“Sounds good to me. Say we rest for a couple of hours and leave at about six?”
She nodded. After he left the room, Miranda walked over to the balcony door and opened it. She was really in Mexico! And in a fraction of the time it took before. If only her search could go as quickly.
Scanning the sea of faces below, most dark-haired and dark-eyed, she thought of Soledad. Was there any hope of finding her here in a city rife with administrative carelessness and confusion? With nearly thirty million people in the capital, it seemed hopeless. Have I just embarked on a fool’s errand? But what other choice do I have?
She mentally pushed back the worry that her trip would be a failure. Maybe she was more tired than she realized. Miranda shrugged out of her light jacket and tossed it onto the post of a ladder-backed chair. She stretched out on the bed and stared up at the slow-moving ceiling fan. The blades echoed her thoughts. They went round and round without a destination.
Soledad, where are you?
Ten
Miranda awoke an hour and a half later. The light was prematurely darkened by the incipient air pollution, and she had to turn on a lamp. After a shower, she opened her suitcase and pulled out a wrinkled sleeveless dress made of periwinkle blue ramie cotton. She located an iron and small foldout ironing board in a narrow cupboard, and ironed it.
When she slipped on the garment and adjusted it to her satisfaction, Miranda fluffed her hair and applied a light touch of makeup, wondering at the shakiness of her hands. She wasn’t going out on a date with Spencer, after all, just having dinner. But it seemed odd to be on civil terms with a man she once considered an ogre. A man I actually shot with a gun. Ludicrous. Must've been my evil twin.
A sudden knock at the door made her jump. She smeared lipstick down her chin. Miranda took a deep breath and exhaled. Spencer was right about the oxygen-depleted air, she felt light-headed and dizzy. After grabbing a tissue and erasing the offensive streak, she snatched up her purse and answered the door.
Spencer stood on the other side, looking fresh and rested. His damp hair was smoothed back from his forehead, and he wore a white cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the throat and rolled up at the sleeves, with a pair of chinos. He looked cool and stylish, though it was probably the close air that made her heart trip over itself.
“Ready?”
She nodded with a tight smile and followed him from the motel. Outside, she could hear his labored breathing, and felt a qualm of concern. “You don’t have any lung problems, like asthma, do you? You should go home if you do.”
“We're over seven thousand feet in elevation and in some of the worst pollution in the world. I’m fine,” he managed after a coughing spasm.
Miranda patted him on the back. “It should be a little better in the restaurant.”
They walked along the sidewalk, filled with street vendors and the smell of greasy, hot meat. Buskers strummed on chipped guitars, and grubby children sold candy to passersby. A gauzy orb resembling the setting sun occasionally peeped from between buildings and shimmered through the rising waves of heat and exhaust from a myriad of green taxis, trucks filled with workers, and motorcycles chugging by in the endless stream of traffic.
Miranda led Spencer around a corner and down a street lined with several restaurants. Latino music spilled out of lighted doorways with a curious harmony that infected her blood. For all its vagaries, she loved el DF.
They arrived at a restaurant inside a covered courtyard with a Moorish-style fountain as its centerpiece. When they were seated, Miranda gazed about with delight at the mythological landscapes adorning the walls. After discussing the menu, she ordered for the both of them, sopa de tortilla and tinga con chorizo. She rested her chin in her hands and sighed, feeling, for the moment, at ease in the familiar surroundings.
Spencer looked at her with a questioning expression on his face. “You really like it here, don’t you?”
She smiled. “Yes, I do. It’s hard not to feel a part of something special when in a place with as much history as Mexico City. It’s the oldest city in the world, you know.” Miranda smoothed the tablecloth and peered up at him from under her lashes. “People here aren’t ashamed of their struggles to survive. They live life at basic levels and in light of their struggles, they take their pleasures seriously.”
Spencer stretched his legs out in front of him. “You don’t think there’s the same crime, despair, and hopelessness as is everywhere else?”
“Of course, but many find solace in religion. They live and die believing in something. In the U.S., there is a shallowness, a soullessness. We have more, but we enjoy it less.” She waved her hands. “I know I’m not making sense. It’s just something I feel.”
“So you’d rather live here than in America?”
Miranda felt her face heat. “Honestly, no. The dark side here can be a little too dark. But I appreciate what el DF speaks to me, what I take home with me.”
Spencer fiddled with his cloth napkin. “You don’t look Hispanic at all. I never would’ve guessed, except maybe for your slight accent.”
She leaned forward. “Even as a dual citizen, I’m considered Mexican. And remember, the Mexican Indians were conquered by the Spaniards. Not only do you get the clash of cultures as seen in the architecture, but also in genetics. Many Spaniards were blond haired and blue-eyed. Lots of recessive genes lurking around.”
“I’d guess your father had some Irish in him, by the red highlights in your hair and blueness of your eyes.”
Miranda stiffened. “Well, that’s all he left with me. I’ll never know who he is. My mother refused to tell me his name because she said it didn’t matter.”
“I don’t understand. Did your mother abandon you? How is it you came to the U.S.?”
