nd our new Miss Paxawatchie County, 1980, is... Chantal Booker!"

Honey leapt to her feet with a bloodcurdling yell that rose above the applause of the audience. The loudspeaker blared out "Give My Regards to Broadway" and Laura Liskey, last year's Miss Paxawatchie County, placed the crown on Chantal's head. Chantal gave her vague smile. The crown slipped to the side, but she didn't notice.

Honey jumped up and down, clapping and hollering. This miserable week was having a happy ending after all. Chantal had won the title, despite the fact that her baton twirling was the worst talent routine anyone had seen since three years ago when Mary Ellen Ballinger had tap-danced to "Jesus Christ Superstar." Chantal had dropped the baton on every double reverse and left out half of her grand finale, but she had looked so pretty that nobody cared. And she had done better than Honey had expected during the question and answer part. When she had been asked about her plans for the future, she had dutifully announced that she wanted to be either a speech and hearing therapist or a missionary, just as Honey had told her to. Honey didn't suffer a single pang of conscience over insisting on the lie. It was a lot better than having Chantal announce to the world that what she really wanted out of life was to marry Burt Reynolds.

As Honey applauded, she breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving that she had been smart enough to abandon the fire baton. Chantal would have done more damage to Paxawatchie County with those flames than William Tecumseh Sherman's entire army.

Ten minutes later, as she made her way through the crowd to the backstage area of the high school auditorium, she determinedly ignored the clusters of families gathered everywhere beaming at the girls in their filmy dresses: plump mothers and balding fathers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers. She never looked at families if she could avoid it. Never. Some things hurt too much to be borne.

She spotted Shep Watley, the county sheriff, with his daughter Amelia. Just the sight of him crimped the edges of her excitement over ChantaPs victory. Yesterday Shep had nailed a foreclosure sign on the front gates, closing the park down forever and making her so scared about today that she hadn't been able to sleep. Now that Chantal had won the contest, Honey told herself it didn't matter about the foreclosure or the fact that the Disney people hadn't answered any of her letters. When those television casting agents saw Chantal, they were going to fall in love with her just as the judges had. Chantal would start making lots of money, and they'd be able to buy back the park.

Here her imagination faltered. If Chantal was going to be a movie star in California, how could they all be together again at the park?

Worrying was getting to be a bad habit with her lately, and she did her best to shake it off. Her heart swelled with pride as she saw Chantal talking with Miss Monica Waring, the pageant director. Chantal looked so beautiful standing there in the white gown she'd worn to her senior prom, with the rhinestone crown perched in her inky black curls, nodding and smiling at whatever Miss Waring was telling her. The television people wouldn't be able to resist her.

"That's fine, Miss Waring," Chantal was saying as Honey approached. "I don't mind the change at all."

"You're a darling girl for being so understanding." Monica Waring, the thin, stylish woman who was both the pageant director and the executive in charge of public relations for Dundee's Department Store, looked so relieved by Chantal's response that Honey immediately grew suspicious.

"What's this?" Honey stepped forward, her instincts twitching like a rabbit's nose at the hint of danger.

Chantal's eyes shifted nervously between the two women as she reluctantly introduced them. "Miss Waring, this is my cousin, Honey Moon."

Monica Waring looked startled, as people generally did when they heard her name for the first time. "What an unusual name."

According to Sophie, when Honey was born, the nurse had told Carolann that she had a little baby girl sweet as honey, and Carolann had decided right then that she liked the name. It wasn't until the birth certificate had arrived and Honey's mother saw the whole thing in print for the first time that she realized she might have made a mistake.

Since Honey didn't want anybody to think that her mother was stupid, she gave her usual response. "It's a family name. Oldest daughter to oldest daughter. One Honey Moon after another all the way back to the Revolutionary War."

"I see." If Monica Waring thought it was unusual that so many generations of childbearing women had never changed their last name, she gave no indication. Turning to Chantal, she patted her arm. "Congratulations again, dear. And I'll take care of the changes on Monday."

"What changes would those be?" Honey asked before Miss Waring could walk away.

