Sweet Water (15 page)

Out of the blue he thought of how Marisa had given up her freedom and a more stimulating life in an urban environment to run her mother’s café and flea market and take care of her. The errant thought made no sense in the context of a conversation with his mother because the woman he called Mom wouldn’t even understand something so unselfish, much less do it.

“Well, Mom,” he said, “when you meet a guy in a bar, even a fancy bar, and spend all your free time in a bar, I guess it’s safe to assume he drinks.”

He heard a gasp and pictured her in a designer suit, a manicured hand on her hip, her perfectly made-up blue eyes bugging with indignation. “Don’t be tacky. You know I met him at the country club. I’ll have you know, young man—”

“Mom, we haven’t even seen each other in weeks. Let’s don’t get into a fight. What’s up?”

“I’m concerned over your borrowing so much money. And for a real estate development in some godforsaken ghost town? My God, son, have you lost your mind? A misstep like this could destroy you. Everyone we know is talking about it.”

And therein lay his mother’s real concern. Terry felt his jaw clench in spite of his determination not to quarrel with her. “It’s not a ghost town and it’s not a misstep.”

“You don’t listen, Terry. How many times do I have to tell you, things happen? Things you can’t anticipate. Herb says—”

“I’m good at anticipating. Don’t worry about it.” Terry didn’t know who Herb was, but his mother’s words brought to mind what he had already failed to anticipate in Agua Dulce, like Gordon Tubbs, Bob Nichols and Mandan Patel. And Marisa Rutherford. “Listen, Mom, I’m only gonna be here a couple more days before I go back. I’ve got a lot to do. If you don’t need anything, I should get going.”

“Well, I’m only your mother. By all means, don’t let me take up your valuable time.”

“Mom, please. I’m sure I’ll get to Odessa in the next few weeks and I’ll pop in to see you.”

She hung up in his ear. Not unusual. His mother was one of the most willful human beings he had ever known. He sighed and pushed the PLAY MESSAGES button.

It seemed that everyone in Fort Worth had called him and left messages, including Michelle. Before the recordings finished he picked up the receiver to return her call and set up a get-together for later, after his return from the airport. Evidently she had moved past being disappointed that he had no interest in marriage. Now they were back to “just sex.”

 
Then, before he keyed her number on speeddial, he was stopped by a memory—Marisa Rutherford with her shining black hair, her whiskey-colored eyes and her firm ass in tight jeans that gave him ideas he had no business having. An unexpected
 
truth stunned him. He didn’t want to be with Michelle while Marisa traipsed through his head. And he didn’t want to face Marisa after he had been with Michelle.

Just like that, he knew he wouldn’t spend time with Michelle this weekend after all. Perhaps he would never spend time with her again. Marisa was the woman he wanted to know better and in all of the ways he knew Michelle. But he wanted more. For some damn reason, he wanted Marisa’s approval.

Shocked and distracted by the thought, he carefully placed the receiver back in its

cradle. It’s only because she’s the leader of that bunch of kooks in Agua Dulce, he told himself. As such, she could help make his whole project happen more smoothly.

Whatever the reason, he couldn’t wait for the weekend to end so he could return to Agua Dulce.

Chapter 12

Agua Dulce was targeted for a real estate development of some kind. Marisa just knew it. Recalling the little she knew of Terry Ledger and his activities in the Fort Worth/Dallas Metroplex and considering the maps at which she had sneaked a look on his dining table, Marisa had drawn that conclusion days back. Now, to confirm her deduction, pink surveyor’s flags on skinny wires were stuck in the ground all around Agua Dulce. Seeing them came as a jolt, but not a surprise.

For a few brief seconds, she tried to imagine a maze of paved streets fronted by homes and lawns—well, forget the lawns—spread over Agua Dulce’s acres like a giant spiderweb, but the visual wouldn’t mesh in her mind.

