Читать книгу A Man to Rely On - Cindi Myers - Страница 11

M ARISOL WOKE the next morning to golden light streaming through the yellow curtains in her mother’s old bedroom. Lying there in a place she had never imagined she would find herself she felt the impotence of a person in a dream, unsure her legs would support her if she tried to rise. The grief she had fought for days battered at her, waves of memory threatening to drown her: her mother teaching her to make tortillas when Marisol was five years old, Mercedes’s larger hands over her small ones, helping her to pat out the flat disks of dough; mother and daughter watching the movie Grease at a matinee at the Cedar Switch cinema, sharing a tub of buttery popcorn and pretending to swoon over John Travolta; the pink silky dress she wore to her mother’s remarriage, and how much she’d cried when the newlyweds left her behind for their brief honeymoon.

Mercedes had told her she was gaining a father that day, but in truth Marisol had lost her mother to Harlan Davies. He had been a hard, possessive man, who had demanded Mercedes take his side in all disputes. Until finally he had dug a chasm between mother and daughter that could not be crossed, not even after his death.

If Marisol could have asked her mother one question now, it would be if she felt all she’d gained by marrying Davies had been worth all he had forced her to surrender.

She shut her eyes tightly and forced her mind from such thoughts. She had too much to do to indulge her grief. This morning she had to see about finding a job; the few thousand dollars left in her bank account after she’d paid the legal team and all their investigators, and settled the debts Lamar had left her with would not last long. And she absolutely would not touch Toni’s college fund. Lamar’s death had robbed his daughter of the advantages of wealth and privilege; Marisol would not deprive her of a first-class education as well.

Besides, working would keep Marisol occupied and out of the house until it sold and they could leave town for good.

What kind of job she had no idea. Years of attending charity balls, shopping and lunching with her friends had left her without any marketable skills. But she was smart. She could learn.

She’d spent the previous afternoon arguing with Toni, who had wanted to explore the town on her own. Marisol had refused to consider the idea, which had led to a shouting match, ending with Toni declaring, “I hate you!” and retreating to Marisol’s old room, where she’d plugged in her iPod and refused to budge, even to eat.

How many times had Marisol acted out a similar scene with her own mother? If anything, she had been more unruly than Toni, sneaking out of the house at all hours of the day and night, purposely doing things she knew would enrage Harlan. Only now, from the perspective of an adult and a parent herself, could she understand how much her rebelliousness must have also hurt her mother.

She forced herself out of bed, made coffee, then knocked on her daughter’s door. Toni had insisted on moving into Marisol’s bedroom. “Toni, are you up? I need to go out for a while.”

“I’m up.”

“There’s cereal and bread in the kitchen. Fix yourself something to eat.”

“I will.”

She would have liked to see her daughter’s face this morning, to have hugged her and to have drawn strength from the sight of her. The last thing Marisol wanted to do was to go out and beg for a job in a town she’d always hated—from people she’d always felt hated her. But for Toni, she would do it.

She went first to the courthouse. At one time, the county and the school district were the town’s largest employers. She wasn’t qualified to be a teacher, but surely she could handle work as a clerk in one of the county offices.

The woman behind the counter’s eyes widened when she saw Marisol. “You’re Lamar Dixon’s wife,” she said. “I mean widow.”

“I’m Marisol Luna. I’d like to apply for a job.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Doing what?”

“Anything.” Marisol forced herself to meet the woman’s critical gaze. “What openings do you have?”

The woman shook her head emphatically. “You couldn’t work here.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t have a criminal record and work for the county government.”

Marisol stiffened. “I don’t have a criminal record,” she said. “I was acquitted. That means I was found not guilty.”

“I know what it means.” The woman’s lips were a thin, straight line in her stern face. “I don’t think anyone would want to hire you. It wouldn’t look good.”

Marisol ground her teeth together, battling the urge to tell this woman exactly what she thought of her. “May I fill out an application?” she asked evenly.

“Fill it out all you want.” The woman pulled a sheet of paper from a cubbyhole and sailed it across the counter, then turned away, muttering about people who “weren’t any better than they should be.”

Marisol fared little better at the other places she tried. The office supply owner asked why a woman “whose husband made all that money” would need to work.

