Authors: Marina Adair
The grannies all exchanged concerned looks.
“I am the new commissioner and I am not going to let Ms. Kitty or anyone else scare me off.” Not again. “I didn’t tell you about the hearing because I wanted to handle it myself.”
“Great to hear it.” Etta Jayne was so convinced that she went from sympathetic to shotgun-serious. “But your little stunt gave that Kitty Duncan all the headway she needed to hijack the Harvest Council. Already got a manifesto floating around town and is pretending like Jesus is on her side.”
“Which doesn’t matter since I’m the new harvest commissioner.” She thought of how stressed and shocked Cal had looked and groaned. “Well, co-commissioner.”
Poor guy had come to offer support and she’d sucked him right into her never-ceasing drama. Then, six hours later, she accepted his daughter’s application and agreed to hide it from him.
“That’s why I gathered the girls,” Jelly Lou said, placing a reassuring hand on Glory’s arm, then giving it two of her little
we got this
squeezes, which never ended well for anyone involved.
“Oh no,” Glory whispered, a knot forming behind her right eye as she flopped back against the hood of her car. “The last time you all ‘gathered,’ I was arrested for grand theft auto. The time before that, my boyfriend Leon was found hog-tied to the town’s flagpole. Naked.”
“Because we found him with his flagpole at full mast, waving in the breeze at that co-ed from Georgia Tech,” Hattie said, and sadly, it was true. Glory’s final attempt at finding true love had been with a guy who suffered from penile ADHD.
“Saved you years of hurt and a few diseases,” Dottie said with a smile. “You should be thanking us.”
“Should I also thank you for the time you used my picture on Match.com and I ended up with a bar full of single men calling me Etta Jayne?”
“I was scoping them out, seeing which ones had potential to handle a woman like myself,” Etta Jayne defended.
“Here’s how we see it,” Hattie said. “Ms. Kitty got to plead her case in a court of law. Now it’s our turn. That woman is a cheat, she’s using illegal tractor parts, and we have proof.”
Glory took a deep breath and held out her hand. She’d had enough experience with the blue-haired brigade to know that they weren’t going to let this go until they felt they were heard. And that they’d won. “Let me see your
proof
.”
Etta Jayne smacked her hand away and looked around suspiciously. When she was satisfied that no one was spying, she gave a nod. Hattie reached into the front pocket on her jumpsuit and pulled out a Ziploc.
One look and Glory sighed. “Your proof is moldy hay?”
“Hay from the Duncans’ barn and that isn’t mold on there.”
“Please don’t tell me that you broke back into Ms. Kitty’s barn while I was sitting in jail?”
“Okay, we won’t tell you then,” Hattie said, unfazed. “Plus, we didn’t know you were in the pokey until later. Now smell this.”
Before Glory could refuse, Hattie opened the bag and stuck it under Glory’s nose. Pungent enough to singe her nostrils, Glory grimaced and pulled back. “What is that?”
“
That
is the smell of a cheat,” Etta Jayne said, victory lacing every syllable. “Green E15 fuel.”
Glory rubbed her temples. Day one into her new role as commissioner and already she needed a fishing trip. “Your big evidence is that Kitty uses green gas in her tractor?”
“It wasn’t in her tractor yet; otherwise you would have had quite a ride the other night. But she’s got to be hiding Green E15 somewhere on her property.”
“So?”
“So?” Hattie said. “She’s got 98 octane fuel which is specially engineered stuff that is hard to get your hands on, unless you own a NASCAR team or work for one. Last month, my youngest grandson, Jace, said he saw Ms. Kitty in Atlanta, taking in a NASCAR race. From the owners’ booth!”
“Now what would a prissy pearl like her be doing at a NASCAR race?” Etta Jayne hissed, her hands shaking.
“Buying Green E15?” Glory guessed.
“Buying Green E15 is right!” Hattie clapped her hands. “Which means she’s got to have some kind of illegal parts under her hood.”
Jelly Lou placed her hand on Glory’s. “And as the new commissioner, dear, it’s your job to expose her for being in direction violation of Sugar Pull Bylaw 22B, which clearly states she’s stacking the cards
,
and therefore should be disqualified.”
“There are Sugar Pull Bylaws?”
“Asks the new commissioner,” Etta muttered, disappearing into the barn, only to return holding a leather-bound book.
One look and Glory knew that she was screwed. It was the size of Atlanta’s phone book, looked more intimidating that any human anatomy text Glory had ever owned, and based on the spine cracked from extensive use and the overwhelming mothball scent, predated Etta Jayne. Quite possibly the town of Sugar itself.
