A Man to Rely On

CHAPTER THREE

M ARISOL REPORTED for her first day of work at the Bluebonnet Café as jittery as someone who’d downed three cups of coffee, though she’d stuck to herbal tea at breakfast. She hadn’t had a real job since a stint at McDonald’s as a teenager, but she was determined to do her best.

Mary greeted her with a firm hello and handed her a black apron and an order pad. “We do things the old-fashioned way here,” she explained as she led Marisol toward the kitchen. “Write the order down and give a copy to the cook.” She introduced Marisol to the cook, Frank, and the other waitress, Paula.

“Just holler if you need help with anything,” Paula, a diminutive blonde who wore bright pink lipstick, offered. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

As it turned out, the worst part was not remembering which table ordered what, or even carrying the heavy trays without dropping them. The worst part was forcing herself to ignore the stares and whispers when diners realized who she was.

“What in the world are you doing working here?” a burly man with a luxuriant gray moustache asked as she refilled his coffee cup. “I thought I read Lamar Dixon had more money than God.”

“Maybe he did,” she said calmly. “But he pissed it all away.”

That surprised a laugh from the man. Marisol turned and walked on shaking legs to replace the coffeepot on the burner.

“How’s it going?” Paula asked, joining Marisol.

“Okay,” Marisol said. Most people had been polite, and she’d pocketed fifteen dollars in tips in her first two hours. Not bad considering most people only wanted coffee and one of Mary’s oversize cinnamon rolls.

“Business is up this morning,” Mary said as she passed on her way into the kitchen. “I reckon everyone wants to get a look at you.” She nodded to Marisol.

Marisol flushed. Paula patted her arm. “Don’t worry. The novelty will wear off in a few days and you’ll be as invisible as I am.”

Paula left to take the order from a table of truck drivers, who grinned and flirted. So much for being invisible. Marisol took a deep breath and went to clear the table the moustached man had vacated. He’d left a five-dollar tip. She stared at the bill, angry at the pity the gesture implied, furious with herself for revealing the desperateness of her situation to a stranger. Next time someone had the nerve to ask what she was doing here, she’d be glib, and tell them she was rehearsing for a starring role in a movie about a waitress—or thinking about writing a book.

She pocketed the bill with her other tips and moved on to the next table, three women who stared at her with open curiosity, but said not a word.

By lunchtime, Marisol’s feet and legs hurt from standing so long, but she felt more comfortable taking orders and was congratulating herself on mastering the knack of carrying a loaded tray of food. On Paula’s advice, she’d made more of an effort to smile. Not only did it improve her disposition, it had the added bonus of unsettling those who gawked the most. They apparently hadn’t expected an accused murderess to be so friendly.

A flutter of nerves struck her anew when Scott Redmond came into the café with his father. The sharp physical attraction she’d felt for him yesterday had caught her by surprise. After so many months of being forced to bury every emotion, such frank desire made her feel almost giddy with relief and wonder. That living, lusting, female part of her hadn’t died along with Lamar. It had only been hiding, waiting for the right moment—or the right man?—to reappear.

The question remained as to what she would do about it. The thought of a solely physical affair, with no strings attached and no promises for the future, held all the appeal of forbidden fantasy. But she had Toni—and Scott himself—to consider. As much as she longed to be selfish for once, practicality and a cursed sense of responsibility interfered.

The two men sat at one of the booths assigned to her, and greeted her with warm smiles. “How’s your first day going?” Jay asked.

“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Marisol said.

“She’s doing great.” Mary came up behind her and put one hand on Marisol’s shoulder. “I think I might let her stay.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Scott said. His gaze met and held hers for a beat too long. Her heart thudded in her chest like a wild bird, proving she hadn’t imagined the attraction between them.

He was the first to look away. He picked up the menu and studied it, then said, “I’ll have a burger and a glass of iced tea.”

“Give me the Reuben,” Jay said. “And a Diet Coke.”

She hurried from the booth to turn in their orders, aware of his gaze on her as she crossed the room. He’d watched her yesterday, too, checking her out as she fixed their tea. Clearly, he liked what he saw, just as she appreciated his broad shoulders and slim hips, the wiriness that was in direct contrast to Lamar’s height and muscular bulk.

