and she was afraid to open the drawer where she kept her knives. Murder seemed like a fitting reward for Steve Phelps, but Sarah wasn’t ready to break any more commandments.

The fridge was practically empty. Boy, she could use a beer right at the moment. Or a margarita. Or something stronger that would make her numb.

Steve followed her and leaned in the kitchen doorway. “Well, okay, you can choose not to take this offer. But if you’re thinking that you have any kind of future down here with Ferguson Racing or any other NASCAR team, you can forget it. Deidre has pretty much told everyone you’re dishonest, and the yokels around here seem to value honesty. It’s kind of funny, actually.”

Anger of a kind Sarah had never known hit her bloodstream. She felt hot all over. Her hands shook. Her head throbbed. She slammed the refrigerator door closed and almost launched herself at Steve.

“You bastard.”

Steve shrugged. “Me? I don’t think so. C’mon, Sarah, I’ve done you a favor. I’ve created an impression that you are cool and driven—just the kind of go-getter David Ahearn admires. I’ve just given you everything you ever wanted.”

Sarah stood rooted to the cheap vinyl flooring and tried to keep from throwing up. Steve was right. Ever since that Cuppa Java thing had happened, Sarah had been working diligently to lose her niceness.

So diligently, in fact, that she’d done a few heinous things she wasn’t proud of. She might not have written the memo that wrecked Deidre’s life, but she had written the pink car memo and put someone else’s name on it. That memo had hurt and humiliated Tulane and his pit crew. She had lied about that memo.

All of that might be forgivable, except that she’d also used Tulane. She’d even slept with him, after going on about how all she wanted was a sex coach and a one-night stand.

Mother and Dad were right to be disappointed in her.

She was disappointed in herself.

Sarah took two steps toward Steve, her fists balling up. “I don’t want your job. I don’t want to be a player. I want to be a nice girl from Boston.”

“Sarah, are you crazy? I’m offering you everything.”

“Maybe you are, but I value my soul. I’ve lost my way these last few weeks, but I’ve found it again. Now get out of here.”

He pointed a long finger at her. “You’ll regret this.”

“No, I don’t think so. Many other things, yes, but not this.”

“Look, Sarah, I need you.”

Was he whining? Oh yeah, maybe a little. “I’m sure you need me, Steve. I heard they gave you the Rice Doodles account. Good luck with that.”

“Sarah, please, listen, I can get you everything you want.”

“You mean everything I wanted. Past tense. I’ve grown. I don’t want what you’re offering. Now leave.”

His shoulders slumped as Steve turned. He picked up the computer bag and headed for the door. He turned back right before he left. “You can kiss your relationship good-bye with the people at Ferguson, especially with that yokel of a driver.”

Steve’s poison dart hit her heart, but Sarah stoically resisted the urge to cry out. She loved Tulane, but she hadn’t told him how she felt. And by not telling him the truth, she had hurt him—terribly. She saw that now. He was never going to forgive her. Not in a million years.

After Steve left, the real crying jag hit. Sarah bawled herself to sleep. And when she awakened at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, even a hot shower couldn’t undo the damage she’d done to her nose and eyes.

Her reality was so not good. She was alone in Florence, South Carolina without a friend, or a cell phone, or a computer. And Miriam Randall’s prediction loomed large in Sarah’s mind, as she imagined a boring new life in Boston, dating a seminary student.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it. So, with a stoicism she had inherited from her New England ancestors, she set about making that future a reality.

She made a to-do list. The first two items were:

1. Get a phone.

2. Call Tulane and apologize.

She pondered these items. She had a problem, because Tulane’s telephone number had been stored in her BlackBerry. She had not bothered to memorize it. She added a new #2 to her list: Call Ruby and get Tulane’s number.

She studied this new item for a long moment. The number of the Cut ’n Curl would be listed, but this to-do item seemed fraught with pitfalls.

Ruby could hang up on her. And then where would she be?

She crossed out “Call Ruby” and wrote “Drive to Last Chance and speak with Ruby.”

Tulane’s head hurt. He cracked an eye and blessed whoever it was who had put him to bed the night before. They’d had the foresight to shut the blinds and put a bottle of Excedrin and a glass of water on the bedside table.

He took his medicine and swore that he would never, ever again touch Lori Sterling’s rum punch.

He checked his watch. It was nine in the morning. He should have been up and about an hour ago, checking in at the garage and going over the schedule for Saturday’s hospitality and sponsor events with Sarah. He squeezed his eyes shut. Thinking about Sarah made his heart hurt worse than his head.

But last night, after he’d read the various corporate memos that Sarah had penned, he’d forgotten his rule about Lori’s punch.

Boy, Sarah sure had a head for business. But her heart was missing.

He hauled his butt out of bed. Even though Sarah was gone, sooner or later someone was going to show up and give him something to occupy his time. Usually, on a Saturday, his time was spent making the sponsor happy.

