Fiesta Moon

by Linda Windsor

  “If I thought I could get back up, señorita, I would lie down and bare my throat.” Instead he sat on his suitcase, his square jaw shifting in irritation to one side. “I decided to take a minivacation in Acapulco instead of flying in through Mexico City. It was probably the last moment of pleasure I will enjoy until this project is complete. This morning I started toward Mexicalli in a fine sports car, but it was arrested after a produce truck threw a wheel just as I passed it.”

  “The car was arrested?” she echoed.

  “Until it could be cleared of wrongdoing.” He raised his hands, head shaking in equal disbelief. “I honestly think the local alcalde thought he might get a hot red, only slightly scratched, Jaguar out of this, but it’s rented. Now it’s between him and the rental company. I’ll have to pay the fine through our contract, I guess. I’m turning it over to the corporate attorneys as soon as I report in.”

  Corinne had heard of such occurrences, but had never encountered it firsthand. In traffic accidents, the vehicles were impounded until the matter was sorted out and damages paid. But it didn’t increase her sympathy for Mark Madison.

  “Think of the poor farmer who owned the produce truck. He’ll be without his livelihood until it’s settled.”

  Mark shot her an incredulous look. “If he’d tightened his wheel nuts, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that his family will suffer—a family most likely living hand-to-mouth.”

  Of course Madison cared very little about what she was saying. But for God’s grace, she might think the same way. They’d both been raised in comfort. The difference was that Corinne had been drawn into helping the needy through her involvement in church missionary programs. Mark Madison, on the other hand, was only here because his irresponsible drinking had gotten him into more trouble than ruining a good dress and shoes. From what she’d heard, his brother had pulled some big strings to get the three-time offender this much lenience.

  Mark shrugged, mimicking Antonio. “Ni modo. It’s not my fault.”

  Not his fault. That was probably the same argument he’d offered in court. Corinne had no patience for slackers. She’d earned a degree in teaching and, because she carried a heavy academic schedule, a second one in social work at the same time. Why couldn’t people simply admit that they made wrong choices and accept the consequences? If one parties the night before an exam instead of studying, one fails the exam. If one gets drunk and gives in to temptation, one may get pregnant. Alcohol addles judgment. People didn’t have to drink it.

  “Anyway, I hitched a ride from that hole-in-the-wall to this one, and here I am, smelling like a pig rolled in dust.” He got up and bowed his head to her. “But at your service, nonetheless.”

  The western sun frolicked in his rakish gaze as he straightened. Mark Madison’s charm was dangerous when he was sober—and down on his luck.

  Corinne checked her watch. She had less than an hour to see Antonio fed, treat his scratches, and get her little group of orphaned thespians to the village square stage.

  “I’m running late, so I’ll have one of the women at the orphanage show you to Father Menasco’s guest room. You can shower and change there. I’m not sure if he’s home or visiting, but he is expecting you.”

  Turning in dismissal, Corinne started across an open meadow toward the Quonset hut compound that was Hogar de los Niños in long, hasty strides. The bright yellow blossoms of the surrounding primavera trees cast a sharp contrast to the thirsty mountainous backdrop of milky lilac, grays, and pearls, as though to copy the waning sun’s brightness.

  “And then you must come to see our performance, jefe,” Antonio called over his shoulder as Corinne pulled him along.

  “Or the jefe may want to rest in the parsonage,” Corinne suggested for both companions’ benefit. Her chest knotted in rebellion at her inadvertent use of Antonio’s title for Mark. He was no boss, and certainly not hers.

  “I wouldn’t miss it, Antonio,” Mark declared.

  “We start early in the morning,” Corinne pointed out. She could see it now, being awakened by one of the Cantina Roja’s staff to let in a drunken Mark Madison.

  “But I don’t,” the roguish newcomer shot back. “I’m just getting wound up this time of day. A quick shower, and I’ll be at your command.”

  “Just remember, we’re here to set a good example for the children.”

  “Then I’ll do my best not to live down to your expectations of me, señorita—and see if the word forgiveness means anything to you.” Corinne nearly stumbled at the challenge in Mark’s voice.

