A Man to Rely On. Cindi MyersЧитать онлайн книгу.
“And she told you to wait until after she was buried before you contacted me?”
“Yes. I tried to talk her out of the idea. I told her you would want to be contacted. She made me promise not to bother you.”
“Was that the word she used? Bother? ”
He nodded. “Yes. She said it would be better for everyone if all the details were out of the way and over with before you even knew she was gone. I couldn’t convince her otherwise.”
Marisol’s shoulders sagged, and her fingers played with the strap of her purse, stroking the leather over and over. In that moment she seemed more vulnerable than she had since walking into the office. Scott fought the urge to put his arms around her. But the fact that he wanted so much to touch her kept him firmly in his chair. What he felt for the woman across from him went beyond sympathy for a client or compassion for an old friend. His feelings for Marisol were too mixed up with adolescent desire, unfulfilled fantasy and maybe even the fact that as an adult she was so much like the women who had attracted him during his high-flying days—polished, sophisticated women whose outer sleekness was a thin coating over an earthy sensuality. He couldn’t separate all these facets of his attraction to Marisol in his mind, and therefore had no business laying a finger on her.
She stood suddenly, poised once more. She extended her hand to Jay. “Thank you for talking with me.”
“If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.” She turned to Scott. “I’ll want to sell the house as soon as possible.”
“I can come out late today or tomorrow to look at it and draw up a listing agreement.”
“Tomorrow would be best, thank you.” She turned to leave. He stood and followed her, holding the door open for her. Then he moved to the window and watched her walk to a bright red Corvette that was parked at the curb. He smiled. He would have guessed the girl who stood naked on the bridge and the woman who held her head high and faced the television cameras head-on would drive a car like this. A car that dared everyone to watch her. As they always had.
As he always had.
CHAPTER TWO
M ARISOL WOKE the next morning to golden light streaming through the yellow curtains in her mother’s old bedroom. Lying there in a place she had never imagined she would find herself she felt the impotence of a person in a dream, unsure her legs would support her if she tried to rise. The grief she had fought for days battered at her, waves of memory threatening to drown her: her mother teaching her to make tortillas when Marisol was five years old, Mercedes’s larger hands over her small ones, helping her to pat out the flat disks of dough; mother and daughter watching the movie Grease at a matinee at the Cedar Switch cinema, sharing a tub of buttery popcorn and pretending to swoon over John Travolta; the pink silky dress she wore to her mother’s remarriage, and how much she’d cried when the newlyweds left her behind for their brief honeymoon.
Mercedes had told her she was gaining a father that day, but in truth Marisol had lost her mother to Harlan Davies. He had been a hard, possessive man, who had demanded Mercedes take his side in all disputes. Until finally he had dug a chasm between mother and daughter that could not be crossed, not even after his death.
If Marisol could have asked her mother one question now, it would be if she felt all she’d gained by marrying Davies had been worth all he had forced her to surrender.
She shut her eyes tightly and forced her mind from such thoughts. She had too much to do to indulge her grief. This morning she had to see about finding a job; the few thousand dollars left in her bank account after she’d paid the legal team and all their investigators, and settled the debts Lamar had left her with would not last long. And she absolutely would not touch Toni’s college fund. Lamar’s death had robbed his daughter of the advantages of wealth and privilege; Marisol would not deprive her of a first-class education as well.
Besides, working would keep Marisol occupied and out of the house until it sold and they could leave town for good.
What kind of job she had no idea. Years of attending charity balls, shopping and lunching with her friends had left her without any marketable skills. But she was smart. She could learn.
She’d spent the previous afternoon arguing with Toni, who had wanted to explore the town on her own. Marisol had refused to consider the idea, which had led to a shouting match, ending with Toni declaring, “I hate you!” and retreating to Marisol’s old room, where she’d plugged in her iPod and refused to budge, even to eat.
How many times had Marisol acted out a similar scene with her own mother? If anything, she had been more unruly than Toni, sneaking out of the house at all hours of the day and night, purposely doing things she knew would enrage Harlan. Only now, from the perspective of an adult and a parent herself, could she understand how much her rebelliousness must have also hurt her mother.
She forced herself out of bed, made coffee, then knocked on her daughter’s door. Toni had insisted on moving into Marisol’s bedroom. “Toni, are you up? I need to go out for a while.”
“I’m up.”
“There’s cereal and bread in the kitchen. Fix yourself something to eat.”
“I will.”
She would have liked to see her daughter’s face this morning, to have hugged her and to have drawn strength from the sight of her. The last thing Marisol wanted to do was to go out and beg for a job in a town she’d always hated—from people she’d always felt hated her. But for Toni, she would do it.
She went first to the courthouse. At one time, the county and the school district were the town’s largest employers. She wasn’t qualified to be a teacher, but surely she could handle work as a clerk in one of the county offices.
The woman behind the counter’s eyes widened when she saw Marisol. “You’re Lamar Dixon’s wife,” she said. “I mean widow.”
“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