Marisol chafed at explaining Lamar had gambled away most of his income, and she had spent the rest fighting for her life in court. “Trust me, I need the job,” she said instead. She didn’t mention she only planned to stay in town a few months at the most; no sense giving anyone another reason not to hire her.

“Can’t help you. I already got a high school girl who works part-time and that’s all I need.”

The librarian was more sympathetic. “I wish I could help you, I really do,” she said. “But the county cut our budget this year and we had to let one of our librarians go. We’re getting by with volunteers. But if you’d like to volunteer…”

The florist squinted at Marisol behind thick spectacles. “I know you,” he said.

Who doesn’t? she wanted to reply, but kept quiet and waited for him to say something about the trial. Instead, he startled her by saying, “You’re Marisol Luna. I knew you in high school.” His grin was more of a leer. “I remember when you jumped off the highway bridge. Stark naked.” He chuckled. “That was really something.”

She wanted to slap the grin right off his face, but, thinking of Toni, she repressed the impulse. “Do you have any job openings?” she asked.

He leaned across the counter toward her, his tone confiding. “I’d love to hire you, hon, but my wife would have a conniption if she thought the two of us were working together. So I’d better not. Though if you’d like to come back after I close up, maybe we could have a drink for old time’s sake.”

She moved on. Her feet hurt, and her mouth, neck and shoulders strained from holding her head high and smiling. Sweat pooled in the small of her back and she worried her anti-perspirant had given up. She was also hungry and had a pounding headache. She tried to distract herself by looking at her surroundings. As she’d told Toni, the whole town looked better than it had when she’d left, with new awnings, fresh paint and flowers around the square. She recalled seeing an article in the travel section of the Houston Chronicle last year, which had touted Cedar Switch as a popular destination for weekend getaways, with a newly revitalized downtown, an abundance of bed-and-breakfast inns and restaurants and shops that catered to tourists.

The whole square now looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting—except for the hulking brown building two blocks west of the courthouse. Once a masterpiece of Victorian architecture, with elaborate wedding-cake trim, soaring columns and a stained-glass cupola, the Palace Hotel had been the social center of town when Marisol was a girl. Countless senior proms, wedding receptions and formal balls had been held in the upstairs ballroom.

Now the paint was faded and flaking, the windows broken or boarded up. Overgrown rose vines spilled across the front steps, bright pink petals scattered down the walk, as if left over from a long-ago wedding reception. A red-and-white metal For Sale sign was planted near the sidewalk.

Marisol stared at the once-grand building with a knot in her throat. When she looked back on her life in Cedar Switch, almost all of the good times were associated with the Palace Hotel. Seeing it so neglected and rundown made her doubt the reliability of her memories. Maybe her recollections of the past were as flawed as her judgment about Lamar.

She turned away, and hurried back to the square, mentally reviewing her employment options. She was running out of places to look for work. The bank, hardware store and Cherie’s boutique had all turned her down, some more politely than others. Everyone had stared. Some had asked rude questions. No one had offered her a job, or any clue as to where she might find employment.

There was the grocery store out near the highway—though the thought of dragging dripping chickens and twelve packs of beer across the scanner made her recoil in revulsion. She stopped and studied the square for anything she might have missed. Her gaze rested on a white storefront in the middle of the block on the east side of the courthouse. The Bluebonnet Café.

There had been a café in that location when Marisol was a girl, though then it had been the Courthouse Café. Open for breakfast and lunch, it had done a good business, catering to downtown workers and shoppers and those who had dealings at the courthouse.

Restaurants almost always needed help, didn’t they? And no special skills were needed for waitressing beyond a good memory, a certain grace and the ability to chat up the customers. Countless charity balls and cocktail parties had trained her well in those talents.

She squared her shoulders and walked to the corner to cross the street. With her luck, she didn’t want to risk getting arrested for jaywalking. Even that would be enough to make her the top story in the evening news.

The café itself was a neat, white-painted room lined with red-leatherette booths, the center filled with small tables with blue-checked tablecloths and ladder-backed chairs.

“Can I help you?” an older woman with twin long gray braids, a white apron over overalls and T-shirt asked when Marisol stopped in the entrance.

“I’d like to apply for a job,” Marisol said.

