While she and Mark were gone, Father Menasco offered to stay with the women, since the housekeeper refused to stay in the house after dark, with or without crosses, unless a man was present.
As if the man sprawled on the air mattress in the other room could do much to help them out, Corinne thought as she entered her room after dropping Antonio off at the orphanage.
Although Mark had been thoughtful in bringing Antonio a rocket for Enrique’s funeral. It had brightened an otherwise dreadful experience for the boy. And on the way home in the SUV, Corinne couldn’t make out what Mark and Antonio were saying to each other, but when Mark disconnected his seat belt and held the crying child, her peeve at his night on the town melted. The man was a screwup, she thought, but he wasn’t quite as self-absorbed as she’d initially thought. Maybe he’d be fine as a friend.
Deciding to take pity on him and give him a few minutes more shut-eye, she hurried through a quick shower, complete with hot water that remained at the selected temperature—as long as Soledad knew ahead of time not to turn on any other faucet. Afterward, she removed her yellow sundress from its sealed dry-cleaner bag and put it on. With Mexicalli’s bug-friendly climate, such precautions were wise if one preferred to be the only occupant of a garment.
While she dried her hair, she heard the shower running again and assumed that Sleeping Beauty had awakened and was preparing for the party in his honor. Which reminded her that he had looked beautiful to her for stopping that cart that day … until she found out who he was.
Do you think that they were worse sinners? I tell you no; but unless you repent you will all likewise perish.
Corinne stopped, blow dryer in hand, as the words of Father Menasco’s sermon at the funeral popped into her mind. He’d been addressing the reason for the tragedy of Enrique and his parents, lest anyone read some divine judgment into it, as people were inclined to do—both in Jesus’ time and now. Accidents happened, and only God can tell us why in His time. That had been the message, but Corinne had been so absorbed in her suspicions surrounding the circumstances of Enrique’s disappearance that she hadn’t paid close attention.
But she wasn’t the one Father Menasco was speaking to. She had never thought the tragedy was any sort of divine retribution. Like hangovers are … or maybe community service for DUI.
She put the dryer down. She was being ridiculous. God wasn’t telling her that it was okay for Mark to destroy his brain cells with tequila or waste his talents and jeopardize a bright future. People made mistakes, and sooner or later they paid the consequences. They got what they deserved.
That was in the Word. End of story. She certainly didn’t need to repent; the hunk in the shower did. She shook her head to dislodge the thought. The last image she wanted in her mind was that soaped-up, gym-chiseled body.
“Get a grip,” she ordered the young woman in the mirror over her dresser. “You don’t even like him.” Her image, or was it her conscience, mocked her. “Okay, I like him a little … but he’s bad news. You know it and I know it.”
Without thinking, she shook her bottle of perfume, taking her agitation out on it before putting on a few dabs of the expensive scent. Her emotions were tangled enough without adding too much thought to them regarding Mark Madison.
Standing back to get a fuller view of her efforts, Corinne gave herself a nod of approval and grabbed her devotional book. Not having had time that morning, she intended to catch up on the day’s reading while Mark finished getting ready.
Unable to access the kitchen through the occupied utility bath, Corinne went through the main hall to grab a glass of tea from the fridge. She sat at the stained and nicked red Formica table in the center of the room and opened the book to her marker. She took a sip of tea as she viewed the topic of the day—Luke 13:1–5.
Do you think they were worse sinners?
Corinne didn’t even read the rest, for at that moment, the bathroom door opened and Mark Madison emerged, a towel wrapped tightly about his narrow waist and hips.
Caught in a visual standoff, he found his voice first. “You look gorgeous.”
Gorgeous wasn’t quite the word that came to Corinne’s mind regarding him, but it was close.
“Thanks,” she mumbled. Despite herself, her demure gaze followed his retreat as he headed for the salon. Even with his hair wet and shaggy from towel drying, the trapezoid shape of Mark’s upper torso and well-formed legs were a feast for the eyes. As she heard the slide of the salon double doors closing, her gaze fell to the boldfaced passage she’d just read.
