Sweet Water (17 page)

“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 told 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.

Hands planted at his waistband, he looked at her from beneath an arched brow. Frustration threatened to unhinge her. She didn’t know her mother’s rights or her own rights. As she mentally floundered for more words, an idea came instead. Dammit, he should see who it was that he would soon make homeless. She lifted her chin and gave him a narrow-lidded look. “You want to meet my mother?...Then by all means, Mr. Ledger, let me introduce you.”

 
She sailed from his living room, across his deck and down his steps, without once looking to see if he followed. He caught up with her at the back door of her mother’s singlewide. She said nothing as she entered the mobile home and led him up the narrow hall that opened to the kitchen and living room.

When they reached the kitchen, they saw Mama shuffling backward across the living room in tiny, scuffing steps. Mama’s face was beet red and she was perspiring profusely. An alarm went off in Marisa’s brain. “Mama? What’re you doing, Mama?”

“It’s these shoes, Marisa. Tanya said they’re backward.”

Marisa shot a look at her mother’s feet. She was wearing the new pair of mules Tanya had brought from Ruidoso a few days back.

Mama reached the sofa, turned around and began scuffing backward in the opposite direction. “It’s really hard, Marisa, going backward.”

Marisa walked over and put an arm around her mother’s shoulders, stopping her movement. “No, Mama, I didn’t mean for you to walk backward. You could hurt yourself.”

Mama spotted Terry. Her eyes squinted with suspicion. “Clyde?”

“This is Mr. Ledger. He’s a guest in the RV park.” Marisa led her mother to a chair at the dining table. “Let’s put on different shoes, okay?” Mama sat down obediently, thank God. “Just sit right here, now. Don’t move. I’m going to find your tennis shoes.” She shifted her attention to Terry, piercing him with her eyes and pointing her finger at him. “Don’t say anything, don’t do anything. I’ll be back in a minute.”

On the way to the bedroom she felt the sharp sting of tears, embarrassed for Mama that a stranger was witnessing her on a bad day and annoyed at herself because she had more or less dared Terry to accompany her to the trailer.

In the bedroom closet, she found a pair of canvas Keds. When she returned to the dining room, Terry was standing over Mama and she was drinking a glass of water.

“She looked so hot,” he said. “I, uh, thought she might be thirsty.”

Perhaps she was. On a sigh, Marisa went to the sink and dampened a sheet of paper towel, then knelt in front of her mother and wiped her overheated face. She smiled up at her, hoping to relieve some of Mama’s agitation. “Feeling better?”

“It’s hard work. I’m so tired, Marisa.”

“I know.” Marisa slipped the Keds onto Mama’s feet and tied the laces in neat bows. “It’ll be easier to walk now that you’re wearing your tennis shoes.” Marisa made a forward motion with her hand. “These shoes go forward. Okay?”

Her mother pushed her hand away. “You shouldn’t treat me this way.”

Marisa didn’t reply. She had heard such remarks before. The petulance was part of the illness, she assumed. She helped her mother to her feet and walked her to the reclining chair in front of the TV. She eased her down, turned on the set and surfed to the soap she liked to watch. “Just rest. Want some iced tea, some Kool-Aid?”

Her mother’s head shook. Marisa angled a look at Terry, who stood there, arms dangling as if he didn’t know what to do next. She turned back to her mother. “Okay, then, take a nap, okay?” Marisa smoothed back the disheveled white hair and spoke softly until her mother’s eyelids fluttered closed. When she felt assured that Mama slept, she gestured for Terry to precede her out the front door.

Once outside, she marched past him, toward the café, but he caught up. “Don’t say a word to me,” she told him, tears of anger threatening. “Don’t say one word.”

When they reached the café’s back door, his hand reached out and circled her wrist, stopping her.

She glared at him, tightened her fist and jerked against his grip. “You’ve seen what you wanted to see. You’re in control. Just do whatever it is you’re going to and leave us the hell alone.” She unlocked the door and went inside.

He followed. “I want to talk to you, Marisa.”