And, the aftereffects of the rum punch notwithstanding, his sponsor had left a real sour taste in his mouth.

He dragged himself into the shower and stood there until he ran out of hot water. That wasn’t very long, this being a mobile home. His hands weren’t steady enough to shave, so he just toweled off, threw on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, and declared himself dressed.

It was almost ten by then, and Tulane had decided that he didn’t want to be found. So he jammed his old Braves ball cap on his still-wet head and snuck out of his mobile home. Without his pink bunny shirt and khakis, he looked like just another NASCAR fan. He was able to make it all the way to the parking lot without being asked for a single autograph.

He found his Mustang and escaped. He turned onto one of South Carolina’s more obscure two-lane roads, punched the gas, and let the miles roll by.

He needed to try to do what Daddy said and toss out all the garbage that had been cluttering up his mind. Sarah Murray was the first piece of trash he needed to get rid of.

It was a little after ten when the old-fashioned bell at the front of the beauty parlor announced Sarah’s arrival at the Cut ’n Curl. The aroma of shampoo and body wave hit her like a slap to the face.

And maybe the ammonia smell of the permanent solution woke up a few of Sarah’s sleeping brain cells. Or maybe it was the six pairs of eyes that suddenly aimed in her direction. The leadership of the Committee to Resurrect Golfing for God appeared to be all present and accounted for.

The president, Hettie Marshall, was getting a manicure. The secretary, Thelma Hanks, was under a dryer. The treasurer, Millie Polk, was getting a body wave. The vice president, Miriam Randall, was enjoying the company of the others, and the ex officio members of the board, Jane and Ruby Rhodes, were hard at work.

“Good Lord, sugar, what happened to you?” Ruby said.

“Shouldn’t you be at the track?” Jane asked with a frown.

Thelma ducked out of the dryer and said, “I knew what we saw down at the golf course on Monday was going to be a problem.”

“Hush up, Thelma; you should have more faith.” Millie rolled her eyes in Miriam’s direction.

“Cried yourself to sleep, huh?” Miriam asked.

Hettie looked down and said nothing. She was wearing Ralph Lauren casual today.

Sarah hesitated. These ladies were going to run her out of town on a rail when they discovered the truth. Even if Sarah hadn’t written the memo that trashed Deidre’s career and the car seat safety program, she had still written the pink car memo and lied about it. She’d lied about Dad. She’d lied about her feelings. She’d even lied about those stupid ground rules she’d made up last Monday night.

She was ashamed of herself.

When she made huge mistakes like this as a little girl, she had been required to make a full and accurate accounting of herself in front of Grandmother Howland. Grandmother may have been from good Puritan stock, but she believed in the concept of penance.

So facing Ruby and the rest of the members of the committee was nothing more or less than Sarah’s chance to make a full confession. Maybe if she accounted for all her actions, Ruby would take pity on her and give her Tulane’s telephone number.

“Uh,” she said as the tears gathered in her eyes. “See, I lost my job and Tulane hates me and it’s all my fault because, see, I wrote the memo that put him in a pink car…” She couldn’t finish, because two things happened.

She started bawling like a little kid.

And Ruby Rhodes put down the permanent roller she’d been holding, stepped across the room, and pulled her into a big, motherly hug.

“Now, you hush, sugar, because I’m sure Tulane doesn’t hate you. After all, you’re a minister’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Sarah pushed back, wiping tears away. “Uh, yeah, how did you know that?” Tulane wouldn’t have told his mother about Tuesday morning, would he?

“I’m to blame,” Jane said, getting up and coming to join in what was becoming a group hug. “You told me the night Pete died, and I know I said I would keep it a secret, but I told Clay and Clay mentioned it to Ruby. Clay couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended upon it.”

“Now, Sarah, you just calm down, because everything will work out. You’ll see.” Ruby gave her another big squeeze.

“You’re a preacher’s daughter?” Thelma asked. “I don’t believe it—really?”

“Yeah, I know, I really haven’t been behaving like one, have I?”

Ruby rubbed Sarah’s backbone. “Never you mind, sugar. Just dry your eyes and I’ll get you some sweet tea and you can tell us what happened.” She gave Sarah a critical look and then pulled the banana clip from her hair. “I told you to stop wearing these things. I think after you tell us what’s wrong, we’ll just fix you up with some highlights.”

“And a French manicure,” Jane added.

“But you won’t like me after I tell you what happened.” Tears began to leak from Sarah’s eyes and Jane pressed a tissue into her hand.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Ruby said.

It was almost noon when Tulane topped a hill and spied Last Chance’s watermelon-striped water tower through the windshield of his Ford.

He had driven himself home.

Again.

Irritation prickled his skin. What was he doing here? Pete was dead.