"Uh—Jimmy McCully and his friends are waving at me," Chantal said nervously. "I'd better go say hi to them." Before Honey could stop her, she slipped away.

Miss Waring glanced past Honey. "I've explained our little mix-up to Chantal, but I did want to speak with Mrs. Booker personally."

"My Aunt Sophie isn't here. She's suffering from—uh— gall bladder, and what with the pain and everything, she has to stay at home. I'm sort of in loco parentis, if you know what I mean."

Miss Waring's skillfully penciled eyebrows shot up. "Aren't you a little young to be in loco parentis?"

"Nineteen on my last birthday," Honey replied.

Miss Waring looked skeptical but didn't press the issue. "I was explaining to Chantal that we've had to make a slight change in the prize for the winner. We're still offering the overnight trip to Charleston, but instead of the television show audition we're hiring a limousine to take the winner and a guest of her choice on a city tour followed by a marvelous dinner at a four-star restaurant. And of course Chantal will have the customary make-over at Dundee's Department Store."

The backstage area was hot from the press of people, but Honey felt cold chills racing through her bloodstream. "No! The first prize is an audition for The Dash Coogan Show!"

"I'm afraid that's no longer possible. Through no fault of Dundee's, I might add. Apparently the casting people have had to move up their schedule—although I do think they could have notified me earlier than yesterday afternoon. Instead of coming to Charleston next Wednesday as scheduled, they're going to be in Los Angeles holding final auditions for the girls they've already picked."

"They're not coming to Charleston? They can't do that! How are they going to see Chantal?"

"I'm sorry, but they're not going to see Chantal. They found enough girls in Texas to call off the search."

"But you don't understand, Miss Waring. I know they would choose Chantal for the part if they just had a chance to see her."

"I'm afraid I'm not as confident as you. Chantal is quite beautiful, but the competition for the part has been enormous."

Honey immediately leapt to her cousin's defense. "Are you blaming her just because she dropped the baton? That was all my idea. She's a natural actress. I should have let her do that Quality of Mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice like she wanted, but, no, I had to make her twirl that stupid baton. Chantal's extremely talented. Katharine and Audrey Hepburn are her idols." She knew she was sounding frantic, but she couldn't help herself. Her fear was growing by the second. This contest was the last hope they had for a decent future, and she wouldn't let them snatch it away.

"I've spoken to the casting director several times. They've seen hundreds of girls just to weed out the final group they're auditioning in Los Angeles, and the chance of Chantal having actually been the one chosen is quite slim."

Honey set her jaw and tilted up on her toes until she was nearly on the same eye level as the pageant director. "You listen to me, Miss Waring, and you listen real good. I got the contest brochure right here in my pocket. It says in black and white that the winner of Miss Paxawatchie County gets to audition for The Dash Coogan Show, and I intend to hold you to that. I'm giving you until Monday afternoon to make sure Chantal gets her audition. Otherwise, I'm going to get me a lawyer, and that lawyer's going to sue you. Then he's going to sue Dundee's Department Store. And then he's going to sue every Paxawatchie County official who even came within a mile of this pageant."

"Honey—"

"I'll be at the store at four o'clock on Monday afternoon." She pointed her finger at Monica Waring's chest. "Unless you've got some positive news for me, that'll be the last time you see me without the meanest sonovabitch the courts of South Carolina have ever seen walking right by my side."

Honey's bravado collapsed on the ride home. She didn't have the money to hire a lawyer. How could anyone at the store take her threat seriously?

But there was no place in her life for negative thinking, so she spent all day Sunday and most of Monday trying to convince herself that her bluff would work. Nothing made people more nervous than the threat of a lawsuit, and Dundee's Department Store wasn't going to want bad publicity. But no matter how much she tried to encourage herself, she felt as if her dreams for their future were sinking right along with the Bobby Lee.

Monday afternoon arrived. Despite her mental bravado, Honey was nearly sick with nervousness by the time she located Monica Waring's office on the third floor of Dundee's. As she stood in the doorway and peered in, she saw a small room dominated by a steel desk covered with neat stacks of paper. Promotional posters and store ads were lined up on a cork bulletin board that hung opposite the office's single window.