She collected chicken-fried steak dinners for a quartet of construction workers and started across the room, veering around a young man who’d inexplicably stopped in the middle of the room. She’d almost reached the table when a bright light blinded her, followed quickly by a second flash, and the unmistakable click of a camera shutter. A woman squealed. The young man who’d been stopped shoved a small tape recorder in front of her face. “Mrs. Dixon, what can you tell us about your new job here at the Bluebonnet Café?”

The tray slipped from Marisol’s hands, chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and green beans flying. The camera flashed again and she ducked, shielding her face, while voices rose around her.

“Out! Out of here before I call the police!” Mary shouted at the reporter and photographer, who ignored her, continuing to take pictures and shout questions at Marisol.

Paula rushed over and began cleaning up the spilled food, while the construction workers complained loudly about Marisol’s clumsiness and their ruined dinners. Mary continued to shout at the two intruders.

Panic and anger choking her, Marisol tore off the apron and flung it and her order pad onto the counter. She had to get out of here, lay low somewhere until things calmed down. She darted for the door, only to find her exit blocked by the reporter, who grinned and extended the microphone. “Is it true you’re originally from Cedar Switch, Mrs. Dixon? What do the people here think of your notoriety?”

“I think if you don’t move out of the way and stop blocking the door, I’ll make you move.”

Marisol hadn’t thought of Scott as an imposing man before, but there was definite menace in his posture now as he glowered at the reporter.

“Better do as he says,” Jay spoke from just behind his son.

The reporter glanced from one man to the other, then decided retreat was in order. With a sweeping bow, he indicated the door was clear.

Scott put one arm around Marisol and guided her down the sidewalk. “I didn’t see your car in the lot or on the street. Did you walk?”

“I shouldn’t leave,” she said. “If there’s somewhere I could hide for a few minutes…” She looked back toward the café as the photographer and the reporter exited.

“If you go back, so will they,” Jay said. “We’ll drive you home.”

As they rounded the corner to the small parking lot behind the café, the camera flashed again. Scott lunged at the photographer, who laughed, then dove into a waiting car, which sped away.

“Sorry about that,” Scott said as he helped Marisol into the back seat of a blue sedan, then climbed in after her. Jay took the driver’s seat and drove slowly toward Marisol’s house, circling the block a few times, looking for suspicious vehicles or persons, before pulling into her driveway.

“Maybe I should go back,” Marisol said. She hated running away, like a coward. “I should have stood up to them.”

“What would that have done but give them more pictures, and words they could misquote?” Scott asked. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with anger. Part of her wanted to throw her arms around him, to let him hold her and be the rescuer to her damsel in distress.

Except that she was through with men rescuing her. No man who was supposed to protect had ever done her any favors. And no good would come of letting Scott think she needed taking care of. “I’ll be fine now,” she said. She started to open the door and climb out of the car, but Scott’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “Do you want us to stay with you a while?”

“I’ll be okay.” She scanned the front yard and the street, but they were empty. “It doesn’t look like they’ve found this place. At least not yet.”

“Who were they?” Scott asked. “Do you know them?”

She shook her head. “They’re probably from some gossip rag.” She smoothed the front of her skirt. “I was hoping they wouldn’t find me here in Cedar Switch.”

“Was this what it was like for you in Houston?” Scott’s face reflected his horror at the idea. “With people like that hounding you?”

“Pretty much. From the time I was released on bail until the trial ended and Toni and I left to come here there was always at least one group, sometimes more, parked in front of my house. They trailed me everywhere. We managed to avoid being followed here by leaving in the middle of the night and driving through back streets to lose the one car that tried to come after us.”

“I’ll call the police chief and ask him to keep an eye on your place,” Jay said. “Chase away anybody who’s loitering.”

“Thank you, but you can’t keep them out of public places,” she said. “They know their legal rights.” The horror of the scene in the café was beginning to set in—that first blinding flash, the flying tray of food. “Mary will never let me come back to work now,” she said.

“I’ll talk to her,” Scott said. “It’s not your fault—”

“No.” She gripped his arm, silencing him. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. I’m not helpless.”

