by Siena West
Elena met him at the porch steps and extended a hand for a formal handshake. She hoped the formality would set the tone for the afternoon, because to recall their encounter after Cholla House made her breathless. “Agent Jorgensen? We didn’t expect you. Is anything wrong?”
“No, Ma’am, I’m here on holiday. What could be more fun than spending the Fourth of July with my favorite bunch of archaeologists? Looks like you people haven’t forgotten it’s Independence Day.”
Maggie rose and held out a plastic cup of her margarita mix to Jorgensen. “Whoopee!” she screamed in delight.
“Ignore her, Agent Jorgensen. Maggie’s a little crazy, on top of her outstanding ability to imbibe tequila. I think you’ll find my margarita more to your liking.”
Maggie stuck her tongue out at Elena and blew a raspberry.
“I don’t doubt it,” the agent said, smiling all the way to his ice-blue eyes.
* * *
Because they were in awe of the tall, good-looking agent, the porch crew was quiet at first. But as the group consumed more margaritas, the chatter and laughter started up again. The students peppered Jorgensen with questions. The agent answered with good humor, but after a solid half-hour of questioning, bowed out. “Enough, already. I’m here to have fun, not talk about work.” He turned to the director. “Would it be possible for me to spend the night, Elena? It’s a long drive back home, and I’m planning on partying.”
The hollow sensation returned. Elena understood what was coming.
“The field school certainly can’t contribute to the delinquency of an FBI Special Agent. I’ll tell Norm we have a guest. Can you survive these clowns for a while?”
“Not to worry. I’ll help myself to the Vargas batch of margaritas while you’re away.” Inhibition long gone, Maggie stuck out her tongue at the agent and blew another raspberry.
* * *
When she was back, Elena mixed another pitcher of margaritas. Cole brought out his guitar and picked out old Beach Boys, Linda Ronstadt, and Eagles tunes. Drowsy in the heat, the kids joined in the choruses when they could; most weren’t even born when those artists were popular. Maggie leaned against Cole’s leg, sleepy with heat and tequila.
Not long after, Mel arrived to invite the group to a volleyball game. The porch sitters and Cole left to join the game. Maggie retreated to their tent for a much-needed nap. Elena and the agent were alone.
Jorgensen moved into a camp chair beside Elena.
“Not playing?” she asked. “Volleyball is traditional here on the Fourth of July.”
“Too hot. Only kids as young as those guys can play in this heat. Anyway, I’d rather spend the time with you.” Jorgensen took her hand. “Thank you for letting me stay. It’s great to be out of the city.”
“De nada, Agent Jorgensen. I hope our rustic entertainments don’t bore you.”
“Are you kidding? This crowd makes me think I’m young again.” The agent released her hand. Raucous noise erupted from the volleyball court.
Jorgensen and Elena sat in friendly silence. A light breeze rustled the pines and cottonwoods, dispelling some of the heat. To the north, piles of cumulus clouds were taking on the colors of fire in the glow before sunset and shedding a Zen-like aura on the late afternoon. Norm had lit the cook fire, and the delicious scent of piñon smoke drifted on the breeze.
At last, Jorgensen spoke. “Maggie is feisty, isn’t she?”
“You have no idea. The young woman knows how to have fun for sure.” Elena paused. “I worry about her. Maggie is too fond of tequila and besotted with Cole. I’m concerned she will crash and burn before the summer’s over.”
A quail had taken up a post nearby and was calling to the world that this was his territory.
“I’m sorry, Elena, but I have to talk business with you,” Jorgensen said.
“So I thought. Cops rarely bring good news.” It was inevitable, even on a holiday, with an attractive man sitting next to her, that they would talk about thievery and plunder.
Jorgensen told Elena what he’d learned about Carl Cimelli. “The guy’s been swindling tourists in Sedona for years. Rents a shop near the bridge, across the street from Tlaquepaque. It’s a prime place to hook the tourists. Cimelli offers past-life regressions, retreats involving a lot of drumming and phony Native American spiritualism, tours of the vortex sites. And workshops.”