Honey cleared her throat, and the pageant director glanced up from her desk, which faced the door.

"Well, look who's arrived," she said, slipping off a pair of glasses with large black plastic frames and rising from her chair.

There was a smugness in her voice that Honey didn't like at all. The pageant director came around to the front of her desk. Leaning one hip against the edge, she crossed her arms.

"You're not nineteen, Honey," she said, obviously seeing no need to beat around the bush. "You're a sixteen-year-old high-school dropout with a reputation as a troublemaker. As a minor, you have no legal authority over your cousin."

Honey told herself that facing down Miss Waring shouldn't be any harder than facing down Uncle Earl when he had a few belts of whiskey in him. She walked over to the room's only window and, acting as if she didn't have a care in the world, gazed down at the drive-in lane of the First Carolina Bank across the street.

"You sure have been busy digging into my personal life, Miss Waring," she drawled. "While you were doing that digging did you happen to discover that Chantal's mother, my aunt, Mrs. Sophie Moon Booker, is suffering from extreme craziness brought on by her sorrow over the death of her husband, Earl T. Booker?" Slowly, she turned back to the pageant director. "And did you also happen to find out that I've been running the family ever since he died? And that Mrs. Booker—who hasn't been a minor for a good twenty-five years—pretty much does whatever I tell her, up to and including slapping this candy-ass department store with the biggest lawsuit it's ever seen?"

To Honey's amazement and delight, that speech pretty much took the wind out of Monica Waring's sails. She hemmed and hawed around for a while longer, but Honey could tell it was mainly bluster. Obviously, she had been instructed by her superiors to protect the good name of Dundee's at any cost. She asked a secretary to bring Honey a Coke, then excused herself and bustled off down the hallway. Half an hour later, she returned with several pieces of paper stapled together.

"The producers of The Dash Coogan Show have very graciously agreed to give Chantal a short audition in Los Angeles with the other girls on Thursday," she said stiffly. "I've written down the address of the studio and have also included the information they sent me several months ago about the program. Chantal and her chaperon need to be in Los Angeles by eight o'clock Thursday morning."

"How's she supposed to get there?"

"I'm afraid that's your problem," she replied coldly as she passed the material she was holding over to Honey. "The pageant isn't responsible for transportation. I think you'll have to agree that we have been more than reasonable about this entire situation. Please wish Chantal good luck from all of us."

Honey took the papers as if she were doing Miss Waring a favor and sauntered out of the office. But once she reached the hallway, her bravado collapsed. She didn't have nearly enough money for plane tickets. How was she going to get Chantal to Los Angeles?

As she stepped onto the escalator, she tried to take courage from the lesson of Black Thunder. There was always hope.

"I think you have finally lost what's left of your mind, Honey Jane Moon," Chantal said. "That truck couldn't make it to the state line, let alone all the way to California."

The battered old pickup that stood near Sophie's trailer was the only vehicle left in the park. The body had once been red, but it had been patched with gray putty so many times that little of its original paint job remained. Because Honey was worried about exactly the same thing, she turned on Chantal.

"You're never gonna get anywhere in life if you keep being such a negative thinker. You've got to have a positive attitude toward the challenges life throws at you. Besides, Buck just put in a new alternator. Now load that suitcase in the back while I try one more time to talk to Sophie."

"But Honey, I don't want to go to California."

Honey ignored the whine in her cousin's voice. "That's just too bad, 'cause you're going. Get in that truck and wait for me."

Sophie was lying on the couch watching her Monday evening television shows. Honey knelt on the floor and touched her aunt's hand, running a gentle finger over the swollen knuckles. She knew that Sophie didn't like being touched, but sometimes she couldn't help herself.

"Sophie, you've got to change your mind and come with us. I don't want to leave you here by yourself. Besides, when those TV people offer Chantal that part on The Dash Coogan Show, they're gonna want

to talk to her mama."

Sophie's eyes remained focused on the flickering screen. "I'm afraid I'm too tired to go anywhere, Honey. Besides, Cinnamon and Shade are getting married this week."