  Catching herself, she met a look as brittle as Soledad’s caramel nut candy, and not nearly so sweet. Although he said nothing, his expression spoke volumes. He had apologized in person over the phone and by note, as well as returning her things professionally cleaned.

  The ball was in her court … but she didn’t want to play.

  “People change, Corinne.”

  Corinne knew that. Her father had. But had Mark Madison? His untidy arrival three days late was hardly favorable.

  “Or don’t you believe that’s possible?” he asked.

  If she was the Christian she liked to think she was, how could she not give him a second chance? Her fingers sought the gold cross at her neck, given to her by the Edenton church and school back home, and she replied with the words engraved on its back.

  “All things are possible, Señor Madison.” She glanced after Antonio, who had taken off ahead of them, bored with the adult exchange. “My apologies for implying otherwise.”

  But seeing will be believing in this particular case.

  CHAPTER 3

  There was little applause at the end of the children’s play, not because it wasn’t enjoyed, but because, Corinne had observed, it wasn’t the custom among the general Indio population. Nonetheless, appreciation brimmed in the audience’s demeanor—nodding heads, a raised hand here or there, and eyes bright with enjoyment. It was an unqualified success.

  Antonio showed his iodine-smeared hands as he was driven from the stage by General Seguin’s minipatriots. Now the actors lined up at the head of the other orphans to lead a noisy parade accented with wooden blocks, painted cans beaten with sticks, and plastic whistles, their eventual destination the petate mats that Corinne had spread on the lawn.

  “You really enjoy working with the children. It shows over you completamente,” said Diego Quintana from his seat on the mat beside her. The electric lantern lights of the plaza twinkled in the ebony of his lash-fringed gaze.

  The son of the mayor of Mexicalli, Diego had a complexion not quite as dark as the cocoa or rosewood of the Indios, due to a mix of Spanish ancestry, and he bore the aristocratic high cheekbones and strong jawline of his Aztec ancestors. Clad in a loose-fitted poet shirt over Levis in love with his long, lean legs, he looked the Bohemian artist that he was. His exquisite handcrafted jewelry was sold in high-end stores throughout Mexico.

  Corinne smiled. “But for God’s grace, I might have been one of them.”

  Her answer had been the same to her parents two months before, when she’d broached the subject in their posh West Chester home after the health scare had precipitated her search for the medical records of her biological parents.

  Her father had treated her as though she’d lost her mind.

  “I absolutely forbid it. This is insanity.” Daniel Diaz slammed his fork down, rattling the turn-of-the century china dessert plate. “What if you get sick? The nearest decent hospital is three hours in either direction, if you’re lucky. And I use the word decent loosely.” “Daddy, I’m as healthy as the proverbial horse. The lump was fibrous. It’s gone,” Corinne assured him. “But the coincidences are too much to be anything less than God’s calling. He led us to Hogar de los Niños and Father Menasco at a time when my training is exactly what is needed.”

  “You talk to her,” Dr. Diaz implored his wife.

  “Talk to him, Mom,” Corinne joined in, see
king her mother’s alliance as well.

  Kathleen Butler Diaz chewed her bottom lip, glancing with apprehension from husband to daughter and back. “I don’t want her to go away any more than you do, Daniel, but she is twenty-seven. And with the investments from the money my mother left her, she doesn’t have to work.”

  “She doesn’t have to work period.” Lips pressed into a hard line, Daniel stared at his untouched flan hard enough to melt it. “First she wants to become a nurse. Two years later, she decides to become a teacher. Now she is to be a social worker. What next?” He shifted his gaze to Corinne. “An astronaut, maybe?”

  “Daddy.” Corinne covered his clenched hand with hers. “Can’t you see that it was no accident that my medical scare led me to Hogar de los Niños?”

  “What about the position you accepted at Edenton Christian Academy?” her mother reminded her.

  “Exactly,” Corinne agreed, but not, she knew, for the reason her mother intended. “How coincidental is it that the academy happens to be sponsoring a mission right in Mexicalli? It’s got to be God.”

