Last Chance Beauty Queen (Last Chance #3)(5)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“Well, it’s true,” she said, “soybeans are the cash crop around here, they aren’t nearly as colorful or flavorful as watermelons. And besides, no one ever took a soybean to Washington and made history.”

“Sorry?”

“In 1933, Josiah Rhodes, one of my distant cousins, took a two-hundred-and-ten-pound watermelon up to Washington and presented it to President Roosevelt himself, in person. Had his picture taken with the president and everything. Since that was one of the most historic things ever to happen to our town, our leaders commemorated the event with a parade. And before anyone could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ the parade became a week-long celebration of pink and green. The water tower wasn’t repainted that way until the 1950s.”

“Oh, I see. It’s all rather like the Harvest Festival in Woolham. Only in that case, it was a very large turnip, and the king in question was Henry the Seventh. We haven’t painted our water tower like a turnip, though, I must say.”

“Henry the Seventh?” Holy smokes, he wasn’t even fazed for one second by the water tower or the watermelon story.

“Hm. Yes, I believe it was Henry the Seventh. It was centuries ago. We Brits have very long memories.”

“I guess. Do you have turnip queens?” She couldn’t resist asking.

He played it utterly straight and answered her. “No, we usually trot out the old Celtic gods, I’m afraid. It gets the vicar into a right grumpy mood. And since my Aunt Petunia helps organize the annual celebration, I’m afraid I get an earful every Sunday in October until Samhain comes and goes.”

Caroline stared at him for a long moment. He didn’t exactly fit the stereotype, did he? What would happen if he wasn’t put off by the town’s quirkiness?

Of course he was going to be put off. Once he met Daddy and visited Golfing for God, he would realize just exactly what he was up against. He looked like a rational kind of guy. He would come around—eventually.

And if Golfing for God didn’t do the trick, she would have to put Momma’s plan into action and organize an expedition to the mosquito-and-gator-ridden parts of the swamp. Maybe he would tip the canoe, and there would be a feeding frenzy.

The soybean fields gave way to sixties-style ranch houses built back into stands of tall pines. Eventually the pines thinned, and the speed limit plummeted. The houses started to sprout porches and yards with old shade trees. Then, almost without warning, the speed limit hit fifteen, and they motored into the incorporated town of Last Chance, South Carolina, its two city blocks decorated end to end in pink and green.

On the right stood Bill’s Grease Pit, the local auto repair place sporting a vinyl banner welcoming tourists to the festival. Down the street on the left, the front windows of Lovett’s Hardware had been draped with watermelon bunting. Across the street, the Cut ’n Curl had a hand-appliquéd watermelon flag flying. Of course, the Cut ’n Curl was permanently painted pink and green on both the outside and the inside. Caroline knew this personally because she’d helped her mother paint the place.

She hadn’t been home for the Watermelon Festival in years and years. But once, a long time ago, it had been a magical time of year. Her nostalgia grabbed her by the throat. She may have made herself over into a serious city girl, but she’d never managed to lose this deep-seated attachment to Last Chance. Caroline pushed a raft of syrupy emotions back where they belonged. “If you hang a right up there at the stoplight, on Baruch, I’ll show you Miz Miriam’s place.”

Hugh pulled the Mustang onto a drive that led to Miriam Randall’s home, which turned out to be a large wooden house decorated with vast quantities of Victorian-era ornament.

The house wasn’t in very good nick, but it stood in the midst of an amazing and slightly wild garden. A pair of old live oaks, trailing long beards of Spanish moss, dominated the yard, while a perennial border with drifts of orange and lavender bloomed in a sunny patch along the front side of the wraparound porch. A neatly trimmed boxwood hedge perfumed the air with its tangy scent.

Garden magic, of the kind his aunts believed in, enveloped this place. Were Aunt Petal ever to visit, Hugh had no doubt that she would find a veritable army of sprites and pixies living here.

The cherry red 1970s vintage Cadillac Eldorado convertible parked in the drive was also a thing of beauty. A shirtless man wearing a baseball cap, a sheen of perspiration, and a pair of holey blue jeans was bent over the car’s long bonnet applying wax. The man looked up as Hugh cut the Mustang’s motor.

“Hey, little gal,” the man said. He approached the car in a limping gait, opened the Mustang’s passenger side door, and then pulled Caroline into a big, sweaty hug that was… well… quite friendly.

A wave of resentment prickled over Hugh’s skin as he got out of the car. He had been telling himself all morning that the dishy Miss Rhodes was off limits. Unfortunately, his libido had not been listening.

“Okay, Dash, that’s enough.”

The man let go and turned in Hugh’s direction. “So I reckon you must be Lord deBracy. I’m Dash Randall, Miriam’s nephew.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Thanks for allowing me to stay at your home.” Hugh ignored the mistake in the form of address and smiled.

“He’s Lord Woolham, not Lord deBracy,” Caroline said. “I looked it up last night online. DeBracy is his last name, but his title is Woolham because that’s where he’s from. I don’t expect you to understand how it works, but I know that his Lordship is really picky about his title.”