Honey could barely contain her frustration. "This is real life, Sophie, not a soap opera. We have to make plans for our future. The bank owns the park now, and you're not going to be able to go on living here much longer."

Sophie's lids formed saggy canopies over her small eyes as she looked at Honey for the first time. Honey automatically searched her face for some small sign of affection, but, as usual, she saw nothing there except disinterest and weariness. "The bank didn't say anything about me moving out, so I think I'll just stay right where I am."

She attempted one final plea. "We need you, Sophie. You know how Chantal is. What if some boy tries to get fresh with her?"

"You'll take care of him," Sophie said wearily. "You'll take care of everything. You always do."

By early Wednesday afternoon, Honey was sick with fatigue. Her eyes were as dry as the Oklahoma prairie that stretched endlessly on both sides of the road, and her head had begun rolling forward without warning. A horn blared and her eyes snapped open. She jerked the wheel just before she slid over the double yellow line.

They had been on the road since Monday evening, but they hadn't even made it to Oklahoma City. They'd lost the muffler near Birmingham, sprung a leak in a water hose just past Shreveport, and had the same tire patched twice. Honey didn't believe in negative thinking, but her emergency cash supply was dwindling more rapidly than she had imagined it could, and she knew she couldn't drive much longer without sleep.

On the other side of the cab, Chantal slept like a baby, her cheeks flushed from the heat, strands of black hair whipping out the open window.

"Chantal, wake up."

Chantal's mouth puckered like an infant's in search of a nipple. Her breasts flattened under her white tank top as she stretched. "What's wrong?"

"You're going to have to drive for a while. I've got to get some sleep."

"Driving makes me nervous, Honey. Just pull off at one of the roadside stops and take a nap."

"We have to keep going or we'll never make it to Los Angeles by eight o'clock tomorrow morning. We're already way behind schedule."

"I don't want to drive, Honey. It makes me too nervous."

Honey considered pressing the issue and then decided against it. The last time she had made Chantal drive, her cousin had complained so much that Honey couldn't sleep anyway. Once again the truck wove toward the yellow line. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and then slammed on the brakes as she spotted the hitchhiker.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

"Never you mind."

She pulled over to the side and climbed out of the truck, leaving the motor running so she wouldn't have to go through all the work of starting it up again. She stepped over a torn rubber boot as she made her way down the shoulder of the interstate. The hitchhiker walked toward her carrying an old gray duffel bag.

She had no intention of endangering Chantal by picking up a pervert, so she studied him carefully. He was in his early twenties, a pleasant-faced boy with shaggy brown hair, a scraggly mustache, and sleepy eyes. His chin was a little weak, but she decided that she couldn't fault him for something that might be more of a reflection of his ancestors than his character.

She noted the fatigue pants he was wearing with his T-shirt and asked hopefully, "Are you military?"

"Naw. Not me."

Her eyes narrowed. "A college boy?"

"I spent a semester at Iowa State, but I flunked out."

She gave a small, approving nod. "Where are you on your way to?"

"Albuquerque, I guess."

He looked harmless, but so did all those serial killers she read about in Chantal's National Enquirer. "Did you ever drive a pickup?"

"Sure. Tractors, too. My folks are farmers. They got a place not far from Dubuque."

"My name's Honey Jane Moon."

He blinked his eyes. "Kind of a funny name."

"Yeah? Well, I didn't happen to choose it, so I'd appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself."

"Okay by me. I'm Gordon Delaweese."

She knew she had to make up her mind, and she couldn't afford a mistake. "You go to church, Gordon?"

"Naw. Not any more. I used to be Methodist, though."

Methodist wasn't as good as Baptist, but it would have to do. She shoved her thumb in the pocket of her jeans and glared at him, letting him see right off who was boss. "Me and my cousin Chantal are on our way to California so Chantal can get a part in a TV show. We're driving straight through and we've got to be there by eight o'clock tomorrow morning or we're going to miss what's looking like our last chance at self-respect. You try anything funny and I'll kick your ass right out of that track. You understand me?"

