Last Chance Christmas (Last Chance #5)(10)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“Is that a medical opinion, because I’m pretty sure my mother would—”

“Stone, I know your mother would be horrified by what I just said, and that’s beside the point. But on one thing your mother and I would agree—you need to move on. You need to date. You need a social life. And I think Haley wants that for you. She has to live with you every day, and I hear all the time that she thinks you’re a grouch and a grump. Is that any way for a man to raise his daughter?”

Hettie Marshall’s river house sat amid an enclave of other tin-roofed bungalows on the banks of the Edisto River, a stretch of black water overhung with arching trees and Spanish moss. Who knew that South Carolina could be so picturesque—in a vine-covered, swampy, and slightly decayed kind of way? The deep, verdant woods called to Lark almost from the moment she pulled up the gravel drive.

The light here was soft and deep and mysterious.

Lark sat on an old 1950s-style glider on the screened porch of Hettie’s river house, sipping her morning coffee. It was quiet out here. Quiet and secluded. She’d actually slept well last night.

Her cell phone rang, dispelling the morning peace. She checked the caller ID. It was Greg Chisholm, her editor at the Washington Journal. She had been avoiding his calls for several days. She let go of a deep breath and pushed the talk button.

“Where the hell are you? Haven’t you been watching the news?” Greg yelled through the connection.

“No, as a matter of fact,” she said.

Stunned silence stretched out for several awkward moments.

“I’m amazed,” Greg finally answered. “You’re always on Twitter. Lark, there was a 7.0 earthquake in Turkey last night. The US is sending International Urban Search and Rescue Team One out of Virginia in the morning, and I need you to catch up with them and cover the human side, like you always do.”

Lark watched the mist dancing over the river. For once in her life, she felt no yearning to be where the latest news was breaking. She took a sip of good, strong coffee. She felt blissfully disconnected from the world. “I can’t go.”

“What do you mean you can’t go?”

“I’m not in DC. I can’t catch up with the Fairfax County rescue team before they leave.”

“Haven’t you left New York yet? I mean, your father died more than a week ago.” Greg was completely lacking in human emotions.

But Greg was used to the way Lark usually behaved. She was always ready to drop everything and head into the field. She lived on the adrenaline. And, of course, she believed that recording history was a higher calling. Her photos made the world better informed and therefore safer. Nine months ago, she’d have been burning up the highway to get back to DC.

But not today.

“Where the hell are you?” Greg yelled into the phone.

“I’m in Last Chance, South Carolina. Right now I’m sitting on a porch watching a river roll by. It’s beautiful here.”

“Last Chance?”

“It’s a tiny town hundreds of miles from anyplace where news is happening. To be honest, I feel like a fish out of water. Everyone asks if it’s okay to serve me bacon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m here in the Bible Belt trying to take care of Pop’s ashes. I’m not exactly the most popular person in town.”

“In South Carolina? Really? I’ve never been to South Carolina. I’ve heard they take a dim view of Democrats down there. Which begs the question. Why would Abe want to have his ashes scattered anywhere in South Carolina?”

“It’s complicated.” She briefly explained the situation, and had to endure Greg snickering when she got to the part about Golfing for God.

“Lark, those people are never going to give you a green light,” Greg said. “Besides, I need you right now. I’m short-staffed, and this Turkey thing is right up your alley.”

Lark consciously worked at relaxing her jaw and shoulders. “Greg, I can’t go to Turkey today. And I’m not sure I want to do another assignment with grieving mothers and lots of rubble. I need to—”

“Hey, you’re the best we’ve got when it comes to grieving mothers,” Greg said, completely missing what Lark was trying to tell him. The grieving mothers were heart wrenching. And she didn’t have the strength or the courage anymore. She sat there watching the river run while Greg continued arguing. After a minute of listening to his rant, she pulled the phone from her ear and flipped it to airplane mode.

She was so tired. She couldn’t stand another heartbreaking assignment. Not now. Maybe not ever.

She slipped her phone into her pocket and wandered inside the bungalow to put her mug in the sink. Then she pulled her Nikon out of the canvas bag and stared hard at it for several minutes. It was just a camera, not some evil thing. She needed to get over her funk and get on with her life.

She reached for her peacoat and headed outside. As she stepped down from the front stoop, she assessed the morning light. A thick dew had fallen and clung like tiny jewels to the broad-bladed grass that spread down toward the river. The Edisto’s current was strong. Pines and mossy trees jammed its banks.

She paused, savoring the small sounds—the distant rush of water, the occasional peep-peep-peep of a chickadee, the rustle of wind in the trees. The light was perfect. She could capture it. That’s all a camera did. It didn’t unleash disaster. Death did not live in her camera.

