Brand New Me

by Meg Benjamin

  “Are you okay?” Tom brushed the table with a rag, grabbing the empty pitcher.

  “Of course,” Deirdre mumbled. She wasn’t exactly okay, but she needed to be. And she needed everybody to leave her alone until she got it together again. Guts up, Deirdre.

  Tom took the tray out of her hands and walked back toward the bar. Deirdre pressed her lips together hard to keep them from trembling. Then she headed to the next table.

  For the rest of the evening she worked on autopilot. Part of her desperately wished Clem were there, if only to tell her this was supposed to happen and that she hadn’t screwed up somehow. Across the room, Sylvia moved with the kind of no-nonsense stride that Deirdre wished she could develop. Maybe she had do-me jeans, but she didn’t yet have the follow-through to go with them. She should probably just go back to the khakis and knit shirts. They felt safe, even if she didn’t get anywhere near the tips she was getting with this outfit.

  But the tips were the point. The more tips she made, the closer she was to getting the shop ready to go.

  She reminded herself to smile, although she’d never felt less like it in her life. She remembered how she’d felt when she’d walked into the Faro that evening. Strong. Powerful. Sexy.

  Well, maybe not sexy. Deirdre closed her eyes for a moment. Yes, damn it, sexy! She, who’d never been known to turn anybody’s head, had been really sexy. Clem had grinned at her on her way out of the kitchen, muttering, “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  And then somehow she’d managed to screw everything up. She blew out a breath as she wiped off an empty table. Oh well, tomorrow was another day.

  Maybe she’d go back to her old jeans again. Built for comfort, not for speed. The bills waded in her pocket pressed hard against her thigh as she leaned over. Lots of bills. Probably twice as many as she’d made before.

  She stood up again and tossed her towel back on the tray. Guts up, Deirdre. Maybe she’d give the new jeans one more night.

  Chapter Seven

  Tom watched Deirdre work the room. Her spine was ramrod straight, and it looked like she was making a major effort to keep her hips from swinging. Not that it made much difference. She was still the sexiest thing in the Faro, although the competition was admittedly slim.

  He’d had a feeling something was going to happen when he’d seen her come in, but he’d figured it would be a couple of those young fools fighting over her. His fault. He should have anticipated some asshole getting grabby.

  Now Deirdre was trying to act like she was still wearing her khaki camouflage. Not gonna happen, babe. Not in those jeans.

  As the evening wound down, Tom found he really wanted to punch somebody, preferably one of the jerks who’d been sitting at her table. At least the guys who were left in the room were treating her like the rare jewel she was. Although the fact that Chico was sitting in the doorway to the beer garden regarding everyone with his one-wrong-step-and-I-flatten-you expression probably helped. Tom only hoped they were also rewarding her heavily for the privilege of watching her walk across the room. Sylvia sent a fairly smug smile Deirdre’s way every once in a while, as if she’d somehow gotten what she deserved.

  Tom knew she hadn’t.

  Nando Avrogado showed up around ten on his way home from work. Tom served him his usual Negro Modelo.

  “Heard you had some excitement tonight.”

  “A little. Why? Were they talking about it at the Spur?” The Silver Spur was Tom’s major competitor. He figured the morons who’d groped Deirdre had headed there rather than driving back to Austin or San Antonio or wherever the hell they’d come from.

  “Some talk, yeah. Tolly Berenger called me to pick up a couple of drunks who were trying to start a fight. Said they’d started drinking here, but you kicked them out. Is that right?”

  Tom shrugged. “They deserved it.”

  “Yeah, I’d guess they did. And now they get to wake up to Chief Toleffson in the morning. That should scare the idiocy out of them for a while. He hates drunks.”

  Erik Toleffson, the Konigsburg Chief of Police, was indeed one of the scariest individuals Tom had ever met, closely followed by the police dispatcher, Helen Kretschmer. Between the two of them, he figured they’d put the fear of god into the punks.

  He knew exactly when Nando caught sight of Deirdre—that quick intake of breath followed by a shit-eating grin. “Oh my, my, my. So that’s what the fight was all about.”

