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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781426825699 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Harlequin |
| Publication date: | 12/01/2008 |
| Series: | Going Back , #1530 |
| Sold by: | HARLEQUIN |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| File size: | 701 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Cedar Switch, Texas 2008
Marisol Luna once said she would never come back to Cedar Switch, Texas, except to dance on the graves of all those who had scorned her. The image pleased her, of whirling and tapping and kicking and leaping past the stolid tombstones of the men and women who had looked down their noses at her. Her steps would reverberate down to where they lay unmoving in their coffins, and reduce the soil over them to dust.
As far as she knew, most of those people were still alive. Alive and well enough to see her come home with her head ducked in shame. She'd disappoint them in that respect at least. Of all the emotions that had dogged her in the past nightmare of a year, shame had not been one of them. She had done nothing wrong. A judge and a jury had said so—though her enemies would never believe it.
Correction. She had done one thing wrong. She'd made the mistake of falling in love with a man who kept more secrets than the CIA. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she thought of her late husband. Lamar Dixon, star center for the Houston Rockets, the highest paid player in the history of professional basketball, had been a liar and a cheat and a gambler who lost more than he could ever afford to repay. In the end, it had cost him his life, and it had almost cost Marisol hers.
But that was over now. She was making a fresh start. Cedar Switch was only the first stop in her new life. She'd stay long enough to sell the house her mother had left her, then take that money and head to a place where no one had heard of Lamar Dixon or his infamous widow.
Marisol glanced toward the passenger seat. Her fourteen-year-old daughter, Antonia—Toni—had her eyes closed, bobbing her head in time to some hip-hop tune on her iPod. Oblivious to her mother. Toni had Marisol's light brown skin and wide mouth, and her father's strong chin and thick, unruly hair, which she wore in long braids gathered with a clip at the nape of her neck. She'd been a pretty child and would be a beautiful woman, if Marisol could only manage to see her through these turbulent teen years.
As if feeling her mother's gaze on her, Toni jerked the earbuds of the iPod from her ears. "I can't believe you're moving me all the way to East Podunk," she said, picking up the argument that had raged between mother and daughter for days. "I don't know why we couldn't stay in Houston."
"Did you really want to spend the rest of your life barricaded in your house, dodging reporters?"
Toni stuck out her lower lip and twined the cord of the iPod between her fingers. "They would have gone away, eventually."
"Maybe. But the truth of the matter is, we couldn't afford to stay in Houston any longer," Marisol said. "I spent pretty much everything we had on lawyers."
Toni's eyes widened. "Do you mean we're poor?"
Marisol's idea of poor and her daughter's were probably several decimal places apart, but Marisol understood that to Toni their present reduced circumstances might seem dire. She had some money set aside—enough to pay for Toni's education. But she was determined not to touch it. "We're not rich," she said. "And I'll have to get a job. But you don't need to worry about having enough to eat or a roof over your head."
Toni slumped back in the seat with a sigh. "I just wish we could go home," she moaned.
Me too, Marisol thought. But the house in River Oaks, the platinum credit cards, the exclusive clubs and the luxury vacations had disappeared with Lamar's death. All she had left was her car, a small savings account and the house she'd inherited from her mother. That house was her ticket to a new future, a less extravagant one for sure, but one in which she'd call her own shots. After her experience with Lamar, it would be a long time before she was so naive as to trust anyone else again.
A green city limits sign announced their arrival in Cedar Switch, Texas, population 9,016. Marisol turned her attention from her daughter as she guided the red Corvette down Main Street. She wished now she'd sold the car and bought something more conservative, but she'd told herself she could always trade it in later if things got really bad. Lamar had given her the vehicle for her last birthday; it was one happy memory to hold on to in spite of everything that had happened since then.
But the Corvette was definitely the kind of car that made people take a second look, and when folks in Cedar Switch realized who was in the car…
She took a deep breath and told herself to get over it. Why should anyone care if she was here now? Likely no one remembered what had happened all those years ago.
