by Anna Jeffrey
His head turned away from her, as if he were thinking about what she said.
“Besides all that, I don’t have time for it,” she added, giving him an even easier out. “After all that’s happened this past year, I don’t know if I have anything left inside me. Or I should say, anything I’m willing to risk on a long shot.”
He drew himself up. “You’re calling me a long shot?”
“To be honest, I wish I hadn’t let things go so far between us. It’s just made this conversation that much harder.”
The man who had made love to her, who had whispered the most tender words of affection in her ear, who had driven her to heights of passion she had never known before, changed personalities right in front of her. His eyes turned hard, one corner of his mouth tipped up, but it wasn’t a humorous expression. “Funny, but I didn’t guess you to be chickenhearted.”
“Please, Terry. I know you’re mad and I don’t blame you. But stop and think about it. Once I get me and Mama out of your hair, your life will be so much easier.”
“I’m not looking for easier.”
She pressed on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Without me in the picture you’ll have an easier time dealing with the others. Without me, they won’t argue with you about what you’re doing. You can focus on your development. I know it’s going to be a huge success—”
“I thought what was going on between us meant something, Marisa. What you’re handing me is lily-livered excuses, not reasons.”
“Terry, please—”
“I’ll tell you this much. I can be back here in a few hours. But if you have no faith, if you won’t let me be with you when things are hard, then I guess you’re right. This can’t work. You won’t let it. If you really mean for me not to come back, you can believe I won’t.”
She stood there, dying inside and watching a fantasy slide through her fingers like the West Texas sands. “Don’t come back,” she said.
****
Terry stared out the window at Henry pacing the deck rail in the morning sunshine, as if he waited for Terry to come out and play. Terry couldn’t find amusement or even the usual modicum of entertainment in watching a fucking bird. He hadn’t slept since yesterday morning when he and Marisa had awakened together in Albuquerque. Nor had he showered. He had sweated through his clothes yesterday and still had them on. He smelled worse than a weeklong survival mission in a swamp.
He felt hollow inside, as if everything in him had been ripped out and a gaping hole left. How could things have gone so sour in a matter of hours? How could Marisa take the bond that had grown between them and just throw it away? But that was what she had done. Cut and run, without even allowing him the opportunity to share her problems or help her solve them.
The day away from Agua Dulce with Marisa had been more than he had imagined it could be. He had known attractive women, but never one who was as beautiful inside as outside. With his own eyes, he had watched her forgive her flaky aunt, who had damn near killed Raylene. Who else did he know who would do that? Yet Marisa had taken the aunt under her wing like a mother hen, and moved on. Just as she did everyone she met, including him.
Well, what had happened now was his own fault. He had put his heart out there for her to pummel, had almost told her his feelings. Would have, given a little more time.
What had he been thinking, giving her a role in his contentment? He had never allowed a woman that much power over any part of his life.
From out of nowhere a deeply secreted memory rushed at him. Him, at age six, his mom packed and loading suitcases into her car, all the while telling him a boy should be with his father. He could still remember the feel of his small hand buried inside his dad’s big one as his mom drove away. He had crawled under his bed and cried all night, terrified at her being gone and worried what he had done to drive her away.
He stopped his stroll through the surreal halls of his memory. What the hell was he doing, thinking of his mother? His mom and Marisa were nothing alike.
He left his seat at the dining table and moved to the kitchen, reached into the cupboard for a glass. On the top shelf sat the partial gallon of Jack Daniel’s Marisa had left there the day she came to talk about the water well. He dragged it off the shelf and studied the label. He wasn’t one to dwell on the past or feel sorry for himself. Nor was he one to douse his anguish with alcohol, but today he just wanted to take the edge off the pain.
Childhood intruded again, as if he didn’t have the discipline to will it away. Though he lived in uncertainty and guilt for months after his mother left, her departure hadn’t been the end of his relationship with her, after all. The following year his dad hired on with an oil company and moved to Saudi Arabia. A debate followed as to whether Terry should live with his widowed grandmother or his mom and her new husband.
