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.”
“Yes. I appreciate your handling transferring the title and everything after she died,” she said. “I obviously wasn’t in
