Welcome to Last Chance (Last Chance #1)(10)
Author: Hope Ramsay

Jane opened her mouth and then closed it. Maybe her manifesting techniques were not so good after all. Ruby looked like the kind of woman God might listen to. “I… um… I’ll take the job.”

“Good. I’m so glad. Now, look, honey, I’ve got a washer and dryer over at the Cut ’n Curl, and I know you’ll feel better once you take a bath, put on your face, and get back into some clothes that don’t have camouflage and bass all over them. As an employee of the Cut ’n Curl, I’m going to be counting on you to show your best face every day.”

“Yes, ma’am.” How she was going to do this with only one outfit remained to be seen. But things were looking up.

Ruby turned toward the door, walked through it, and hollered out Clay’s name. “Where in the Sam Hill are you, son? I brought you and Ray some dinner, and I’m taking Jane off your hands.”

Clay appeared at the end of the power tool aisle, packing a chain saw. He looked dangerous and competent with that tool in his hand. “Momma? What are you doing out in this weather?”

“Bringing you dinner and checking out the latest news.”

“The latest news?”

“Yes. I had a call from Lillian Bray this morning.” Ruby smiled sweetly.

Clay’s eyebrows lowered. “Momma, I—”

“I left your dinner on Pete’s desk. I’m taking Jane over to the Cut ’n Curl so she can settle in.”

Clay’s gaze narrowed. “Settle in?”

“Uh-huh. Did you know that she has a degree from Beauty Schools of America? She’s exactly what I’ve been praying for, which is a good thing for you, because if she wasn’t you’d have been in some serious trouble. Although, to be honest, you’re still in trouble. You’re going to have to go speak with Lillian, son.”

Jane could hardly contain her glee as Clay stood there blinking at his mother like Ruby had just hit him across the head with a two-by-four. Jane pasted a big grin on her face. “See,” she said in a bright, I-told-you-so voice. “There are people willing to give job interviews in the middle of a hurricane.”

“Momma, just what are you playing at? You can’t hire this woman. She’s—”

Ruby waved her hand in dismissal. “Now, son, don’t you go using that word. I heard that word from Lillian this morning, and I didn’t like it. All in all, I would rather think that the Lord has sent Jane to us because Michelle ran off last week.”

Ruby turned toward Jane, as she started buckling up her raincoat. “C’mon, honey, let’s get you across the street so you can wash and dry those jeans of yours. I’m thinking there might be a box of Sharon’s old clothes up in Stony’s attic that might fit you. Sharon was my older son’s wife. She passed a number of years ago in a car wreck. Sharon had such good taste in clothes, bless her heart. I know you’ll find something in that box. When the storm blows over, I’ll see what I can do about getting it over to you.”

And with that, Ruby solved Jane’s wardrobe problems. And then, like some kind of immutable force, the woman sailed through the front door of the hardware store, unconcerned about the tempest raging outside, and unaware of the look on her son’s face that said there was a storm brewing inside, too.

Chapter 5

The studio apartment above the Cut ’n Curl wasn’t much—maybe thirty feet long and twenty wide. It had two narrow double-hung windows on one end that provided a view of Palmetto Avenue and Lovett’s Hardware across the street. The windows wore yellow gingham. The sleep-sofa was dressed in a spread of spring green. A couple of green and yellow director’s chairs and a battered oak coffee table rounded out the furniture. A Pullman kitchen and basic bathroom occupied most of the back portion of the apartment.

It was homey and clean—even if the décor ran a little bit toward country Martha Stewart—and certainly better than the alternative: the nonexistent village green or another night at the Peach Blossom Motor Court.

Well, Dr. Goodbody always said that when a negative situation arises, the best thing to do was to meet it head-on with a positive plan of action. Jane had done that, and here she was with a place to stay and a job to do. That proved, without question, that she didn’t need anyone right now, except her own self.

And a little electricity, which had waited until she was halfway through the dryer’s cycle to conk out.

No telling how long it would be before the power was restored. Which raised all kinds of serious issues: like whether the Cut ’n Curl would open tomorrow so Jane could start her new job and start earning a paycheck. And how was she going to afford food if it didn’t open?

Although without electricity, the oven and refrigerator in the little apartment were useless, so food was going to be a problem either way.

She needed to stop all this negative thinking. Worrying about stuff she didn’t have any control over would make her crazy and sap her energy. She pulled her soggy jeans from the dryer and told herself that things were going to work out.

The sharp ping of a coin hitting the floor drew her thoughts away from her worries. She cast her gaze over the vinyl flooring in the kitchen and watched a penny roll in a crazy circle and spin to a stop. She juggled the bundle of wet clothes and stooped to pick it up. It was the “lucky” penny she had put in her jeans pocket earlier that morning.

Jane put the penny into the pocket of her fatigues and headed off to the bathroom, where she hung her jeans and tank top over the tub to dry. Then she closed the lid on the john, pulled the penny from her pocket, and sat for a few moments inspecting its worn copper face.

