Fiesta Moon

by Linda Windsor

  Mark quirked a brow at her. “Funny. That’s what Doña Violeta said this morning when she dropped by.”

  He really enjoyed the old lady’s visits. She was interested in everything that was going on and why. That he could project what the future rooms would look like with his computer made her think that he was nothing less than a miracle worker.

  “I understand that she’s taken it upon herself to organize a grand opening when it’s complete.” Despite her wry drawl, there was a fondness in Corinne’s eye that told Mark she shared the same soft spot for Mexicalli’s “Señora Dulce.”

  “This morning she had Gaspar put a big beverage cooler of espresso in her cart … and she saved aside some of the day-old baked goods for the workers. Of course,” Mark added on a dour note, “that little break held up progress for an hour while she dispensed her treats and chatted with them.”

  Corinne laughed. “That kind of ‘help’ we don’t need. Although,” she added, “it is sweet.”

  “It is a miracle,” Soledad’s voice traveled up from below.

  “What is a miracle?” Mark asked, moving to the rail to see where she was. The housekeeper’s ability to eavesdrop could make wiretaps obsolete.

  Clad in her favorite yellow-and-black, Soledad came out of Corinne’s room with a can of insect spray in hand, finger at the ready. “The change in Doña Violeta, how not?”

  The battle of the boogses had become secondary since construction began, but with the erection of the plastic wall, the housekeeper now had time for vigilance on the insect front as well. Mark could only hope that she never discovered the insect bomb. They’d all wind up wearing chemical suits.

  “Soledad.” Corinne heaved a measured sigh, no doubt in anticipation of inhaling the fumes during her sleep later. “I thought we agreed to spray the bedrooms first thing in the morning, once we’d gone to work.”

  “So we said,” the woman answered, shocked that Corinne should even question the fact. “But all this work—” She put her disdain in the word. “It has disgusted the boogses at all hours. Pues, in your room, this big spider …” The span of her fingers said the rest.

  With a shudder, Corinne caved in with a nod of absolution. “No problem.”

  “What did you mean, saying it’s a miracle how sweet Doña Violeta is?” Mark reminded Soledad, his interest piqued. He couldn’t imagine the lady as anything but.

  Resting an arm on the rail of the staircase, Soledad looked up at them. “Doña Violeta was not always so generous of heart and money.”

  Mark waited, watching Soledad’s thoughts weigh upon her face. “But then …” She shrugged. “Then her tragedy made her think about her selfishness and high manners.”

  “What sort of tragedy?” Corinne asked.

  “It is not—” Soledad broke off with a shriek. “Oh! Mi corazón! It is your pig again!” She rushed off toward the kitchen, no doubt to arm herself with her pig-herding broom.

  Toto was always Mark’s pig, he had noticed, when the animal pulled off an escape from its pen.

  With Corinne on his heels, Mark ran down the curved staircase and headed in the direction where Soledad had spied the culprit— his room. “How in the world did he get out this time?”

  He didn’t expect anyone to answer. In fact, he found it hard to believe that Soledad wasn’t hallucinating, since he’d gone over the animal’s pen to make certain there was no way it could loosen a board or dig its way out. But there it was, making its way around the empty hearth in the salon—where Mark kept the extra copies of the rolled-up blueprints for the quotes that no one was interested in.

  “I allow no creatures in my house!” Soledad shouted.

  As if Mark needed to be reminded for the umpteenth time. “Toto!”

  Instead of going bonkers as it usually did when Mark was around, the pig ignored him. Its attention was fixed on something in the interior of the fire-blackened fireplace. As Mark got closer, he made out some movement. The pig was catching something up in its mouth and chewing for all he was worth.

  “Oh-hhh …” Corinne exclaimed from the spot where she remained glued in the doorway.

  Mark checked himself from doing a back step as he, too, recognized what was in the pig’s mouth. It was a snake, big and black and still wriggling.

  “You are in the oven now, Toto!” Soledad vowed, bursting into the room with her broom raised. But upon seeing the pig chomping on his victim, she lowered her weapon and backed out of the room, crossing herself. “First they disgust the boogses, now the snakes.”

