Cinderella in Overalls

by Carol Grace

  “What did bankers ever do to you?” he asked, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. “Was it your farm they foreclosed on?”

  “That’s ancient history,” she said brusquely. “Getting back to the loan, before you make your final decision—”

  “I have made my final decision. No farm loans this year.”

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You should really come to the valley. If you could see what we do with so little, I’m sure you’d agree—”

  He shook his head and smiled in spite of himself at her determination. “You never give up, do you? Sit down and I’ll get you a hot dog and some more champagne.”

  He waited to see if she really would sit down before made his way to the grill where he speared two hot dogs, put than in buns and covered them with relish, onions, mustard and catsup. He wouldn’t mind going to the valley. In fact, he’d love the chance to get out of the city, but he had no intention of loaning this idealistic Peace Corps volunteer a cent. What would they say back in Boston? What they were already saying here. The altitude’s got you, Bentley. Or is it the woman, Bentley? The one who looks like a picture out of the National Geographic one day with her pink cheeks and four layers of clothes and the next day she’s Miss America in a T-shirt and hip-hugging skirt.

  That wouldn’t be why you’re considering going to the valley, would it? he asked himself. Because if it is, you’ve got to get back to sea level quick. This woman is interested in one thing, and that’s getting a loan. What she isn’t interested in is bankers. Unless they shell out, that is. And the minute she realizes you mean it when you say no, she’s going to drop you like a hot potato, one of those hybrid potatoes of hers.

  He returned to Catherine, balancing two plates of food and two glasses of champagne. He wasn’t going to let himself get carried away by her dark, fascinating eyes and the luscious curves under her white shirt and denim skirt. She looked glad to see him, but even gladder to see the potato salad and the hot dog. He sat down across from her again and raised his glass.

  “Happy Independence Day.”

  She lifted her glass and met his gaze. She saw no animosity in his eyes, only warmth and friendliness. He held no grudge, even though she’d turned down his offer. So how could she be angry when he’d said no to her? And there they were, two fellow Americans thousands of miles away from home. Instead of passing like ships in the sea of expatriates, why not have a glass of champagne together before they went on their separate ways? It was a natural thing to do.

  “First time out of the country on the Fourth of July?” he asked.

  “I was in Aruaca last year, but I didn’t come to the party. I don’t know why. Something about not wanting to hang out with Americans.” As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. Now he’d think she’d come to the party in order to see Americans, in order to see him. Nothing could be further from the truth. She’d intended to avoid him. But it hadn’t worked out that way.

  “So what happens in Tranquility on the Fourth when it’s a hundred degrees?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and sipping his champagne. Time enough to resist it later, this feeling that his insides were turning to mush. There was something about this woman that made him forget all the problems he’d told her about—the international debt, the rising inflation; and the one he hadn’t—the gnawing fear that the stories of a lost silver mine had played too big a part in his decision to come here. If he’d gone to Panama or Colombia when they wanted him, he might be a VP by now.

  Sometimes he thought he’d never adjust to this altitude or learn the language. But sitting here on this chair under this tree, he never felt so well adjusted in his life. What the hell, he told himself. It’s a holiday. Eat, drink and be merry and say anything that comes into your head. Tomorrow she’ll be gone, back to the country, and it’s back to reality.

  She put her hot dog down on her paper plate and answered his question. “There’s a parade in the morning with the high school band.”

  “Did you play?”

  “Drum majorette.”

  He smiled. A vision of her in a tightly buttoned jacket, short shorts and long legs in boots drifted in front of him. A mass of dark hair under a crisp white cap.

  “Do you miss it?” he asked lazily.

  “What, baton twirling?”

  “No, Tranquility.”

  “No,” she said so emphatically that he set his glass down and looked at her. “I like it here,” she explained. “I may never go back. What about you?”

  “I think I’m going to like it. But I’m not used to the altitude, and I haven’t seen much except the bank and my apartment, which is two blocks away from the bank.”

  She shook her head disapprovingly. But she had to admit that for someone who was wrapped up in banking and suffered from altitude sickness, he looked remarkably good. So good she was having trouble bringing the conversation back to the loan.

  Instead she found herself watching his eyes change from sky to sea-blue, listening to the sound of his voice and noticing the muscles in his arms. She never knew bankers had muscles. She never knew bankers had feelings, either. It was disturbing. With an effort she brought herself back to the problem at hand. He hadn’t said he wouldn’t come to the valley. Maybe if she asked him again.

  “Sounds like you need to see some more of the country,” she suggested pointedly.

  “Such as Palomar?”

  “Yes, if you’re really interested in the country and the people. Come and meet the women and see how hard they work.”

  “The women? What about the men?”

  “The men are off working in the mines. Farming is women’s work around here. If they had to depend on the money from the crops, they’d... Well, they wouldn’t starve, but they couldn’t buy shoes for the children or tools for the farm.’’

  His eyes narrowed against the late afternoon sun. “Mines?” he asked. “Not silver mines.”

