LITMIR.BIZ

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to dance with into the wee hours of the morning.

      Dance with—not have sex with.

      When she’d spotted Logan drinking shots at the bar she’d gone over to say hello. The silly, drunken grin he’d flashed had put her dancing plans on the back burner. The bartender had held out Logan’s truck keys, assuming she’d arrived to haul his inebriated carcass home. She could have said no. She could have phoned Logan’s friend, Fletcher, to come get him.

      But you didn’t.

      Her and Logan’s fate had been sealed the moment she’d grasped the truck keys from the bartender. Afterward, she’d spent weeks making up excuses for her behavior that night.

      Logan had been too drunk to drive.

      Logan had needed to eat, and she’d insisted on cooking him a meal.

      Logan needed to sober up, so she’d helped him shower.

      Logan needed a babysitter—in case he’d vomited—so she’d rested on the bed with him.

      Her intent had been to slip away before dawn, but then he’d called out Bethany’s name in his sleep and Cassidy had woken to his hand on her breast, his eyes shimmering with grief and pain. Logan had hit rock bottom and Cassidy hadn’t had the heart or willpower to turn him away.

      Forcing the memories aside, she flipped on the blinker and entered the Shady Acres Trailer Park. She could count on one hand the number of shade trees throughout the twenty acre patch of flat Texas dirt. The owner of the property had invested little money in landscaping. Most of the park’s tenants struggled to make their rent payment and what extra money they earned went toward food and clothing, not flowers or bushes.

      Years ago Cassidy’s mother had planted a cherry tree in the small yard alongside their trailer. Today the tree stood twenty-five feet high and in April its pink blossoms added a touch of beauty to the stark neighborhood. Best of all, the tree provided much needed shade for the aluminum shed Cassidy used as a hair studio.

      At half-past one in the afternoon the kids were in school and the neighborhood was quiet. She slowed the car as it passed over the first of two speed bumps and noticed the Millers had strung Christmas lights on their trailer. Cassidy took great pride in being the first Shady Acres tenant to decorate for Christmas. She’d made a habit of hanging her lights over Thanksgiving weekend. But her mother’s temperament had been more difficult than usual this holiday and Cassidy hadn’t had the energy to dig through boxes of decorations. After she parked next to the single-wide and got out of the car, her neighbor greeted her.

      “Hello, Cassidy.”

      “Hi, Betty.”

      Betty’s cousin, Alice, appeared. “Sonja’s been inside the whole time you were gone.”

      “Mom’s frosting Christmas cookies. We’ll bring a dozen over later today.”

      The little old ladies had claimed to be related when they’d moved into the park eight years ago, but no cousins Cassidy knew held hands like her neighbors. She didn’t care what kind of relationship the women had. After Cassidy’s mother had been officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago, Betty and Alice had offered to keep an eye on Sonja when Cassidy ran errands. She owed her neighbors a debt of gratitude.

      When Cassidy entered the trailer, she found her mother exactly where she’d left her—sitting at the card table in front of the TV. Pieces of broken cookie littered the tabletop and smears of colored frosting marred her mother’s blouse.

      “Who’s that?” her mother called, gaze glued to the TV.

      “It’s me, Mom.” She approached the table and inspected the cookies. “I like that one.” She pointed at the snowflake coated with an inch of silver-colored sugar crystals.

      “I made that for you.” Her mother smiled.

      “Mmm.” Cassidy took a bite and choked on the sweetness. When her mother’s attention drifted to her favorite game show, Cassidy went into the kitchen, tossed the rest of the cookie into the trash and checked the clock. She had fifteen minutes to prepare for Mrs. Wilson’s hair appointment. “I’ll be in the salon if you need me, Mom.”

      Cassidy went outside to the shed, propping the doors open with potted plants. She’d saved her paychecks from a chain hair salon she’d worked at in Midland for two years to buy the aluminum building and beauty-shop equipment. Then she’d paid a fortune for a plumber to hook up a sink. She used extension cords and an outlet strip to plug in the hair dryers and curling irons and the two lamps she’d set on end tables. Between her mother’s social security checks and Cassidy’s income from styling hair they managed to make ends meet.

      Her mother had been forced into early retirement because of health problems and so far Cassidy hadn’t had to touch a dime of her mother’s savings—money Sonja had set aside during the twenty-five years she’d worked at the fertilizer factory between Junket and Midland. Cassidy would use that money to put her mother in a home when the time arrived that she needed constant care.

      Mrs. Wilson pulled up in her Lincoln Town Car. “Right on time, Mabel.” The retired schoolteacher was never late.

      Mabel set her purse on the loveseat Cassidy had found in a secondhand store the previous summer. “How’s Sonja?”

      “Mom’s doing well.” She refrained from discussing her mother’s worsening condition. If people learned how quickly Sonja’s disease was progressing they’d encourage Cassidy to put her in a home sooner rather than later.

      “Go a little darker on the rinse, dear. I don’t want the color to fade before the Smith’s party on the eighteenth.”

      After months of pleading with the older woman to experiment with a different hair color, Cassidy had given up. Mabel insisted on using old-fashioned blue hair rinse. Cassidy draped a cape across Mabel’s shoulders. “How’s Buford?” Her husband had retired from the state highway patrol this past summer.

      “He’s being an ass.”

      “What’s he gone and done now?” Listening to her customers vent was part of the job. Cassidy mixed the hair color, then cleaned her trimming scissors while Mabel droned on.

      “He’s refusing to allow Harriet and her new husband to join us for Christmas dinner.”

      “I thought Buford liked your sister.”

      “It’s husband number four he hates.”

      Harriet exchanged husbands as often as women switched lipstick colors.

      “Mitchell’s a lawyer.” Mabel twisted in the chair and said, “You know how much Buford hates lawyers.”

      Poor Buford. He’d earned a reputation of having the highest percentage of nonconvictable arrests during his tenure on the force. Cassidy changed the subject. “How do you like teaching Sunday school?”

      “Aside from a few rambunctious boys the kids are well-behaved. They need a substitute teacher for the first-grade class if you’re interested.”

      “Not right now, Mabel.” Cassidy had stopped attending church months ago after her mother had stood up in front of the entire congregation and announced that if she didn’t go to the bathroom right then she’d pee her pants.

      While Mabel chatted about the children’s holiday play, Cassidy slipped on a pair of latex gloves and worked the blue dye into Mabel’s hair, then set the timer for an extra ten minutes and placed a magazine in her lap. “I need to check on Mom.”

      When Cassidy entered the trailer and peeked around the kitchen doorway, she discovered her mother fast asleep in the recliner. Relieved, Cassidy poured a glass of lemonade for her customer, then returned to the shed.

      “Thank you, dear.” After a sip, Mabel said, “I hear there’s a new doctor in Midland who specializes in brain problems like your mother’s.”

      “Really?” Old people were

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