Her thoughts veered to the building Pecos Belle’s and Tanya’s Tangles occupied. It was centered on the eastern border of the town of Agua Dulce and took up more than two hundred feet of highway frontage. She didn’t have to be a genius to know it sat in a prime spot.

The old brick relic had been her only home for the first eighteen years of her life. Soon it would soon be torn down and replaced with a service station, just like Mr. Patel said. She should feel some kind of sentimental emotion over that, but all she could think of was the fact that she and Mama were on the brink of homelessness.

Exactly when she couldn’t guess. Weeks from now? Months? Could she be lucky enough to have a year to plan and make intelligent decisions? Even if the latter held true, she had no time to waste. Monday, she would return to making calls to learn the costs and complications of moving everything Mama owned.

She told Tanya her suspicions about the building. The only response that came from the hairdresser/artist/jewelrymaker was, “Shit.”

Mobilized by the surveyor’s flags, Bob Nichols organized a town meeting. On Saturday afternoon, Bob, Ben, Mr. Patel, Tanya, and Lanny Winegardner all trooped into the café. Marisa tried to lift the heavy atmosphere by serving coffee and passing out free sugar cookies. As the group sat at the tables and speculated, all talking at once, she got everyone’s attention by telling them she concurred with what Mr. Patel had said days back—a monster gas station would replace Pecos Belle’s and Tanya’s Tangles.

The information prompted Lanny to report that someone had put out feelers with a Realtor in Odessa about purchasing the XO. A brief silence stole through the room while that bit of information and its meaning sank in.

“We didn’t know you wanted to sell,” Bob said at last. “I didn’t think you would ever do that.”

“Well I wasn’t exactly looking to, but for the right price...” The XO’s owner arched his brow, bit down on a cookie, then sipped his coffee.

That Lanny might sell out hit Marisa as suddenly as a lightning bolt. That potential buyer putting out feelers had to be Terry Ledger. To buy the XO’s thousands of acres, he must be even richer than she suspected. His plans must be for something larger than she or anyone else had imagined. The word “sub-division” flashed in her mind. She stayed behind the lunch counter, keeping her thoughts to herself, lest she say something that would send everyone into hysterics.Mr. Patel, Bob and even Lanny expressed concern for what might happen to the availability of the water from the town’s well. The discussion ended with Bob asking Marisa to again speak to Mr. Ledger on their behalf about the well and the water supply.

Lanny spoke up. “Fellas, it ain’t her responsibility to worry about your water. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but if it comes to it, I’ll drill a new well for my house and the hands. You should do the same.”

“But you might never get good water,” Bob said. “No one’s hit a good water well in years.”

Indeed. There were drilled water wells around, impudently inserting themselves among pump jacks that sucked black gold from the bowels of the earth, but most of the water that came from them was what West Texans called “gyp,” full of minerals and not fit for human consumption. It corroded plumbing, ate holes in washing machine tubs and killed domestic grass. A manicured lawn in this desolate part of the world was only for those with hearts stout enough to withstand a multitude of disappointments. Only God knew what the gyp water would do to the insides of a human, but livestock had no trouble drinking it. That detail had always made Marisa wonder why it was okay for animals, but not people.

Lanny arched his brow and tilted his head, acknowledging the facts about the water. Then he took another sip of coffee.

“My family does not use so much water,” Mr. Patel put in. “Marisa, you should speak for us. Make Mr. Ledger understand.”

“My business doesn’t require much water, either,” Bob said. “I’d be willing to shut down my swimming pool.”

Ben clunked his beer can on the table. “Ain’t it a bitch? I don’t even like water and looks like I’m the only one who’s gonna be left with some to drink.” He guffawed, which turned into a coughing fit.

Everyone in the room leveled an unamused look at him.

“Perhaps we could pay him for water,” Bob suggested.

Mr. Patel and Lanny echoed murmurs of agreement with the idea.