  “Aren’t you going to do something?” Corinne asked Mark.

  He looked at the pig, which by now had eaten the snake’s head. “You got any suggestions?”

  By her silence, she didn’t. “Where do you think it came from?”

  Moving closer, Mark looked at the blackened walls of brick. “Maybe from some loosened chunks of mortar or down the chimney … Or it could have crawled in here from the open walls. This is an old place … uninhabited for what?” He glanced at Soledad. “A year or so at least?”

  Soledad nodded. “I have heard that the pig can kill snakes, but never have I seen it.”

  “I’d rather have a cat,” Corinne murmured, as if not wanting to insult the swine. “They can be trained.”

  “The man said, did he not, that this pig belonged to a bruja? Perhaps he is trained in such ways.” Soledad rested her chin on the handle of her broom. “She must have been a good witch to enchant our Toto so … especially after yesterday.”

  Mark swung toward the housekeeper, incredulous. “He was out yesterday, too?”

  “Oh, sí, Señor Mark. Almost every day now, he is out. He found the magic doll that I buried in the yard yesterday and ate it.”

  If he didn’t know any better, Mark would swear Houdini had finally made it back to the world of the living in the form of the witch’s ex-pet. The longer he lived in this place, the more surreal it became. Not only was the pig an escape artist, but it also could find buried magic dolls.

  “You’re telling me you buried that doll, and the pig ate it?” Corinne switched her bewildered look to Mark. “Deranged, maybe?”

  “Soledad or the pig?” Mark’s flippant reply earned him a scowl from the housekeeper. “Hey, this whole witch thing is weird to me, Soledad. I don’t believe in this stuff.”

  “The pig,” Corinne insisted. “Do you think it’s safe to be around?”

  “Pigs eat everything and anything. I checked it out on the Internet,” Mark replied. And now he was an expert on swine. He wondered how Blaine would handle inheriting a snake-killing, escape artist, antimagic pig from a witch.

  “Soledad,” he said to the housekeeper, “why haven’t we seen Toto if he’s been out so much?”

  “Toto does not like the noise the workers make. He comes only to the kitchen door to beg for treats like a little dog.” The moment the words were out, Soledad realized that she’d given herself away. “And then I put him right back where he belongs.”

  A knowing smile spread on Mark’s lips. “So you’re the one letting him out.”

  “Not the night the vandal comes.”

  Corinne put her hands on her hips in mock indignation. “What happened to no creatures allowed in my house?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Mark chimed in.

  The grateful glance he sent her way for helping him out with the wily but endearing housekeeper was as platonic as the way he’d held her in his arms on the night they’d been startled by dogs on the way home from Doña Violeta’s—yet Corinne’s reaction was anything but. He’d not only moved her heart that night, but he’d moved the woman in her. And that woman did not want to be moved.

  Soledad bought some time with her stretched out “Pues …” But when the calculation in her ebony gaze could find nothing to free her from her own web of disclaimers, she resorted to the Indio default answer to any question—the shrug.

  Corinne couldn’t help but smile. There was definitely more to Soledad’s bark
than her bite.

  “It happens like so,” Soledad began, obviously thinking on the run. “When Toto eats that doll, I know in here that he is good magic.” She tapped her temple, her gaze narrowing in discovery. “He protects the hacienda … like a blessing of God!” she finished triumphantly.

  She nodded, satisfied with her reply, and pointed to where Toto had found a comfortable spot at the foot of Mark’s air bed. Ears still perked, as if he knew he was the topic of conversation, the pig watched them watching him. Corinne would have sworn the creature’s tail wagged, but curled as it was, it was hard to discern a wag from a plain dangle.

  “And he saves much money when we go to the market.”

  Corinne swung her attention back to Soledad. “You’ve been taking Toto to the market?”

  “Cómo no, but on a leash.” Her secret out, Soledad was on a roll of triumph. “Everyone feeds him, and I find the very best prices because he amuses so much.” She cast an affectionate look at the swine. “He is a good-luck pig. He belongs in this house.”

  “He belongs in a pen,” Mark said.

  Soledad crossed her arms. “Keeping Toto in the pen will put your work to lose,” she warned.