He started to protest, then apparently thought better of it. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” She opened the door and climbed out of the car. He didn’t try to stop her this time, though she could feel his eyes on her as she unlocked the front door.

Inside, she locked the door and leaned back against it. What little peace she’d enjoyed since leaving Houston had been shattered. She could only imagine the headlines that would accompany the pictures those two lowlifes had taken: Accused murderess reduced to slinging hash in small town café. Or maybe Billionaire’s widow forced into menial labor. The pictures and stories would make the rounds of all the Junior Leaguers who had once welcomed her as one of their own. They’d shake their heads and click their tongues and tell each other how they had always suspected Marisol was not really “their kind of people” and this only confirmed it. Worse, how long would it be before those two men, or others like them, zeroed in on this house? How long would she and Toni have to barricade themselves inside before a more interesting scandal distracted her pursuers?

Toni. The thought of her daughter spurred her to action. She needed to telephone the school and ask them to have Toni wait in the office for her mother to collect her after school. Under no circumstances was she to go outside, and the school should be on the lookout for any suspicious characters hanging around the campus, especially anyone with a camera.

Toni would hate being singled out this way, especially on her first day. And she would, as usual, blame her suffering on her mother.

For her part, Marisol laid the blame firmly on Lamar, though fat lot of good that did, considering he was dead. What remaining love she’d had for the man upon his death had been leeched out of her by the ugly revelations of the trial and the suffering his mistakes and bad habits had brought on her and on Toni. The part of her heart that had once belonged to her handsome husband was now empty and cold. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to risk ever trusting a man again.

Which made her reaction to Scott that much more suspect. Maybe her sudden desire for him fell into the same category as nervous laughter at funerals and the sensation of wanting to jump when standing on the balcony of a tall building—involuntary, misplaced emotions or misfiring synapses. In a way it was comforting to realize her body was still capable of feeling attracted to a man. And Scott was, after all, good-looking and charming.

But it would be a long time before her mind was ready to let a man into her life. And when it happened, it would be somewhere a long way from Cedar Switch, Texas. Her time here was merely an interlude while she regrouped, refreshed her finances and prepared herself for a new life, one far removed from either her glamorous days in Houston, or a childhood here in the sticks she’d spent twenty years working to forget.

CHAPTER FOUR

T HE RINGING PHONE woke Scott the next morning at 6:30. “Have you seen the front page of today’s Houston Chronicle? ” a raspy voice demanded.

Scott sat up on the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. “Marcus, is that you?” He checked the bedside clock. Apparently the real estate mogul was an early riser.

“Your picture is on the front page of the Houston paper, all cozied up to Lamar Dixon’s infamous widow.”

The words had the same effect as dunking his head in a bucket of ice water. “What?”

“I didn’t know you knew Marisol Dixon,” Marcus continued. He was a man who preferred asking questions to answering them.

“She’s using the name Marisol Luna now,” Scott said. “She’s listed her house with me.”

“I thought that River Oaks mansion was sold to pay her legal fees.”

“She has a house here in Cedar Switch. She inherited it from her mother.”

A crackling sound, like paper being rattled, reached his ears. “Since when do real estate agents cuddle up to clients in the backseat of cars?”

Marcus should have been a tabloid reporter. He made one innocent gesture sound so lurid. “She was ambushed by a reporter and a photographer in the Bluebonnet Café yesterday when my dad and I were there eating lunch,” he said. “We helped her get away from them and gave her a ride home.”

Help Marisol hadn’t been particularly grateful for, he reminded himself.

“And now half the state thinks the two of you are involved.” Even this early, Marcus sounded as if he’d been drinking straight bourbon and smoking cigars for hours.

“I don’t care what they think,” Scott said. Phone to his ear, he leaned over and grabbed a pair of jeans off the back of the chair he’d flung them across before crawling into bed last night and began to pull them on.

“Well, I care!” Marcus’s shout startled Scott so much he almost dropped the phone.

“I’m not involved with Marisol,” he said. Yes, there had been that moment when their eyes had locked in the café yesterday. In that briefest instant he’d felt the heat of desire and possibility arc between them once more.

A possibility that would go unfulfilled. Marisol was leaving town. And he was staying here, out of trouble.