“My mother was left pregnant with promises the father would shortly return to bring her to the United States. He lied.” She took a breath to calm herself. “She became very ill when I was born and she had no family. She couldn’t take care of me and so placed me in an orphanage.” Miranda looked down at her hands and gripped them in her lap. “She was bitterly ashamed when she gave up all rights to me, but she wanted me to have a chance at a better life.”
“And yet I’ve heard not many children are adopted from Mexico.”
“An American missionary couple who ran the orphanage were unable to have children. They adopted me at a time when the laws were more lenient. When I was eighteen, they returned to the States. I’ve lived in Oregon ever since.”
“What was your childhood like?”
“Comfortable, I guess. My parents were very strict and kept me pretty sheltered.” Miranda crumpled her napkin in her hand under the table, remembering when she’d rebelled against everything they’d taught her. After a quiet, suffocating life, she’d made her escape the moment the opportunity had presented itself. She’d been unable to escape the consequences ever since.
“What made you decide to find your birth mother?”
Miranda’s heart wrenched at the memory. “My adoptive mother died when I was nineteen. And then my dad died of…a stroke right after I turned twenty. I had no family left so I decided to go in search for some.”
Spencer regarded her in a way that made her feel like a bug under a microscope. She shrank from his gaze, worried he might divine the truth by looking into her eyes. If he only knew.
“And now that your birth mother has died,” he said in a low voice, “you have a sister to find.”
Miranda stared at him with defiance. “Yes, my mother was snookered by another man. She may have made the wrong choices with men, but she made the right ones with her children.”
He raised a brow. “By putting them in orphanages? No offense to your birth country, but that sounds like a pretty crummy place to grow up.”
Choking back her rising gall, she struggled to keep her voice level. “My mother lived in one of those shanties you sneered at when we arrived here. So, I’d say the orphanage was a better choice.”
&nb
sp; “I’m not attacking you, Miranda. Nobody has any choice who his or her parents are. But I do think it’s sad your mother had babies just to give them away. From what I understand, family is deeply important here, and not many children are actually put in orphanages in the first place.”
“Well, that’s what a lot of prostitutes do, Spencer.” She paused as he assimilated her words. “Are you happy now? The sordid truth is out. But I love my mother no matter what. She had to survive just like everyone else.”
Spencer’s eyes widened. “I thought you said your mother had planned to marry! You never said anything about prostitution.”
“What was she supposed to do after finding herself pregnant and abandoned?”
“Get a job?”
Miranda slapped her hand on the table. “That’s exactly what she did!”
Spencer’s face darkened. “What does this have to do with Mexico City, Miranda? Are you trying to make yourself feel better about your past by waxing poetic about the city?”
“You, who’ve had everything handed to you on a silver platter, have no right to judge me!”
“That goes the same for you. Adoptive parents aren’t usually impoverished; it costs of a lot of money. And I’m sure you had a pretty good life in the soulless U.S.A.”
She looked down to hide her frustration. His responses were so typical .
“You’re taking this out of perspective,” Spencer said quietly. “But you have to admit, the life of a prostitute, and the life of her children, are not ideal.”
Miranda shot him a hard gaze. “Really? That’s a newsflash. But it may come as a surprise that some people are put into circumstances that they have no control of. Did it ever occur to you that my mother didn’t choose what she did? It chose her!”
“I find that hard to believe. Surely there were other options.”
“Like what? Everything’s so easy for you to explain away from that lofty height of yours.”
Spencer bridled. “Do you want to explain that?”
“You don’t even realize it, do you? You scorn everything that doesn’t live up to your holier-than-thou standards.”
“That’s not true—”
Miranda threw her napkin on the table, her hand itching to slap his face. “Of course it’s true! You’re looking at me right now like I'm beneath you.”
He leaned forward, his features chiseled and unyielding. “If I’m so horrible, why am I here with you? Why am I doing this out of my own pocket? I’m obviously putting my money where my mouth is! I’m even compromising on my principles of being away for several days alone with a woman—”
“There you go again prosing about your principles! I’m sorry, but only the rich can afford those. Everyone else just has to muddle along the best they can. Besides, you act as if you’re at risk of being seduced by me. The only danger you’re at risk of is yourself and your hopelessly rigid, outdated principles!”
“Quit letting emotion blind you to the truth.”
“Oh, so now I’m too emotional to think clearly. That’s original!”
“Maybe your emotions are all you have left to stand on. I can understand that. It must’ve come as a great shock to find out about your birth mother.”
She shook her head. “You just don’t get it, do you? I loved Lupe. I didn’t care what she’d done. I just loved her.” Miranda grabbed her purse and stood as the waiter appeared with their orders. “I’m sure you don’t want to eat in the company of what you no doubt consider a tainted woman.”
Spencer stood as well. “I never said anything about you, Miranda. Sit down.”
She stared at him, her chin lifted, wishing he looked more like his father so she could hate him as much.
“What really was in that file?” he said suddenly.
Miranda clutched her purse with nerveless fingers.
The waiter asked in broken English if they planned on staying for their meal.
“Yes,” said Spencer.
