towel, her damp hair curling over her shoulders, as if something would materialize if she simply stared long enough. Finally, she put on the clothes she’d worn to lunch with Joe the day before. Black slacks and simple sweater. As the one concession to her true self, she put on the one indulgent item of clothing she had left. A pair of Manolo Blahniks.
As Mariah drove into Jubilee, past all the horse-oriented businesses, it occurred to her that she already had a connection here whether she wanted it or not. That she wasn’t absolutely alone.
Because of who her father had been, everyone made assumptions about her. They saw her as an extension of him, even though she and Dutch had nothing in common. The thought was both comforting and worrisome.
Mariah parked Dutch’s dually in the empty parking lot of the Silver Horseshoe that sat parallel to the interstate. This hour of the morning, the place wasn’t open for business, but there was an old green pickup parked near the side exit door and she was hoping to find Clover here, or at least talk to someone who could tell her where to find the woman.
Her heels clicked against the asphalt. It was a big place, at least ten thousand square feet, part honky-tonk, part restaurant. Posters of upcoming bands adorned the walls along with a menu advertising the daily specials, an announcement that the Silver Horseshoe was closed on Sundays, and the help wanted sign.
She walked around to the exit door and knocked. Waited. Then knocked again. Just when she was about to leave, the door creaked open and Clover poked her head out. “Yes?”
“Do you remember me, Mrs. Dempsey?”
“ ’Course I do, Flaxey. I’m old but my mind’s still pumping on all cylinders.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise, but I do prefer to be called Mariah.”
“Sure you do.”
Somehow that sounded like an indictment, but maybe she was just being sensitive.
“Well, c’mon in.” Clover motioned her inside the darkened building and led her down a narrow corridor to a cluttered office with deer heads mounted on the wall.
“Do you hunt?” Mariah asked to make small talk, and stared at a glassy-eyed buck.
“Carl did. They’re his trophies.” Clover waved a hand at a brown leather sofa that had seen more prosperous days. “Have a seat. Just push that horse tack over.”
She was getting accustomed to furniture that served as a clearinghouse for horse supplies. She eased the bridles and bits aside and perched on the edge of the sofa.
Clover sat on the corner of her desk, one leg on the ground, the other dangling over the edge. She rested one hand on her thigh, braced the other hand against the desktop to stabilize herself. “What’s up?”
“I need a job,” Mariah said. “I saw your help wanted sign.”
Clover gave her the once-over, narrowing her eyes. “You ever wait tables?”
“In college. And for a few weeks a couple of months ago.”
“Let me guess. You waited tables at one of those high-class joints in downtown Chicago.”
Mariah widened her eyes. “How did you know?”
Clover shook her gray head. “Honey, it’s written all over your face. You might have been born to a cutter, but you were raised around luxury.”
“Not my luxury,” she said. “I picked rich people’s clothes up off the floor and did their laundry. I swept their floors and washed their dishes and scrubbed their toilets.”
“But along the way you did learn how to appreciate nice things.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Clover studied Mariah for a long moment. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
“So you’ll hire me?”
“You ever wait tables in a honky-tonk?”
“No,” she admitted.
“We’re packed every single night that we’re open from five until two in the morning. You’ll be on your feet the whole time, carrying heavy trays, getting sloshed with beer, getting thrown up on, getting your ass pinched.”
The picture Clover painted wasn’t pretty, but Mariah
As Mariah drove into Jubilee, past all the horse-oriented businesses, it occurred to her that she already had a connection here whether she wanted it or not. That she wasn’t absolutely alone.
Because of who her father had been, everyone made assumptions about her. They saw her as an extension of him, even though she and Dutch had nothing in common. The thought was both comforting and worrisome.
Mariah parked Dutch’s dually in the empty parking lot of the Silver Horseshoe that sat parallel to the interstate. This hour of the morning, the place wasn’t open for business, but there was an old green pickup parked near the side exit door and she was hoping to find Clover here, or at least talk to someone who could tell her where to find the woman.
Her heels clicked against the asphalt. It was a big place, at least ten thousand square feet, part honky-tonk, part restaurant. Posters of upcoming bands adorned the walls along with a menu advertising the daily specials, an announcement that the Silver Horseshoe was closed on Sundays, and the help wanted sign.
She walked around to the exit door and knocked. Waited. Then knocked again. Just when she was about to leave, the door creaked open and Clover poked her head out. “Yes?”
“Do you remember me, Mrs. Dempsey?”
“ ’Course I do, Flaxey. I’m old but my mind’s still pumping on all cylinders.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise, but I do prefer to be called Mariah.”
“Sure you do.”
Somehow that sounded like an indictment, but maybe she was just being sensitive.
“Well, c’mon in.” Clover motioned her inside the darkened building and led her down a narrow corridor to a cluttered office with deer heads mounted on the wall.
“Do you hunt?” Mariah asked to make small talk, and stared at a glassy-eyed buck.
“Carl did. They’re his trophies.” Clover waved a hand at a brown leather sofa that had seen more prosperous days. “Have a seat. Just push that horse tack over.”
She was getting accustomed to furniture that served as a clearinghouse for horse supplies. She eased the bridles and bits aside and perched on the edge of the sofa.
Clover sat on the corner of her desk, one leg on the ground, the other dangling over the edge. She rested one hand on her thigh, braced the other hand against the desktop to stabilize herself. “What’s up?”
“I need a job,” Mariah said. “I saw your help wanted sign.”
Clover gave her the once-over, narrowing her eyes. “You ever wait tables?”
“In college. And for a few weeks a couple of months ago.”
“Let me guess. You waited tables at one of those high-class joints in downtown Chicago.”
Mariah widened her eyes. “How did you know?”
Clover shook her gray head. “Honey, it’s written all over your face. You might have been born to a cutter, but you were raised around luxury.”
“Not my luxury,” she said. “I picked rich people’s clothes up off the floor and did their laundry. I swept their floors and washed their dishes and scrubbed their toilets.”
“But along the way you did learn how to appreciate nice things.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Clover studied Mariah for a long moment. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
“So you’ll hire me?”
“You ever wait tables in a honky-tonk?”
“No,” she admitted.
“We’re packed every single night that we’re open from five until two in the morning. You’ll be on your feet the whole time, carrying heavy trays, getting sloshed with beer, getting thrown up on, getting your ass pinched.”
The picture Clover painted wasn’t pretty, but Mariah
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