“Workshops?”
“Sweat-lodge construction, tarot reading, herbalism—”
“Stop!” Elena laughed. “You’re killing me—I get it.”
“Cimelli also has a criminal background—possession of marijuana and peyote, passing bad checks, and violating public ordinances against nudity.”
“That’s disgusting. You’ve conjured up an unappetizing picture—an old hippie cavorting in the woods, high and naked.” Nausea replaced amusement as she recalled Cimelli’s touch.
“There’s more. Cimelli was arrested once for fraud and another time for practicing medicine without a license. Seems a spiritual healer can run afoul of the law when he claims his herbal concoctions and chakra stones will cure cancer. He has been sued over that.”
“Shut the front door! What a shameless crook. But what about violations of heritage laws?”
“Nope. Cimelli’s clean on that account.”
“Maldita sea. Did you find out anything about his stint at the amateurs’ field school?”
“We confirmed what Mr. Reidhead told you. The director invited Cimelli to leave because he was stealing artifacts.”
“Cimelli must be smart—he avoids places where he’d face federal or state prosecution,” Elena said. “With digs on private land, he wouldn’t break any laws, except burial laws if he looted them.” She poured the last of the margaritas.
“Cimelli hasn’t showed up again, has he?” Jorgensen asked.
“Nope. If he did, Norm would run him off the property with a shotgun. Don’t forget we’re in the Old West.
“Were you able to identify the tires from the photos?”
“Yes, but the bad news is every discount tire store on the planet sells them. Millions have been sold.”
“So that’s another dead end.”
“Afraid so.”
The noise from the volleyball court had abated, and the colors had faded from the clouds. They sat in a long, companionable silence. “Sorry I’ve ruined your holiday.” Jorgensen clasped her hand again, noting with amusement a little sticky residue from the margaritas. “May I ask a personal question? Haven’t seen a Señor Vargas around—is he in Tucson, perhaps?”
Elena gurgled with laughter to cover the fact that such questions flustered her. “You don’t mess around with small talk, do you? The answer is no.”
“May I ask why?”
“It’s a career thing.” Despite what she had told Mel, two married professionals often have a hard time. “Academia is tough on marriages. One person gets a university job, the other doesn’t—and there’s conflict. I’ve known couples who maintain bicoastal relationships so both could stay employed—one or the other flying home on weekends. Not for me, thanks. I’d rather stay single.”
“Not all relationships survive separation in the field, I assume.”
“True enough. Look around—see how many couples have matched up.? The stars, the moon, the wilderness—a field school can be an irresistibly romantic environment. Pairing up is inevitable. Take Cole and Maggie, for example. Those kids were together before you could say boo.
“Most of the time, it’s just a harmless summer romance. But sometimes it gets serious, and there’s a breakup and heartbreak.”
“Maggie’s boyfriend is the guy with the guitar, right?”
“You can tell?” Elena’s laughter pealed out. She was glad to leave behind the discussion of pairing up and heartbreak.
The evening fell in a haze of tender blues and purples. The kitchen crew set out platters of steaks along with salad, cowboy beans, and
baked potatoes. Jorgensen and Elena left the empty margarita pitcher and the chaos on the porch behind for dinner.
* * *
At dinner, the clouds had moved closer, and flashes of blue light lit the ramada from time to time. A few rain drops spattered down, banishing the afternoon’s oppressive heat. Norm made a flag cake with strawberries and blueberries on white frosting. When they were eating cake, Elena stood and called for order. But the din continued until Jorgensen split the air with a two-finger whistle. “Hey, listen up! The director’s speaking.”
“I can’t imagine having a better crew,” she said, “and today seemed like a good time to say it. It’s been hard this summer, what with the looting, the theft from Mel’s room, the wildfire, and that bizarre thing in the pasture. Not to mention lightning striking the water tank and Linda breaking her ankle! But everybody’s stepped up to the plate. I’m grateful for that.” Elena raised her half-full cup.
