Sweet Water

by Anna Jeffrey

  Dejected and worn out, she dropped to the sofa in the apartment living room. Homelessness was no longer an abstraction that loomed in the future; it was now a blaring reality.

  In fact, it was a five-hundred-pound bomb and so overwhelming that Marisa hyperventilated and had to rush outside, where she could draw a breath. Despair threatened to crush her. Disposal of the flea market inventory and the café equipment had to begin at once. Without delay she had to put together a resume and start the hunt for a job. Somewhere. She had to find a place for her and Mama to live. Somewhere. And after she found a job, while she worked, someone had to stay with Mama.

  Did Terry Ledger know about the mobile home? He must. Why hadn’t the jerk said something? Anger began to seethe within her, at her mother for allowing this mess to exist and at the man holding their fate in his hands.

  ****

  Terry drove into Agua Dulce Sunday evening, locked and loaded for his meeting with Larson’s site development team. He had brought with him dozens of maps, pages of statistics and piles of traffic and demographic studies. He wanted to tell no one of Larson’s impending visit, but he had promised Marisa he would keep her aware of the progress and he was a man of his word.

  Knowing he was on the verge of upending the lives of every citizen in Agua Dulce still pecked at him. He hadn’t reached the pinnacle of success in the risky world of real estate development and speculative home building without being able to size up a problem and read people. The easiest way to salve his conscience and accomplish what he wanted was to get everyone’s cooperation. To do that, the first person he needed to win over to his side was Marisa. In her, beneath a crusty layer of cynicism, he saw a quiet strength and a fair share of horse sense.

  Beyond that, hunger was gnawing at his gut. He’d had nothing to eat since breakfast and knew he would find no food in his mobile home. As he neared Pecos Belle’s, the lone sixties-era neon sign shouted out in the twilight. Well, in reality, encircled by only partially burning pink neon, the metal oval was more a sputter than a shout.

  He debated whether he should stop in and order supper and perhaps tell Marisa about Larson’s now, but his saner side, having acknowledged the truth of his attraction to her, sent out an alarm warning him away from her. Nearing the café, he couldn’t make up his mind how he should behave.

  Hunger won out and he angle-parked his truck in front of Pecos Belle’s. As he entered the flea market, the whole place smelled of something good and his hunger intensified. He heard voices.

  When he reached the café area in the back of the building, he saw Bob Nichols sitting at one end of the lunch counter, talking to Marisa. With his wild white hair that looked as if he had combed it with an eggbeater, his white beard, khaki pants and bush coat he looked as if he might have come off an African safari. Marisa was wearing tight jeans and a white T-shirt with an eagle and an American flag splashed across the front. Oh, man, she looked as good in a T-shirt as she did in jeans and he felt a tiny pull low in his belly. Damn.

  With his footsteps muffled by the mass of displayed merchandise in the crowded flea market, apparently neither she nor Nichols had heard him enter. They had their heads together in low conversation. “Hey,” he said, approaching the lunch counter.

  She and Nichols both looked up, surprised. Nichols stood immediately, pulled his wallet from his pants pocket and handed her several bills. He ducked around Terry’s side and headed for the front door so quickly Terry didn’t get out another word.

  “Bob, don’t worry. Everything will be okay,” Marisa called after him.

  “What was that about?” Terry asked, his gaze following the bushy-haired eccentric all the way to the door.

  Marisa moved to a spot behind lunch counter and crossed her arms under her breasts, a dishtowel dangling from one hand. “You intimidate him.”

  Terry opened his palms. “What’d I do?”

  “You don’t have to do much to intimidate Bob. He’s cowed by even the roadrunners.” She sidled to where Nichols had been sitting, stacked his dishes and began to wipe the lunch counter. “I hope you didn’t come to eat. I’m almost ready to close. I’ve already turned off the griddle and cleaned up.”

  So much for abating his hunger pangs. “Uh, no. I just dropped by to let you know I’m back.”

  “Okay. You’re back.”