Given no choice, he ended up with his grandmother on her farm for two years, where they spent summers gardening and canning the vegetables the garden produced. They fed and cared for her small herd of cattle, visited with the neighbors and watched soap operas on snowy TV. He was happy at his grandmother’s, but by fourth grade he had been yanked out of school in the small town where she lived and planted in the home of his mom and her husband in Odessa. In terms of trusting relationships with women, things had gone downhill from there.
He reached for a glass and poured himself two fingers of whiskey. The first sip burned the length of his gullet. The second went down easier and smoothed out his mood. One more drink might actually touch the crimp in his gut. Bottle and glass in hand, he returned to the dining table and the stacks of blueprints and file folders. He swept the whole lot onto the floor, clearing a spot for his bottle and his glass.
By dusk, it seemed like every whiskey-drinking, love-gone-wrong song he had ever heard had played on the radio. Bad business, drinking to the company of country musicians. Making his way to the bathroom, he stumbled over a dining room chair and almost fell. After he finished in the bathroom, making the trip back to the dining table seemed to take too much energy, so he staggered to the bedroom and fell across the bed. As the room spun around him, he closed his eyes. Sleep. He needed sleep.
The cell phone at his belt awoke him. He squinted against the brilliant sunlight that filled the room. He was hot. A drum was beating between his temples. His feet ached. He sat up and glanced down, saw he was still wearing boots. He fumbled the bleating phone to his ear. “Talk to me. And it better be good.”
“Terry?”
Fuck. Walt Grayson, his CPA in Fort Worth. Terry leaned an elbow on his thigh and dropped his forehead into his palm. “Hey, Walt. What’s new?”
Nervous laugh from Walt. If Terry had more strength and if his brain worked better, he would be alarmed. “Not much, with me,” the CPA said. “I’ve been calling your office in Fort Worth. Didn’t you get my messages?”
At least a dozen. At this moment, Terry couldn’t come up with an excuse why he hadn’t returned the calls. “Uh, yeah, I think so. I’ve been busy, Walt.”
“When you headed back this way? We need a sit-down.”
“Why? Am I broke?”
“Not yet. But you could get there if you don’t see some income soon off that development in West Texas.”
“The RV park’s got income. Campers every night. Rancho Casero is still selling.”
“I’m talking real income. Terry, you’ve spent a pile of money. You’ve gone deeper into hock than I’ve ever seen you. You’re maxed out everywhere, man. Debt service on that big-ass bank loan is just around the corner and the RV park and Rancho Casero together don’t produce a revenue stream that’ll cover it.”
On an intellectual level, Terry knew all of that, but somehow there had been a disconnect between his brain and his activities on the ground. “You must have something in mind. What do I need to do?”
“Chick’s on the final leg of that big fancy house in Fort Worth, the one you’re building for that baseball player. That’s a substantial amount of cash outstanding
. If you come back here and push it a little you could probably close it this month and pump up your operating account.”
Terry rubbed his stubbled jaw. The baseball player under discussion owed Terry Ledger Homes over a million dollars. Chick was a great construction foreman, a super engineer, but he was a plodder. Not a mover and shaker. The CPA was probably right. Left on his own, Chick would get the mansion built, but he probably wouldn’t get the payment for it collected by the end of the month.
“Other than that,” Walt went on, “for right now, you need to get Larson’s off their dime and close that deal. Either that or move on to another idea.”
Another problem that called for Terry’s personal attention. He had left too much of the Larson deal up to his assistant, Kim. No way could she wrap it up. Even if she had the capability, she didn’t have the authority.
“Uugg,” Terry mumbled.
“Bills from West Texas are coming in faster than the money to pay them. I don’t want to see you get boxed in.”
The life of a speculator. This wasn’t the first time Terry had been backed against a wall, but he had never been boxed in.