“Let’s toast to better times and a successful summer!” The kids saluted in return and then applauded long and loud. It had been a wonderful Fourth of July, even without hot dogs, parades, and fireworks.
Fireworks were coming later.
* * *
Despite the electrical light show, no rain fell after the first few drops. After dinner, people drifted off to shower or bed, and the camp grew still and quiet. Jorgensen joined Elena at the cabin. She’d lit candles inside, and they cast a soft glow on the porch.
Jorgensen offered a bouquet—a Fourth-of-July mix of red carnations, blue bachelor’s buttons, and white daisies. “I wasn’t expecting the riot and forgot all about them. The flowers have been in the vehicle all afternoon, and they’re a little worse for wear.”
“That was thoughtful, caballero.” Alone in the sweet darkness, they were both awkward. Elena rummaged about and found a coffee can for the flowers. She called out to him. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“Brought my own,” he said, pulling a pint bottle from his jacket. “No offense to your margaritas—they’re good—but at heart, I’m a bourbon drinker.” Elena found a clean cup in the debris cluttering the porch and a little ice left over from the afternoon bacchanal. She poured red wine for herself.
The velvety night closed dark and silky around them. Stars stippled the sky, so packed together and brilliant they looked like frosting on the inky darkness. “I haven’t seen stars like these since I moved to the city.” Jorgensen seemed spellbound.
“A perk of the wilderness.” The storm had moved on, and lightning struck sparks in the far distance. They watched a jet traverse the sky, heading east for Chicago, New York, maybe Atlanta. Even Paris, perhaps. Who were those people so far above them? Elena wondered. Did they have secrets? Where they happy? Or were they traveling to an unhappy event, like a funeral?
Norm drove past in his pickup on the way to cut off the generator that ran the pump at the well and provided electricity. “Oh, crap—I forget to tell you about the water,” Elena said. “The water system needs electricity, and Norm just went to turn off the generator. You can’t flush the toilet or shower tonight. You’ll have to use the outhouse.”
“Haven’t done that in years. Nothing like the simple life, is there?” Jorgensen sipped the bourbon, relishing the nearness of the gorgeous woman beside him. The agent wanted to understand everything about her. He wanted to bore into her past like a worm into a ripe ear of corn.
“Now we’ve established you’re not married, tell me more about yourself. Where did you go to school?”
“Agent Jorgensen, are you interviewing me?”
Jorgensen chuckled. “Just intrigued, that’s all. Archaeologists are an exotic species—beautiful, female ones in particular.”
Elena frowned. Soon, she would have to educate the man on feminist sensibilities.
“It’s a question of survival. You almost killed me on our expedition to Cholla House. The more I know about you, the better I’ll be able to keep up with you. So how did you come to the wilds of Arizona? Your job seems to be herding a bunch of students who, to be frank, drink more than any kids I’ve ever seen.”
It was her turn to laugh. “Didn’t I tell you about the hard-drinking, hard-working machismo tradition in archaeology?” Elena poured more wine before answering his question. The moon had risen, casting an opaline glow.
“My undergrad work was at the University of New Mexico to stay close to my parents, then grad school at Berkeley.”
“Wow. Berkeley’s a long way from Santa Fe.”
“A world away. Berkeley courted me. They couldn’t wait to enroll a Latina who was bent on becoming an archaeologist and one with good grades and recommendations. So I assembled my committee from the anthro and women’s studies departments. It took three years to do my coursework and take the exams. Berkeley is where I learned to drink wine.”
Elena’s face caught the candlelight. “I hated every minute. It was damp, it drizzled all the time, and there wasn’t a decent Mexican restaurant anywhere. Wait, I take that back—there were trendy places where you could get a tiny plate of Nuevo Mexican cuisine for a hundred bucks. It would include a tasteful garnish, of course.” She laughed at the memory.
“I couldn’t wait to get back home. So I planned my dissertation research in New Mexico, doing historical archaeology in a town with roots in the Spanish period. When I graduated, I looked for jobs in the Southwest. And I ended up here. Arizona’s almost as good as New Mexico.”
“What did your family think of you becoming an archaeologist?”