It had been minted in 1943—more than sixty years ago. The penny had been in circulation for an entire year before her grandfather was born, and twenty-one years before her own father drew breath.

How many washers had the penny been through? How many times had some child with grubby hands put this penny into a gum machine? How many times had this penny fallen to the ground and spun like a top? How many times had this penny been lost and found? How many times had someone picked it up and considered it a lucky thing?

But now it was her lucky penny. Not that a penny could bring her luck. Luck was manufactured by knowing what you wanted and having a plan for achieving it.

Still, the penny was old and unique and worth keeping. She got up and headed into the main room, clutching the coin in her palm, feeling its familiar round form and knowing some measure of comfort.

She flopped down onto the sofa and dug in her purse for her wallet. She opened the change purse, intent on putting her special penny in a safe place where she wouldn’t spend it on some necessity of life, like peanut butter. And that’s when she saw the stupid necklace. She dropped the penny in the change purse and pulled out the plastic jade camel.

How lame. She had thought as much when Woody presented it to her several days before with the kind of flourish that said he expected her to appreciate it. She had sort of appreciated the gesture, even if the darn thing was about as cheap as you could get. She should have seen it as a warning sign.

After all, two months ago, Woody had been handing out hundred-dollar tips to her just for singing karaoke at the Shrimp Shack. She had mistaken him for a successful and well-connected man.

Boy, what a fool she had been. He must have been on a winning streak that turned. And when it turned, he’d taken her down with him. Anger boiled in her gut. Unlike the penny, this necklace was not a positive object. She sincerely hoped that she never saw Woody again. Staying here in Last Chance was a good way to make that happen.

Unless, of course, the bad stuff followed her here.

She pushed that thought away as she snapped the change purse closed and put her wallet back in her purse. Then she stood up, walked into the kitchen, opened the cabinet beneath the sink, and dropped the jade camel into the trash can.

“Good-bye, Woody,” she said as she slammed the door shut. “And good riddance.”

The Universe chose that exact moment to express its approval of this course of action by allowing the sun to make its first appearance of the day. Jane rushed to the windows and stared up into a sky that was changing from gray into a deep, endless Carolina blue.

When the lights went out, Clay sent Ray home from work. Now Ray sat at his kitchen table studying the slightly wrinkled sheet of paper he’d rescued from the trash can at the front of the store.

He needed to help Clay find a wife, because if Clay was married and settled down, then maybe he would stop feeling like he was responsible. Ray hated the way Clay always felt responsible.

He stared down at his list. So far it only had three names on it—in alphabetical order: April, Betty, and Dottie.

He thought for a long time. There were a couple of other names he could add to the list: Lurleen Wallace, who worked for the Sheriff’s Department; Amy Swallock, who had a job at the Rexall; Carolyn Mayfield, who ran a little antique shop in the old schoolhouse; and Jennifer Carpenter, who was a teller at the First National Bank and who lived with her invalid mother.

The names on his list had to be a pretty small percentage of the potential pool of marriageable women in Allenberg County.

Ray let go of a big sigh. How was he supposed to figure out which one was the right one for Clay? Clay had made it clear that just rating them by the size of their br**sts and whether they owned a bar was pretty immature. And even if Ray’s brains were scrambled, he recognized that the Internet poem about the perfect woman left a few variables out.

He needed a better empirical test.

He stood up and went to the drawer in the kitchen where he kept a pad and pencils. He sat down, lit a candle in the deepening afternoon gloom, and started to make a list of the things that would make a woman perfect:

Well, first of all, the perfect woman would understand the geometry of pool and the probability of poker. Although Clay probably didn’t care about the mathematical aspects of these games, he did know how to play them. So Clay’s perfect woman would have to know how to play them, too. So he wrote pool and poker down on this list.

She would have to love baseball and know the difference between on-base percentage and slugging percentage. Well, at least, she would have to know how to keep score, because Clay loved baseball almost as much as Ray did.

He wrote that down.

She would have to know how to bake a cherry pie, which had nothing to do with math (unless you were trying to figure the circumference of the pie, which would require the use of pi). He smiled at his own pun. Still, the pie baking was important. The perfect woman needed to know how to bake.

The perfect woman would not be afraid of Lillian Bray. So any member of the Ladies Auxiliary was out. Not that there were any unmarried members of the Auxiliary, but that was an absolute ironclad requirement. Clay didn’t need to be saddled with one of those women. Or any woman who might be inclined to join the Auxiliary. Although, since Clay was an Episcopalian, Ray reckoned that his perfect mate would, at least, have to be Christian.

He wrote that down.

She would have to like more than country music, because even if Clay was an accomplished fiddler, the fact remained that Clay listened to jazz and classical music whenever he thought folks weren’t looking. That was going to be a tough one because he reckoned no one in Allenberg County except Clay Rhodes liked that kind of long-haired stuff.