Etta Jayne flipped to the middle, a dog-eared page that had a rainbow of faded pencil and highlighter marks. Her eyes settled on a pink block at the top of the page and read, “All tractors are to remain true to the tradition and intent of the race. Any parts outside factory specifications post-1939 need to be made in the spirit of fairness and equality.” She looked up. “Meaning rich folks can’t pimp out their tractor just for the sake of making it faster, because then the regular folks wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Glory looked at Jelly Lou. “You added a harness to yours.”
“That’s a safety upgrade,” Jelly Lou said sweetly.
“Completely legal.” Etta Jayne flipped to another section, a yellow one. “Like the Seatbelts Addendum of ’66 or, here”—more flipping—“if a company suddenly ceases making a particular part and finding a replacement part or used parts becomes impossible, then the participant may bring their replacement technology to the commissioner for consideration.”
Etta Jayne went through the entire process and Glory found herself drifting off. Bylaws were as boring as football.
“Then, after careful evaluation, a consensus may form, which may lead to a new technology being adopted by the Harvest Council and incorporated into the bylaws.”
Glory looked at the bag of hay. “And Green E15 isn’t bylaw approved.”
“Green fuel isn’t even street approved. Which means Kitty’s breaking the rules again.” Etta Jayne snapped the book shut and handed it over to Glory. “And you, Miss Commissioner, need to disqualify her. Before the Harvest Council meeting.”
C
al was screwed.
He looked at his in-box filled with more than three dozen messages, all concerning the Harvest Fest, and scowled. How had this happened? Again? His life had gone from chaos to bat-shit crazy in the single slam of a gavel.
He’d agreed to do Brett a favor. A simple show up and give your support kind of deal that should have ended with Cal looking like the good guy. Nothing to it. Instead he was sentenced to do four weeks hard time sharing a social cell with the only woman in town who managed to turn him inside out.
A soft, warm,
sexy
woman who, even if he wasn’t determined to keep his sex life outside the Sugar County limits, was drama personified. Way too much drama seemed to follow Glory for him even to consider dropping by to make sure she was doing all right.
The instant he’d entered that courtroom, saw the crowd of people, he knew he was walking into a shitstorm. Even told himself to turn around, get back in his truck, and go to work. He had an inspector to meet, a foundation to finish, and trouble in a sexy sundress to avoid. But Glory had looked back at him, saw the extra coffee in his hand, her big green eyes widened with surprise and then relief—relief that she wasn’t in this mess alone—and he had taken his damn seat in the front row.
Maybe it was because he felt bad for her. Or maybe it was because of that soft yellow sundress she wore, the one that floated around her knees and made her look younger than he remembered. Lost even. As though it was her against the world. Which it was. So he’d stayed and now he was screwed.
The doorbell rang. Cal snapped his laptop shut and made his way to the front door. He opened it and nearly toppled over his lawn boy.
Dressed in varsity red and wearing a
SUGAR SHEEP FOOTBALL
cap with the school’s mascot peeking out from between the two
e
’s, Mason looked ready to hurl.
“You okay, son?” Cal said apologetically while gripping the kid’s bony shoulders and righting him. “Didn’t see you there.”
Mason just nodded, took off his cap to wipe his forehead, put it back on, and nodded again.
“Ah, hell.” Cal patted his pocket, looking for his wallet. “I forgot to pay you again, didn’t I?” He knew how hard the kid worked and how most of his money went to help out his mom.
“Yes, well…no, sir.” The kid quickly pulled off his ball cap and cupped the bill. “I mean, yes sir, you owe me for two weeks, but I’m not here on business.”
Cal had to bite back a smile. He liked this kid. Always on time, a hard worker, respectful. A real standup guy. And it looked like he was ambling for a raise. One that he more than deserved.
Cal folded his arms and leaned casually against the doorjamb, giving Mason time to state his price. “All right. What are you here for then?”
“Well, sir, I’m here for Payton.”
“No,” Cal said and, smile gone, slammed the door. Only to reopen it, right as Mason was getting ready to knock again. “And you’re fired. Worst lawn boy I ever had.”
Cal went to slam the door again but Mason wedged his foot between the door and the jamb. Cal raised a challenging brow.
Mason swallowed, wiped his hands on his pants. “Sorry to hear that, sir. But like I said, I’m not here to talk about work. I came because I’m Payton’s Cleats and Pleats Pep-Luck chaperone.”
The kid lifted his foot to show off his spanking new cleats, as though that would make Cal say, “Why the hell not, kid. Take my fourteen-year-old for a joy ride on that big bench seat in your truck.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. And I’m starting by driving her to the school.” He looked over his shoulder at the POS rusted pickup in the drive. “I’ve got flowers in the car that might wilt, so if you could just tell her that I’m—”
The kid went silent. Eyes dilated, lips subtly twitching, breathing nonexistent. Cal knew the look. He’d given it a time or two. In fact, he’d given it just the other day in Judge Holden’s courtroom.
