Miranda pulled on his hand and led him to a fenced cemetery. They stopped just outside the entrance, standing to the side to let families enter. Spencer looked around in wonder. In the fading light he saw tombs lit up with hundreds of candles. Headstones were festooned with tissue flowers and crosses in a colorful, gaudy display.
At the tombs, families sat visiting, some with picnic baskets. Children ran around the graves, giggling and gleeful. Somewhere in the distance firecrackers went off. At one tomb a family had laid a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of tequíla. Spencer opened his mouth to comment, but decided against it.
Miranda pointed discreetly to a nearby altar atop a tomb. “See the wash basin and towel? That’s so the returning spirits can freshen up before their visit with the families. Sometimes they even include a comb and mirror.”
Spencer resisted the urge to grimace, reminding himself to be just an observer, not a commentator.
“Each altar has water to drink and for purification. Salt is to season food and also for purification and the bread represents food for survival.” She looked up at him as if to gauge his reaction. Spencer kept his expression neutral.
Miranda continued. “A candle is lit for each deceased family member and one extra to make sure no one is left out. The candles also represent hope and faith and are kept burning through the night to keep the darkness at bay.”
Spencer cleared his throat. “What do you think about the traditions?”
She lowered her gaze and seemed to consider her answer. “Because the traditions are such a mix of pre-Aztec and Roman Catholic rituals, there’s something lost in the translation, I think. But there’s no doubting the earnestness of the families who partake. Not only is it a chance to remember fonder times, but it’s also an opportunity to celebrate the fact that they’ve escaped death for at least a little while longer.”
“At the very least it’s fascinating.”
Miranda lifted her chin. “That sounds condescending. People use what information they have and do their best.”
“I was not being condescending,” he insisted, frustrated that despite his best efforts he’d managed to offend her. “I just mean I hadn’t ever looked at death that way.”
Miranda gave him a tight smile. “We have our own mix of traditions in America. Overall, death is a subject avoided at all costs. Everyone seems to think they’re immortal. And the Christians I’ve met don’t seem to handle it much better. If death is the doorway to a better place and an end to human suffering, why fight so hard against it?”
Spencer dreaded the direction of their conversation. No matter what he said, he’d no doubt make a misstep. He blew out a breath. “Well, I think it all boils down to fear. We really don’t know exactly what happens at the point of death until we experience it ourselves. Even if you have complete faith in Heaven, there’s still the actual passing that’s terrifying. Maybe that fear drives us to form rituals and traditions to ease the apprehension.”
Miranda turned to stand in front of him. “Maybe fear of the unknown is the driving force behind ignorance.”
“It’s a powerful motivator. Everyone has experienced it to some degree.”
“So what’s the antidote? What’s the opposite?”
Spencer sent up a silent prayer for wisdom. Somehow he never felt prepared where Miranda was concerned. “Um, the Bible says that perfect love casts out fear.”
Miranda smiled. “Let me guess that perfect love is not what Hollywood represents it as.”
He sent her an answering smile. “Scripture says there’s no greater love than the man who lays down his life for his friends.”
“Jesus,” she said quietly.
He nodded.
“So we come full circle.”
“So it would seem.”
“Like you said, I got most of this growing up.” Her gaze drifted toward the cemetery. “But somehow it got lost in the translation.”
“Maybe rituals can point to the truth, but they can also detract or distract from it. I think God would rather have us focus on him as a person and less as a ritualistic figure.”
She squeezed his hand and watched the families chatting near the tombs. Her expression grew thoughtful. “Yeah.”
Spencer released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Just give me a few more minutes. I’m sure I can manage to spoil those warm fuzzies of yours.”
Miranda laughed. “No, I think I’m starting to figure you out. And I think I’ve been too hard on you. I’ve been almost as judgmental of you as you’ve been of me.”
“Ouch!”
She stepped closer, threading her fingers through his. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid to guess.”
They moved on past the ceremony. Dusk settled over the city like a gauzy shroud. Spencer heard guitar music wafting on the wind.
“Do you want to head back to the hotel?” he asked, flagging down a taxi. “Tomorrow is a big day, I hope. And I’m still a little worried about you being sick.”
Miranda gripped his hand. “I’m not sick, I’m excited! Oh, Spencer, we could be close to finding Soledad! I don’t think I could sleep if I tried!”
Her exuberance was infectious and continued during the ride to Zona Rosa. Once they stepped out of the cab, they walked straight into a street party. A strolling mariachi band played with sweet lament, gilding the very air with some of the most soul-stirring music Spencer had ever heard.
Miranda grabbed his hand and pulled him along the sidewalk, seeming to absorb the frivolous atmosphere. She lifted his hand and put her other hand on his shoulder, drawing him into a clumsy waltz as they twirled around the groups of people in front of the shops.
The sound of her lighthearted laughter filled Spencer with an intense longing to hear it more. The force of his emotions made him stumble. He pulled her against himself to counterbalance and keep her from falling. She slid an arm around his waist and looked up at him with an enchanting smile.
