“No. For the display in the Sheriff’s Department lobby. I’m on the Women’s Club facilities committee, and I’m supposed to get a glossy eleven-by-fourteen of you to put up along with those of all the previous sheriffs. I don’t need it this minute, but I will need it soon. I’ll have to have it framed lime for an official presentation at our annual luncheon in January.”
Looking around the room for Jenny, Joanna nodded. “I’ll take care of it as soon as I can.”
From across the room she succeeded in catching Jenny’s eye. Joanna motioned toward the door. In response, Jenny pointed toward her empty plate, then folded her hands prayerfully under her chin.
The gestured message came through loud and clear. Jenny wanted a second piece of Mrs. Sawyer’s cake.
Shaking her head, Joanna walked up to her daughter. “No,” she said firmly. “Come on. We’ve got to go.”
Scowling, Jenny got up to follow, but as they started toward the stairway, Cynthia Sawyer abandoned her spot behind the refreshment table and came hurrying after them. She was carrying a paper plate laden with several pieces of her rich, dark-brown pecan praline cake.
“I know this is Jenny’s favorite,” Cynthia said, smiling and carefully placing the loaded plate Jenny’s outstretched hand. “She mentioned that you folks were having a little going-away party this afternoon. We have more than enough for the people who are here. I thought you might want a piece or two for dessert.”
Joanna knew she’d been suckered. There was no way to turn down Mrs. Sawyer’s generous offer without making a public fool of herself.
“Why, thank you, Cynthia,” Joanna said. “That’s very thoughtful.”
Clutching the plate, Jenny scampered triumphantly up the stairway to safety while her moth stalked after her.
“Jennifer Ann Brady, you’re a brat,” Joanna muttered when she knew they were both safely out of Cynthia’s hearing.
“But, Mom,” Jenny protested. “I didn’t
Joanna laughed in spite of herself. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I suppose I do like it. Praline cake is one of those things that grows on you . . . in more ways than one.”
Juanita Grijalva sat at her wobbly Formica-topped kitchen table wearing only a bra and slip, waiting Lucy, her brother’s wife, to finish ironing her best dress. The starched cotton was so well worn it had taken on a satiny sheen. Juanita knew the dress was getting old. She could tell that from the gradually changing texture of the aging material, but glaucoma kept her from being able to see it.
Thee navy-blue dress—brand-new then and with all the stickers still pinned to the sleeve—had been a final, extravagant gift from the lady whose house Juanita had cleaned and whose washing and ironing she had done for twenty years before failing vision had forced her to stop working altogether. If Juanita had worked as a maid in the hotel or as a cook in the county hospital, she might have had a pension and some retirement income instead of just a blue dress. But it was too late to worry about that now.
Juanita had lain awake in her bed all night long, worrying about the coming interview. She had finally fallen asleep just before dawn when her brother’s rooster next door started his early-morning serenade. Now, as noon approached and with it time for Frank Montoya to come pick her up, Juanita found herself so weary that she could barely stay awake. Her sightless eyes burned. Her shoulders ached from the heavy weight of her sagging breasts. To relieve the burden, she heaved them up and rested them on the edge of the table,
“Who’s coming for you?” Lucy asked.
“Maria Montoya’s son. Frank. He used to be city marshal over in Willcox, but he works for the Sheriff’s Department now. He told me last night that he’d drive me up to Bisbee to see that new woman sheriff.”
Lucy plucked the dress off the ironing boar then held it