Hugh heard the tone in Caroline’s voice. Apparently all that pretending to be Granddad was having some impact.

Good. People always took Granddad seriously. Right now Hugh needed everyone in Last Chance to take him very seriously—maybe fear him a little. One couldn’t underestimate the power of fear.

Randall pushed the brim of his cap up, revealing a pair of cool blue eyes. “Boy, I’m sure glad I’m an American,” he said.

“So is Miriam around?” Caroline asked quickly, clearly changing the subject.

Randall shook his head. “No, Aunt Mim is getting a manicure down at the Cut ’n Curl. She told me that if you showed up while she was gone, I was supposed to show his Lordship to his room and tell you to get your tail down to the beauty shop right away. Is it true you’re going to ride on the seventy-fifth anniversary float in one of those Watermelon Queen dresses?”

“Uh…” An unmistakable and utterly charming glow crept up Caroline’s cheeks. “No. I am not. Where did you hear that?”

“Well, Aunt Mim got a phone call from Millie Polk, who heard from Thelma Hanks, who ran into your momma at the dry cleaners. Your momma was taking two dresses to be cleaned.”

“Two dresses?”

“Yep. Hers and yours is what I heard, but hey, you know I don’t really listen to the ladies’ gossip all that much.”

“Right, tell me another one.”

Caroline turned around and gave Hugh a polite but disingenuous smile. “So, I guess I’ll leave you here then, if it’s okay. I have a few errands to run, and Dash will show you to your room. I’m sure he’ll be happy to fill you in on where the local hot spots are.” She rolled her eyes in Dash’s direction.

“Honey, I’m in recovery.”

“Yes, I know that, dear, and I’m proud of you. But I’m sure Baron Woolham would like to get himself some supper down at the Kountry Kitchen or barbecue out at the Pig Place. Would you be sweet and show him around? I’ve got to go tell Momma a second time that I’m not putting on that dress or having my hair poufed out. I have made a solemn vow never again to wear any kind of rhinestone tiara.”

“Rocky, honey,” Dash said, “the single men in Last Chance will be drowning their sorrows tonight when they learn you’re going to ditch the seventy-fifth anniversary float. You coming home and riding on that float has been the hot topic of discussion most of the day. We’re all wondering whose heart you’re gonna break this time.”

Caroline gave Randall an exaggerated punch in the biceps. “Shut your mouth, Dash. I’m in town to work, not ride on any parade floats. And I have no intention of ever breaking any hearts ever again. The fallout isn’t any fun.”

Caroline turned and strode around the Mustang’s boot. She opened it and pulled out her small rolling suitcase. “I’m going now. Ya’ll have fun.”

“Um, can I drop you someplace?” Hugh asked, wondering about the provenance of the nickname Randall had just used. Rocky Rhodes—it was rather amusing, wasn’t it? But in some strange way, that nickname seemed to fit Caroline. Maybe even better than her real name.

“No, thanks.” She shook her head, and her ponytail swayed. “The Cut ’n Curl is just down the block a ways and around the corner. You have my cell number if you need to reach me. I’ll check in later with our schedule for tomorrow. I’m going to see if Daddy will give you a tour of the golf course. And I think my mother’s got it all fixed so you can have a place on the reviewing stand with Senator Warren, his daughter, and the rest of the local VIPs. But I have to confirm all that.”

She turned and strode down the drive toward the sidewalk.

“Hey, Rocky, good luck with that whole dress avoidance thing. Because I also heard through the grapevine that Dale Pontius has insisted that you ride his Watermelon Queen float,” Dash called after her, “or else.”

Caroline stopped and looked back. “What?”

Randall shrugged. “Just giving you the heads-up.” He glanced toward Hugh and then back. “I heard something about Dale Pontius driving a hard bargain.”

Caroline muttered an oath, turned, and stalked down the driveway, her shoulders straight. Hugh couldn’t help admiring the swing of her h*ps and the nice shape of her derriere.

It was really too bad that her father owned the land he needed. Caroline—or Rocky—might be a very nice diversion.

Caroline opened the front door of the Cut ’n Curl. The pungent mélange of permanent solution, shampoo, and hairspray invited her into her own private reverie.

The beauty shop was a world of its own, papered in pink-striped wallpaper and shuttered with green moiré curtains. Caroline remembered helping Momma pick out the paper and hang it. She’d learned to sew a straight seam by helping to make the curtains. Momma had done a real nice job of decorating the place. It was classy and homey all at the same time.

The Cut ’n Curl had three workstations covered in pink marble-patterned Formica, a bank of hair dryers with pink vinyl seats, and a two-seat shampoo area near the back with two-toned, lime green chairs.

As usual, a near-quorum of the Christ Church Ladies Auxiliary was present and accounted for.

Lessie Anderson was in Momma’s chair with her hair up in permanent rollers. Thelma Hanks was under the dryer. Millie Polk, Rachel’s mother, was sitting on a side chair waiting on her highlights to set. She was reading a much-thumbed copy of Destiny, June Morlan’s latest bodice ripper that featured a snotty hero who was much like Hugh deBracy.