  Tom didn’t want to analyze the quick spurt of irritation he felt. Hell, Nando already had more women than he knew what to do with. “You’ve seen her before. She’s a nice woman. They were assholes. Case closed.”

  Nando raised a questioning eyebrow. “I saw her, but I can’t say I really saw her until now. You involved?”

  “I’m her boss.” Already he regretted opening his mouth.

  “Yeah, right.” Nando turned back to watch as Deirdre set her tray on the bar.

  “I need two margaritas.” Her voice had dropped down to murmur range again—like she was trying to melt into the wallpaper. Tom felt like sighing.

  He turned to the blender, wishing he had a mirror over the bar so he could keep track of Nando. Maybe he’d consider installing one. If Deirdre stuck around, he’d probably need to keep a closer eye on the main room.

  If Deirdre stuck around. He ignored the slight clenching in his gut. Not your problem, boyo. You’ve got enough on your plate running the place.

  Deirdre was still waiting patiently when he returned with her margaritas. Beside her, Nando was watching the rest of the room. Tom couldn’t tell if that was strategy or if he really didn’t have any interest in her.

  Right. The idea of Nando Avrogado having no interest in the hottest woman in Konigsburg was about as likely as Nando Avrogado believing in the tooth fairy. Tom went back to wiping the bar so he wouldn’t have to take part in any further conversations about his barmaid.

  Nando left after he’d finished his beer, and the other customers finally thinned out around midnight when it was clear that nobody else was going to get into a fight. Tom wasn’t sorry to see them go for once. The testosterone level in the room had stayed at critical for most of the evening, and he’d been afraid Chico might bash a few heads just to make a point.

  Sylvia flounced by, dropping her tray on the bar. “I came early. Let Deirdre clean up.”

  Tom gritted his teeth but let it pass. He wanted her out of the room anyway. Actually, he wanted everybody out of the room except for Deirdre. He didn’t like the stiff way she was holding herself, as if she were afraid of walking the wrong way.

  He wanted that hip swing back.

  Finally, the room was empty. Harry closed down his end of the bar, and Chico looked like he’d fallen asleep on his stool near the outside door. Tom picked up a tray and began loading glasses beside Deirdre. “How’s it going?”

  She glanced at him, her eyes bleak. “Okay. I’ll clear the rest of the tables. Do you need me to sweep?”

  Tom shook his head. “Leon’ll do it when he cleans tomorrow.” He took the tray of glasses out of her hands. “Come sit down.”

  Deirdre’s forehead furrowed, but she followed him.

  Tom rounded the bar, taking down a couple of clean glasses. “I’m having a beer. What can I get for you?”

  Deirdre’s forehead smoothed slightly. “A Lone Star, I guess.”

  Tom pulled two drafts and then motioned her to a stool across from him. “Quite a night.”

  She nodded, sipping her beer, her gaze glued to the floor.

  “Look…” Tom began, wishing for once that he was better at talking than playing poker. “This wasn’t exactly a normal night. I’ve never seen those guys before, but we get assholes here pretty regularly. You don’t want to take it personally.”

  Deirdre took another swallow of beer. “I guess not. I just…maybe I shouldn’t dress like this. Maybe I gave them the wrong idea.”

  Tom felt like groaning. “You’re dressed exactly right for the Faro. Don’t let th
ose idiots make you back down. It was their problem, not yours.”

  “I don’t want to start trouble.”

  “You’re not starting trouble. You’re working as a barmaid, and you’re doing a great job. You can dress any way you want to. If those guys have a problem with it, they can go drink at the Silver Spur.”

  Deirdre gave him a tiny smile, just the slightest lift at the corners of her mouth. “So you’re okay with this? The jeans and the T-shirt and…everything?”

  Tom licked his lips. “Totally. Don’t change a thing. Well—” he paused, “—you might want to change the T-shirt every day or so. God knows we’ve got enough of them.”

  “Okay.” Deirdre took a final swallow of her beer, sliding off her bar stool. “I’ll check into it tomorrow. I guess I’ll go on home now. Thanks for the beer.”

  Tom frowned. “You’re walking?”

  “Sure—it’s only a few blocks.”

