Spencer studied Miranda’s defiant gaze. There was the part of him that wanted to solve the mystery of the photograph he still had in his possession. If he was going to condemn his father, he should make sure the evidence fit the crime, even if what he discovered widened the rift. I have to know the whole truth.
He had unused vacation time owed him. So far he had opportunity and motive. Would he eventually need an alibi as well?
With a distinct feeling of trepidation, Spencer stepped toward the swirling vortex that was Miranda Adams, and made a decision. A decision he felt certain he’d come to regret. He gritted his teeth.
“I’m coming with you.”
Nine
Miranda wrestled with her conscience. On one hand, she had to admit flying straight to Mexico City was a hundred times better than driving. She never could’ve afforded it, but Spencer had paid her way.
Of course, he had conditions. One, he demanded to accompany her. Two. A legal immigration attempt or nothing. Three. All expenses paid for the endeavor.
She sighed. The Almighty Dollar had won again. She’d only been able to scrape together a few hundred dollars and that wasn’t nearly enough. But maybe, just maybe, she’d have success getting her sister to the U.S. legally. No doubt it required vast amounts of money and time. Neither of which she had a surplus of. That’s where Spencer came in.
She pulled the thin chain out from under her blouse and held up the small silver image she’d found in her mother’s room. The low cabin light winked off the smooth surface, highlighting the baby’s round face. Now that she had the means to make the journey successful, she wondered if it was enough. More than money, she needed a milagro.
Miranda glanced over at Spencer. His eyes were closed as he rested against a pillow wedged between the seat and window of the airplane. He’d slept during most of the trip. She allowed her gaze to linger on his handsome features.
For a moment, she wished he were helping her for other than apparently altruistic reasons. After spending time with him in the last few days, she doubted Spencer Meyers had a zealous, impetuous bone in his body. Everything about him, from the Ivy League haircut to his high-bridged nose, buffed fingernails, and Ralph Lauren attire, breathed staid respectability and decorum. She’d be shocked by his decision to come with her if she didn’t know he was doing it to keep her out of trouble.
The thought angered her. She’d taken care of herself with regards to his father. She didn’t need his help, not in this instance anyway. Still, he was here, and heaven forbid, she was thankful for his presence.
There. I admitted it.
Miranda squished the stiff airline pillow behind her head and tried to get comfortable. As she twisted and turned in her seat, her arm brushed along Spencer’s. She jerked her arm away. Heaving a great sigh, she folded her hands across her middle and closed her eyes.
After a few sleepless, impatient moments, Miranda opened her eyes and noticed the passengers getting restless. A glance at her watch told her they were near the time of arrival. She angled herself over Spencer’s form, making sure not to touch him, and peeked out the window.
Miranda felt her blood tingle as the plane descended past the ring of Mexican mountains into the smoggy sprawl of the city. El DF, as it was familiarly known, was the Federal District of the country of Mexico, similar to Washington D.C. in the U.S.
She’d never seen it from this height. The view of the city reminded her of a complex mosaic, made up by buildings, roads, and parks as far as the eye could see. Turbulence rocked the plane as they flew near the city.
“What are those mountains called?”
Miranda jumped at the unexpected sound of Spencer’s voice so close to her ear. She eased back while he stretched, and cleared her throat. “Um, the two main peaks there are Popocatépetl and his sleeping wife Iztaccíhuatl; Popo and Ixta, for short.”
“That’s a mercy,” she heard him grumble. “And among the others are Huitzilpochtli, the god of war, Coyolxuahqui, his decapitated sister, and Coatlicue, who wears a coat of snakes. It’s said their hearts still beat underground.”
“How charming. I think I like Popo and Izzie better.”
“Ixta,” she corrected with a reluctant smile.
“How do you know all this anyway? I doubt you had time to learn about it on your last excursion to Mexico City.”
Annoyed by the barb, she edged away from him. “I lived in Mexico until I was eighteen. Before my excursion.”
