Welcome to Last Chance (Last Chance #1)(15)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“What do you mean? I thought matchmakers introduced single people to one another.”

Miriam shrugged. “Well, I reckon professional matchmakers do that sort of thing. Amateurs will do that as well, without much success. And then there are those newfangled Internet dating services. But I’m not a professional, an amateur, or a newfangled matchmaker.”

He tried not to grin. “So how come everyone in the county says you’re the best matchmaker around?”

She shrugged. “Word of mouth?”

He laughed aloud. “No, Miz Miriam, I mean—”

“I know exactly what you mean, son. I’m not senile.” She shook her finger at him. “The fact is, I have this reputation, and I don’t deserve it. I don’t do anything.”

“You must do something. Momma says you’re never wrong.”

She shrugged and leaned forward as if she were imparting some great big secret. “Well, see, it’s like this. Sometimes I’ll see a man and a woman, you know, and it will just come to me that they belong together. When that happens, I’ll let them know—directly or indirectly. Mostly indirectly, because in my experience most folks don’t recognize their soulmates when they meet up with ’em or are told about it. Mostly folks have to come to understand the truth on their own, I’ve found.”

“Soulmate?” His voice hardened.

“Clay, I don’t help people settle. I don’t even make matches—the Lord does that. What I do, is help people see the Lord’s plan for them.”

“Christ,” he muttered.

Miriam frowned up at him. “Clay Rhodes, you know better than to take the name of the Lord in vain. Your momma would be ashamed of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hopped down from the porch railing. “Well, I reckon I best be—”

“Sit down. We are not finished.”

“Miz Miriam. I’m pretty sure you haven’t seen my soulmate hanging around Allenberg County.”

She shook her head. “No, son, I’m sorry. But I’ve been looking for a long, long time for her.”

Clay almost choked as he leaned back on the railing again. “For goodness’ sake. You’ve been looking? For how long?”

Miriam pulled herself up a little straighter in the chair. “Oh, since you were pretty young. I keep an eye out for all the young, single folks of Last Chance. I believe that if I can help the young ’uns find happiness, I just might be able to save this town.”

He said nothing. The woman was senile, pure and simple.

“It’s been my opinion for some time,” Miriam continued, “that your soulmate is not a native of Allenberg County.”

“I see.” Clay stood up again. He really needed to escape. This had been a dumb idea.

“Sit down and listen,” Miriam directed, but Clay remained on his feet, and Miz Miriam continued, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the road to true love is a rocky one filled with heartache and broken dreams. But, son, we never know what God has planned for us. You need to tell yourself that every broken heart is like a sign leading you to the true love of your soul.”

“Thanks, Miz Miriam, this has been enlightening in the extreme.” He collected his hat.

“Clay, I know you don’t believe me, but you never know when the love of your soul might blow in on the nine-thirty bus from Atlanta. In fact, I’d say it’s a distinct possibility that the love of your soul will arrive on that bus.”

Disquiet settled like a dead weight in his gut. Was the old lady sending up smoke signals, or was she just crazier than a loon? He had this awful feeling that it was the former.

Since Lillian Bray, the chairwoman of the Christ Church Ladies Auxiliary, kept twenty-four-seven tabs on the comings and goings at the Peach Blossom Motor Court, Clay reckoned that just about every member of the Ladies Auxiliary knew he had spent Wednesday night down there with Jane. And since Momma had hired Jane, he figured they all knew she had come on the nine-thirty bus from Atlanta.

Man oh man, those gals were like a bunch of spiders, spinning their web and catching unsuspecting single people. He was in some serious trouble if Momma and Miz Miriam both wanted to match him up with some stranger who showed up on the nine-thirty bus from Atlanta bearing two forms of ID and only five dollars in her purse.

Well, if Jane Coblentz was the best Miriam Randall could do for him, then he might just have to rely on Ray Betts and his survey of the unmarried women of Last Chance.

He cleared his throat and slapped his hat on his head. “Well, thank you for that, Miz Miriam. Y’all take care, now. I’ll stop by on my way home from work with a chain saw and take care of that branch out back.”

“That’s neighborly of you.” She smiled like a cherub and winked up at him. “The nine-thirty bus from Atlanta, Clay. You just keep your eye on that.”

“What?”

She winked behind her upturned glasses. “You heard me. You just watch the bus, and the Lord will take care of the rest.”

• • •

Early Friday morning, Ricki Burrows pushed her VISA card across the counter to the ticket agent at the Atlanta Greyhound terminal, hoping she hadn’t maxed it out.

Her heart pounded as the agent ran the transaction. Thank goodness the charge went through, because she didn’t actually have enough cash for the fare. Unless she hocked some jewelry or her luggage.

She tried to calculate the net worth of the jewelry and luggage, but the numbers got muddled in her head. Where was Ray Betts when you needed him?

“That’s one ticket to Last Chance,” the agent said. “Bus leaves in fifteen minutes.”