  She shook her head. “The silver mines closed years ago. Only the old-timers remember them. They mine tin now, the men of the valley. It’s dangerous work, but when they come home they bring the wages. Otherwise...” Her voice trailed off. She’d done everything but get down on her knees and beg him to come. And all he did was change the subject. She wiped her hands on the paper napkin in her lap and decided to make a graceful exit while she still had a few ounces of pride left.

  “I’d like to come,” he said. “But I’m afraid that no matter how much I like it and how hard the people work I’m going to have to turn you down again.” His eyes flashed a warning that she ignored.

  “Don’t worry about me. I can handle it,” she said coolly. “Just come with an open mind.” Deep down she had a feeling that if Josh Bentley came to Palomar and met Jacinda and saw how hard everyone worked and how little they earned, he would change his mind. He was a banker, yes, but he also seemed to be a decent human being.

  “How about this weekend?” he asked.

  Catherine shrugged casually, but her stomach did a flip-flop. She’d done it. Somehow she’d convinced him to come. “Fine,” she said.

  She stood up. She had a desperate need to get away from his penetrating eyes and his questions. She had already talked too much about herself. She was here to forget about Tranquility, not dredge up memories of happier times, of parades and holidays.

  “I have to leave now if I want to catch my ride home.”

  He stood and looked up at the sky. “You’ll miss the fireworks.”

  “I think I’ve had enough Americana for one day,” she said lightly. “At midnight I turn into a farmer again, and suddenly I’m wearing overalls and a bandanna around my neck.”

  He reached out and wound his finger around a strand of her hair. “Like Cinderella,” he said softly. His face was very close to hers, and she realized that the other guests had drifted away and they were alone under the branches of the tree. If she lifted her face to his, and if their lips met in a brief kiss, no one would know or see.

 
“Don’t run away,” he said, his voice so low she had to lean closer to hear him. So close she could feel his breath on her lips. She closed her eyes and felt her spine tingle in anticipation. “You might lose a glass slipper.”

  Catherine pulled away. He wasn’t going to kiss her. He was toying with her. She looked at her watch. “Where has the time gone? I’ve got to hurry.”

  “What about this weekend?” he asked.

  “I’ll expect you Sunday morning.”

  “How will I find you?”

  “Once you get to Palomar, ask anyone where the North American lives.”

  “I’m not promising anything,” he called through the falling shadows.

  “Neither am I,” she answered over her shoulder, and then she was gone.

  Josh stood alone in the dusk, feeling as if he’d lost something he’d been looking for for a long time. He had come that close to kissing her, to feeling her lips on his. She was beautiful, but there was something lurking in the depths of her eyes that kept him at arm’s length. He walked slowly through the grounds to the front gate, feeling a pang of something between lonely and homesick. And yet it was neither of those. It was a longing for something he wanted but couldn’t have.

  Sunday morning dawned clear and hot. Catherine leaned out the bedroom window of her small house and sniffed the air heavy with the scent of the roses that climbed the trellis in her yard. Fertile fields stretched as far as she could see until the hills rose gently in the distance. Farmers had no weekends and this was no exception. She dressed quickly in bib overalls and a checkered shirt and paused in front of the mirror to brush her hair. Suddenly she remembered the feeling of Josh’s hand in her hair. Resolutely she braided it as tightly as she could.

  He was coming to see the farm, not her. If he came at all. She knotted a ribbon at the end of the braid. The hairstyle was part of her new identity. Along with the skirts and shawls. But no shawl today. It was too hot.

  As she walked down the path toward the potato fields, she wondered if she should mention Josh’s visit to Jacinda or anyone else. If she told them he was a banker who might lend them money, then she was setting them up for disappointment, but if she didn’t tell them, they’d think he was coming to see her. She decided not to worry about it. He might not come at all. But there was something in the air today, a hushed, expectant feeling that something was going to happen. At the edge of the field she bent over to examine the seedlings she had planted a few weeks ago.

  “Come on,” she coaxed, brushing the dirt off a leaf. “Let’s see some progress here. Higher. Reach up and touch the sky.’’ She raised her voice to include the entire field, then stood on tiptoe and spread her arms to demonstrate the technique to the budding potato plants.

  Hearing footsteps, she whirled around like a dancer with arms outstretched. There he was in faded jeans and a plaid shirt rolled above the elbows. She dropped her arms and watched him approach, knowing he’d seen her pirouetting among the plants, hoping he hadn’t heard her talking to them.

  In seconds he was at her side, grinning at her. “Don’t let me interrupt. You were saying?’’

  She blushed. “It’s a well-known method, talking to plants. They need encouragement just like people.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Does it work?”

  “If you’re sincere.” She studied him, looking for some sign of sincerity on his part. Did he really want to see the farm? He’d caught her talking to the plants, which put her on the defensive. Now she had to show him how seriously she took her job.

  “These are the experimental potatoes I was telling you about.” She paused. “The day I came to your office to ask for the loan.”

  “Oh, yes. The ones that take up less space and produce a higher yield in a shorter time.”

  She nodded. He did remember. He bent over to rub some soil between his fingers. She knelt down next to him and sunk her hands into the loose, rich earth.