“Just how old are you, anyway?”
Miranda wished she knew what prompted the question. “Twenty-five.”
The flight attendant addressed the passengers in both English and Spanish. Miranda avoided looking at Spencer, instead channeling her mental focus to the search and rescue of her sister.
Soledad Ruiz Perez. She whispered the unfamiliar name. Soledad. There’d been no mention of the father’s name on the birth certificate. Lupe had called her Chole, her nickname. Miranda tested the word. Her eyes filled with tears and her heart rose with a prayer for success. She squelched it, reminding herself God wouldn’t listen to prayers from such as she.
“I’ve heard of the poverty of Mexico City but never imagined it could be like this.”
Unable to resist a peek, Miranda leaned near Spencer to glance out the window as the plane made its final descent. On the far edges of town, the area known as Nezahualcóyote—place of the hungry coyote, was one of the cuidades perdidas—the lost cities. She saw cinder block shanties sprouting like mushrooms from the hillsides. Neza was where she’d found her mother, and was one area where she planned to search. She sat back in her seat, impatient for the plane to land.
After arrival, they jostled their way through the confusing mass of humanity in the modern corridors of the Benito Juárez airport. Miranda was tempted to cover her ears at the deafening din of languages rising and falling around them.
Despite the crush and chaos, she appreciated the expediency of the trip. It beat making nerve-wracking arrangements with coyotes, doubtful characters often with ties to organized crime, who smuggled Mexicans across the borders for astronomical fees. Miranda could remember the taste of metallic fear and hot dust that dogged every step of her last journey as they crossed over at San Ysidro.
Even when she and her mother had made it all the way to Oregon, every official vehicle that passed, every shadow, portended separation and punishment by La Migra. She remembered thinking Me defendi! I have survived! But Spencer was right about one thing. It had been miserable.
After retrieving their luggage and passing through customs, Miranda led the way toward the exit, anxious to get settled and begin the search. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw Spencer engrossed by a guidebook.
He glanced up with a preoccupied look on his face. “This says we’re supposed to go to a kiosk to get a ticket for a taxi as the street taxis can be dangerous.”
“Put that away,” she said, feeling as if he'd slighted her personally. “I know my way around, so I suggest you follow me.”
Spencer frowned but complied. They passed a group of young boys who pleaded to carry their luggage, women shoved hotel pamphlets at them, and children sold gum in piping little voices. Out on the street, Miranda waved toward a lime green VW Bug. She hurried up to the driver, noticing his stained shirt and missing tooth, and addressed him in Spanish.
Spencer came huffing up behind her. “This air is impossible to breathe. I swear I can see particles of the smog raining down like dust.” He halted and stared at the driver loading her luggage into the front compartment of the Beetle. He held up his book. “This says street taxi drivers are often not licensed, insured, or official, and are not to be trusted.”
Miranda ignored him and clambered into the back seat of the car. The driver held out a grimy hand toward Spencer and gave a gap-toothed smile. She leaned out the door. “You can pay at the beginning instead of at the end.”
“I haven’t had a chance to convert my money to pesos yet.”
“That’s
okay. He probably prefers American dollars.”
“How much do I give him?” he hissed.
“Ten dollars ought to cover it.”
Spencer gave her a baleful look and dug into his pocket. After handing the driver money, he climbed into the car, scrunching his knees to his chest in an effort to fit. He looked back with longing at the roomier official taxis, and Miranda stifled a smile. Their taxi lurched away from the curb with the rusty rattle of the engine just behind them.
Spencer opened his travel guide. “There are several good hotels in the city, at least that’s where I assume we’re going.”
“Yes, Centro Historico. And I already know where we’re staying.”
He made a face. “Polite behavior compels me to keep silent, but I must remind you as I’m financing this excursion, I feel I have the right to choose our accommodations.”