  Corinne knew she could end the standoff, but did she really want a pig in the house? “That’s just superstition, Soledad. And Toto’s likely to get hurt if he’s underfoot.”

  “He belongs in a pen, Soledad.” With all the authority of the jefe, Mark scooped up the pig. “End of story.” He turned to Corinne. “You’re not buying all this, are you?”

  “The magic no, but—” She shuddered. “He did kill the snake. I hate snakes.”

  Toto squirmed in Mark’s arms. He wasn’t a big pig, but he was heavier than he looked. “We can get a cat. Doña Violeta said the other day that one of hers had kittens.”

  “But what if it doesn’t hunt snakes?”

  “You want to live with a pig?”

  Corinne squashed a ready retort about already living with Mark. After all, it wouldn’t be true. “If Soledad can keep him bathed and clean …” She hesitated, wondering if she was hearing herself correctly. “I mean, people do keep pigs as house pets.”

  Soledad caught her breath. “And they are not witches?”

  “No, they are not,” Corinne assured her. “The pigs are a special breed trained to be house pets. People pay good money for them.”

  “I am not hearing this,” Mark said, shifting the contented pig in his arms.

  “Cuánto … how much money?” Soledad’s thoughtful expression suggested that a future beyond the chopping block might lie ahead for Toto.

  At that moment, a horn sounded at the courtyard gate. Through the window, Corinne spied the nose of a truck through the wrought-iron rails, but the setting sun glazed it, making it hard to discern the color.

  “Maybe that’s the supplies I ordered to be delivered this morning from Cuernavaca.” With an exasperated breath, Mark put the pig down. “I leave the fate of the pig for you two to decide.”

  As he started out the front door, Toto fell in behind him. Corinne had to admit, Toto was cute—at a distance. His pinkish curled tail bobbed with each trot.

  Soledad stepped next to Corinne, crossing her arms in satisfaction. “I think Señor Mark has made the right decision, no?”

  With a laugh, Corinne gave the housekeeper an impetuous hug. “Yes, I think he did.” Had the outcome been anything else, both she and Mark would have been in the oven. “But I am serious about keeping Toto bathed.”

  Soledad crossed herself. “Cómo no, I am already bathing him every day. Did you not smell his soap? It is orange citrus.”

  Corinne screeched to a mental halt. “My orange citrus bath gel?”

  Undaunted by Corinne’s mingle of ire and incredulity, Soledad shrugged. “Cómo no? He is accustomed to the orange blossoms around his pen.”

  Well, heaven forbid that Toto the pig suffer scent shock. Chuckling despite herself, Corinne retreated to the courtyard to see what was going on. Besides, arguing with Soledad was a lot like charging windmills. One might make some headway, but all in all, it was a no-win situation.

  CHAPTER 15

  To her surprise, Mark and Juan Pablo were busy untying ropes that secured a pickup load of furniture. Nice furniture, Corinne thought, taking note of the dark mahogany head and footboard of a bed and matching chest of drawers. There were a mattress and box spring and a large secretary. Perched on top, its back secured to the cab roof of the truck, was a leather chair.

  “Buenas noches, Señorita Corina,” Juan Pablo said, peering around from the back of the vehicle.

  “Buenas noches, Juan Pablo. It is good to see you.”

  Corinne managed a smile, but it was thinned with disgust. Evidently Juan Pablo’s brother-in-law had made a sale. Just when she thought Mark was progressing from self-indulgence to hard work.

  “Hey, look at this,” Mark called out to her. A kid-at-Christmas excitement infected him. “This must have been the surprise that Doña Violeta kept alluding to.”

  “Doña Violeta?” she repeated. “You mean Doña Violeta sent this … for free?”

  Mark, who’d climbed up on the pickup bed to untangle one of the lines, gave her an incorrigible grin. “O ye of little faith.”

  Corinne wrestled between being glad for him and peeved at him. Mark’s problem was that everything came so easily for him. Whatever mess he got into, he could either buy or charm his way out. She watched as he shifted the load, his sweat-fitted T-shirt moving with him like a second skin.