"What a dump," Toni said, scowling at the passing scenery.
"Actually, it looks better than it did when I was here last," Marisol said. In her memories, everything here was sepia-toned—the brown brick of the courthouse, the faded facades of storefronts and the yards of houses brown from winter's frosts or summer's drought. So it surprised her to recognize color all around her. Azaleas bloomed pink and lilac around the courthouse. New stores with bright striped awnings lined the streets.
She drove past the corner where the Dairy Freeze had once sat—now occupied by a bright yellow McDonald's— and turned onto a wide, shady street. Her destination was halfway down, on the right. She blinked rapidly, cursing the tears that stung her eyes as she stared at the familiar white brick ranch house, with its narrow front porch and cracked concrete drive. Even the mailbox was the same, the paint faded over the years but still readable: Davies.
She pulled in front of the garage and shut off the engine. "This is it?" Toni asked. "It's so tiny."
Marisol laughed, a bitter attempt to avoid bursting into tears. "It's little to you because you're used to our huge house in Houston. But when I was a little girl, this seemed like a really big house." Before Mercedes Luna had married Harlan Davies, she and Marisol had shared a one-bedroom apartment over a dry cleaner's downtown. Marisol had stayed in bigger hotel rooms than the place where she'd spent the first eleven years of her life.
Toni shook her head, unimpressed by nostalgia, and shoved open her car door then climbed out.
Marisol sighed and got out as well. She refrained from looking around as she headed up the walk to the front door. The neighbors were probably already getting cricks in their necks, trying to see what was going on at the Davies' house. The phone lines would be buzzing when they figured out who was back in town.
She dug in her purse for the key the lawyer had sent. Toni waited on the porch, slumped against the post, feigning boredom, though impatience radiated from her. No matter what she said, the girl was interested in this glimpse into her mother's past—a past Marisol had never found reason to share with her.
She took a deep breath, bracing herself against the onslaught of memory, then turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness in the closed-up room, but in that time the scent of White Shoulders filled her. Her mother's perfume. One breath and it was as if Mercedes were there in person, urging her daughter to shut the door and come inside. To make herself at home.
She groped for the light switch. A single yellow bulb glowed feebly overhead, revealing furniture draped in old sheets, and the same red-and-black patterned rug that had been bought new when Marisol was eleven.
Toni gingerly lifted one sheet. "You really lived here?" she asked.
Marisol nodded. She had not really wanted to come here, but told herself she had no choice. Staying here until she could sell the place seemed like the safest bet for her and her daughter. And she couldn't deny a curiosity, a need to see what had become of this place she had left so long ago. An unvoiced hope that in death Mercedes might have left behind some clue as to what had really happened to tear them so irrevocably apart.
"I want to stay in your room," Toni said, interrupting her mother's reverie. Before Marisol could stop her, she hurried down the hall, opening doors as she went, looking in at the dusty furnishings of a guest room/-home office, bathroom and finally, at the end of the hall, Marisol's girlhood room.
"Toni, no," Marisol called, but too late. Toni had already opened the door and stood just inside it, staring.
Marisol came up behind her and stared too, at the white single bed with its pink puffy comforter. The pink curtains, faded by the sun, still hung in the window, and the pink fluffy rug still lay by the bed.
She took Toni's shoulder and urged her gently over the threshold into the hall. "You don't want to stay here," she said. "We'll fix up the guest room for you."
"Why can't I stay here?" Toni whirled on her, her face fixed in the stubborn pout Marisol recognized too well. "What's in there you don't want me to see?"
Marisol closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose—a technique she had read somewhere was calming, but she couldn't tell that it made any difference now. She still felt as if she'd swallowed broken glass, as if there was no move she could make that didn't hurt. "There's nothing special here to see," she said calmly, though a voice in her head screamed Liar! "It's just a house. You can look at it later. Let's unpack our things first."