Corinne closed the book as if stung by it. All right, Lord, I repent. She wasn’t exactly sure why, but she felt as though it was definitely the thing to do.
CHAPTER 12
The home of Doña Violeta Quintana de la Vega was unobtrusive from the main street. Its stucco wall was as plain as those that joined it, washed white except for the masses of bright bougainvillea that spilled over the wall. A servant swung open the arched Jacobean-dark oaken doors, inviting them to enter a formal garden of ancient boxwood, roses, and azaleas that put the hanging vines to shame as the song of caged exotic birds welcomed them.
“Señorita Diaz, Señor Madison … la Señora is expecting you,” the servant said. His English accented but precise, the short man reminded Mark of a penguin, dressed in a dark, short-jacketed suit with a satin cummerbund. His closely cropped graying hair even came to a point over his brow.
“Gracias,” Mark said, putting a gentlemanly hand to Corinne’s back.
“Gracias, Gaspar,” Corinne said, shooting through the entrance as if Mark had tried to brand her.
It’s going to be a long night, he thought as Gaspar led them to the colonnade that bordered the patio on two sides. Adorned with classical vases brimming with foliage and crowned with colorful geraniums, stars of Bethlehem, and begonias, it sheltered the entrance to the main rooms of the house. Voices drifted through the open door of the salon.
Massive furniture lined the walls to accommodate the room’s high ceilings, commanding attention. The rich patina of the wood caught the light from Victorian-style lamps on the tables arranged around the period settees and chairs where Doña Violeta held court with some of her guests. Upon seeing Mark and Corinne, their hostess rose, slowed by the stiffness of age, to greet them.
“Bienvenida, my friends.”
Corinne rushed forward. “Don’t get up, Doña Violeta. We’ll come to you.”
Mark’s eyes followed the sway of Corinne’s figure in the formfitting sundress. She was as hot in yellow as she’d been in bright pink at the wedding.
But I’ve seen lots of hot babes, Mark told himself, shaking off the unbidden bolt of attraction.
“You talk to me as if I were an old woman,” their hostess chided as Corinne gave her a hug.
Though he’d never put a face to his idea of a dream girl, he thought now that it would be something like Corinne’s.
“Doña Violeta,” Mark said, slapping down the renegade thought as he folded his hostess’s arthritis-gnarled hand within his and pressed it to his lips. It was a cavalier gesture, not something Mark normally did, but something about this place—indeed, something about Doña Violeta herself—demanded it. “It is indeed a pleasure.”
The elderly woman’s eyes twinkled in delight. “Indeed no, Señor Madison—”
“Mark,” he insisted.
“Indeed, Señor Mark, the pleasure, not to mention gratitude, is all mine. But for you, I might have wound up in the lake with my Chiquita.” Remembering that she had other guests, Doña Violeta introduced them.
“I believe you know my nephew and Mexicalli’s mayor, Don Rafael Quintana.”
Don Rafael stepped forward, mimicking Mark’s gallantry by kissing Corinne’s hand.
“No need to kiss mine,” Mark kidded as the mayor turned to him. Judging from the quizzical expression and sudden stillness in the room, the joke was lost on present company. Mark thought he saw Corinne’s lips twitch—probably at her
embarrassment rather than his joke.
Born of a newer generation, Diego Quintana gave Corinne a kiss on the cheek and shook Mark’s hand. “How is the project going?”
“Great, if I can find a contractor who will do it.”
“Perhaps later,” Don Rafael spoke up, implying that he might have someone in mind.
“And Corina,” Doña Violeta went on, “you know Dr. Krump from the bed-and-breakfast.”
A round man with a touch of white edging the temples of his slick brown hair, Dr. Krump moistened his thin lips beneath a sparse pencil mustache, taking in Corinne from head to toe as if she were the main course. Stepping forward, he clicked his polished black shoes at the heel with Hessian precision.
“Yes, hello, Dr. Krump,” Corinne said.
“I take it the funeral progressed as desirous as such things go?” he asked in his clipped German accent.
Corinne nodded. “As well as can be expected.”
“I am so sorry, little Corina.”
