by Carol Grace
Reluctantly he took her hand, and they walked single file back to the schoolhouse. She didn’t speak and he sensed her disappointment, or was that wishful thinking? Maybe she was relieved. She changed into her nightgown in the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of pink fabric like spun sugar, and he remembered the nightgown hanging from the wall in her bedroom. The one she’d worn the night in the hammock.
He lay down with his clothes on and pretended to be asleep when she came out. When he heard the straw rustle on the mattress next to him, he didn’t open his eyes. But he knew how she would look with her curves barely concealed, the sheer material grazing the tips of her breasts, and he turned over and buried his face in the flat pillow.
He heard her whisper good-night to him, but he didn’t answer. His throat was clogged with desire. How much could a man take?
At dawn the fishermen knocked on their door, and Josh leaped off his mattress and waited outside with them to drink strong coffee while Catherine got dressed. He’d slept fitfully, visions of Catherine in her nightgown coming and going, but never staying long enough to take hold of. Just like real life. He saw the men look at him with curious glances. Were they trying to decide what to think of his relationship with Catherine? He couldn’t help them there. Half the time he didn’t know what to think of it, either.
He smiled and talked to the men and drank coffee, but his eyes were on the door of the schoolhouse until she finally came out wearing a red sweatshirt and tan pants. Among the reeds she stood out like an exotic flower. Her cheeks stone as if she’d scrubbed them in the small sink, and her brown eyes sparkled in the early-morning light. The men offered her coffee and a chunk of bread, then they all went down to the shore.
They pushed off in separate canoe-shaped balsas before Josh had a chance to say anything more than good morning to her. Her boat dipped and bobbed while Josh watched nervously. He saw her grab the edge of the balsa as she leaned forward to speak to the fishermen.
“We paddle gently so as not to awaken the sleeping goddess who lives in the reeds,” an old man from the front of her boat said.
Catherine smiled sympathetically, shading her eyes from the rising sun. She could see Josh in the boat ahead of her. With his head and shoulders outlined against the sky, he might have been the sun god himself.
But he wasn’t a god; she knew that. He was a man and he wanted her as much as she wanted him. But he had more restraint than she did. He’d fallen asleep before she’d even finished undressing, while she’d lain awake for hours, thinking about him. She reminded herself of her vow to keep everything on a business basis. It was clear he hadn’t forgotten, and she was grateful for that. Grateful, but also a little disappointed.
In the middle of the lake the men gave her a pole and showed her where to drop her line. In a few minutes she had a trout, and then another and another. By mid-morning they were dragging a bucket of large fish behind the boat. Voices echoed across the lake as the men in her canoe shouted to the men in his canoe. One of the young men in her boat confided that when they got their motorboat they would be able to use gill nets. The cannery would buy all they could catch and they would be rich. She asked what they did with the extra fish they caught now. He told her the women took them to town to barter for salt and flour and supplies.
The boats met for lunch on a small island where the men built a fire and cooked fish. Josh took Catherine aside and they sat on the shore, looking out at the treeless hills that surrounded the lake, eating crisp filets fried over the open fire.
“So far so good,” he said. “The lake seems to be full of trout. I caught six myself. But I didn’t see much else. I hear the trout did away with the smaller fish that were here originally.”
She nodded. There was something about that that disturbed her.
“They really know what they’re doing,” he continued enthusiastically. “And I agree that riding in a balsa boat is like riding a bucking bronco. I thought you were going to fall overboard at first.” He watched the wind blow her hair into a tangle of curls and felt the same stab of fear again as he had when he thought her boat was capsizing.
“I thought so, too. But now I’m kind of used to it.”
“The motorboats will be faster and they’ll have better control,” he said, noticing the way the wind whipped the color into her cheeks.
An uneasy feeling nagged at the corner of her mind. “What about the sleeping goddess?” she asked. “How will she feel when the motorboats come ripping through here?”
He studied her face, counting the freckles the sun had dusted across her nose. “Who?” he asked at last.
“She lives in the reeds at the bottom of the lake. That’s why we paddled gently.”
The full intensity of her liquid dark eyes caught him, and he felt his mind reeling. “Are you making this up?”
“No, you can ask the old man in my boat.” Frowning slightly, she laid her hand on his. “I like these people. I want them to get their boats and their gill nets, but... but...”
“But you think the sleeping goddess or the sun god might object?”
She shook her head. “I’m serious. I’ve heard stories of what happened in Alaska to the salmon. The canneries came in and subsidized the fishermen. They abandoned their trawlers and went for floating factories. When the waters were fished out, the Department of Fish and Game had to shorten the season. One year it was twenty-four hours. Can you imagine how that would affect their lives?”
“Catherine,” he said, leaning forward. “This is Lake Cordillera. Those were salmon. These are fresh-water trout.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “But look how balanced their lives are, these people. They have a surplus of fish, yes, but they trade them for what they need. They live in harmony with nature, like we do in Palomar. They have plenty to eat, like we do in the village. But their men don’t go off for weeks at a time like the men in Palomar do.”