The woman gave her a curious look, and Marisol braced herself for comments about the trial, or Lamar, or even her infamous past in Cedar Switch. Instead, the woman said, “You’re prettier than most we get in here. You ever waitressed before?”

Marisol shook her head. “But I’m very good with people.”

“Can you carry a tray full of blue plate specials, that’s the question.”

“Yes, I can. I’m sure I can.”

“All right.” The woman opened a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Fill that out.”

Marisol completed the brief questionnaire, writing in the number and street of her mother’s old house in the space for address. Even after twenty years, she could recall it easily. Staring at the address on the paper, she felt a sense of disorientation—the same feeling she’d had each morning in jail when she’d first awakened, as if at any minute she’d discover she’d only been dreaming. Lamar wasn’t dead. She wasn’t accused of killing him. Everything was all right again.

The woman returned, took the paper and glanced at it. “The pay is five dollars an hour plus tips,” the woman said. “6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Can you start tomorrow?”

Marisol blinked. “You mean I’m hired?”

“If you want the job and you can do the work, yeah.”

“Yes. I mean, thank you. I’ll be here tomorrow.” She’d meant to spend tomorrow getting Toni enrolled in school, but there would be time to do that in the afternoon. Toni would have to get herself up and onto the school bus each day, but the responsibility would be good for her.

“Thank you,” Marisol said again, unable to keep back a smile. “Thank you.” Then she hurried away, before the woman could change her mind. She had a job. A real job. She looked around, wishing she had someone she could tell. Some friend.

But the women she’d thought of as friends—other players’ wives, women in her neighborhood and those with whom she’d served on the boards of various charities—had ceased to be friends the night Marisol was arrested. Not one of them had visited or written to her during her trial or in the long days leading up to it. She was no longer one of them.

That had been one more hurt, on top of losing her husband and learning the truth about all he’d done behind her back. One more thing to harden herself against. She straightened and walked toward her car. She’d celebrate tonight with Toni. As long as she had her daughter, she didn’t need friends.

S COTT PULLED HIS CAR to the curb and studied the modest white brick house with a critical eye. This sort of place wasn’t as attractive to buyers from Houston as the Victorians near the square, but given enough time he was sure he could find a buyer. He hoped Marisol wasn’t disappointed in the price he thought he could get; to a woman used to living in a River Oaks mansion, the going rate for small-town residences probably seemed like pocket change.

He shut off the engine and glanced at his reflection in his rearview mirror, wondering why he was bothering. Marisol Luna wasn’t going to be impressed by the likes of him. Besides, he had a girlfriend. Tiffany Ballieu, the blue-eyed blond sweetheart of his high school days, had sought him out last year, letting him know she was newly divorced and more than willing to pick up where they’d left off. Tiffany was sweet, respectable and exactly the sort of woman he needed in his life.

Carrying the folder with the comparables he’d pulled and a blank listing agreement, he made his way up the walk and rang the doorbell. He waited, and was about to ring a second time when the door creaked open a scant two inches and one bright brown eye studied him through the crack. “Hello?” said a soft female voice.

“I’m Scott Redmond,” he said. “Here to see Marisol Luna.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to any reporters.” The door started to close.

“I’m not a reporter,” Scott said. “I’m a real estate agent. She talked to me yesterday about selling this house.”

The door opened a little wider, and Scott saw half of a pretty, young face. “Mama went downtown to look for a job,” the girl said. “I can’t let you in.”

A job? Did this mean Marisol planned to stay in Cedar Switch? Maybe she’d changed her mind about selling the house. “Do you think she’ll be back soon?” he asked. “Could I wait out here for her?”

“I think she’ll be back soon.” The door opened wider still. The girl had a beautiful, oval face, long braids and long, thin arms and legs. “You can wait if you want.”

“Thanks.” He moved over to a green metal chair at one end of the porch.

The door closed, and he heard the rattle of a chain being moved. Then it opened again and the girl came out. “My name’s Toni,” she said, and leaned against the closed door, as if ready to retreat inside at any minute.

“Hi, Toni. What do you think of Cedar Switch?”

“Not much.”

“Yeah. I guess it’s not that impressive to someone from the city.”

“Have you lived here a long time?”

“All my life.” He glanced at her. She was taller and thinner than Marisol had been, but he could see her mother in her. “I knew your mother when she was about your age. We went to school together.”