“You’d better not be involved with her,” Marcus growled.

Scott stiffened. “Even if I was, what difference would it make?” he said. “She was acquitted of the murder charges.”

“Acquitted! All that means is she had good lawyers. It doesn’t mean she was innocent.”

Scott froze in the act of zipping the jeans, his hand tightening on the receiver. “Marisol did not murder her husband,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even.

“And you know this how? Were you there?” Marcus’s voice was a gravelly sneer.

“Of course I wasn’t there.” He finished zipping the jeans and began to pace. “I watched the trial and the prosecution clearly didn’t have enough evidence to convict her. Besides, she had nothing to gain by her husband’s death, and everything to lose. She did lose everything, which is why she moved back here and got a job waitressing in a café.”

“Maybe she’s just waiting for all the hubbub to die down, then she’ll go away and spend the millions she’s hiding from the government.”

Scott took the receiver from his ear and stared at it. He was tempted to ask Marcus if he also believed in UFOs, alien abduction and other bizarre theories.

Marcus laughed again, a harsh, barking sound. “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what you think or even what the truth is. For the better part of a year, Marisol Dixon was the woman people loved to hate—the rich bitch socialite who offed her husband, the highest paid player in NBA history. Just because some jury said she didn’t do it doesn’t mean people believe it.”

Scott knew a thing or two about being tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion, but Marcus’s cynicism about Marisol annoyed him. “Thanks for letting me know about the picture in the paper,” he said. “I’ll lay low a few days and it will all blow over.”

“And stay away from Marisol whatever-her-name-is.”

“She’s a client. If she wants to talk to me, I can’t avoid her.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have her as a client, then.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I hired you to represent my interests in this new development. The buyers I’m courting here are high rollers from Houston and Dallas—the kind of people who think the worst of a social climber like Mrs. Dixon. If they think you’re associated with her, then that reflects badly on me.”

The fact that Marcus had hired him to sell a bunch of golf course lots didn’t give him the right to dictate who Scott could and could not associate with. He would have liked nothing better than to tell the man so, but that desire came up against hard reality. Those listings from Marcus were Scott’s ticket back to both solvency and respectability. If he lost them, he may well lose his last chance to redeem himself.

“I took a big risk hiring you,” Marcus reminded him. “Don’t make me regret it.” Or you will regret it was the unspoken codicil. Marcus had ruined people with better reputations than Scott who had gotten on his wrong side. He wielded the power that came with his wealth with all the subtlety of a war club.

“I promise not to do anything that would fuel any rumors about my association with Ms. Luna,” Scott said stiffly. “Ours is strictly a business relationship.” That was all that would ever be between them, but he would not—even at Marcus’s insistence—refuse to do the one thing he could do for her, that is, sell her house.

“See that you don’t. And keep Sunday open for me. I’ve got a group of investors coming down from Houston to look at the development. I think they’ll be good for at least one lot each, maybe more.”

“I’ll be here,” Scott said. “I’ll let you go now. Goodbye.” He hung up before Marcus could think of any more orders to give him. He sat on the side on the bed, heart thudding hard in his chest, the familiar feeling of wanting to escape almost overwhelming. Drugs had provided that kind of escape once, a floating euphoria that made all his problems disappear.

But he was stronger than that now. He could cope. He stood and went into the bathroom, where he chose a bottle from the medicine cabinet and shook out a single, small pill. He hated he’d traded one drug dependence for another, but a methamphetamine habit and the subsequent recovery had left him with a lingering anxiety disorder he kept under control with the help of a prescription and a meditation practice the Buddhist director of the treatment center where he’d spent three months had passed on him.

He finished dressing and made coffee and toast, then walked to the street and collected his copy of the Houston paper from the box at the end of the driveway. Sure enough, there on the lower right quadrant of the front page was a close-up of him and Marisol, his arm around her, their heads together, in the backseat of his father’s car.

It was an intimate shot, her head tilted toward his, almost touching, her hair fallen forward to hide much of her face, only the curve of her cheek and lips and part of one eye showing. Lamar Dixon’s widow wastes no time finding new beau read the caption beneath the photo.