He stood slowly and looked out across the choppy water. “Are you telling me you don’t think they should get the loan?”
“No, of course not. It’s your decision.”
He shook his head. “It’s Duran’s decision. We’re here to gather facts and give him our opinion.’’
She stood and brushed the crumbs off her pants. “Sometimes the price of a loan is too high.”
The men pushed the balsas back into the water for the return trip. Catherine rolled her pants up and waded into the water. In the boat she trailed her hand in the water as the paddles dipped silently in and out. She felt a sinking sensation in her heart. She didn’t envy Duran if he decided to turn them down. Maybe he would or maybe he’d follow his inclination and give it to them.
She looked over her shoulder across the blue-green water at Josh in the boat behind her. Even from that distance she could see his brow was furrowed and he was thinking it over. Maybe the villagers would be able to maintain a balance between efficient fishing and overfishing even with motorboats. But she was worried. Was this what it was like to take an uncomfortable, unpopular stand? Is this what bankers did every day?
Back on the island the children were just leaving the schoolhouse. Miguel’s son waved to them mid shyly invited them to come with him to visit his uncle, who was a boat builder. The boy was clutching the toy boat he had been working on the night before.
Josh smiled and Catherine said they’d be happy to meet the boat builder. “I think I know what your recommendation will be,” Josh said as they followed the boy along the path to his uncle’s.
Feeling a twinge of guilt, she answered, “Don’t listen to me. I don’t know anything about making loans or fishing for that matter. Forget what I said.”
“I can’t. What’s happened to the woman who made up her mind before she even got here?” He took her hand and they walked side by side down the path lined with reeds.
“She’s here. But she’s confused. I want what’s best for the people and what’s best for you...”
“But you’re not sure what that is an
d neither am I,” he confessed.
She glanced up at him. “If this is what it’s like to be a banker, then I feel sorry for you.”
He pulled her close, his hip hard and solid against hers. “Don’t. Sometimes banking has unexpected rewards. Sometimes someone comes to my office by mistake.”
“Like me?” she asked. “That was no mistake.”
“And asks for something impossible,” he continued.
“Like a loan to buy a truck?”
“And I say no.”
“But you feel bad about it.”
He nodded and smoothed her hair with his hand.
“So you change your mind.” She turned and pressed her palms against his. “Josh, I don’t want to let you down.”
The emotion in her voice surprised him. He motioned the boy to go on ahead and linked his arms loosely around her waist. “You’re not going to let me down. What’s happened to you? I’ll never forget your telling me all you wanted was some small change and you asked me what I had to lose.”
“That was before I knew you, before I realized what you had to lose. Before I realized how much your job means to you.”
“No more than yours means to you.” He slid his hands up her arms until he held her by her shoulders.
Her braid had come undone and the loose tendrils framed her face and softened her earnest expression. “This is just one of my jobs. The farm in Palomar is just one of the many farms I’m going to work and the Mamara are just one tribe of Indians I’m going to help. It’s not the same for you.”
He watched, fascinated, while her cheeks turned pink as she grew more animated.
“You’re moving up and I’m moving sideways,” she explained. The sun shone on her dark hair as the smell of reeds drying in the sun at the boat builder’s house wafted their way. The boy had long ago disappeared down the path, and they were alone, hidden from view by the tall grasses.
“Then how do you think our paths crossed?” he asked, tucking a dark wisp of hair behind her ear.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I’m glad they did.”
He leaned forward and captured her face between his hands. He felt the warmth of her face, watched her take his hand in hers and kiss his broad palm. The touch of her lips made him want to wrap her in his arms and disappear behind the reeds to the soft grass by the shore. The thought of Catherine and him lying in the warm afternoon sun made the heat rise up the back of his neck.
Above the whisper of the wind in the reeds came the sound of a man wielding a machete in the clearing beyond, reminding Josh of his obligations to the fishermen of the village, to Duran and to the bank. This was a business trip. There were decisions to be made and people to see. The uncle, for one. Without speaking Josh took Catherine’s hand and they walked toward the house of the boat builder. The uncle was there, his machete on the ground. His sun-browned face broke into a smile at the sight of the visitors. Proudly he showed them how he formed the sides and then the heart of the boat with the materials at hand.
Then he turned his attention to the small toy boat his nephew had brought and they all walked down to the water to try it out. Catherine knelt on the wooden pier to watch the boat float in the clear, shallow water. It was as carefully made as the ones they had ridden in that morning.
She caught Josh’s eye and she wondered if he feared what she did. That if the village had motorboats, this craft might be lost. Not just this craft, but a whole way of life. Slowly they made their way back to Miguel’s house where his wife was spinning wool from their llama into yarn.