Shades of Colonel Klink. All he needs is a spectacle, Mark reflected as the little German gave Corinne a loud, wet smackeroo on the cheek.
“Dr. Krump is a retired geologist from the University of Heidelberg,” their hostess told Mark.
“Herman Krump, at your service.”
He had a firm but jerky handshake that made Mark glad that his headache was gone. “So how is retirement treating you, sir?”
“It goes well that I live now where once I only visit.”
“Good for you.” Taking note of the asthmatic groans the German gentleman made with each breath, Mark wondered if it was wise to take up retirement in a mountain village where the air was so thin.
With the introductions behind her, Doña Violeta clapped her hands. “Now you must tell Gaspar what you will have to drink with us.”
“I recommend the port,” Diego suggested. “Not too sweet. Just right.”
Corinne gave him a gracious smile. “I think I’ll stick with lime and soda, if you have it.”
“But of course, we do. I knew you were coming, did I not?” their hostess assured her. “And you, Señor Mark?”
Mark started to tell her to ditch the señor, but knew by now that that was out of the question. Formality was ingrained in the lady. “I think I’ll try the same, if you don’t mind.”
Ignoring the wary lift of Corinne’s brow, he waited until she had seated herself between Diego and Rafael Quintana, leaving him the place next to Dr. Krump.
“I heard that you have had trouble with vandals at the hacienda,” Diego spoke up. “Have you any idea who would do such a thing?”
Corinne shook her head. “No more than Capitán Nolla.”
The laconic bent of her voice brought Don Rafael to Nolla’s defense. “You must remember, señorita, that Capitán Nolla is only one man in a town of hundreds.”
The mayor must be counting the livestock, Mark thought, watching as Diego Quintana leaned back against the settee and stretched, leaving an arm around Corinne. The top three buttons of his shirt were unfastened, exposing more of his chest than Mark cared to see and a silver pendant big enough to anchor a small boat—most likely his own handiwork.
“I know that,” Corinne said, unaware of anything but the topic at hand. “But I at least expected him to dust for fingerprints or something.”
Don Rafael assumed a patronizing posture. “And whose fingerprints would we compare them to, even if we could take such prints from the hacienda? Mexicalli is not like your big cities.”
Dr. Krump bristled like a porcupine on Corinne’s behalf. “But such allowedness must not be permitted.”
“And it won’t be,” Mark assured everyone. “I’m going to be living there from now on.” He caught Corinne’s pointed look, reminding him that he had been there the night before to no avail. “As are Corinne and Soledad. With the three of us present, I doubt vandals will show up again with their paint and crayons.”
“Crayons?” Doña Violeta echoed. “Like the little children use?”
At that moment, Gaspar returned with the lime and sodas.
“Well, it was surely young vandals,” Krump decided aloud.
Once Doña Violeta saw that Mark and Corinne had been served, she raised her glass. “Enough of brigands. I have invited you here to honor my rescuer and hero. You were not present, Dr. Krump, but at the fiesta, a vicious pig spooked my Chiquita and away she ran, throwing me onto the floor of my curricle.”
Mark wondered what Doña Violeta’s reaction would be if she knew the same “vicious” rascal was now in a pen behind the hacienda.
“I was being carried to my doom,” the lady went on, “when this brave young man stopped and calmed Chiquita. It is to him and his bravery that I lift my glass.”
Ignoring the roll of Corinne’s eyes, Mark accepted the toast modestly. “I did nothing more than any man—or woman—would do, had they been aware of your situation. As I recall, Corinne was also trying to catch up with you.”
Horrified that she’d neglected to give credit to Corinne, Doña Violeta apologized. “I am such an old fool.” She lifted her glass again, this time to Corinne. “And to my lovely new friend, who did so much to see that I was taken care of.” She smiled, first at Corinne and then Mark. “You two are very special. I have no doubt that all of Mexicalli will be rewarded by your presence.”
At that moment, Mark could hardly reply. His taste buds were still reeling from the abominable drink that withered his tongue as it went down. It was all he could do to act demure with some semblance of a smile.