  “Look at this. Isn’t it beautiful? I wish I could take credit for these potatoes, but anything will grow here. Put a twig in the earth, and the next week you’ve got a rosebush. Throw an apple core out the window, and the next year there’s a tree. What we wouldn’t give for two feet of this stuff in California.”

  His knees next to hers in the dirt, he turned to face her. “So that’s where Tranquility is.”

  “It’s in the Central Valley,” she explained. “You won’t find it on a map of the world.” She stood and walked slowly, looking for aphids between rows of plants.

  “Is that why you left—to find better soil?” he asked.

  “Yes. We had a drought back home for the past three years. And I’d learned a lot I wanted to try out. But we lost our farm. There was nothing to stay for.”

  “No one to stay for, either?”

  “No one,” she said firmly. “Do you always interview your loan applicants so thoroughly?” she asked with her hands on her hips.

  “It always helps to know their background.” He walked on ahead between rows of plants, then stood with his feet wide apart in the rich black earth and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. Sun shone on his strong features. She studied the shape of his nose, his firm jaw and his mouth, remembering that he’d almost kissed her once on the Fourth of July.

  “And you,” she said, “what made you want to be a banker?”

  He paused only a second. “Money and security. Both of which were in short supply when I was growing up. My father was a jack-of-all-trades, and he failed at most of them. He was always looking for something. Unfortunately he never found it. I knew there had to be a better way to support a family.”

  A family? Catherine’s mind reeled. She had never considered the possibility that Josh had a family to support. But, in fact, many families stayed home rather than adjust to the altitude and the language. She walked toward him slowly, her eyes on the plants.

  “How is your family?” she asked. What she really meant was who are they and where are they? The words were on the tip of her tongue: are you married?

  “My father died in a plane crash a few years ago,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.” She dug a hole in the soil with the toe of her shoe.

  “Don’t be. It was the way he wanted to go. He didn’t want to die in bed. He’d done more living in seventy years than most people do in two lifetimes. He had the most incredible stories to tell... when he was home, that is.” There was sadness and bitterness in his voice.

  “Which wasn’t very often?”

  “No. My mother went to work and I went to school. My father went to look for lost treasure. My mother’s family never forgave him.”

  “Did you?” she asked softly.

  He gave her a long look, then shrugged without answering, as if it weren’t important. But somehow Catherine knew it was.

  Abruptly he changed the subject. “I can just picture your childhood. Jumping into haystacks and raising kittens in the barn.”

  She studied his face, watched the taut muscles in his neck relax. “That’s right, and even though we weren’t rich, we never felt poor. There’s always enough to eat on a farm, and my mother sewed all my clothes. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be there forever, making clothes for my children, canning peaches in the summer and spinning wool in the winter...” She stopped and forced a smile. “Well, let’s get going. There’s so much I want you to see.”

  They walked in silence past fields of wheat, a plot of tomatoes ripening in the sun and then the lush green of parsley. The colors seemed more intense today, the air sweeter and the earth more fertile. Catherine didn’t know if it had anything to do with the man who walked behind her. Absently she waved to Doña Blanca, who was guiding a horse pulling a plow across the field, and the two little boys riding a burro behind her.

  Josh nodded to the woman and waved to the children. Then he turned his gaze back to Catherine, who took the lead down the narrow path, following her easy gait with his eyes on her firm, round bottom. He reminded himsel
f he was here on bank business. Although he could have told her no without coming all this way. In fact, he did tell her no. Now that he was here he was more convinced than ever they had no chance of paying off a loan with their primitive farming methods.

  The most he could expect out of today’s trip was to convince her to accept the truck as a gift, then convince someone to give her one. If she wouldn’t take it, maybe one of the other women would, one who wasn’t so proud. Like the one who was waving to them from the doorway of her house.

  Catherine introduced Doña Jacinda to him, and she ushered than into her plain, spotless house. A small boy peeked through the window, and Jacinda shooed him away. “They are curious,” she said to Josh, “about you.” Then she poured coffee and stood back to survey Josh as if he were the answer to her prayers. Her gaze traveled to Catherine and back to him, her rapid Spanish too fast for him to follow. He looked inquiringly at Catherine, seated next to him in a hand-carved wooden chair.

  “She says she remembers you,” Catherine said. “From the market.”

  “Tell her I remember her, too. Does she know why I’m here?”

  “I haven’t told anyone about the loan. So she’s jumped to her own conclusions.” Catherine set her coffee cup on a small table. “When a man comes calling on a woman in Aruaca, it’s for only one reason.” Catherine shifted uncomfortably. “So she wants to ask you some questions.”

  Josh’s blue eyes gleamed in amusement. “Fire away.”

  “She wants to know if you can support a wife.” A flush crept up Catherine’s face.

  “A wife and children, too,” he assured her politely.

  Catherine translated and waited for the next question. “How many?”

  “Four, five, six...as many as possible. I was an only child. Let me tell you, that’s no fun at all.”

  Hearing this, Jacinda raised her palms to the sky and praised God for sending this man to them just in the nick of time. Catherine seemed to have no intention of translating any longer, but Josh caught the drift of what she was saying. Explaining to Jacinda that she wanted to show Josh the farm now, Catharine stood and moved toward the door.