She turned up her collar and strolled down toward a tree with a long beard of dew-speckled moss and low-hanging branches. She began to think about the f-stop and shutter speed she would need for a shot that would capture the light on the dewdrops. It was a luxury, really, to be able to frame a shot this way. There was never any time to think when the bombs were bursting.

Thoughts of combat and disaster crowded out everything as she approached the tree. By the time she raised the camera and framed the shot, her hands had gone clammy. Her heart pounded so hard that her hands shook. Any hope of holding the camera still disappeared.

She couldn’t find the courage to depress the shutter button. She stood frozen for the longest time, remembering Jeb Smith’s last moments in Misurata.

She might have stood there for an eternity, except that a whisper of a sound drew her attention up the river to the fishing pier.

Chief Rhodes, dressed in uniform, stood there casting a fishing line. She watched for a long moment, losing her fear in the rhythm of his casts, the play of muscles across his shoulders. He was a picture himself: athletic, brawny, and male.

She closed the distance quietly, so as not to disturb him or let him know she was there. She raised her camera and framed him. She waited for the fear, but it didn’t come. Stone seemed to have an aura around him—or maybe it was just the glow of the rising sun. Whatever it was, he seemed to push the shadows aside. He lit up the field of vision. Lark squeezed the shutter. The camera made a noise.

The world did not fall apart. She snapped off half a dozen more shots. Her hands were steady. Maybe she was okay. Maybe she would get over this fear.

Stone heard footsteps on the pier before a female voice asked, “Catch anything?”

He turned and looked over his shoulder. Lark Chaikin, wearing a pair of baggy army fatigues, a black T-shirt, and hiking boots, was advancing on him. She carried a camera slung over her shoulder.

He didn’t welcome the interruption. He’d been trying to figure out what to do about Dr. Newsome.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked in his best cop voice. He didn’t want her to get any closer. And yet he did. It was crazy.

“I’m staying at Hettie Marshall’s river house. Didn’t you get that message?” she said in her slightly nasal New York accent.

“Did you leave that message?”

“No, but the news cycle in this town is so fast, I figured you would have heard by now.” She gave him an open smile that seemed at odds with her slightly snarky tone.

“Since when do you even know Hettie Marshall?”

“Since yesterday. Your father suggested that I speak with her.” Her eyes sparked with mischief.

“Right. But how did you end up staying at Hettie’s river house?”

Lark shrugged. “I gather Hettie had some kind of experience at Golfing for God that rivaled my father’s. She said she could understand why my father used to say that he ‘found himself’ there.”

A little laugh escaped him. “I’m sure Hettie’s experience was religious. I’m not sure that’s what happened to your father. Not after reading that article he wrote in The New Yorker about how God is our nation’s biggest problem.”

She turned and gave him a cool gaze. “Wow, you subscribe to The New Yorker? Really?”

Her words were more teasing than sarcastic. And he probably deserved the jibe given that stupid thing he’d said yesterday morning about how she was a “fool Yankee.” Actually, after looking at her photos, he realized she was quite a bit more than that.

“Look, I’m sorry about that stupid thing I said yesterday. I guess we all have our blind spots.”

He suddenly felt guilty even though he knew he shouldn’t. It was his job to check up on people. Still, he knew she wasn’t a troublemaker. Her photos captured the best of people in the worst of situations. That took a real talent and an ability to know what was important.

“I saw your photographs,” he said quietly. “They are amazing, and… well, moving.”

“Thank you.”

He turned around, feeling a little awkward and even embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t explain. He cast his line again, looking to recapture his balance.

Lark leaned her back on the railing beside him and seemed to settle into the silence in a way that no woman he’d ever known had ever been able to do. She would be good as a fishing buddy, he thought. And then realized the absurdity of that thought.

Minutes passed, and he became consciously aware of her scent and her breathing and her presence. She said not one word, and it was almost ironic that he was the one to break the silence. “So, are you going to be staying until Christmas?”

“Don’t know. Hettie told me she would try to talk your father into letting me fulfill Pop’s last request. Hettie also encouraged me to talk with Nita Wills.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Is there something about Nita I should know?”

“Well, first off she’s out of town until Thursday. She’s at some meeting of librarians up in Columbia. And second, she doesn’t like talking about what happened forty years ago.”

“Well, that hardly makes her unique. But thanks for tipping me off.”

He lapsed into silence again, casting his line and trying to look at her out of the corner of his eye so she wouldn’t be aware of his scrutiny. What was it about this woman? She got within three feet of him and it was like his hormones woke up. And his hormones had been sleeping for a long, long time.

After at least two minutes of complete silence, she asked, “So, is fishing part of your job?”