“My parents worked hard, going from relative poverty to become successful restaurant proprietors. They understood my need to make my own way in the world. It was a matter of tremendous pride, orgullo, for my mother. Mama loves to introduce me as Dr. Vargas.” Elena laughed. “Although I’m sure she’d be happier if I was married with a horde of little brown kids by now.
“Okay, basta,” she said. “It’s my turn to ask questions. You don’t talk about yourself, much, do you? I bet it’s written into your FBI contract that you must play the strong, silent role all the time.” Her laughter bubbled up once more.
“You win. My family’s from the upper Midwest—what else could we be but Norwegian? Took me years to get rid of the stupid accent. You know—the flat A’s, the singsong thing, the Canadian ‘aboot.’
“College was the University of Michigan. My father was in law enforcement, and it was natural to enter the police academy after school. I served until I tired of traffic stops, dog bites, and domestic disputes. Not much interesting happened in our little Minnesota town, although I made the rank of captain. Quantico was a way out for me.”
“You asked, now I will,” Elena said. “Are you married?”
“Divorced, no kids. I married before I graduated from the academy. It takes a special person to be an FBI agent’s spouse. My wife wasn’t one. She left me for a nice, safe insurance salesman.”
It would be hard to watch your husband leave the house in the morning, not knowing if he would be back at the end of the day, Elena thought.
“I think they have three kids now. My wife didn’t feel safe enough with me to have a family.”
“I’m sorry—that’s sad.” They sat in silence, each thinking about what might have been. After a while, Elena tried and didn’t stifle a huge yawn.
“It’s a work day tomorrow, Sandy, and I confess I’m beat.”
“I can imagine, after an afternoon of constructing and sampling margaritas. Will you show me to my room? I have no clue where I’m supposed to bunk.”
Her heart-stopping smile took his breath away.
“Why don’t you come inside for a while instead?”
Without a word, he followed her into the cabin.
* * *
The pair lay in each other’s arms. Elena murmured soft Spanish endearments, her lips against his neck. Moonlight poured in, transforming the ancient cabin with pearled magic. In the spellbinding light, her hair looked inky
as it curled over his chest, and her creamy skin had paled to a milky shade. Elena’s eyes were huge and luminous, weighted with the import of what had passed between them.
Jorgensen curled a springy tendril of her hair over his finger and released it, watching it straighten and then curl again as if it held a life of its own. He yawned despite a valiant try to stop it; it had been a grueling week. Elena laughed and poked him in the ribs.
“I must bore you, huh?” she teased.
“You are not boring—you are the least boring person I’ve known.” Something flickered in his eyes, and he grew serious.
“It’s been exhilarating to meet you, Elena. I’d stopped dating, sure I would discover no one I could fall in love with again. That changed when I met you.”
Elena rose on one elbow, searching his face. “Sandy, you don’t know me. Today is what—the second?—time we’ve talked about anything except archaeology and pot hunting. I don’t know you, either.”
Jorgensen’s response was stunning. He maneuvered her onto her back and himself over her with such swiftness and strength that the breath seemed to leave her body. The bed—jerry-rigged from cots and thin mattresses from a university dorm—creaked and shifted beneath them. He cupped her face in his hands and whispered.
“That’s not true, Elena Vargas—I’ve made love to you. My mouth knows your skin, my tongue knows your scent. You taste sweet and salty, like honey and seawater. I’ve felt the deepest places of your body.”
She gasped as he slipped himself into her, hard again. “I’ve heard the sounds you make when you give yourself to me. And I will let you get to know me. As much time as it takes.”
Tears were slipping down her cheeks, shining silver in the pale light. As he moved inside her, he kissed them away. She couldn’t say why she was weeping. She held him, rocking under his weight.
Oblivious and unconcerned, the moon rose high beyond the window frame and swam on through the night.
* * *
Jorgensen woke much later. His internal clock told him it must be an hour or two before dawn. He knew he’d have to leave Elena’s cabin before daylight. She slept on, her tangled hair pooling dark on the pillow.