  Her parents’ silence was the first indication that she was making headway.

  “I know that you would rather I remain around Philadelphia, but what if the ones who placed me in your care had ignored their calling?”

  Her mother closed her eyes.

  One down, one to go.

  “It’s not forever,” Corinne went on. “And you know how hard I’ve been working with Edenton Christian and Father Menasco to get grants for the renovation.” Her social work internship contacts and fluent Spanish had gone a long way to help her with both local and Mexican authorities.

  Daniel Diaz cocked his head at her. “How long is ‘not forever’?

  ” “Until the orphanage has expanded to the renovated hacienda. Then I’ll come home and …” She grinned, mischief lighting in her gaze. “And then we’ll talk about this astronaut idea.”

  “So, might I hope that you will stay until you find your real mother?” Diego asked, breaking into her reminiscence.

  “If I find her, I find her,” Corinne answered. She meant it. God had given her good parents and good health. It would be nice to meet her birth mother, but Corinne’s needs had been more than met. “Either way, my place is here for the time being.”

  “And for that, I and all of my village are thankful.” Diego gave her a slight salute.

  Corinne laughed. “You are a shameful flirt, amigo.”

  But he possessed such a flair for it that even this twenty-first-century woman didn’t mind—she knew better than to take him seriously.

  Her housekeeper had warned her from the start that Diego was between señoritas at the moment. Soledad’s niece was his last live-in, sealing his fate both in heaven and on earth with her aunt. Now the lithesome beauty was in Mexico City pursuing a career in dance.

  “Will you never take me with seriousness, mi corazón?”

  “I am not your heart, I am your amiga, nada mas.”

  Sometimes Corinne wondered if she’d ever take a guy seriously. To date, the distance she kept between herself and the opposite sex had spared her untold grief and disappointment, in her estimation. Forewarned was forearmed—and she’d seen enough to collect an arsenal.

  Surely there had to be someone for her, someone responsible and faithful, someone she could admire and respect. But where was he, she thought, glancing through a break in the trees at the moon. Shades of a romantic song played in her mind, the lyrics changed to reflect the void in her heart. Somewhere out … where?

  A cacophony of banging, rattling, and drumming clashed with the melody in her mind. Making enough “music” for twice their number, the children of Hogar de los Niños marched toward her in a single line. Undaunted by the line she’d drawn in the romantic sand, Diego helped her organize the proud fiesta participants in rows on the woven palm-leaf mats until staff teacher María Delgado brought up the rear.

  Ordinarily, the children would be preparing for bed by this time, but this was fiesta, and the rules had been bent so they might stay long enough to see the fireworks. By the time everyone was situated and liquados—frozen fruit drinks—had been passed out, the mariachi band started playing, entertaining the crowd while rickety towers made of scrap wood were set up on each side of the stage.

  “And a strawberry sweet for the sweetest.” Leaning over the head of one of the seated children, Diego handed her a treat from the box tray he’d used to carry them. As Corinne accepted it, he gave her a peck on the cheek and backed away in roguish satisfaction. All he needed was a mask.

  The not-unpleasant shock that filled Corinne’s mind dissipated at the sound of a male voice.

  “Got any lime?” Mark Madison piped up behind her. Stepping into the periphery of her vision, he added for Diego’s benefit, “No kiss on the side, gracias.”

  One velvet black eyebrow arched over curious appraisal, Diego offered Mark his choice of the last few liquados in the box. “Help yourself to them, Señor … Madison, I presume? Señorita Corina has told me of you,” he continued, extending his free hand. “I am Diego Quintana, a local artisan.”

  Mark shook his hand. “I assure you, Señor Quintana, that I am not as degenerate as she would have you think. We’ve shared a regrettable history.”

  Heat crept to the surface of Corinne’s face at the possible interpretation that she might have more of a “history” with Mark Madison than platonic. She put it right at once. “I told Diego nothing regarding what little of your character I’ve been exposed to, Mr. Madison. He can judge that for himself even as we speak.”

  With a billowing puff of skirt, she sat down on the mat and patted the place beside her. But before the gaze she raised could invite Diego, Mark dropped down in the place intended for the other man and lifted his frozen drink in a salute.