  Muscles had no right to ripple like that. She crossed her arms against the unbidden provocation to her senses—not unlike that of the predusk breeze catching the bougainvillea spires that spilled over the courtyard walls with its faint breath, making them quiver ever so slightly.

  “Although, I was hoping it was the supplies from Cuernavaca,” Mark admitted. “They should have been here this morning.”

  “Then I am sorry that is not the case for your sake, Señor,” Juan Pablo spoke up with a doleful look. “It always puts me to satisfaction to order from the local store.”

  The plumber nodded to where some of the arches supporting the second-floor overhang had been removed and temporary posts of nailed-together two-by-fours put in their place. “They replace the whole arch when only part is rotten? That is much presumption, in my humble opinion.”

  Glad for the distraction, Corinne pretended to study them, too, focusing on Juan Pablo’s disapproval. She’d had concerns about hiring outside the village. At least when no one showed up, Mark could track them down to find out why. But to date, things seemed to be going well.

  “I wondered the same thing,” Mark answered. “But fact is, Gonzales gave us a contract price, so if he wants to put more into the project than needs be, that’s his problem.”

  “Perhaps.” The plumber didn’t seem as confident as Mark. “Perhaps not.”

  Mark was unruffled by the man’s doubt. “What, are you a carpenter too? Juan of all trades?” he teased.

  The idiom threw the villager. “Qué?”

  Not that Juan Pablo would laugh. Unlike his brother Juan Pedro, who laughed at everything, business was business.

  “It’s an English saying that means you can do all kinds of work,” Corinne explained.

  The plumber’s expression brightened. “Ah, sí. For plumbing and electricity it is a necessitation to be able to fix what must be pulled apart, no?”

  “You’re right about that.” With a wry chuckle, Mark jumped to the ground, but as he made his way around the truck to join Corinne and Juan Pablo, he stumbled.

  His startled oath was followed by a loud squeal. In an instant, Toto barreled around the pickup and bolted straight for the house.

  “That blasted pig had better learn to stay out from under my feet or he’s going to the butcher, magical or not.”

  Juan Pablo didn’t bother to look after the pig as it rushed into the house. Livestock running loose in Mexicalli was not an unusual
sight.

  “Pues,” he said, pulling down the tailgate. “We must hurry to get your furniture inside. I have much work this coming week to prepare for the fiesta.”

  “What, another fiesta already?” Mark eased a matching leather ottoman out from between a swivel desk chair and the mattress. “Sheesh, you guys have one a month or what?”

  “It’s the Festival of Saint James,” Corinne informed him. “And yes, there is one almost every month. You’ll hear all about it in church Sunday … if you go.” She hadn’t seen him attend since his arrival.

  “You can fill me in.” Mark gave her a wink and offered her the ottoman. “Think you can handle this?”

  Another strike against him on her scorepad. The man seemed to avoid church like the plague.

  “Wait,” he said on second thought. “Maybe you should carry in the chair cushion or—”

  “I can handle a stool.” With I am woman insistence, Corinne took it from him. Her mistake was instantly evident. The stuffing topped a base made of lead, making it much heavier than it looked. Refusing to let on, she waddled under its weight toward the house. She was woman … stupid woman, but woman nonetheless.

  “Perhaps if we hurry ourselves,” Juan Pablo said to Mark in the wake of her retreat. “I can be home before the moon takes over the sky and my Maya is put to romance without her man, no?”

  On reaching the front door, Corinne rested the ottoman on the rise into the hacienda from the courtyard, heaving a breath somewhere between a pant and a sigh. She’d seen Juan Pablo with his wife at the market, walking with a protective arm around Maya’s plentiful waist, or sitting together in church, sharing a hymnal.

  Wiping perspiration from her forehead, she shoved down a rise of envy and despair with resolve and picked the stool back up. In God’s time, she’d know such joy. She just had to wait on Him and not take less than she’d asked for—which meant Mark Madison.

  Granted, romantic notions regarding him plagued her, but Corinne had no place for a self-indulgent unbeliever in her life. Perhaps there was a place for him in her heart as a friend. After all, they’d shared some secrets—his reason for not taking the easy way out, her repugnance regarding alcohol. But the way he stirred her as a woman meant no more than the breeze moving the bougainvillea blossoms.