This is how Miranda should always be. Not brooding and anxious. Not fearful and distrusting. But was it in his power to bring about the change? The answer left him unsatisfied. He tightened his arm around her as they turned and wended their way through the crowds lining the streets.
Spencer set aside his troubled thoughts and resolved to enjoy the evening. He had Miranda in his arms, he was in an exotic locale, and for the moment, nothing else mattered.
By the time they approached the hotel, Spencer was out of breath. Miranda seemed to be catching her second wind. They stood on the street a few steps from their hotel, watching the revelers pass. Lights hung drunkenly from tree to tree and Peruvian panpipes and guitars ricocheted on the wind, adding to the frenetic, strung-up air.
A group of tourists swaggered by in calavera costumes, the women wearing Sunday hats and the men in sombreros with cigars clenched between their teeth. One of the men staggered and crashed into Miranda. Spencer thrust him away, and put his arm around her.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded and stepped to the side to avoid being bumped again by another group dancing past. Spencer glanced around and noticed a recessed doorway just behind them. He tugged her toward it to protect her further from the fray.
The doorway, painted a chalky blue color, now blistered and peeling away, afforded them a bit of privacy and reprieve from the crowds. Spencer blew out a breath, wishing all the noise and fuss away.
He looked at Miranda. She gazed at him as if oblivious to the festivity all around them, and placed a hand on his chest. The moment slowed to a standstill. Spencer felt the warmth of her touch through his shirt. His gaze dropped to her lips. Suddenly he knew he had to kiss her.
Twenty-Four
Miranda peered up at Spencer, flushing at his proximity, at the subtle change in his expression. The party scene faded from the intimate confines of the doorway, the noise nothing compared to the rioting of her heart.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked softly, covering
her hand with his own where it lay on his chest.
She nodded, afraid to speak and break the fragile magic that seemed to bind them. The plaintive music played as a counterpoint to the rhythm of her pulse. The rhyme she’d heard in the Neza came to mind.
Naranja dulce
Limon partido
Dame un abrazo
Que yo te pido
Spencer’s eyes looked black in the low light as he scanned the contours of her face. When his gaze contacted with hers, she felt pinned by the strength of what she saw there. He reached up and grazed his fingers down her cheek and neck, coming to rest where her blood pounded in the hollow of her throat.
Miranda chose to forget about the all the emotional baggage impugning their relationship. Two days ago she admitted to herself she’d fallen in love with Spencer. Now she wanted to explore that awareness.
“Dame un abrazo,” she whispered.
Spencer’s head blocked the peripheral light, becoming a silhouette as he bent toward her. When his lips rested against hers, Miranda closed her eyes. At first, his touch seemed tentative, unsure. Then his lips moved against her own, in a leisurely, measured assault that eclipsed everything but the feel of him so close.
She reached up to his shoulders, holding onto him as the street with all its noise whirled away into the velvet darkness. His arms slid around her waist and he held her tight. Aware of the soft sound of their breathing, the frantic thudding of their hearts, she gave herself up to the pleasure of his kiss.
Jostled from behind, Spencer stumbled forward. Miranda bit back an exclamation that the moment had to end so soon. Before she could get her bearings, Spencer grabbed her hand and led her toward their hotel.
Inside the lobby, he nodded at the man behind the gleaming desk and urged her up the stairs to their floor. Miranda watched as he glanced at their surroundings. The hall was silent, the music outside more of a vibration than sound. In a dim alcove behind a potted palm, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her again.
Miranda sighed against his lips, giving him full access when he sought her throat with his mouth. His gentleness made her feel fragile and cherished, something she wasn’t familiar with. When his lips joined again with hers, she kissed him with fervor, longing to communicate her feelings for him in ways words could not.
Approaching voices in the corridor disrupted them again. Spencer blinked like a sleepwalker, his breathing erratic. He rested his forehead against hers and waited for the people to pass. When they disappeared down the stairway, he linked his fingers with hers and drew her out from the shadows.
Miranda watched the play of light on his features as he led her down the hall to their rooms. She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered what would come next. When they arrived at her door, she leaned against it and peered up at him.
Spencer rested his shoulder against the door frame and reached up, touching her hair. His expression was tense and serious. Miranda held her breath, terrified and exhilarated at the same time.
Then, he put his hands at her waist and pulled her against him, kissing her with an intensity that left her breathless. When he buried his face in her hair, Miranda grappled for her room card and managed to get her door open without breaking contact.
A gust of cool air from the room blew past her as she stepped inside. Spencer followed for a few feet, and stopped, one hand gripping the door jamb. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his. His free arm hooked her around the waist and held her tight as he returned the favor. Miranda became lost in the feel of him so close, so hers.
Some time later, realizing they were still in public view with the door open, she pulled away slightly and looked up at him. His lean cheeks were flushed and his eyes glowed like Mexican silver. She looked at her fingers twisted in the folds of his shirt. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to his.
“Stay with me tonight.”