  “It’s after midnight. You shouldn’t walk around by yourself. Even in Konigsburg.” Especially when she was now established as the hottest cowgirl in town. Tom wiped his hands on a bar towel and then stepped around the end of the bar, nodding at Chico. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so. Just walking Deirdre home.”

  Deirdre looked like she might protest again, so Tom took her arm and headed for the door. “Where do you live. Up Main?”

  For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer, then she shrugged. “I’m staying in the apartment above Docia’s bookshop. The entrance is on Spicewood.”

  Tom didn’t think he’d ever been in Docia Toleffson’s bookshop, but he had a general idea of where it was. He headed back up Main. The air was still warm, even at midnight, with the scent of petunias wafting from the half whiskey barrels set up in front of the shops. He kept his hand on Deirdre’s elbow, guiding her from one pool of light to the next, the dark velvet night enveloping them. Contrary to his expectations, the street seemed deserted.

  “So where’d you find the jeans? They weren’t in Ferguson’s stock were they?”

  Deirdre shook her head. “Clem took me shopping at a place called Too Good To Be Threw. They had a lot of stuff.”

  Tom made a mental pledge to raise Clem’s salary yet again. “Good for Clem. Did you count up your tips yet?” He navigated them around a folding sign in front of Brenner’s restaurant.

  “Nope. But I know I made more than I’ve made the last two nights. Maybe now I can start pricing stuff for the shop.”

  “Let me know when you’re ready to paint.” Tom wasn’t sure how he was going to do it, but he figured he’d find a way to do some of the painting himself.

  “Probably next week.” Deirdre turned at the corner of Spicewood.

  He tried to think of some not-entirely-transparent way of keeping the conversation going. All of a sudden, he wanted to see the inside of Deirdre’s borrowed apartment. “So Docia Toleffson’s your cousin. Lars Toleffson does the books for the Faro. I guess he’s her brother-in-law.” He winced. That sounded even lamer than he’d expected.

  “Right.” She began fumbling for her keys. “There are four brothers, you know. Docia’s married to Cal. I think the other two are in politics somehow.”

  “Erik’s the chief of police,” Tom supplied. “The other one is Pete. I think he’s one of the county attorneys.” He took the key from her hand and unlocked the door. Inside, a flight of stairs led up to a darkened hallway overhead. “You should leave the light on when you go out in the evening.”

  “I do, usually. I was rushing tonight.” She sounded slightly annoyed.

  He figured his chances of being invited inside were not improving. He started up the stairs in front of her. “Where’s the light switch?”

  “To the left of the door upstairs.” She trailed up the stairs behind him dutifully.

  He felt his way along the wall until his fingers brushed the switch. The hall was marginally brighter. “Better than nothing, I guess. Not much candlepower, though.”

  Deirdre stepped around him. “It’s not that much of a threat. The only way somebody can get in here is through the street door, which is always locked, or the bookshop, which locks up at six.” She took the key from his hand and unlocked the apartment door. “Do you want to come in and check under the bed?”

  Tom ignored the sarcasm and stepped into the room, then stopped, staring. The apartment was empty.

  In the living room he saw two plastic lawn chairs. So far as he could tell, the dining room didn’t have any furniture at all. He took two steps farther inside. The kitchen had a vintage Formica table with bent aluminum legs. Through the partially open bedroom door, he saw a sleeping bag and an air mattress on the floor.

  It was the sleeping bag that got to him. “What the hell, Deirdre?”

  “Docia and the other people who lived here took most of the furniture when they moved. I don’t have anything of my own.”

  He surveyed the room again, shaking his head. “Okay, we’ve got some spare furniture in the storeroom at the Faro. We’ll go through it tomorrow. I’ll have Chico carry some of it over here for you.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t…”

  “Take what you need, damn it,” he snapped. “You shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor.”

  Her mouth compressed to a thin line. “You have a bed in the storeroom?”

  “No, actually.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, suppose I give you an advance on your salary. You could at least get a mattress or something.”

  “I need to put all my money into the shop. I can think about furniture once I get it launched.”

  He gritted his teeth to keep from growling at her. “Come on, it wouldn’t take more than a couple hundred bucks or so. And you’d be off the floor.”

