Home At Last Chance (Last Chance #2)(8)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“Yes?” She braced herself, expecting to get an earful of complaint about the pink car.

“I’ll bet you read Tulane’s official biography where it says I’m a mechanic, didn’t you?” Elbert said.

Sarah clamped her lips closed and nodded, afraid to say anything more.

Beside her, Tulane slammed his tea glass down on the table so hard it made the food dishes jump. “Daddy, don’t—”

Elbert stared at Tulane. “You hush up. To be honest, I’m disappointed in you.” Elbert turned his head and gave Sarah a winning smile. “I don’t suppose you saw the old putt-putt place outside of town?”

“Um, no. But Haley said something about it. Golfing for God?” She stifled the urge to duck under the table. World War III was about to erupt any minute.

“That’s the one. You need to know that that’s what I do for a living. Well, that’s what I did for a living before the lightning strike hit the place and caused the explosion.”

She frowned. “You play putt-putt golf?”

Elbert shook his head. “No, ma’am. I own Golfing for God. And I ran the place until we had to close it down last October. See, my daddy built it back in the 1950s. There are angels who live on that land, and they’ve been whispering to the Rhodes family for generations.”

Angels and miniature golf. Wow. She could understand why Tulane had lied about his father and didn’t want his niece to be a poster child for car seat safety. “Really?” She tried to sound polite in order to mask the utter surprise of this revelation.

“Yes, ma’am,” Elbert said as he leaned his elbows on the table. “Golfing for God had been serving the people of Allenberg County for years until last October. Did Tulane tell you about the explosion out there?”

“It wasn’t an explosion,” Haley said earnestly. “The Sorrowful Angel had to stop the bad men from hurting me, and your angels helped.” She turned toward her grandfather. “The angel is really, really sorry about what happened, Granddaddy.”

It was Stone’s turn to slam his tea glass down. True to his nature, though, he only glared at his father. He didn’t say a word.

Elbert ignored Stone and smiled down at his grandchild. “I know, darlin’, and it wasn’t all her fault.” Elbert’s benign and adoring gaze lasted only a moment. He turned on Tulane. “Son, are you ashamed of me?”

Sarah glanced sideways. Tulane’s face and ears went red. The tendons in his cheeks and jaw bunched for a moment as if he were gritting his teeth. “Daddy,” he finally answered in a tone that suggested he was trying to keep his temper, “don’t you think it’s about time you retired? I could buy you and Momma a nice house someplace, like Palm Springs, on a real golf course.”

“You know, Jimmy Marshall has been after me for weeks now. He thinks I should sell out, too. But even though I’m at a loss as to how to get Golfing for God back in business, I still don’t want to move to Florida.”

“But Daddy, even before the explosion, not too many people were visiting Golfing for God. It doesn’t make much sense to—”

“That’s not true,” Ruby said. “Ever since the golf course got listed on roadsideamerica.com last year, we’ve been getting a steady stream of visitors. In fact, the Professional Miniature Golf Association has been in contact with your daddy about the possibility of hosting an association championship.”

“Really?” The question popped right out of Sarah’s mouth before her brain caught up with it. She was getting another one of those gut feelings that usually ended up with a good idea.

“Really,” Ruby replied, glancing at Sarah with a little half-smile. “I believe a thing like that would be good for businesses in Last Chance. I guess you would understand all that, being a businesswoman yourself.”

Sarah felt a sudden flush of pride. Ruby thought she was a businesswoman. The moment of pride lasted until Tulane turned toward her and glared. He was really angry this time.

“This is none of your business,” he said.

Sarah sealed her lips. But her mind kept working on the idea. A PMGA championship held at a place called Golfing for God had some pretty amazing potential appeal. She figured there were dozens of politicians and ministers who might want to attend a thing like that.

“Sarah, stop it.” Tulane’s voice sounded sharp.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking.”

“Thinking?”

“Yeah, thinking. I can tell something is running through that devious corporate mind of yours. Like how to connect me, Cottontail Disposable Diapers, Golfing for God, the PMGA, and car seat safety into one mega-big advertising and marketing campaign. I’m not interested.”

“But—”

“Not interested.” He pushed back from the table and stood up. He had not finished eating.

“Momma, that was good. I forgot how much I enjoy your cooking. Now, if ya’ll would excuse us, I’m going to take Sarah over to Miriam’s.”

Sarah stood up, too, knowing that it was probably best to get Tulane out of there before he and his father got into a donnybrook. She followed him through the front room and out onto the porch. “I guess you aren’t about to explain what just happened in there, huh?” she asked.

“Nope. We’re shelving this conversation permanently. You’ve learned every last one of my secrets.” His body was drawn taut like a bow. He was furious and embarrassed. She felt for him. Parents could be so embarrassing sometimes.