Despite her frail appearance, Doña Violeta was a vivacious hostess, whose vitality made Corinne feel the senior of the two. Ordinarily she’d delight in what promised to be a long night filled with stories of old Mexicalli, but the emotional upheaval of the day had begun to take its toll. Determined to remain alert, she asked for a demitasse of strong Mexican coffee when they were seated in the formal dining room, rather than more lime and soda. Once again Mark followed suit, rather than drink the dinner wine, which was as much a staple at the formal table as it was in the old country.
The hot espresso Gaspar served her was as dark as the tall sideboards and cupboards that surrounded them. Overhead, a soft starlit pattern was cast by the teardrop prisms of an elegant Victorian chandelier that had been converted to electric. Candelabras projected their own flickering firelight over the china and silver settings on a tablecloth with floral cutouts filled with Spanish lace.
Cactus figured heavily on the menu. The Pollo en Pulque or Drunken Chicken was cooked in fermented cactus juice.
After grace had been said over the table by Don Rafael, Doña Violeta turned a concerned face to Corinne. “I hope that you will be able to eat the chicken, since it is cooked with some spirits,” she said. “I do not wish you to become ill.”
“I promise, I won’t. It looks delicious.” Perfumed by cinnamon, chilies, and other spices that Corinne couldn’t identify, it smelled and looked delicious. “Alcohol doesn’t make me ill,” she explained, upon seeing Violeta’s confusion.
It was obvious that, to her companions, supper without a modest portion of wine was unthinkable, except in the case of illness. Corinne knew she would have to explain. “It’s just because I’ve seen alcohol ruin so many people’s lives that I’ve chosen to abstain from it completely.”
“Haven’t we all known those who have been ruined in such a manner,” Doña Violeta said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
“But food cooked in wine or whatever is wonderful,” Corinne said, hoping her forced brightness might put her hostess at ease. Why had she bothered to say anything, she lamented, aware that Mark was studying her from his place of honor at the end of the table. Not one to retreat, she met his gaze head-on. But instead of derision, he gave her a supportive wink.
“It all looks delicious,” he said, as Gaspar served him a rice dish with peppers, corn, and some kind of creamy cheese blended together.
Toward the end of the meal, Cor
inne was inclined to blame her earlier fatigue on the fact that she’d not eaten more than a half a peanut butter sandwich all day. Between the food, coffee, and Doña Violeta’s fascinating stories, she was feeling much better.
She laughed as Violeta told them how she didn’t like the first car that ever rode through Mexicalli, and the new ones were no better. The quickly passing scenery made her dizzy, so she rode in a car only to visit her physician in Cuernavaca, which, blessed be to God, was not often. And when she spoke of her beloved Chiquita, who was from the same stock as Violeta’s very first burro, she reminisced the way most people did about their first cars.
When Gaspar removed the supper dishes, Doña Violeta looked at her hardly touched plate with dismay. “But look at what I have done. I’ve been a poor hostess to monopolize the conversation so.”
“Not at all,” Mark objected. “The food, the stories … I think I’ve been enchanted.”
If anyone was enchanted, it was Doña Violeta with her guest of honor. She looked at Mark as if he could jump small buildings in a single bound. “And I did not believe that gentlemen such as yourself still existed … present company excluded,” she added in haste. “If only I were younger, Corina would have much competition.”
“Señora, I would be proud to sport you on one arm and Corinne on the other anytime.”
Charm just oozed from Mark, with no effort on his part, unless one counted the task of donning a suit and tie. The colors he wore complemented his sandy brown hair and the gold-flecked russet of his eyes.
“Before we return to the past,” Don Rafael said, “here is a business card of a contractor who has done work for our city before. Perhaps this will help you.” He handed Mark the card as he rose from the table. “Perdoname, Tía Violeta, but I have important business in the morning.”
Diego jumped on the departure wagon as well. “And I have buyers coming from Cancún to see my latest creations.”
Undaunted, Doña Violeta raised her hand. “Gaspar, Don Rafael and Diego must leave us without dessert. See that they have cake to take with them.”
Fiesta Moon Page 12