They obviously hadn’t talked to anyone in Cedar Switch about his relationship with Marisol, or they’d have learned pretty quickly he was her real estate agent, not her lover. Then again, he supposed men like those reporters never let truth get in the way of a good story.

He continued to stare at the photograph, at that moment frozen on the page. Marisol looked beautiful and vulnerable and he had never felt more protective. Had she seen this? What did she think? Should he call her and see how she was doing? Not out of any romantic interest, but because he wanted her to know she had at least one friend in this town.

He was still standing on his front porch, staring at the paper when the screech of tires drew his attention. He looked up as a familiar lime-green VW pulled to the curb.

The driver’s side door opened and a lithe blonde dressed in navy trousers and a navy and white blouse stepped out.

“Tiffany? What are you doing here so early in the morning?” he asked. Tiffany Ballieu taught fourth grade at Cedar Switch Elementary school. Normally at this hour she’d be on her way to playground duty or bus duty or preparing her classroom for the day’s lessons.

In the year they’d been dating, Scott had come to know her routines, and adopted the same predictable rhythm for his life: dinner together Wednesday and Friday nights, usually followed by sex. Nothing too wild, but satisfying and comfortable. Everything about Tiffany was satisfying and comfortable; she was never a source of anxiety or stress. She accepted and loved him with no special effort on his part, and he appreciated this as well as all her other good qualities.

Instead of answering his greeting this morning, however, she leaned back into the car and retrieved something from the front seat. As she walked toward him, Scott saw it was a folded newspaper. His breakfast felt like mud in his stomach.

“What is the meaning of this?” She thrust the paper at him.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he said, not bothering to look at the photo.

“Lamar Dixon’s widow wastes no time finding new beau,” she read. “How is that nothing?”

“My father and I were eating lunch in the café when that photographer and a reporter showed up,” he said. “We helped her get out of there, that’s all.”

“So she’s just some stranger you helped out of the goodness of your heart.” She stared at the photo again. “You look awfully cozy for strangers.”

“Marisol isn’t exactly a stranger. We knew each other in school, and she’s listed her house here with me.”

“Neither of those are any reason for you to be snuggling up with her in the backseat of a car.”

He crossed his arms and frowned at her. He’d always thought of Tiffany as easygoing and reasonable. Her jealousy over something so innocent annoyed him. “We’re not snuggling, Tif. The photographer framed the shot for the effect he wanted. These guys are out to make money, not tell the truth.”

“It’s humiliating,” she said. “Everyone knows you and I are dating, and now they’ll see this and they’ll think you left me for some rich, glamorous… floozy. ”

The old-fashioned word almost made him laugh. Except that he was still too annoyed at Tiffany’s reaction—or rather, over reaction. “Marisol isn’t rich,” he said. “And she’s not a floozy.”

“But you obviously think she’s glamorous.” She pressed her lips together in a pout.

When he didn’t respond, she launched into a fresh assault. “What is she doing here, anyway?” she said. “Cedar Switch doesn’t have a Social Register for her to crash, or fancy parties and country clubs where she can show off her designer dresses and shoes.”

Since when was Tiffany opposed to parties, or fancy dresses or shoes? Did she really feel threatened in some way by Marisol’s arrival in town? “She came here to avoid publicity and start over,” he said. “She’s a widow with a teenage daughter and this is her hometown, after all.”

Tiffany wrinkled her nose. “I hear she’s driving around in a red Corvette,” she said. “And she wasn’t even here two days before her picture was in the paper. Those aren’t the actions of someone who truly wishes to lay low.”

“The photographer wasn’t her fault. He must have followed her here.”

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed to catlike slits. “You certainly know a lot about your client. ”

He was tired of defending himself and Marisol against these accusations. “Marisol is a friend,” he said firmly. “She needs friends right now. I’m not going to apologize for that.”

“What if I asked you not to see her again? For my sake.”

He stared at her, unsure if she was serious. She looked determined, which only made him angry. “You don’t have a right to dictate my friendships.”

“I’m the woman you love. That ought to give me some rights.”