  Was that reply bristly? Was she mad? And if so, about what? He took a seat at the lunch counter near the glass dome that always protected a freshly baked pie. Beneath it he saw one thick slab of something fruity. Apple, maybe. “Pie looks good. You bake it?”

  “Who else would bake it? It’s not like I can just run to Albertson’s and get one.”

  “Yeah, I see—”

  “You want that last slice?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I charge three-fifty for a slice of fruit pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.” She walked over, lifted the dome, deftly scooped the slice onto a serving plate, then slid it into the microwave. She gathered the pie tin and the domed plate, added them to Bob’s dishes and whisked them off to the kitchen. Returning, she took the slice of pie from the microwave, dug a scoop of ice cream out of the freezer and set the whole thing on the counter in front of him. A fork and napkin beside his plate followed. Then she returned to wiping the lunch counter, all without a word.

  In the face of her obvious annoyance, the only thing Terry could think to do was eat. The first bite of pie—apple it was—was so scrumptious his tongue wanted to cheer. He devoured the pie to the last crumb.

  “Good grief,” she said, looking at his plate, then at him. “You must be really hungry.”

  He met her eyes and was sure he saw genuine concern. “I haven’t eaten all day,” he said. “Homemade pie’s something I don’t get real often. It’s one of my favorite things.”

  She looked at him a few beats, as if she were studying him. “I could make you a lunch-meat sandwich,” she said finally. “I just don’t want to heat up the griddle again.”

  That was the way she was. Caring enough to prepare him a meal, even though he was pretty sure she was mad at him for some reason. “I don’t want you to go to the trouble...”

  But she was already dragging out ham and cheese, lettuce and tomatoes. In a matter of minutes, she placed a thick sandwich in front of him. He felt sheepish as hell, but he also still felt hungry, so he picked up the sandwich. “Sit with me a minute?”

  She stood there, looking at the cold-drink dispenser, lips pursed, jaw tight. At a loss how to react to her sharp attitude, he said, “I just came back from Fort Worth.” For some reason, he felt like a dumb turd.

  She picked up two Styrofoam cups, drew two Cokes and set one beside his plate. She came around the end of the counter carrying the other and took a seat beside him. She peeled the paper from a straw, poked it through a scored hole in the lid and sucked up a long swallow. Something to do with him was on her mind or she wouldn’t have sat down.

  “Long drive,” he said and bit into the sandwich.

  “I know. I used to live in the Metroplex. Ever eat in that big pancake house on I-30 between Fort Worth and Dallas?”

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin and couldn’t hold back a smile, glad she now seemed to be less angry. “I don’t think so.”

  Her finger made a circle from a drop of moisture on the countertop. “I used to be the chief cook and bottle washer there.”

  “The manager?”

  “Nah. I’m not worth a damn at giving people orders. But I’m a really good cook. Anyway, it was awful. Everything’s fried. Everything but the pancakes, that is.”

  No way was any of that what was on her mind, but he was pretty sure it was best to wait her out and not push. “I don’t get out that way much. I live in Fort Worth. Downtown.” He gave her a cautious look from the corner of his eye and took another bite.

  “How nice. Guess that’s where I’d expect a guy rich enough to buy half of West Texas to live.”

  Okay, enough was enough. He
put down his sandwich and turned to face her. “If you’re mad at me for some reason, I’d like to know why.”

  She stabbed her straw into the ice in her Styrofoam cup and glowered at him across her shoulder. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s not bad enough you own this building where I make my living and you’re going to tear it down around my ears. You haven’t even had the courtesy to inform me you own the roof over my head. And my mother’s.”

  So that was it. “I thought you knew.”

  “Not until Ben told me.”

  “The drunk.”

  “Stop calling him that. Just because he has a few shortcomings doesn’t mean you should call him names.” She began to tear a paper napkin into strips. “He’s one of my best friends.”

  “I wonder if he appreciates your loyalty. I wonder if he’s able to appreciate anyone’s loyalty. He’s a total alcoholic, Marisa. He’s written some of the coolest songs in country music. He’s made a fortune, but he’s squandered most of it.”