“My mother spun her own yarn,” Catherine said. “I never had a store-bought sweater until I grew up. She taught me to spin, too.” She nodded to Miguel’s wife, and she and Josh wandered down to the shore where the boats were drying in the sun.
“How can you say they left you nothing?” Josh asked, sitting on the beach, looking at her thoughtfully. “Besides your memories, they gave you skills, like weaving and cooking and plowing.”
She squinted at the choppy waves with the sun dancing on than. “Everything but bargaining,” she acknowledged with a half smile. “What are we going to report back to the bank?” She sat next to him and hugged her knees to her chest.
“That the coming of the cannery will bring the motorboats to this lake whether we like it or not.”
“It’s called progress,” she mused, “and I guess it’s inevitable.”
“If this village doesn’t have them, they won’t be able to compete,” he said. “We can’t let that happen.”
She shook her head, relieved that they didn’t have to disappoint these people she had come to admire and respect. He helped her to her feet, and silently they walked back to the schoolhouse.
On the path he imagined how the stillness of the lake would one day be broken by the roar of the boats, and it wasn’t a pleasant thought. So for now he relished the silence and the sight of Catherine just ahead of him, her dark hair caressing her shoulders. Even more than the silence he relished this time alone with her. A time when they reached a decision that satisfied them both. A time of unexpected harmony.
Inside the schoolhouse the desks were closed for the day and the windows shuttered. They changed clothes for the farewell party the villagers were giving for them.
“This has been an experience for me,” Catherine said, smoothing the skirt of her pale blue cotton dress, “standing in a banker’s shoes for a few days. It’s given me a new appreciation of your profession.”
“My profession? What about me?” he asked, crossing the room and laying the back of his hand against her wind burned cheek.
She looked up to catch a flash of desire burning in his eyes. “I’ve always appreciated you,” she said quickly, feeling her heartbeat quicken. Appreciate. It was a good safe word. Now if only he’d leave it at that. But he didn’t. He tilted her chin with his hand, and she closed her eyes and struggled with the feelings she’d tried to suppress. When had appreciation turned to admiration and admiration turned to something else? Something dangerously close to love.
Was it the night he’d slept on her shoulder in the taxi? Or was it the day he told her about the silver mine? Maybe it was the night she’d cooked dinner for him and he’d shared his dreams with her. If only he’d let her help him make them come true. But he was afraid. Afraid to try. Afraid to fail. She knew something about that. The thought of the farm in California, the cold, stern face of a banker, the fields baking in the sun, brought a cold chill of fear to her heart. Yes, she understood that kind of fear. As long as she stayed here, as long as things went well on the land, she could keep it at bay.
She looked up at his face in half shadow under the swinging light bulb above them, unable to read his expression. “It must be time for the party,” she suggested, grateful for the distraction, for any reason not to stay in this room, to prolong the moment when they had to go to bed next to each other on the straw mattresses.
Miguel’s house was filled with music and laughter and food. The women in their bright skirts and their dark braids smiled shyly and greeted them warmly. They pressed cups of tea into their hands and led them to the best seats to watch the entertainment.
There was music and dancing. Catherine found herself clapping and swaying to the music, forgetting everything but the warmth and friendship of these people she scarcely knew and the man next to her who she felt she’d known all her life. Before they left they got directions for the Island of the Sun so they could go on their own at sunrise to experience for themselves the legend of the sun god.
They walked arm in arm to the schoolhouse. Without saying anything Catherine changed into her nightshirt in the small bathroom. When she came out, Josh was standing by the door, still wearing his blue jeans and plaid shirt with the sleeves up above the elbows.
She sat cross-legged on her mattress and looked up inquiringly. He cleared his throat. “I’m going out for a walk,” he said hoarsely.
“A walk, now? Why?” she asked.
She swallowed hard. “Josh?”
Framed in the doorway, he paused. “Yes?”
“I feel the same way. I want you, but I know I can’t have you.”
“Why not?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“Why not?” she asked. “You know why not. We’re going in different directions, like two shooting stars that happened to collide. And before there’s any damage we’ll dust ourselves off and be gone on our way. I’ll never forget what you did for me and for the village. You took a chance on us and got us the truck.” She took a deep breath. “Now it’s my turn to help you with your goal. Old Pedro has offered to take you to the mine. Isn’t that wonderful?” She paused and watched his face darken as if a storm cloud had passed.
“That’s not my goal. I thought you understood that. It’s a dream, that’s all. My goal is to become a vice president of the bank. To never have to worry about money again. Chasing after silver isn’t part of my plans.”
Shivering, Catherine pulled the hand-woven blanket up around her shoulders. She had spoiled the evening by bringing up the subject of the mine. Maybe she’d spoiled the whole trip. She clamped her mouth shut so as not to say any more. So as not to suggest that dreams are just as important as goals. And that it was important to know the difference between them.
He stared at her for a long moment. “I need some fresh air. I’ll see you in the morning.”