Toni blocked her mother's passage down the hall, arms folded across her chest, mouth set in a stubborn scowl. Already she was taller than Marisol, having inherited her father's height. "What was the deal with you and your mother, anyway? How come I never met her? How come she didn't want you attending her funeral? Why do you always keep so many secrets?"
Not secrets, Marisol thought. Just things no one needs to talk about anymore. She wet her dry lips. "I didn't get along with her husband. She chose him over me." The truth, but only part of it.
"And that's it? You let something like that keep you apart for what—twenty years?"
"About that." She forced herself to look her daughter in the eye, to not flinch from that disdainful glare. It was so easy to judge at this age, when you were so sure of right and wrong. "I'm not proud of it. If I could go back and do things differently, I would. But I can't. So now I have to live with it."
Toni scowled at her, then pushed past, headed to the living room. Marisol followed her daughter and sank onto a sheet-covered sofa, her legs suddenly too weak to support her. Oh God, why had she come back here? True, she hadn't seen any other choice. But everything felt wrong. There were too many bad memories in these walls, too much hurt to have to deal with. She looked around the room, at the shrouded shapes that were like so many ghosts, taunting her.
Toni slumped in the chair opposite. "So what do we do now?" she asked.
Marisol took a deep breath. "We're going to do whatever we have to," she said. That was how she'd lived her life. She'd done tougher things to survive before. She could do this. She could do anything as long as she knew it was only temporary.
Scott Redmond leaned against the door to his father's office and watched his dad, attorney Jay Redmond, shuffle through stacks of folders. "I need to pick up my dry cleaning," the old man muttered. "I know the claim slip is here somewhere."
"Just tell Mr. Lee you lost it," Scott said. "It's not as if he hasn't known you for years." That was one good thing about living in a small town for years—everyone knew everything about you.
And that was the worst thing about living in a small town as well. Mess up even once and no one ever forgot it. Make a habit of screw-ups and it could take years to rebuild a reputation, something Scott was finding out the hard way.
Two years ago he'd been the top-selling real estate agent in town, riding the tail end of a housing boom that had brought wealthy investors from Houston, three hours to the north, to buy up old homes or build new ones on vacant land for weekend retreats. Scott had wined and dined these high rollers and become something of a roller himself. He'd ended up with habits he couldn't afford and made some really stupid mistakes. Only his dad's influence and Scott's own remorse had kept him from serious trouble.
So here he was at thirty-four years old, starting over at the bottom. A one-man real estate office sharing space with his attorney father.
"Found it!" His father held a yellow slip of paper aloft triumphantly. "Now I won't have to defend Eddie Stucker wearing my golf clothes." He settled back in his worn leather desk chair. "Speaking of golf—how's Marcus Henry's latest project coming along?"
Scott almost smiled at this not-so-subtle maneuvering of the conversation to Henry's—and Scott's—latest triumph. Scott suspected heavy lobbying from Jay had led Cedar Switch's biggest developer to award Scott the exclusive listing for his most ambitious project to date—an upscale development centered around a Robert Trent Jones golf course, private lake, stables and green belt.
"The roads are going in this week and next," Scott said. "I've got some people coming from Houston this weekend to take a tour. Once the streets are in and the clubhouse starts going up, we expect to see a flurry of interest."
"Everything the man touches turns to gold," Jay said.
"Getting in with him is one of the best things that could have happened to you. You'll give the other agencies around here a real run for their money. Before long this office won't be big enough for you. You'll have to have new space, hire associates…it'll be just like the old days."
The old days of only two years ago? "Not just like them," Scott said. "I'm done with life in the fast lane."
His father's expression sobered. "You're right," he said. "You shouldn't try to take on too much. Better to keep things manageable. You don't need the stress."
Scott resented the implication that he wasn't strong enough to handle whatever the job required. If he wanted a different kind of life now, it wasn't because he couldn't cope with more. He'd simply learned some things about himself and what was important to him now.
Others didn't see things that way, though. To them, he was Scott Redmond—Jay's boy who'd had such a bright future and thrown it all away.