  She lifted her chin and those mysterious dark eyes bored into him. “Are you without flaws, Mr. Ledger?”

  He didn’t dare duck her gaze. “I’ve got plenty of flaws, but drowning myself in booze isn’t one of them.”

  She looked away. “Well, good for you, I guess.” She began to tear the napkin strips into tiny squares. “For your information we had a town meeting yesterday.”

  A caution light clicked on in his head. “Who had a meeting?”

  “Us peons who live here and try to make a living here. Your ears must have been burning like hell. You were the main topic.”

  “Don’t tell me y’all decided to lynch me.”

  “No, they didn’t. I’m the only one here who’s capable of violence.”

  He already knew her well enough to know that retort was hyperbole. She was tough, but at the same time she was a softie. “I’m not going to kick you out of your home, Marisa. I do have something to tell you, though. I said I’d be as up front and honest as I can. Are you familiar with Larson’s Truck and Travel Stops?”

  “I knew it was something like that.”

  He stared into her eyes, willing her not to look away. “My plan is to tear down this building and put a Larson’s here, in this spot.” He tapped a finger on the counter—tap-tap-tap.

  The mole at the corner of her delectable mouth twitched, but otherwise she didn’t flinch. “Then I guess it’s a lie that you ain’t gonna kick us out of our happy home, isn’t it?”

  “I understand your situation. I’m trying to come up with a solution.”

  “Forget it. I’ll find my own solutions.”

  She started to rise, but he grasped her forearm. “Marisa, the reason I’m telling you this is because two representatives from Larson’s will be here Tuesday. I’d rather you hear who they are from me than to get hit with it unexpectedly.”

  A haunted look came into her eyes and he thought he saw a sudden rush of tears, but she didn’t break down. She freed her arm. “That soon, huh? I was hoping we had a little time.”

  “All they’re doing is coming for a look-see. I don’t know exactly what will develop after that. Or when.”

  She glared at him, near tears replaced by fury. “Dammit, can’t you see how lost these people here will be when you put them out on the street?”

  “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

  She gave a sarcastic huff. “If Mr. Patel is put out of business, whether it’s by the state of Texas or by your new station, everything he has will be gone. He won’t have an income or even a place to live. And Bob and Ben. I don’t know how either of them would adjust to living somewhere else. This tiny community is all they have. Why do you think Bob’s stayed here? Why do you think Ben doesn’t live in Nashville?”

  “Marisa, I’ve spent a lot of money on this place. My money. And I’m spending more every day. I don’t have an angel. I can’t afford to turn this into a charity for mis--into a charity.”

  “Go ahead and say it. For misfits. You think all of us should be locked up on the funny farm.”

  “That’s harsh. I don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, you do,” she grumbled. “And just for the record, I don’t think an angel is looking out for me, either.”

  “I meant I don’t have a financial backer. I meant I’m spending my own money here and my bank account isn’t bottomless.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched again and her head turned toward the flea market. “You need to go. I’m late checking on my mother.”

  She left the stool and vanished into the kitchen. Seconds later, the lights went out. Neon advertising on the walls cast the whole place in an eerie red aura. He still had half a sandwich on his plate. She returned to the dining area, keys jangling in her hand, and marched toward the front door. He had no choice but to follow.

  “Okay, dammit, I’m outta here,” he said when they reached the front door. “I’m trying to do the right thing, but you—”

  “The right thing, Mr. Ledger, was for you to have stayed in Fort Worth and kept your money with you. But it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 13

  Monday morning took Marisa to Terry Ledger’s front door. Again. Last night, she had been so put out with the man, she had forgotten to mention the well water. Now, as she stood on his deck banging on his door, she could think of two hundred places she would rather be.

  The solid door opened and she found herself again looking at him through his screen door’s haze. He was wearing Levi’s and a red polo shirt. He opened the screen door.