  “Just living up to my reputation, sweetness.”

  I am not your sweetness, nor will I ever be! Corinne chewed the words and swallowed them, sooner than launch another offensive before she’d assembled sufficient defense for his inevitable retaliation. Instead, she took a handful of the napkins from Diego’s tray as he sat down on her other side and, leaning forward, handed them to a boy in the row in front of her to distribute.

  “So, Diego, are you related to the mayor?” Mark asked behind her back.

  “I am his son, but …” Diego lifted surrendering hands. “I have no ambition to politics.” He shifted the conversation as Corinne straightened. “So you have come to change the Ortiz hacienda to suit Hogar de los Niños?”

  “Yes, that’s the plan. Do you know any reliable contractors?”

  Clean and scented with aftershave, Mark Madison had made a remarkable transformation. His normally light-colored hair was wet and shades darker. Combed back off his face, curling at odds with the collar of his light blue shirt, he reminded her too much of the hero in one of her favorite movies, Romancing the Stone—complete with the dimple in the middle of his chin. She’d forgotten the dimple, perhaps missing it earlier due to a coating of road dust and swine sweat.

  “Most of the contractors would have to come in from Cuernavaca,” Diego answered.

  “What about the Three Juans?” Corinne suggested. “Two of the brothers live here, and the other has a home in the mountains not far from here.”

  Besides, she didn’t come here for dimples. She came to serve God and His orphaned babes. And the suave Mark Madison with his reputation as a lady-killer was definitely not her type.

  “They would make your project, how do you say … interesting,” Diego admitted with a decidedly amused smirk.

  Mark frowned. “Why do they call themselves Three Ones?”

  “Tres Juanos, actually.” Corinne succumbed to a grin. “Juan Pablo, Juan Pedro, and Juan Miguel.” At Mark’s head-jerk reaction, she laughed. “I kid you not. Juan Pablo is an excellent plumber—”

  “With million-dollar words and creative”—Diego made quotation marks with his fingers—“projectation
s.”

  “Juan Pedro is an electrician.”

  “When he’s sober,” Diego added.

  “And Juan Miguel is a sculptor who does plaster and masonry.”

  Mark jumped in at the pause. “What’s Juan Miguel’s problem?”

  Corinne glanced at Diego. “Nothing … nothing really.”

  Mark gave a short, derisive laugh. “This is a joke, isn’t it?”

  “No, señor, es verdad,” Diego assured him. “But Juan Miguel is an artisan like myself. So when he is involved with his sculpture, he does not like to be distracted.”

  “And when would that be?” Mark asked. “His sculpting hours, that is.”

  Diego shrugged. “Whenever he is inspired, cómo no?”

  A sputtering hiss of fire from the stage area highlighted Mark’s bemused expression and ended the conversation as the pyrotechnic show began.

  “No Mexicalli holiday is complete without fireworks.” Having had to step off the mad, spinning carousel of life back home to the mañana schedule of the mountain village herself, Corinne was spurred by a twinge of sympathy. Leaning in close, she shouted in his ear, “Welcome to Mexicalli. It’s a world unto itself.”

  That was an understatement if Mark had ever heard one. If anyone had told him even a month ago that he’d be in a mountain village, surrounded by ragamuffins in paper uniforms, watching a corner market fireworks display as it threatened to burn up the shuddering wooden towers holding it, and sitting on the grass with an attractive, if bristly, señorita, he’d have said the speaker had been into the loco juice. Okay, maybe he’d sit on the grass with the señorita, but the rest was straight out of the Twilight Zone. He still hadn’t recovered from the runaway donkey sedan with the aristocratic octogenarian at the reins.

  Mark laughed to himself. He didn’t know life could be so crazy without the help of some intoxicant—or so interesting, for that matter. And what’s the deal with Corinne Diaz and Diego Quintana? he wondered, watching as Diego shared a few words that put a smile on the lady’s face. Not that Mark cared. She was a little too goody-goody and self-righteous for his taste—like big brother Blaine.