Last Chance Beauty Queen (4 page)

Rachel laughed. “That sounds like your mother.”

“Well, it’s not a bad idea, you know. I’m thinking once the snooty baron actually sees rural South Carolina up close and personal, he’ll go rushing back to civilization. Then maybe I can convince him to build his factory upstate.”

“What’s wrong with rural South Carolina?”

“Nothing, honey. You know that. I know that. But trust me, this uppity English baron will not love our town the way we do.”

“Do you actually love Last Chance?” Rachel asked.

“Sure, why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, Rocky. You don’t come home much.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone before Rocky said, “I’m really busy with my job, Rachel. I don’t have that much time to come home. And besides, I’m not the one who moved back to Last Chance. We’d see a lot more of each other if you’d stayed in Columbia.”

Rocky and Rachel were practically like sisters. They had grown up together, gone to college together, and started careers in Columbia together. But three years ago, Rachel had decided to move back to Last Chance.

Rachel had only one regret about that decision—her best friend didn’t understand, and probably never would. Rachel decided not to poke that wound again. She was happy Rocky was coming home. It had been a long time since they’d seen one another.

“So when are you coming?” Rachel asked.

“I’m driving down with the baron this afternoon, late. I thought you and I could have dinner at the Pig Place and catch up on things. And then maybe you can help me brainstorm a few ideas for how to scare his Lordship away from Last Chance and my daddy’s land.”

“Uh, maybe you don’t want to scare him away.”

“What? Of course I do.”

“Well, maybe that’s a dumb idea. I’m just saying. The economy around here kind of sucks. We could use some foreign investment.”

“Not if it means bulldozing Golfing for God.”

“I realize that. But what about someplace else in Allenberg County?”

“Rachel, is something wrong?”

Rachel hauled in a big breath. “Yeah, but I can’t talk about it now. I’ll see you tonight.”

H
ugh deBracy wore one of those Irish tweed caps that made him look utterly exotic in the land of ball-cap good ol’ boys. He also looked right at home behind the wheel of the silver Mustang convertible. Somehow Caroline should have known his Lordship would show up driving something like this.

He might even have succeeded in conveying a certain
savoir faire
, except for the fact that the South Carolina humidity had turned his hair into an unruly mass of curls that his oh-so-cool tweed cap couldn’t constrain. He was cute, in a shy, sexy, duke-ish kind of way—exactly like Mr. Darcy.

And he maneuvered that Mustang with all the cool skill of Darcy on horseback, too. Quite impressive.

But he was still a big problem.

And her best idea for solving this problem was to hope that he’d take one look at her hometown and see it as a big joke.

And that bothered her. A lot.

She may have kept her background a secret from her Columbia friends and work associates, but she didn’t see her town as a joke.

Baron Woolham would, of course, snob that he was. And she would use his snobbery to help him see reason and save her daddy’s land.

So she played up the quirkiness of her hometown during her briefing, giving him an uncensored description of the tangled web of relationships between the members of the Committee to Resurrect Golfing for God, the Ladies Auxiliary, the Garden Club, and Nita Wills’s Book Club.

Halfway through her discussion of the enmity between Lillian Bray, chair of the Auxiliary, and Hettie Marshall, chair of the Committee to Resurrect Golfing for God, it occurred to her that she might have a fighting chance to make him see reason if she could get the Last Chance church ladies to collectively scare the bejesus out of him.

Maybe Miriam Randall would come up with some kind of matrimonial fortune for him that would send him packing. His lordship would not be amused by Miriam Randall. Caroline was sure of it.

And even if Miriam failed to scare him, Caroline could always count on the greased watermelon race, or the seed-spitting contest, or the demolition derby. Those events were a whole heap of fun, but she doubted that his high and mightiness would see it that way. He’d be shocked and awed and appalled.

“Crikey, that’s different,” his Lordship said when Last Chance’s water tower finally came into view on the horizon.

Oh good. Caroline could hardly contain her joy. She was sure Hugh deBracy was getting the message loud and clear, with just one gander at the water tower’s striped watermelon paint job.

“I see your town takes watermelons seriously,” deBracy said.

“Watermelons are important to our town,” Caroline replied in her best straight man voice.

“I would have thought soybeans were more important, judging by the acres of them we’ve passed.”

Caroline cast her gaze over the endless fields of beans on either side of the road. He recognized soybeans when he saw them? That was a surprise. Most city folk wouldn’t know a soybean from a corn stalk.

“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.”