“You have his ear, Marisa,” Bob continued. “Perhaps you could approach him and make the suggestion.”

“Guys,” she said, “that water well’s the least of my worries. Besides, Mr. Ledger left and I have no idea when he’s coming back.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Lanny said. “We’re rounding up for branding, but soon as he gets back I’ll try to find the time to catch up with him.”

Marisa looked at Lanny who was always unselfish and willing to take action for the greater good. As important as branding his calves was to him, she knew he would take the time and make a special effort to have a conversation with Terry Ledger and attempt to work out everyone’s problems with the water. A little pang of guilt for her own self-centered attitude pinched her. “You don’t have to, Lanny. If he’s in town, he comes in to eat almost every day. It’s not a big deal for me talk to him.”

“Oh, thank you, Marisa,” Bob gushed. “Thank you so much.”

“Darlin’, I don’t like seeing you shoved into such a bad spot,” Lanny said.

“Humph. The bad spot came a long time ago, Lanny. Compared to everything else, alittle talk about water’s just plain easy.” She dredged up a smile. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

The remaining discussion went nowhere. Where could it go, with no one knowing what the town’s new owner would do next?

Solemn-faced and silent, everyone but Ben Seagrave left the café. Marisa watched until the last of them, the willowy Tanya, closed the front door and disappeared from sight. The hairdresser had remained uncharacteristically quiet through the meeting. Knowing her, Marisa was sure there was much more going on in her multicolored head than where she might relocate her beauty salon and gift shop.

“She usually has an opinion,” Marisa said to Ben. “If Lanny sold out, Jake Shepherd could be out of a job.”

“And I imagine that little gal might move on to pastures greener than poor ol’ Jake. It don’t impress me that stickability in a rough patch is one of her strong suits.”

 
Marisa withheld her opinion. Tanya had already stuck with Jake a long time. “I’m pretty sure Mama and I are going to have to move,” she said. “I’m going to look into having Mama’s trailer hauled to Odessa or Midland. We have to live where I can get a job.”

“Why, darlin’, you can’t move that trailer. It don’t belong to your mama.”

“What do you mean? Sure it does.”

Ben’s shaggy head slowly shook. “Clyde bought it and put her
 
in it. A few years after you went off to Dallas.”

That possibility was too preposterous to even be considered. “You must be wrong, Ben. Mama never told me that. I haven’t written one check for rent since I’ve been back here.”

Ben’s head shook again as the cigarette butt he dropped into his empty beer can produced a sharp hiss. “That may be. But Raylene don’t own that trailer. If Clyde hadn’t croaked, he might’ve eventually let her have it to keep, but my guess is that Clyde’s widow ain’t about to give Raylene Rutherford anything.”

Marisa barely managed to stay calm until Ben departed. It couldn’t be true that Mama didn’t own the mobile home where they lived, forgodsake. Clyde Campbell had been dead five years. If Mama didn’t own the trailer, why hadn’t his estate kicked her out of it already?

Marisa had become aware years back that if Ben was drinking, one couldn’t necessarily believe every word he said. She locked the café’s doors and hightailed it home, intent on finding the title to Mama’s mobile home. Her first stop was the foot-square safe hidden in the back of Mama’s bedroom closet. She didn’t know how a title to a mobile home looked, but she believed she would recognize it if she saw it.

Not finding it there, she went to the kitchen drawers, where odds and ends of everything from grocery store receipts to assorted recipes had been stashed over the years. So that her searching the place didn’t upset Mama, Marisa turned the TV to the Country Music Channel. While Marisa pored over every scrap of paper, piece by piece, her mother sang along with the music videos and even left her chair to dance once or twice.

After Marisa exhausted the possibilities in the kitchen, she moved to Mama’s dresser in the bedroom. Finally, while Mama watched Jerry Springer, Marisa returned to the café and rummaged through the various records kept in the apartment behind the kitchen. She found nothing that even resembled the object of her quest.

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.