Miranda folded her hands in her lap. “Where we’re going, there are no Hiltons nearby. Trust me, I know of some very economical motels that will please even you.”
“I find that highly doubtful.”
She edged closer to her window and peered out through the dirty glass. The shantytowns, with their ragged children and packs of dogs, gave way to streets lined with industrial buildings of cinderblock turned gray from age and pollution.
As they neared the city center, she saw more color and foliage. Amid colorful murals painted on sides of buildings with tropical vibrancy, she saw images of the starry, blue-cloaked Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, the brown-skinned Virgin Mary celebrated as Mexico City’s patron saint.
Miranda experienced a stirring in her soul, a yearning to reach out and connect with someone who understood the morass of her thoughts, someone who accepted her despite her faults. The Mexican version of Catholicism mixed with native Indian religion mirrored her own religious confusion. She believed in God, but no longer felt confident in reaching Him. She didn’t know how to begin, or whether her efforts would be in vain. A tide of grief for her mother washed over her. Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe became a blur as she blinked away tears.
Spencer tapped her on the arm, interrupting her thoughts. He pointed to the photo of a man on the back of the front seat.
“The picture doesn’t match our driver,” he said in a low voice. “The guidebook says that’s a bad sign. This guy is probably a criminal. Probably cut the throat of the real driver to take advantage of unwary travelers. He might even be driving us to some back alley to finish us off.”
Miranda swiped at her eyes. “Or he might be borrowing the car to help the real driver, who is sick, to provide money for his family. Besides, he can’t earn money if he kills off all the tourists.” She plucked the guidebook from his hands, rolled down her window a few inches, and shoved the book through the gap.
Spencer glared at her, his lips mashed together. “You just littered! Surely even here, that’s illegal. And how will I know how to survive in the city without it?”
“You have me.”
“Forgive me if I’m not reassured.”
The driver wove the VW through the heavier traffic like a madman, honking from time to time and swearing in Spanish. At last, he stomped on the brakes and came to a jarring screech in front of what appeared to be one continuous building occupying an entire block. Only the bright colors painted on the walls—flamingo pink, chalky blue, and sunflower yellow, along with varied doorways and barred windows—separated one enterprise from another.
Miranda scrambled out of the car, more relieved than she wanted to admit. The driver did have a rather felonious air about him. He held out his hand after tossing their luggage onto the curb. Spencer put his hand in his pocket. Miranda shook her head.
“What you gave him at the beginning was plenty. Give him a dirty look and shake your head no.”
“Why can’t you? You’re the one who knows Spanish.”
“For cultural reasons, I can’t challenge him. It might be seen as an affront to his masculinity.”
“But you can affront mine?”
Miranda looked up at him with a mock adoring gaze. “You’re so strong and protective, Spencer. I know you can handle one little taxi driver.”
He gave her a glowering look at odds with the deepening color in his cheeks. He turned to the driver and shook his head. “No dinero. Gracias.”
Grabbing hold of the luggage, he herded Miranda toward the buildings amid a cloud of verbal abuse from the driver.
“I’m impressed,” Miranda whispered as she led him to the hotel she’d stayed in previously. “I thought you didn’t know Spanish.”
“That was all I got from the guidebook before you threw it away.”
“‘No money’ and ‘thank you’. That ought to get you far in Mexico City.”
He grinned in response to her teasing. It was one of the few times she’d seen a genuine smile on his face. It made her feel a little sad. He was probably a nice guy to get to know under normal circumstances.
Miranda straightened her shoulders and stopped in front of the motel. “This is it.”
Spencer’s smile faded. “This can’t be a motel. It’s a doorway with a hand painted sign.”
Miranda ignored him and led the way in. It opened to a tiny hall darkened by exotic plants blocking the light from upper windows. At a narrow front desk, the velador, a tiny, ebony-eyed woman, smiled in greeting. Behind her, a small black and white television flickered in the gloom. In Spanish, Miranda requested two rooms. When asked about double or single beds, she specified single and was pleased to find rooms available.
