Sweet Water Read Online Free PDF Page B

She was glad to see them go so she could get down to some serious self pity.
    If no more customers came in, she would have several hours to think and grieve over love lost.
    He’s not worth a minute of your unhappiness, an inner voice told her. In thirty-four years, haven’t you learned a thing or two about men?
    You bet, another voice answered. What she had learned was that all it took to replace one was another one. And before that unlikely occurrence, the best distraction was to throw herself into challenging chores.
    By six o’clock, she had cleaned the soft-serve ice cream machine and polished the gray Formica back counter and every object on it until everything shone. She had mopped the black and white checkered floor all around the lunch counter and the eating area with the heavy string mop, filling the whole place with the fresh smell of Pine-Sol.
    Finished with all of that, she had pinned new, un-faded posters of giant hamburgers and sandwiches on the wall above the back counter. After her neighbor Tanya, who was an artist, said the wall looked blah, Marisa had painted it hot pink. Now she   routinely put up new posters and photographs the Pepsi Cola truck driver seemed only too happy to supply for her, especially if she wore a revealing shirt when she asked him.
    As it had turned out, the hot pink walls complemented the gray countertops and the black and white floor tiles in the eating area. Together they gave the appearance of a décor that had been planned rather than achieved accidentally. Baby-boomer Elvis and James Dean fans loved it.
    The dying sun beamed amber through the front windows into the flea market, the rays reaching all the way back to the café and casting everything in soft gold. Marisa called it a day and began wiping down the tables, thinking ahead about a soothing bath after Mama ate supper and after every chore was done. In Mama’s more coherent days, she used to say there was always a blessing. Marisa just had to remember to look for it.
    Marisa had just finished wiping down the lunch counter when the front door opened and a lone guy came in, a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm. He halted just inside the doorway and peeled off his sunglasses, the black aviator type with mirrored lenses. She glanced through the plate-glass display window into the darkening color of late afternoon and saw a black Harley-Davidson parked out front. She hoped he hadn’t come for supper.
    The newcomer stood a moment, surveying the room, wall to wall, ceiling to floor. Was he casing the joint? Though she tried not to let robbery enter her mind, the possibility was ever present in the back of her consciousness. With no agent of law enforcement stationed closer than Wink, Pecos Belle’s was a good bet for a thief who had no way of knowing how sorely disappointed he would be with the loot.
    After a few seconds, the stranger in his heavy boots clumped over to the jukebox standing against the wall. The thing was a Seeburg, manufactured in 1954, the kind that had once been placed in restaurants and diners. It wasn’t a cherry, but whoever refurbished it had done a decent job. It had a $3,000 price tag and if this guy wanted to buy it, Marisa would figure out a way to strap it onto that Harley.
    She dropped her dishtowel on the drainboard under the lunch counter and dried her hands. “Help you with something?”
    He was now bent over the jukebox, engaged in a more thorough examination. “This thing work?”
    His baritone voice carried across the room, as rich as if it had come from the jukebox speakers.
    “Sure,” she answered. “I play it all the time.”
    Thinking about what she could do with $3,000 generated a spike of energy. She made her way through an assortment of vintage name-brand signs and a set of turquoise plastic patio chairs and finally reached the juke box. She pushed its plug into the wall outlet behind it and, to her relief, the old thing lit up like brand-new.
    She straightened, but still