Gordon nodded in a vague way that made her think he might not be any brighter than Chantal. She led him to the truck and when they got there told him he was driving.

He looked down at her and scratched his chest. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Almost twenty. And I just got out of prison last week for shooting a man in the head, so if you know what's good for you, you won't give me any trouble."

He didn't say anything after that, just tossed his duffel bag behind the seat and blinked a few times when he saw Chantal. Honey climbed in on the passenger side, putting Chantal in the middle. He worked the truck into gear and chugged out onto the highway. Honey was asleep within seconds.

Several hours later something woke her up, and when she saw the way Gordon Delaweese and Chantal Booker were making eyes at each other, she realized that she had made a big mistake.

"You sure are pretty," Gordon said, his skin taking on a rosy flush beneath his tan as he gazed over at Chantal.

Her elbow was propped up on the back of the seat and she was leaning toward him like a cottonwood in the wind. "I admire a man with a mustache."

"You do? I was thinking about shaving it off."

"Oh, no, don't. It makes you look just like Mr. Burt Reynolds."

Honey's eyelids sprang the rest of the way open.

Chantal's voice was breathless with admiration. "I think it's exciting how you're hitchhiking all over the country just so you can experience life."

"I figure you've got to see everything if you're going to be an artist," Gordon replied. He pulled into the left lane to pass an old clunker that was making nearly as much noise as their pickup.

"I never met a painter before."

Honey didn't like the soft, mushy quality in Chantal's voice. They didn't need any more complications. Why did her cousin have to fall for every boy she met? She decided the time had come to interrupt.

"That's not true, Chantal. What about that man who came to the park to paint the mural over the House of Horror?"

"That's not real art," Chantal scoffed. "Gordon's a real artist."

Honey liked the mural over the House of Horror, but her tastes in art tended to be more catholic than most people's. Gordon sent another prurient glance in Chantal's direction, and Honey made up her mind to bring him down to size. "How many pictures have you painted, Gordon?"

"I don't know."

"More than a hundred?"

"Not that many."

"More than fifty?"

"Probably not."

Honey snorted. "I don't see how you can call yourself a painter if you haven't even painted fifty pictures."

"It's quality that counts," Chantal said. "Not how many."

"Since when did you turn into such a big art authority, Chantal Booker? I know for a fact that the only paintings you ever pay any attention to are ones of naked people."

"Don't let Honey hurt your feelings, Gordon. She gets moods sometimes."

Honey wanted to order him to pull over to the shoulder of the road right that minute and get his weak chin out of her truck, but she knew that she needed him if she wanted to arrive in Los Angeles in time for that audition, so she held her tongue.

She wasn't anxious to take over the driving quite yet, but she couldn't stand watching the two of them drooling over each other so she pulled out the papers that Monica Waring had given her. They contained handwritten directions to the studio, as well as a short summary of The Dash Coogan Show. She studied it.

Rollicking laugh-a-minute humor results as ex-rodeo rider Dash Jones (Dash Coogan) marries beautiful East Coast socialite Eleanor Chadwick (Liz Castleberry) and they discover that love is funnier the second time around. He has a yen for country life, while she favors fancy cocktail parties. To complicate matters, his beautiful teenage daughter Celeste (to be cast) and Eleanor's almost-grown son Blake (Eric Dillon) form an attraction for each other. All of them discover that love is funnier the second time around.

Honey found herself wondering who wrote stuff like "rollicking laugh-a-minute humor." The Dash Coogan Show didn't sound all that funny to her, but since she couldn't afford to be critical, she told herself that Mr. Coogan wouldn't be part of something that was garbage.

She had never been enamored of movie stars, not like Chantal, but she had always cherished a secret admiration for Dash Coogan. Ever since she was a kid, she had watched his movies. Now that she thought about it, however, she realized it had been a long time since he'd made a new one. Cowboy movies didn't seem to be too popular anymore.

A sliver of excitement crept through her. She wasn't one to be impressed by movie stars, but wouldn't it be something if she actually got the chance to meet ol' Dash Coogan when she went to Hollywood? Now wouldn't that be something.