Spencer peered down at her. “Hey, are you telling her we’re married? Is this another cultural thing?”
“Are you talking about the cama matrimonial?”
He nodded, a wary glint in his eyes.
“That refers to a double bed. I’m assuming a single is okay with you? It’s cheaper.”
He cleared his throat. “In separate rooms?”
“Yes,” she said with a scowl. “In separate rooms.”
“Just how much is this costing anyway, if I may be so bold.”
Miranda lifted a brow. “About twelve bucks a night. Does that work for you?”
He raised a brow. “What can you get for twelve bucks a night? Cots and cockroaches?”
“A private bathroom, hot water, TV, and bottled water. And the rooms are very clean. Remember, I’ve been here before.”
Spencer sighed and took out his wallet. “How many nights will we be staying?”
Miranda bit her lip. “Um, I’m not sure. It all depends on how long it takes to find my sister.”
Spencer’s eyebrows inched up his forehead. “You mean you don’t know where she is?”
“No, only that she’s in an orphanage here in the city somewhere.”
“Well, surely the documents must give some hint.”
Miranda held up her hands. “Sin papeles. I don’t have any documents besides a handwritten birth certificate and some letters.”
“You don’t have any…” His words trailed away and his brows lowered over his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”
Miranda shrugged, ignoring a spasm of guilt. “You didn’t really ask.”
“I didn’t really ask because I didn’t want to pester you while you were grieving.” He stared into the murky hall. “Do you have any idea how long it can take for the adoption process itself? And without meaningful documentation, there’s no hope of that.”
“Then I’ll do it my way!”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t believe I just endured a long, tedious flight, foul oxygen-deprived air, and the maniacal driving of a probable criminal for nothing but a wild goose chase! All that’s lacking is robbery and Montezuma’s Revenge to make this trip complete!”
“Then leave!” Miranda gritted her teeth and blinked moisture from her eyes. “I only just found out about my sister a couple of days ago. I’m sorry if I haven’t had enough time to come up with a hard and fast plan. Don’t forget, I neve
r asked that you come with me. I can handle this myself!”
The woman at the desk watched them with shining eyes. Miranda blushed, knowing she was making a spectacle of herself. She grimaced and pulled her wallet from her purse. Extracting several bills, she pushed them across the desk. “Uno cuarto secillo, por favor. Por una semana.”
Behind her she could feel tension emanating from Spencer’s body as she reserved one room for a week’s duration. Miranda tried to tell herself she didn’t need him, that she could do it alone like she had before, but already felt the emotional loss of him keenly. Just his presence had proved to be a tremendous support.
“How long did it take you to find your mother?”
She turned and swallowed. He stood staring down at her with his hands on his hips. “A week.”
“With paperwork?”
“Just my own birth certificate and some other non-official papers I found when my parents died.”
He stared at the ceiling. “Unbelievable.” He shoved a wad of cash at her. “Get a room for me, too.”
Miranda tried not to exhale too loudly as relief washed over her.
When the reservations were complete, the small woman led them up a wrought iron staircase to two sparsely furnished rooms next door to each other on the third level. Miranda walked into one and looked around at the deep yellow walls, white painted woodwork, and a greenish glassed-paned door that opened out to a small balcony. She tossed her suitcase onto the slim twin bed and turned to Spencer.
“Do you want to rest first or get started right away?”
Spencer looked at his watch. “It’s already four o’clock. Why don’t we go out to a nice relaxing dinner and make plans for tomorrow. That way we can be rested and refreshed for your search.”
Miranda noticed his disheveled hair and shirt unbuttoned partway to deal with the heat. She tamped down her sense of urgency in light of the condition of her benefactor. She nodded. “Okay.”
“I suppose you know of some restaurants nearby, beyond the street vendors you probably frequent?”
Miranda smiled. “Yes, if you don’t mind authentic fare.”
Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love) Page 6