“Really?” She turned toward him, her expression eager. “What was she like then?”

How to explain the Marisol who had awed him so? “She was pretty, like you. And daring. She did things no one else would try.”

“Really? What kind of things?”

He frowned. In addition to diving naked off the bridge, when assigned to write a paper on an important historical figure Marisol had reported on Sally Rand, the infamous fan dancer and stripper. Half the football team claimed to have slept with her, but Scott couldn’t recall having seen Marisol in the company of any of them, so he suspected wishful thinking on their part. What was true was that she was frequently in trouble for mouthing off to teachers and was a familiar figure in detention hall her final year at Cedar Switch High School.

None of this was the sort of thing he could share with her daughter. “Your mother was very independent,” he said. “The kind of person others looked up to and wanted to be like.” At least, he’d felt that way.

“She never talks about growing up here,” Toni said. “It’s like it’s some big secret or something.”

“She probably doesn’t want to bore you,” Scott said. Everyone had secrets they didn’t want to share, especially not with children.

He was saved from further comment by the arrival of the red Corvette. Marisol parked in the driveway and got out. Despite the heat, she looked fresh and vibrant, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a tropical-print sleeveless dress bright against her tanned skin. “Scott,” she said. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not long.” He held up the portfolio. “I came to discuss listing the house, if now’s a good time.”

“Now is fine. Come on in.” She walked past them and led the way inside.

“Did you get a job?” Toni asked.

“I did.” Marisol smiled. “I start tomorrow morning.”

“Where will you be working?” Scott asked.

“I’m the newest waitress at the Bluebonnet Café.”

She laughed at the obvious surprise on both their faces.

Scott had a difficult time imagining the elegant woman before him taking orders at the down-home restaurant. “Have you waited tables before?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. But I told the woman there I could learn.” She glanced at her daughter. “It’ll be an adventure. And the hours will let me be here when you get home from school.”

Toni rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I need a baby-sitter,” she said.

“I know.” She patted Toni’s shoulder. “Scott and I need to talk business for a bit, okay?”

“Okay.” She headed down the hall and in a moment Scott heard a door close.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Scott said. “She reminds me of you at that age.”

“I’m amazed you remember me. I’d better show you the house.”

He was aware of being alone with her in rooms that still held the chill of long-unoccupied space. When her hand brushed his arm as she reached past him to flip a light switch, he felt a sharp stab of arousal. Her eyes met his and he sensed she felt it too. Then she turned away and the moment passed.

He forced himself to focus on the house. There wasn’t much to see—three bedrooms, two bathrooms, formal dining and living rooms and the kitchen, where they ended the tour. “Everything seems to be in good repair,” he said. “But that wood paneling in the dining room and the black and white tiles in the kitchen and bath scream 1970s. If you’d put some money into updating the place—paint over the paneling, and install new flooring and countertops, and maybe some new appliances—you’d get a much better price.”

“I can’t afford to remodel.” She took two glasses from the kitchen cabinet. “I’m going to have some iced tea. Would you like some?”

“That would be good.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, enjoying the view of her curvy backside and shapely legs as she pulled the pitcher from the fridge.

“I’m guessing my kitchen cabinets aren’t what’s making you smile that way,” she said as she set the tea in front of him and joined him at the table.

Heat burned his cheeks. To cover his embarrassment at being caught ogling her, he opened the folder and shuffled through the papers. “I pulled the legal description at the courthouse, and some comparables of other sales of similar properties for you to look at. Judging by them, here’s how much I think you can get for the place.” He slid the listing agreement to her and pointed to the line for the selling price.

Her eyes scanned the paper, and she frowned. “I was hoping for a little more.”

“We can ask, but the market is in a bit of a slump now, and these smaller places tend to sell more slowly. Again, if you’d remodel…”

She shook her head, and picked up a pen. “If this is the best we can do, then we’ll do it.” She signed with a flourish, then handed the papers back to him. “How long do you think it will take to find a buyer?”

“Tough to say. The average time on the market has stretched to five months, though of course I’ll do my best to shorten that.”

“Do what you can,” she said. She looked around the kitchen. “It feels strange, being back here after so many years.”

“There are some attractive new homes on the west side of town,” he said. “Maybe after you’ve sold this place you could move to one of them.”

