A Man to Rely On

“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.”