  “They’re worried about the water,” she said. “They have no other place to get it. There’s a village in this county that has water hauled in from Pecos. It costs a fortune. Those guys can’t afford that.”

  There. She had presented the case. She braced herself for the counterattack. He had to be angry after their exchange last night.

  He tucked back his chin and looked puzzled for a few seconds. He probably thought she was crazy, the way she stormed around and blurted out righteous declarations. Then dawning came into his expression. “You mean Patel and Nichols.”

  “Lanny, too.”

  He hesitated, just looking at her. For a moment she feared he might ask her to leave. Finally he stood back. “Come in,” he said.

  She stepped inside, struggling to ignore his tanned skin and stark blue eyes, the narrowness of his waist compared to his shoulders and just how delectable he looked in red muscle-hugging knit. S-E-X scrolled through her mind like streaming video.

  Disgusted with herself for allowing him to make her nervous, she swerved her gaze from him to the surroundings. The mobile home was still neat and as spotless as it had been a few days earlier, which surprised her. In her past observations of men living alone, by now his place should be a wreck. Someone must be doing his housekeeping, but if that were true, why hadn’t she heard of it? Very little occurred here that she failed to learn about.

  Only the dining table and the breakfast bar where papers and file folders were scattered showed disorder. He extended his hand, gesturing her toward the sofa. She sank onto one end. He sat down on the opposite end, a palm braced on one knee and an elbow on the other, a totally male pose. His eyes looked straight into hers. “These men need to be thinking about drilling another well.”

  “But that’ll cost a lot of money.”

  “They can afford it.”

  She opened her mouth to fire back, but discovered she had no argument. In all the years she had known Bob, Lanny and Mr. Patel, she had always been aware how much better off financially each of them was than her and Mama. Even so, she rarely thought of it. Right now, their having more financial security than her and her mother made no difference. She had promised to stand up for them.

  “It’s a matter of practicality,” he added. “I might not have enough water for my project. I may have to drill another well myself. I repeat, those guys can afford to drill their own well. Or wells.”

  Common sense tol
d her he was right, yet she shook her head, determined not to give up, determined to put forth a diligent effort, as promised. “You probably don’t know much about this part of the country. The chances of their hitting good water in a new well are slim to none. And what happens if no one hits water at all?”

  “You’ve just made my point. And you’re wrong about me not knowing the country. I grew up in Odessa. Went to Permian High School. I used to kayak the Pecos when it flooded in the spring.”

  Okay, so he wasn’t a greenhorn outsider. Nor was he a sissy. Kayaking down the Pecos during the spring high water wasn’t for the faint of heart. Big deal. A lot of crazy people did it. They came to Agua Dulce in the spring for just that purpose. “I still don’t see how it would hurt you to let them use the water. If it’s money, they’re willing to pay you, like you’re a water company or something.”

  “By the time I bring the water system up to state standards, I will be a water company.”

  “Well, there you go,” she said, flinging a hand in the air. “All you have to do is send them a bill.”

  His eyes drilled her, he shook his head slowly and she knew she had lost the battle. Shit. She had been effective in presenting Gordon Tubbs’ dilemma, but was zero for two for Bob, Lanny and Mr. Patel. She had to get out of here. Damned if she would ever have another meeting with Terry Ledger on someone else’s behalf. She had her own problems to worry about. All at once, her breakfast of toast and coffee churned in her stomach. She stood up abruptly. “I have to go home.”

  He stood, too. “I’ll go with you. I want to meet—”

  “No! You can’t.”

  “Marisa, I need to meet your mother. She owns a business operating in the middle of what I’m doing.”

  “If you have business with my mother, you’ll have to deal with me.”

  He tilted his head and looked into her eyes. “Do you have her power of attorney? Or some other kind of legal permission to speak for her?”

  Naturally he remembered what she had told him about Mama. Marisa felt as if he had punched her. Another reality check. She had meant to take care of that small matter of power of attorney, but had never made the time. Or found the money to pay a lawyer. Her mouth opened and closed like some damn goldfish. “No,” she finally answered.