“No, I’m not planning on staying. There’s nothing for me here.” Her eyes met his and he felt the impact of that gaze, and a leaden ache in his stomach. He could admit, if only to himself, that he hadn’t completely set aside the fantasy of the two of them getting together. Having a relationship that went beyond agent and client. But her words made it clear she saw no possibility of that.

What did it matter, anyway, when she was so clearly out of his league? He’d trespassed in this world once before and proved he couldn’t keep up. He changed the subject. “Who did you talk to at the Bluebonnet?”

“I didn’t get her name. An older woman with braids. She was wearing overalls and an apron.”

“That’s Mary Sandifer, the owner. She and her husband bought the place from Marty Wakefield a couple of years ago. She’s a good woman. The kind who doesn’t suffer fools and isn’t afraid to say what she means. She probably sensed you were a kindred spirit.”

“Maybe I used to be that way.” She traced a line of condensation down her glass. “I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.”

He studied her, at the fine lines at the corner of her eyes, the few strands of silver shining in her dark hair. She was still a beautiful woman, but there was an added depth to her now, a sense that she’d survived hard times and triumphed that only added to her attractiveness. “Has it been very hard for you?” he asked. “The trial, and everything that came out during it?”

“You mean that my husband was a lying, gambling cheat?” She smiled ruefully at his obvious shock. “I suspected there were other women all along, but I never dreamed he was so deep into debt—and with the mob, no less. It’s a wonder he stayed alive as long as he did. But it was hard, yes. Hard to hear the accusations that were made about me, hard to lose my home. Hard to see Toni suffer.”

“She seems to have come through it all right.”

Marisol nodded. “As well as she could, I suppose.” She took another long sip of tea, studying him over the rim of the glass. “Tell me about yourself. All I know is that you’re Jay’s son. I’m sorry I don’t remember much from school.”

“There’s no reason you should. I was two years behind you.” He replaced the papers in the portfolio, sorting through all the things he might tell her about himself. I once had a huge crush on you, or I almost ruined my life a few months ago and am still trying to pull my reputation out of the cellar. “There’s nothing exciting to tell,” he said. “I used to work for one of the big firms in town, but six months ago I opened a solo office in my dad’s building. I’ve lived in Cedar Switch all my life. Guess I’m just a small-town kind of guy.” While she was definitely not a small-town girl.

“Are you married?”

The question startled him. Was she merely making conversation, or was she truly interested? His heart beat faster at this idea. “I’m…seeing someone,” he admitted, reluctantly.

“You probably think I’m being nosy,” she said. “I don’t mean it that way. It’s just that I never thought I’d be single at this age and I wonder how it is for other people.” She traced one finger around the rim of her glass, the gesture strangely sensual. Her nails were long, painted a pale pink. “I married Lamar when I was nineteen. We were together sixteen years. Now it’s as if…I’ve not only lost my husband, I’ve lost my whole identity.” She laughed, a jagged, desperate sound. “It’s like being a teenager all over again, trying to find myself.”

“I don’t think there’s any deadline on figuring out what you want to do with your life,” Scott said. “At least I hope not. I’m not sure I’ve answered that question for myself yet.”

She nodded, and pushed her glass away, then stood. “Thank you for stopping by. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Not now.” He gathered up his papers and prepared to leave, wishing he had an excuse to linger.

She walked him to the door, thanked him again, then shut the door behind him. Before he drove away, he glanced at the house once more, half hoping to catch a glimpse of her at a window.

But there was no sign of her. He checked the mirror, then pulled into the street. His newest client fascinated him, not so much for her notoriety, or even for the long-ago crush he’d had on her.

Marisol was independent and determined to keep her distance from everyone, and yet he sensed a deep longing for connection within her. That longing, more than anything, called to him. He shook his head, unsure how much of this perception was true, and how much was based on everything he’d believed about her when he was a boy.

He’d believed that she knew more about life than he could even guess.

That she’d been hurt, but didn’t let it show.

That she was braver than anyone he knew.

And now? He still believed that she was brave and wise. With one smile, she’d reduced him to a stammering schoolboy. With one look, she’d reminded him what it meant to be a man. What it was like to want a woman not only for her looks, but for her mystery.