Silence stretched between them, painful and heavy. He knew she was waiting for him to reassure her that he did love her, and that she was the only woman for him. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

He liked Tiffany. He enjoyed being with her. She was intelligent, fun and a good lover. Lately, she’d been hinting strongly that she wanted to get married, and he’d almost talked himself into buying a ring and giving it to her for her birthday next month. After all, it was time he settled down, and he couldn’t imagine anyone with whom he felt more settled than Tiffany.

Then Marisol had come to town, and he’d been reminded of other dreams he’d once had for his life—of exciting adventures and great passions. He knew intellectually that all those things would be a mistake. He hadn’t the temperament for them now, if he ever had. Hell, he couldn’t get through the day without medication—what was getting involved with a woman like Marisol going to do to his ability to cope?

No, the smart thing to do was to keep his life on an even keel, to work on building his real estate practice and restoring his reputation.

Yet sliding into an easy life with Tiffany, into a marriage built on friendship and comfort rather than soul-gripping love, now felt like surrendering. Giving up.

The hardness went out of her face as she watched him, replaced by disappointment and sorrow. “I guess this means we’re through,” she said, and burst into tears.

He didn’t go to her, merely stood rooted to the floor of the porch as she whirled and raced to her car.

It wasn’t that he was in love with Marisol—he hardly knew her. But her sudden return to his life had awakened him out of the safe and comfortable stupor he’d fallen into since emerging from rehab almost a year ago. He’d been so fearful of slipping into old dangerous habits he hadn’t allowed himself to do anything that would call forth strong feelings of any kind.

Yet less than forty-eight hours after meeting Marisol again he’d been enraged on her behalf, risked public censure defending her, stood up—in a small way—to Marcus, and steeled himself against Tiffany’s tears. He felt stronger than he had in months, yet aware that he was dancing on the edge of a chasm. He’d fallen in once before, and narrowly escaped with his life.

He didn’t know how much further he dared to go, but he wanted to find out. Marisol had reminded him of what it meant to be alive again. Opening himself up to that kind of life—to both the joys and pain that were part of it—was a scary prospect, but one he welcomed after months of numbness. He couldn’t retreat now. He could only go forward into whatever good—or bad—the future had in store for him.

M ARY CAME to see Marisol the afternoon after the picture ran in the paper. “I brought you your pay for the hours you worked, and the tips that were in your apron,” she said, handing over an envelope fat with cash.

Marisol ushered her inside, searching over her shoulder for any sign of the photographer’s return. So far neither he nor the reporter had tracked her to this house, or bothered Toni at school, but she remained wary. Any hope she’d had of real privacy in this out-of-the-way town had been pure fantasy. The public’s continued fascination with her and her tragedy amazed her. Lamar was dead, the trial was over—couldn’t they move on to something else?

“I’m sorry about what happened yesterday,” she said, when she joined Mary on the living room sofa. “I shouldn’t have dropped the tray and run out of there that way, but I panicked.” She’d done the weak thing and allowed Scott and his father to talk her into leaving.

“It’s okay.” Mary smoothed her hands down the front of her khaki slacks. She was a thin woman, with knobby fingers and wrists, fine hair curling around her face like a child’s. “We cleaned it up and everything calmed down after you left.” She cleared her throat and raised her head to meet Marisol’s eyes. “You’ll understand if I don’t ask you to come back?”

Marisol nodded, the ache in the pit of her stomach growing. Part of her had known this was coming, though she’d hoped not.

“You did a good job, especially for a first day,” Mary said. “But it’s too disruptive to my business, and not fair to the other employees, and the customers, to have people in there just for the sake of…of gawking.”

“I know.” Marisol swallowed hard, and straightened her back. “I’ll find something else. Something that isn’t so public.” Maybe she could get a job clerking at the courthouse, or doing secretarial work in an office somewhere.

“I’m glad you understand.” Mary stood abruptly, clearly anxious to leave. “Good luck.”

Right. As if Marisol believed in luck anymore. She saw Mary to the door, then locked it behind her. As much as she wanted to stay hiding in here for the next few weeks or months until the house sold and she was able to move, the balance in her bank account was too small to comfortably rely on for an undetermined amount of time. Besides, hiding felt like letting the creeps win. She had no reason to be ashamed of showing her face in town.