  She shook her head stiffly, her mouth back to a thin line.

  He rubbed the back of his neck again, harder. “Deirdre, what’s going on here? You’re not some bag lady. You’re a smart woman, for Christ’s sake. What are you doing sleeping on the goddamn floor?”

  For a moment he thought she’d tell him to go to hell, although very politely, as usual. Then she blew out a breath. “I’m having a disagreement with my family. Right now I don’t have access to my money. I do have some funds, though, and when I can get to them, I’ll be able to pay for everything. Until then—” she shrugged, “—I’m roughing it. Urban campout.”

  “Okay.” He turned toward the front door, and then back again. “But you’re still going through the storeroom tomorrow for furniture.” And he swore to god he’d find a way to get her a bed. Even if he had to put her in his.

  “Right.” Deirdre sighed. “More vintage. Good night, Tom.”

  She didn’t exactly push him out the door, but he went. At least the sight of the sleeping bag counteracted his visions of her in a negligee. The idea of putting her into his bed was torture enough.

  Craig might have wasted a lot more time looking for Dee-Dee if it hadn’t been for the concierge at his hotel. She was, it turned out, a football fan. A real football fan. One of those football fans who memorized team rosters for every year, possibly as far back as the Cowboys had been in existence. Which meant she recognized Craig, which, in turn, meant that she was eager to help him. Very eager.

  Easy enough to get her to sit down for a cup of coffee in the hotel breakfast room. Easy enough to get her to give him all the details he needed. Like any good concierge she kept up with everything going on in Konigsburg. And in her case, that meant knowing what was going on with the people in town as well as the cultural scene.

  There were, it turned out, four Toleffson brothers. One was married to Docia Kent. Another was married to the woman in the bookshop. The two others held no interest for him and he promptly forgot them. The concierge knew about Docia Toleffson’s mother, Reba Brandenburg Kent, but hadn’t seen her in town recently. The Kent family home, it seemed, was back in the hills somewhere. Right now nobody was in residence except the caretaker and his staff, one of whom was the concierge’s niece.


  As for visitors at Docia Toleffson’s house, the concierge just laughed. Those particular Toleffsons lived in a converted barn with their baby son and assorted pets. While it was vaguely possible that somebody might be staying with them, she was pretty sure nobody was. Her cousin’s neighbor’s youngest girl was Docia’s babysitter, and she hadn’t mentioned anything about that.

  Craig poured her another cup of coffee and asked about newcomers. But about them, the concierge was less help. A new Target was being built outside Marble Falls, and some of the labor force lived in town. She’d heard a new furniture store was opening on West, but she hadn’t seen it yet and didn’t know who’d be running it. When he asked about new girls, she gave him a narrow-eyed look that almost made him apologize for thinking about other women.

  She took a sip of coffee, then shrugged. “We’ve always got people moving through, you know—temporary help at the restaurants and the gift stores. Nobody keeps track of them.”

  Craig managed not to grind his teeth. “I’m just looking for an old friend. Somebody said she might have moved up here from Houston.”

  “What’s her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.” The concierge raised an eyebrow.

  “Dee-Dee,” Craig supplied, carefully leaving off the Brandenburg. He didn’t want people making too many connections before he’d had a chance to spirit Dee-Dee back to Houston.

  The concierge shook her head. “Nobody named Dee-Dee around that I know of. Except—” her lips quirked up in a slightly nasty smile, “—that new barmaid at the Faro. She sounds like somebody who might be named Dee-Dee.” She gave Craig a slightly guilty look. “No offense to your friend.”

  “None taken.” Craig switched to his promoter’s smile. “A new barmaid?”

  “Started a fight last night, from what I hear. Had some of the college kids beating each other up over her. Of course, the Faro’s a rough place. Used to be, anyway, Tom Ames has cleaned it up some.”

  Craig nodded, still smiling. The mental image of Dee-Dee Brandenburg as a barmaid was so ridiculous it almost made him laugh out loud. He wondered if she could wait tables in those dark suits she usually wore. They didn’t look like they’d stand much wear and tear. Neither did Dee-Dee, if it came to that. On the other hand, this was the only lead he’d managed to dig up in three days of searching.