Scott would probably spend the rest of his life paying for the recklessness of that one half year.
He was about to excuse himself, to walk to McDonald's and grab some lunch when the door opened and a woman entered. She was beautiful, with long dark curly hair, smooth, olive skin, a classic hourglass figure and an air of money and poise he associated with socialites from Dallas and Houston who spent weekends shopping in the "quaint" shops on the town square.
Jay rose to greet his visitor. "May I help you?"
"Mr. Redmond?" She flashed a dazzling smile. "I'm Marisol Luna."
But of course they had both recognized her by then, the beautiful face less strained, the clothes less severe than they had been in countless pictures splashed across the front pages of newspapers and filling their television screens each night. The Lamar Dixon murder trial had all the elements of riveting drama: the celebrity victim, the beautiful accused, wealth, glamor, sexual affairs, gambling and unsavory secrets. People chose sides, wagered bets on Marisol's guilt or innocence and read everything they could find about the case.
"Please sit down." Jay gestured to the chair before his desk. "What can I do for you? Ms. Luna? You've gone back to your maiden name?"
"I thought it best."
She sat, demurely crossing her legs at the ankles and smoothing her skirt down her thighs. Scott struggled not to stare at her.
"This is my son, Scott. You might remember him from school."
Scott stepped forward to shake her hand, a brief silken touch gone too soon. He was sure Marisol did not remember him, though he had never forgotten her. His heart beat faster, remembering that day on the bridge. She wouldn't have known him then, of course, but later, she had come to their house once. He'd been fourteen at the time, in awe of her sixteen-year-old beauty and her notoriety.
A notoriety she maintained years later, when the local papers were full of news of her marriage to basketball great Lamar Dixon. He'd seen Lamar on the basketball court once in Houston. Lamar had netted twenty-seven baskets in that game and hadn't even broken a sweat. The papers had reported his last contract at seventeen million, making him one of the highest paid stars in the NBA.
And of course the murder charge and trial had only added to her reputation.
"I'm sorry about your husband's passing," Jay said. "And about everything you've been through."
"Thank you." She folded her hands in her lap. She looked very…contained. Behind the outward polish, Scott sensed she was shaken by more than grief.
"How have you been?" Jay asked.
"I've been fine." Her voice was flat. Unemotional. The voice of someone concentrating on staying in control. Scott could feel the tension radiating from her, and she sat so rigidly he imagined she might shatter if touched.
Jay's response was to relax even more, leaning back in the chair, hands casually clasped on the desktop. He'd once told Scott that the best way to handle fearful or nervous clients was to ease the tension with small talk. "It's been a while since you've been back to Cedar Switch, hasn't it?" he said. "I imagine it's changed a lot since then."
"It's been a long time," she said. "To tell you the truth, I'm more surprised by how much has remained the same."
"Really?" Jay leaned forward. "Having lived here so long myself, it seems as if every other day some old building is being torn down and replaced by something new."
She shifted in her chair. "I guess what I mean is that, for me at least, the town has the same feeling it always did."
Scott and his father waited for her to elaborate on what that feeling might be, but when she did not, Scott wondered if she was waiting for him to leave. "I'll let you two talk in private," he said, moving toward the door.
"I don't mind if you stay." He felt a jolt when their eyes met, a shock of recognition that, even after all these years, this woman could stir him somewhere deep inside. He settled slowly into a chair a little ways from her and searched for something innocuous to say.
"Is your daughter with you?" Jay asked.
Scott vaguely recalled the mention in news reports of a teenage daughter.
"Yes. Antonia isn't too happy about being here in 'East Podunk' as she insists on calling it."
"I'll bet she's as pretty as her mother was at that age," Jay said.
Scott could see the girl Marisol had been so clearly in his mind's eye, exotically beautiful to a small-town boy like himself.
"Prettier, I hope. She's tall, like her father." Pride warmed her voice and softened her expression.
"You're staying at your mother's place?" Jay asked. "Your place now, of course."