“I’ll work on it,” Terry said. “I’ll get back to you.”
They disconnected and Terry fell back on the mattress and closed his eyes. It had been years since he had awakened wiped out this severely by a hangover. And it had been years since he had received a call like the one he had just gotten from his accountant.
He took no small amount of pride in being the legendary wealthy and successful “self-made man.” OC he had been called many times. Uptight. Control freak. A psychiatrist for whom he had built a five-thousand-square-foot house told him it came from his childhood, when he’d had control of nothing, when his life had been in a constant state of upheaval due to his mother’s ups and downs with husbands, or boyfriends, or her career.
Well, Walt had his attention. That hard-won Ledger success was at stake. Even if he wanted to torture himself, he no longer had the luxury of fooling with Marisa and the crackpot citizens of Agua Dulce. He had reached that conclusion before, but this time, it couldn’t be ignored.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Hungover or not, he was a problem solver, accustomed to hammering at a thing until it fit his need or his idea. His attention to detail, his drive for perfection, his concentration on the prize were all unique abilities that taken him to a plateau beyond the wildest dreams of most thirty six-year-old men who had started with nothing.
His thoughts began to come together in his mushy brain. One trip to Oklahoma City and he could pin down Larson’s and come away with a signed contract. He had already figured out that they wanted to move on the Pecos Belle’s property. The axiom he had in common with Bob Nichols came to mind. People always do what they want to do. Stalling on signing a final contract was just Larson’s way of playing hardball, hoping Terry would weaken and sweeten their deal. Distracted by Marisa and the Agua Dulce oddballs, instead of maintaining control in the travel-stop deal, he had let Larson’s bully Kim and call the shots. If he got his shit together and acted now, the mega travel stop could be doing business in Agua Dulce in six months.
Marisa and her mother had to go. Fuck.
As far as Ledger Ranches was concerned, for all practical purposes, a few more details and street construction could begin. The cash from the sale to Larson’s was slated to be set aside for that purpose.
But to get his hands on that money, Marisa and her mother had to go.
And so did Tanya.
Visualizing a grand opening of a Larson’s Truck & Travel Stop took his thoughts to Mandan Patel and his cute kids. Terry didn’t especially like Patel, but he recognized hard work when he saw it. Patel and every member of his family slaved in that service station and convenience store. Terry continued to salve his conscience where Patel was concerned by reminding himself that even if Larson’s didn’t put the guy out of business, sooner or later, the State of Texas would.
Then there was Bob and his motel. Terry had the Days Inn franchise in hand, had assured Larson’s he would build it to open in conjunction with the travel stop. It would sit next door to the travel stop, on the opposite side from the Starlight Inn.
Bob Nichols’ days in the motel business were numbered.
Tanya and Jake Shepherd. Tanya was a surprisingly talented artist. After he razed the building where she showed her work, what would she do? She probably didn’t have the contacts to get into a good gallery. And once he closed on the deal to buy out the XO, her husband would be out of a job.
By Terry’s calculations, only Ben and Gordon Tubbs had a secure existence in the future. Gordon, because Terry had promised Larson’s the Sweet Water RV & Mobile Home Village would remain open year-round, and Ben, because he didn’t own anything in Agua Dulce. He only rented a tumbledown mobile in the RV park.
He stopped himself. Hell. He was doing it again. Instead of making decisions about his development and his future, he was stewing over the Agua Dulce residents. He had to quit it.
And he had to get to Fort Worth and sit down with his accountant for a strategy session and at the same time check on the houses under construction by Terry Ledger Homes and collect a million dollars form a baseball player.
He sat up and pried off his boots, then got to his feet. His stomach roiled. Hanging on to the walls, he made it to the bathroom. For the first time since he had come to Agua Dulce, he wished for a TV, driven by a sudden urge to hear the news and weather reports and learn what was happening in the rest of the world. He took the radio to the bathroom to listen while he shaved. Besides country music, all he was able to tune in to was a farm and ranch report from somewhere in New Mexico.