“Oh hey, Mason,” Payton sang sweetly from behind Cal.
“Hey, um.” The kid swallowed, his ears going pink. “Morning, Payton.”
Cal turned and saw exactly why Mason was practically choking on his tongue. His daughter stood at the top of the stairs wearing white tennis shoes, a tight red skirt with a crap-ton of slits and a barely there matching red top that had
TEAM BAAAAAD
plastered across the chest. Her hair was slicked up in some complicated do that even with the pristine red bow said piece-of-tail instead of ponytail.
“What the hell is that?”
Payton, hands out to the sides, gave a twirl. “My uniform.”
“What happened to the sweats?”
“That’s my practice uniform. This is game day uniform.”
“Last year it was…” Cal’s hands made billowing gestures around his chest. “Baggy and had sleeves and covered”—more billowing—“you.”
Payton laughed and gracefully bounded down the stairs, ponytail and polyester shirt swishing back and forth. Cal heard Mason sigh.
“Daddy, last year I wore a sweater because I was on JV. Now I’m on varsity.” She leaned up and kissed Cal on the cheek, and he felt a bead of panic rise up and take hold. He could tell by her animated tone, the confident way she spoke, that his little girl was going to drop some mature, responsible reason that somehow made fabric scraps acceptable fashion. “The cheer constitution says that I have to wear it.” And there it was. That ridiculous list of rules some twenty-something coach typed up on her little laptop and passed off as law.
“You look great,” Mason said.
“Thanks, Mase.” She smiled serenely and swished side to side, drawing her skirt up higher and
Mase’s
eyes down lower.
“Yeah, well
my
constitution gives me the right to bear arms.” He glared at Mason, who took a step back, then at Payton. “And to point them at any guy who decides to look twice at you
or
your uniform. Understand? So either throw on a pair of those leggings you just
had
to buy last week or you’ll spend the pep rally sitting right next to your dad. Got it?”
“God, you’re impossible!” And there went the stomping, and the dramatic sighing, and the slamming of the doors.
Cal exhaled and turned around to find Mason, foot still wedged between the door, hat in hand. “Didn’t I fire you?”
“Yes, sir.” He didn’t move.
“Then why are you still here?”
Mason swallowed and exhaled a big breath before puffing out his chest and opening his mouth to—
sweet Jesus
, the kid was going to run through his entire spiel again.
Cal held up a hand. “Pep-Luck chaperone. Got it.”
Mason smiled.
Cal looked at the determined, but respectful, gleam in the kid’s eye and almost smiled himself—almost. He had to admire him. No doubt, the kid had balls.
Which was exactly why he wasn’t letting Mason anywhere near Payton.
“Tell me something, Mason. You got kids? A daughter I don’t know about?”
“God, sir, no,” Mason sputtered.
“Then as far as I can tell, you don’t have the qualifications to be a chaperone. Now move the foot or Sugar High will need to find a new kicker.”
The kid moved and Cal shut the door, leaning back against it and closing his eyes. When had his life become so damn complicated? It felt like just last week he was crawling around on all fours in a saddle and veil playing princess ponies with Payton. Now she had suitors with truck beds and a smile like her mama.
“What kind of woman do you think I am?” Ms. Kitty asked from the other side of the coffee table as she set down her teacup with a clatter. “Questioning what parts a woman has under her hood. And in her own home no less.”
The exact reason Glory had been hesitant about confronting Ms. Kitty at the Duncan Plantation. Accusing the woman who had made it the town’s agenda to ruin Glory’s life was bad enough. Having to do it on Kitty’s home court made her palms sweat.
But Ms. Kitty argued that since it was Glory who had called the meeting, it should happen at Glory’s inconvenience, not hers. Etta Jayne had argued that she was just trying to buy time to cover up the crime and if Glory didn’t take action, she would—and was then spotted at the Frank Brothers’ Taxidermy, Ammo, and Fine Jewelry, purchasing a pair of night-vision goggles and a stun gun. Judge Holden argued that any more arguing would result in additional community service for the co-commissioners.
Which was how Glory wound up sitting on a formal wingback chair in her work uniform, facing down not one, not two, but three generations of Miss Peaches, who were in the middle of the annual Miss Peach Tea. An army of cashmere sweaters and matching pumps took up every available toile-covered settee in the grand salon, looking onto their leader for direction.
It was as though every Miss Peach was in attendance, pearls swinging, tittering with excitement. Well, every Miss Peach except Etta Jayne, who seated herself right next to Glory—stating her alliance.