“No!” Miranda turned and stormed past the tables, out onto the street. She detested Spencer. He was insufferable, judgmental, egotistical, and downright rude.
As she hurried around the corner to the motel, she felt tears on her face. She didn’t dare confess that Spencer’s reaction had been a kind of test. A test he failed completely. If he judged her for things she had no control over, what would he think if he knew the real truth about her past?
Miranda tripped on a loose cobblestone as she weaved in and out of the crowds congregating in front of peñas, coffee bars emitting loud Latino music. She picked up the pace, eager for the safety of the four walls of her room. A group of men in straw cowboy hats hissed at her and made suggestive comments in Spanish. As a woman alone on the street in the evening, she knew they assumed her to be fair game.
“Déjeme en paz! Leave me be!” She scurried to avoid their outstretched hands and prayed to make it to the hotel unharmed.
When she saw the door of the motel, a cry of relief escaped her lips. Pasting on a smile for the woman at the desk and muttering a buenas noches, she ran up the stairs, burst into her room, and collapsed onto the bed, gasping for breath.
A moment later, she heard a pounding on her door.
Eleven
“Miranda!”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Spencer. “Go away. Go back to your ivory tower!”
“Miranda, open the door.”
She clenched her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to talk to you. You probably just want to finish your sermon. Well, save it for someone who cares!”
“Please open the door,” he said in a lower voice. “We need to talk.”
Miranda stared at the door, angry that a remote part of her wanted to see him. She fished a tissue out of her purse and dabbed her eyes.
When she no longer heard any sound of his presence, she jumped up and stalked across the room. He probably gave up and went to his own room by now anyway. Miranda jerked open the door. When she saw him across the threshold, she stumbled backwards.
Spencer strode in and shut the door behind him. Leaning against the panels, he regarded her with a grave expression. In the bathroom, the faucet dripped and plopped. Miranda held her breath.
“Forgive me, Miranda, for my remarks about your mother. It was inexcusable and I’m very sorry.”
“Just like that?”
Color suffused his face. “What do you mean?”
She crossed her arms. “I mean, you say a bunch of horrible things and then figure you can get off the hook by a pat little apology.”
Spencer dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re not going to make anything easy, are you?”
Miranda gave him a challenging stare, mentally daring him to proceed. She was surprised when he walked up to her and took her hand in his. A flood of heat swept through her. Spencer tugged on her hand and sat down on the edge of the bed, prompting her to sit beside him.
“Are you sure you trust me here?” she mocked. “I might try to topple you from your lofty principles.”
He gave a faint smile. His silvery gaze seemed to reach out to her. Miranda couldn’t look away. She bit her lip.
“I truly am sorry. As soon as you said you loved your birth mother, I realized I was wrong.”
She remained silent, surprised by his admission. The warm pressure of his fingers was at once comforting and unsettling.
“When you said you loved her no matter what, I remembered that that’s how God’s love is toward us. Your expression of love wasn’t condoning her behavior, it was looking beyond to what was real.”
This was the last thing Miranda expected him to say. She could think of no response. She studied his face, looking for any evidence of mockery or sarcasm—and found none. Unless he was a consummate actor, Miranda couldn’t deny the appeal in his gaze, the sincere note in his voice. She made a monumental effort to swallow her pride. “Apology accepted,” she whispered.
Spencer squeezed her hand. “I’m trying to help you, not hurt you.”
&n
bsp; She stared up at him with a wide gaze, trying to think over the pounding of her heart. “I don’t need help.” The words came automatically.
“Are you sure about that?” His smile broke through her defenses. “I was behind you when those men tried to accost you. What would you have done if you couldn’t get away?”
“Well, if you were behind me I assume you wouldn’t have let them.”
He smiled. “See how helpful I am to have around?”
Miranda fought against the silkiness of his voice. She reminded herself he was the son of a lecher. He probably learned all the moves from his father. She pulled her hand away and stood, stepping around to the other side of a chair. “Well, now that that’s taken care of, I’ll say goodnight.”
Spencer stood and cocked his head, hands in his pockets. “Aren’t you hungry? We had to leave our dinner behind.”
Miranda glanced at him. He had a pleading look in his eyes that went straight to her heart. It made no sense to be attracted to him and incensed at the same time. Maybe I’m the one at risk of seduction. If he keeps looking at me like that, I just might forget my own scruples.
He smiled. “I thought you were going to save me money in Mexico City, but I had to pay for a dinner I didn’t get to eat.”
Miranda regarded him for several moments, wrestling with the temptation to give him leniency for his abysmal behavior. “Fine. I’ll buy you dinner.” She picked up her purse and headed toward the door.
Out on the avenue, Miranda led him to a street vendor. The smell of piping hot chile tamales made her mouth water. After waiting in line for several minutes, she ordered two and passed one over to Spencer.
He lifted it up and stared at it from every angle. “The guidebook said you shouldn’t eat from street vendors,” he said. “You could risk a stomach bug.”
Miranda bit into hers and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “What a way to go,” she mumbled around a mouthful.
Spencer gave his a dubious look before taking a small bite. Then he took another.
Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love) Page 7