The café’s back door opened into the apartment’s postage stamp-sized living room. It held an outdated sofa and two chairs and a lamp that had once been someone else’s junk. She stopped in the living room, not wanting to take their conflict out into the café. “I’m trying to get organized so we can move out of here if that’s what’s on your mind. But you’re going to have to have a little patience. Surely you can see I can’t do it overnight.”

“I’m not saying I want you to move.”

“Then what’re you saying?”

He dropped into a nearby armchair and looked up at her, his elbows resting on his thighs. “Let’s settle down for a minute.”

As her temper cooled, Marisa felt her heartbeat slow. She sank to the sofa, but she couldn’t bear to look her oppressor in the eye.

“The way she is,” he said, “is this a normal day for her?”

For Mama, abnormal had been normal in many ways even before the Alzheimer’s disease had taken over, but how could Marisa describe that to Terry Ledger? She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. The only person with whom she had ever had an eye-to-eye conversation about Mama was Ben. “Sometimes.”

“Shouldn’t she be in some kind of therapy or under some kind of professional care?”

Now came the do-gooder questions. She had heard them all more times than she could count, had even asked them herself. She leveled a glare at him. “She has doctors. What are you suggesting, a nursing home?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It just seems like there should be places where she could be cared for.”

 
“You mean a human warehouse. This is my mother, forgodsake.” Did he not know that such places that were decent cost more per month than she made now or had ever made? “Even if I could bear seeing her...there, it isn’t free.”

“Your family? Do they help you?”

“Why are you asking me these questions? Mama has two sisters, one older, one younger. My aunt Rosemary shows up once a year whether she’s needed or not. My aunt Radonna’s...well, busy.” Marisa frowned, resenting the third degree from someone who didn’t even know her and Mama. With the flat of her hand, she brushed away the idea of help from her aunts. “They’ve got their own lives. In a different way, both of them are as goofy as Mama. I’m glad they don’t come around.”

Terry interlocked his fingers, turned his head and stared at the floor. She could see he didn’t know what to say. No one ever did when confronted with Mama’s illness. Marisa had already asked and argued all of the questions she knew were going through his mind. As they sat through beats of silence, she almost felt sorry for him.

“How much time does she have left?” he finally asked.

Of course a man like him would want to know the bottom line. “No one knows. She’s been the way she is for a quite a few months. No worse, no better.”

She saw a muscle clench in his jaw. “I admit,” he said, “I don’t know much about this illness.”

She let out a great breath and leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. “Terry, listen. You strike me as someone who thinks he can fix things. Trust me, this can’t be fixed. I assume the drugs she takes help, but I don’t know that. Some days she thinks better than others. We talk and actually have fun. She still has some long-term memory, still has a sense of humor sometimes and a sense of who she is. She still knows me and most of the people around here. When all of us go our separate ways, I don’t know for sure, but I think she’ll miss everyone.”

She felt a stinging rush to her eyes as she thought of how seeing Mama struggling to walk backward had blindsided her. “I have to say, I can usually see a bad day coming. This morning, I missed all the signs. If I had spotted them, I wouldn’t have allowed you to come into the trailer. If Mama knew what she was doing, she’d be mortified at anyone seeing her acting so foolishly. I try to spare her dignity.”

“But you’re almost a prisoner here.”

“Sometimes I think that. But most of the time I don’t. I’m okay with it.” Marisa made a sweeping motion toward the café with her arm. “All of it. There have been rewards. After all, until you came along, I was doing something I love to do. No boss, no pre-set menu prepared by someone else, no teenage manager who knows nothing about food telling me how to cook.”

“You must have a plan. For the future, I mean.”

She blurted out a bitter laugh. Every time she thought of her future, all she could see was a blank page. “Plan? That’s a joke.” She rubbed a temple with her fingers. “Sometimes I lay awake all night thinking about just how long forever is. Some mornings I get out of bed telling myself, ‘I cannot do this another day.’ But you know what? Every day, I do do it. And that pretty much covers my plan. In other words, Mr. Ledger, my plan is and always has been to take one day at a time. And try to stay sane.”

He rose, came to the sofa and sat down beside her. “These people who live here, Nichols, Patel, Seagrave, they put a lot of pressure on you. It looks to me like you end up taking care of them, too.”