“I’m not going to tell people about your father, okay? Believe it or not, I actually understand.”

He stepped down off the porch and headed toward a beat-up Ford pickup that he’d borrowed from his brother. His shoulders were straight, and every muscle in his body seemed tight.

“I’ll give you my solemn promise. Okay?” she said to his back.

“I’d like to believe you,” Tulane said as he reached the truck and opened the passenger-side door. He turned toward her.

“I’m trustworthy, really I am,” Sarah said, and her inner Puritan whispered, Most of the time. Luckily her inner Puritan didn’t say that out loud.

Tulane stopped and gave her a measuring look. “Okay,” he said. “If you’re so trustworthy, then swear that you won’t tell the world about Golfing for God. And when you swear, I want you to cross your heart and then spit on your hand.” By the gleam in his eye, he seriously expected her to do this.

“Spit on my hand? No way. I’ll cross my heart, and that’s the limit.”

“It ain’t any good without spit.” His eyes flashed with a deadly combination of amusement and something else she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Well, as you have pointed out any number of times today, I am a lady, and ladies do not expectorate.”

He chortled. “Another three-dollar word. Are you going to swear or not?”

She held up her right hand. “I swear I will not tell anyone about Golfing for God. And even if you do something about car seats, I will keep Haley’s accident and problems to myself.” She crossed her heart. She did not spit on her hand.

“It ain’t legal without spit.”

He waited.

She demurred.

After about thirty seconds of silence, he shook his head. “C’mon, let’s go do something more fun, like get a drink down at Dottie’s.”

“I thought you were taking me to Mrs. Randall’s house. And besides, I don’t drink much.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” He gestured toward the open truck door.

She walked past him and stepped up into the cab. The man scared her a little, but she couldn’t deny the fact that every time she found herself in his presence, she lit up like a firefly. The idea of having a drink with him sounded like an adventure, the kind Mother would not approve of.

He closed the door and leaned in to speak through the open doorway. “If you don’t want to get a drink, that’s okay.”

The little glow inside her died. He didn’t see her as the type to go out drinking, did he? He expected her to be prim and proper. Well, to heck with that.

“I could use a drink,” she said firmly.

A slow, dangerous smile crossed his face.

Sarah approached the margarita cautiously, like a little sparrow approaching a crust of bread. It amused Tulane in ways he didn’t wish to explore too deeply, any more than he wanted to explore the fact that she now knew the entire truth about his crazy family.

They sat at a table at Dot’s Spot, Last Chance’s one-and-only nightspot. It was comfy at Dot’s. There was sawdust on the floor, boiled peanuts to snack on, alcoholic beverages of all kinds, and real rednecks who liked to talk bass fishing.

There was also usually live music, provided by the Wild Horses, the local country-and-western band. But not today. The band had been getting gigs all over the place recently because Tulane’s brother Clay was sitting in on the fiddle. And his new wife, Jane, was singing lead.

Tulane reckoned it was a lucky thing the Wild Horses were up in Columbia at the Bluebell Lounge, because that way Sarah could avoid meeting Clay. It was a lead-pipe cinch that if Clay ever had a moment to talk with Sarah, his brother would tell her all about that time Tulane had accidently set fire to Mr. Nelson’s cornfield.

Clay just loved to tell that story.

What was he going to do about Sarah Murray? She knew way too much about him now. Maybe he could get something to hang over her head. But that was unlikely, given that she was the epitome of a nice girl. Getting her into trouble would be immature. Besides, after his visit with Uncle Pete, he really wanted to behave himself. He wanted to man up and be mature.

And he wanted to win a race before Pete died.

Tulane took a long pull on his beer and forced that unpleasant thought into the back of his brain. He had no idea what to do about Sarah, or Uncle Pete, or his stupid pink car. He was tired of thinking about those problems. So he decided that he would just enjoy the moment.

He launched a smile in Sarah’s direction. “So, tell me the truth. You’ve never had a margarita before, have you?”

She angled her hazel eyes up at him. “Actually, I’m not that pathetic. I’ve had one or two.”

“And how old did you say you were?”

“Twenty-five.” She whispered the words, as if she were ashamed. He tried to ignore the sudden urge to protect her. She couldn’t really be as naïve as she sounded, could she?

“Honey, you’ve had four years to practice drinking margaritas legally. And more than that, if you were like any average college kid with a fake ID. So telling me that you’ve drunk margaritas once or twice makes you practically a margarita virgin, too.”

“There is no such thing as being a little bit virgin,” she said, something naughty sparking in her eyes. “Either you are or you’re not.”

“Well, that’s good, because I wouldn’t want to be corrupting the morals of a nice girl like you.” Much.

Her mouth stretched into a sexy-as-sin grin. “Wouldn’t you just. And I’m not nice. I refuse to be nice. Nice is an insipid adjective.”