She walked through the bus station wondering just how she had ended up in this place.

Easy answer: She was over thirty, and her boobs had started to sag. Randy had a thing for perky boobs. She should have known Randy would lose interest.

But, really, while having saggy boobs was horrifying, it wasn’t nearly as devastating as discovering that your husband of fifteen years had not only left you for a girl of eighteen, but he’d taken all his assets with him—right out of the country.

That was bad.

But then discovering that the assets he had absconded with didn’t actually belong to him—well, that was worse.

And having the IRS pretty much seize everything except for her luggage and a few pieces of not-very-expensive jewelry was just about the worst thing that could happen to a girl.

All of which explained why she found herself standing here handing her Louis Vuitton luggage to a bus driver.

Her return to Last Chance was going to be ignominious. Well, at least Momma and Daddy were gone. She wouldn’t have to crawl home in defeat. Not that she was actually crawling home, or anything.

The only reason to return to Last Chance was to find Clay Rhodes, who was reportedly hiding out there.

Ricki had adored Clay once, even if she had broken his heart when she left him for Randy. Well, who could blame her? Randy Wilson was a rich record producer, and Clay was a wannabe.

But Clay wasn’t a wannabe anymore.

According to the news on the street, Clay Rhodes was just about the hottest songwriter on Music Row. The songs he’d written for Tumbleweed’s first album had taken the group platinum and earned them an invitation to the Grand Ole Opry.

Of course, Clay had missed out on that last bit. Everyone in Nashville knew the sordid story of how Tricia Allen had dumped Clay for Chad Ames, Tumbleweed’s lead singer, a turn of events that had resulted in Clay’s leaving Tumbleweed just as the band took off on the country music charts.

With all that heartbreak—losing his girl and his band in one fell swoop—Ricki figured Clay would be looking for some comfort. And Ricki aimed to be it.

Because, looking back on her life, she had to say that the only man who had ever treated her with even the smallest amount of respect had been Clay Rhodes.

Ricki wanted him back. She wanted to start over with a man who wouldn’t care whether her boobs continued to sag. Besides, if the gossip was right, Clay was racking up a fortune in royalties for the songs on Tumbleweed’s first album. It sure did look like Clay had made a success of himself, despite her daddy’s predictions to the contrary.

She could kick herself. She should have married him when he’d asked all those years ago. What on earth had she been thinking?

At precisely eleven o’clock on Friday morning, Miriam Randall arrived for her weekly appointment at the Cut ’n Curl. Jane took one look at the old lady, with her white hair carefully done up in crown braids, and wondered why she had bothered to come. After all, the other women who had arrived that morning had all required shampoos, trims, and sets.

Millie Polk sat under a dryer reading the latest June Morning historical romance, Destiny. Lillian Bray sat in Ruby’s chair, her hair halfway done up in curlers while Ruby continued to work on it. And Thelma Hanks sat in front of Jane, hair coloring on her head, admiring the nail color Jane was painstakingly applying.

“I declare,” Mrs. Hanks said in a low, slow, drawl. “I do like this ‘Pinkaholic’ ever so much better than the ‘Girly Pink.’ Don’t you, Lillian?”

Lillian glanced without turning her head. “To tell you the truth, Thelma, I can’t tell much difference.”

“Well, it’s deeper and has a pearly shine to it.” Thelma smiled at Jane. “And, Ruby, I’m so glad you finally got someone who knows how to do nails.”

“That was not my doing. The Lord sent her.”

“Amen to that,” Miriam Randall said as she shuffled in through the door, leaning on her cane. It was almost as if the old lady had timed her entrance in order to say this ridiculous and embarrassing thing.

Ruby, along with Mrs. Polk and Mrs. Hanks, turned toward Miriam Randall, each of them making a little head bob, like court ladies showing deference to their queen. That was kind of confusing, because until Miriam Randall arrived, Jane could have sworn that Lillian Bray was the leader of the pack.

But apparently not. Jane immediately reshuffled the pecking order. These ladies genuinely liked Miriam Randall. Lillian, they were scared of.

It was hard not to like Mrs. Randall. She wore red Keds slip-ons, a pair of white ankle socks, a flowered polyester shirtwaist dress in a garishly purple print, and a pair of bifocals that looked like they ought to be on exhibition in a 1950s museum. In short, this newcomer with the incredible sense of timing and the unique fashion sense was one of a kind.

Miriam walked past the appointment desk and ensconced herself in the one remaining seat as if she owned the place. She gripped her cane in a pair of arthritic hands and studied Jane with a pair of inquisitive brown eyes that looked years younger than the rest of her.

“Jane, meet Miz Miriam Randall,” Ruby said. “She used to be the chairwoman of the Christ Church Ladies Auxiliary before she retired a couple of years ago. She comes every Friday for a manicure. You can start on her when you’re finished with Miz Hanks.”

Thelma Hanks said, “Miriam, I’m sure you’ll be happy. She’s so much better with an orange stick than Michelle ever was.”