Chapter 27
Marisa returned to Agua Dulce several days later, exhausted and nursing an upset stomach. She blamed it on a weeklong diet of junk food. Mama had been moved from the ICU to a hospital room and would be coming home in a few days. Her neurologist had prescribed a newly developed drug to slow the deterioration of her memory. Unfortunately, it would do nothing to restore what was already gone.
Pecos Belle’s had been and was being maintained by a sober Ben. The kitchen was a mess, but the café doors had evidently remained open and Ben had sold food to a few customers brave enough to try his cooking. He had even sold some items from the flea market.
Self-imposed penance on his part. Marisa accepted the gesture as his way of apologizing for his role in what had happened to Mama.
Instead of confronting him with the sad result of his drinking and co-opting Aunt Radonna as his partner, Marisa left him to handle the cafe a little longer and went to the singlewide where she sank into a hot bath in Mama’s bathroom. Bubbles would have been nice, but suds in the hard water were too much trouble. She closed her eyes and gave each taut muscle the opportunity to un-kink and dedicated her overworked brain cells to rehashing and compartmentalizing the past week of her life.
During the stint at Mama’s bedside, with Aunt Radonna living in Odessa, Marisa had had an opportunity to take an occasional break and bathe. But unwinding at Aunt Radonna’s place was a pipe dream. A parade of people--mostly men, mostly losers--passed through her small singlewide mobile home at all hours, even if her aunt wasn’t at home. Marisa had never been certain while bathing that company wouldn’t show up at any minute.
Aunt Radonna had dropped by the hospital daily, bringing toaster-oven pizza from the bar where she worked or fast-food hamburgers, the cause, Marisa believed, of her upset stomach.
Though Aunt Rosemary lived a distance away, in Tahoka, she had come a couple of times, too, giving unrequested advice or delivering a dose of criticism to everyone in sight. Or venting her spleen at Aunt Radonna if the younger aunt happened to be present. A demon must surely live inside Aunt Rosemary, Marisa concluded, and she found herself happy that her older aunt hadn’t come to Agua Dulce to visit Mama all these past months.
Through it all, the image of Terry Ledger stood at the forefront of her thou
ghts.
If you really mean for me not to come back, you can believe I won’t.
He would follow through with that pronouncement. If ever she had met a man with the will and discipline to stand by a tough promise, Terry was that man.
On a practical side, what that knowledge meant to her at this moment was that if she didn’t get in gear and get moved out of Pecos Belle’s and out of the singlewide owned by Terry, she might wake up some morning soon confronted by a bulldozer. So she had her work cut out for her in the coming days, to be sure.
She took her time dressing in clean clothes, then returned to the café with solid resolve. She had plans to make and execute. No more time for pussyfooting around.
Ben must have passed the word that she was back--Bob, Mr. Patel and Tanya were waiting for her. Bob took one of her hands in both of his. “We’re so glad you’re back.”
“We have missed you, Marisa,” Mr. Patel said. “The coffee has not been good.”
“You need your hair trimmed,” Tanya said, touching the ends with her fingertips. “Come over and let me do it.”
Marisa managed to smile at all of them and say thanks.
After she reported on Mama and they departed, she looked over the kitchen and checked the contents of the cupboards, the refrigerator and freezer, preparing to resume business. She refused to ask Ben if he had seen Terry. Her short-term lover was history. A thing of the past.
Ben gladly turned the kitchen over to her, sat down at the lunch counter with a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. “He left a couple of days after they found Raylene,” Ben said.
He was speaking of Terry, of course. News of his leaving was almost a blessing. “Who?” she asked.
“Terry. He went back to Fort Worth.”
“Guess that’s a good place for him.”
“Said he ain’t coming back ‘til he’s ready to start construction.”
Could she expect anything less? Or more? Well, at least words like “construction” and “development” and “subdivision” no longer elevated her blood pressure. She had come a long way.