He regarded her for the space of several heartbeats. Then the color in his face deepened and his arm loosened from around her waist. He lowered his eyes before dropping his hand. Miranda fought a rising feeling of panic as he stepped away from her.
When Spencer looked up at her, he took a shuddering breath. “I can’t, Miranda.”
The words fell like stones into the stillness of the room. Frozen in place, Miranda felt as though she’d been struck. Before she could form a sentence, Spencer backed out of the room and quietly shut the door behind him. She stared at the closed door where a moment before he’d stood looking at her with…what? Love? Lust? Do I know the difference?
The darkness felt like a mantle of shame closing in on her. Her mind reached out for the past moments, wanting to return to the sensation she’d experienced in Spencer’s arms—the feeling of being treasured and loved. Instead she felt cheap, like the prostitute he once accused of her of trying to be.
Miranda walked with unsteady legs over to her bed and sank onto the edge. Her heart roared in her ears. If only she could turn back the clock and erase those words! Of course Spencer wouldn’t spend the night with a woman who wasn’t his wife. What was I thinking?
She clutched her head in her hands. I wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem. Now, he no doubt has all his fears about me confirmed, that I’m the type who’d stay with someone I’ve known less than two weeks. Way to go, Miranda.
She shook her head, hearing the mocking sounds of revelry below. Miranda bit her lip until she tasted blood.
Well, she didn’t plan to be around for his certain recriminations and lectures in the morning. She had no defense this time. No way to challenge his sense of right and wrong. She had only one option left open to her.
Miranda jumped up and pulled her suitcase out from under the bed.
***
Spencer stalked into his room and shut the door. He tore off his shirt and started to throw it across the room. Pausing, he brought it up to his face. A trace of Miranda’s fragrance lingered there. Pressing his nose to the fabric, he inhaled deeply.
He paced in circles before coming to rest on the edge of a chair, the shirt hanging loose in his hand. What had just happened? Spencer mentally damned all Latin music to perdition. It shouldn’t be legal when it could cause a normally responsible, respectable male to turn into a Don Juan wannabe.
He leaned back in the chair and sighed. Who was he kidding? It wasn’t the music that made him forget all sense of propriety. It was Miranda. Intoxicating, sweet Miranda.
Spencer lamented the fact that she was no longer in his arms where she belonged. He stood and walked to the balcony window. Unlocking the door, he went outside, glancing at the balcony to Miranda’s room. It was empty. He gazed out at the sea of lights, hearing the pulsating music of the nightclubs below. Spencer gripped the railing and sighed.
I love her.
It was as if he’d run blind down twisting, turning streets with no name, and collided smack into love. I never saw it coming.
Spencer closed his eyes. Was this what love was like? This painful yearning and confusion? He’d always imagined it more of a spiritual glow and sense of contentment—not this clawing need to be with Miranda, to touch her and feel her arms around him.
He groaned, half-wishing he was still in her embrace, half-ashamed of leading her on. She must hate him for being two-faced.
What should I do? Apologize? How could he do it without sounding like a clumsy oaf and embarrassing her even more? And there were spiritual issues at stake. Spencer had no doubt Miranda was searching for the Lord. But at the moment, there could be no going to the next level, of making a commitment to each other. She needed to be committed to God first.
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the railing. Lord, I made a misstep tonight, and yet I can’t regret it completely. You know how I feel about Miranda. I have to believe You brought her to me for a reason. Please sort out our relationship. Give me wisdom to see past my desire for her. Draw her to Yourself, make her Your child.
He opened his eyes
and looked out over the inky mass of civilization below the glow of lights.
A breeze sighed past him like a whispered amen, almost as if the wind knew he was afraid of saying it himself.
Twenty-Five
Spencer woke up on the floor. He opened his eyes, wincing at the throbbing in his head caused by the movement. His vision was bleary as he looked around.
The blankets hung half on, half off the mattress. He eased to his feet and collapsed onto the bed. While he remembered tossing and turning during the night, he didn’t remember falling.
Spencer turned his head on the pillow and saw his shirt on the other side of the bed. Miranda. What was she thinking right now? How could he counteract the harm he’d done?
He needed to see her.
Ignoring the pounding headache pummeling his brain, he staggered to the bathroom. When he rummaged in his suitcase, he found the photograph he’d discovered in his father’s study. A part of him longed to crumple it up, but he glared at it, forced by some compulsion. Who was the woman? Miranda? Who was the man? Why did his father have such a photo regardless of who it was? His stomach clenched at the thought.
Spencer doubted he could ever bring himself to ask Miranda about the photo. He shoved it back into the bag, angry with himself for the inability to just throw it away. But if it has a hold over Miranda, it most certainly has a hold over me.
After showering and shaving, Spencer dressed in a sage and blue pullover shirt and blue jeans, hoping his relaxed attire would present a calming front as he tried to restore his relationship with Miranda.
He regarded himself in the mirror as he combed his hair. His stark, strained expression looked back. Spencer pushed the corners of his lips into a smile. No good. She’d never believe it. He closed his eyes, hoping to conjure the right words.
Nothing.
Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love) Page 17