Glory was tittering, too, but not with excitement—with nerves. She couldn’t imagine spending any more of her two hundred hours of community service in a place that reminded her repeatedly that she didn’t belong. Everything was cream or gold. And regardless if it was cream or gold, it was polished. So polished that all Glory could think about was her cowgirl boots. Red and well-worn, they were discolored from years of slinging beer and bound to scuff something.
And they matched the rest of her work uniform. Which was itty bitty, Falcon inspired, and so short that the toile cushion stuck to the backs of Glory’s legs. She wanted to be in something delicate and classy, something that made her feel pretty, but she didn’t have time for pretty. After leaving here, she’d have to rush to make it to work in time for the opening shift.
The result: Glory had never felt so out of place in all her life—and that was saying a lot.
“An unnamed source has approached me to express a concern about the possible use of unsanctioned fuel, which if accurate would put that tractor and its owner in direct violation of Bylaw 22B, maintaining a fair and equal standard,” Glory said, proud of how official she sounded. She was exhausted and now knew more about tractor engines than most mechanics, but reading the entire Sugar Pull Handbook, all 287 bylaws and 92 addendums, was worth it for this one moment. “It would also violate Bylaw 136, use of a highly controlled flammable substance to gain an advantage.”
“She means that Green E15 you’ve got in your barn,” Etta Jayne said.
There were a few gasps, followed by some heart patting, and Glory concentrated on not rolling her eyes. So much for trying
not
to draw attention to her “confidential” source.
“Which could result in the possible violation 18B,” Glory continued. “Unintentional combustion or smoldering of the hosting orchard without prior consent.”
“Prior consent, huh?” Cal mused from the wingback chair beside her.
She’d never been so aware of a man before. His scent, the way he crossed his legs—ankle over knee, bringing his thigh mere inches from her hand—even the way he sounded when he breathed. From the moment she’d pulled into Kitty’s drive and saw him leaning against his truck in his contract-for-hire gear, waiting for her, Glory had felt that tug. The one that started in her chest and traveled south of the border.
Cal McGraw was impossible to ignore. A sentiment that seemed to be universal for women everywhere. He’d said three words the entire meeting, and even holding a dainty cup, he’d instantly grabbed the attention of every female in the room.
“What if it is an intentional combustion or smoldering?” he said, and the female gallery listened intently as though he’d just asked for the meaning of life.
“Then that would be a 19A infraction,” Glory said primly, eyes on Kitty. “And would result in a lifetime expulsion.”
“Are you accusing me of illegal practices and making threats in front of my guests, Miss Glory?” Ms. Kitty lifted her tea and took a measured sip as though she wasn’t the one on trial.
“She’s doing her job, Ms. Kitty,” a stunning blonde said as she crossed the room. Willowy, cultured, and probably the most elegant Miss Peach in the history of the pageant, Charlotte Holden was a Southern belle in every sense of the word. She was also the current regent of the Sugar Peaches—so any pageant decisions made would need her approval. “Making sure that everyone is following the rules.”
Ms. Kitty smiled serenely as Charlotte took a seat on the other side of Glory. “Well, then I will chalk her behavior up to ignorance, rather than an intentional attack on my character. And I didn’t know you were coming. Your mother said you were at the hospital this morning.”
“I am the current regent of the Sugar Peaches and a four-time Miss Peach.” Charlotte matched that smile, only it had a bigger impact on the room. “There was no way I’d miss the fun. Now, why don’t you explain your side then we can get to the luncheon.”
“My pleasure.” Ms. Kitty slid an official-looking paper across the table. Glory leaned forward to pick it up, the heavy scent of magnolia blossoms and Aqua Net thickening the closer she got to the Peach Gallery. Wrinkling her nose, she snatched the invoice, leaned back as far as she could, and read through it—twice. Then looked up and met the older woman’s eyes. They were smug. “Any upgrade to a tractor or its engine approved by the harvest commissioner is legal. And as you can see, the new fuel pump and lines on the Prowler needed replacing, and since the manufacturer doesn’t make my model anymore, Peg approved a new install, with modifications to keep it sanctioned, of course.”
“Let me see that,” Etta Jayne said, snagging the form. She perched her reading glasses, which hung on a camouflaged lanyard, on her nose. “Peg would never approve racing parts.”
“She didn’t. I had a new John Deere pump installed. Read the form.”
Etta Jayne did. Then frowned and glared over her half-rims. “John Deere doesn’t make parts that work with Green E15.”
“Exactly.” Kitty narrowed her eyes. “So before you start pointing fingers and stealing tractors, you need to check your facts. And the facts state that you were wrong. Not that any of us are surprised.” Before anyone could argue, Kitty looked at Glory and added, “Now, if you have any other concerns, I suggest you address them to the former harvest commissioner.”