“Feed him a churrito from the butcher’s stand. I’ll gather the rest of the troops at the school as soon as they’ve finished their dinner, and bring them over for the show.”
“Do not fret so. ’Tonio will show himself when the fun begins.” Soledad reached up to tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind Corinne’s ear that had escaped her upsweep. In addition to being cook and housekeeper at the orphanage, Soledad had also assumed the role of Corinne’s dueña. A proper young lady did not live unchaperoned.
“I wonder that you have one hair left on your head. You are the nurse; you are the teacher; you are the nanny.”
“Administrators wear many hats.” Corinne wore those hats and many more as assistant to the priest who ran the orphanage. This morning, it had been that of janitor. Would the little ones ever learn to put the paper in the designated receptacle, rather than in the toilet, which was not designed to accomodate paper products? “Besides, I love what I’m doing.”
And she loved Mexicalli. Corinne scanned the shaded plaza once more for the errant commander de jour. The butcher, the baker, even the candlestick maker had set up makeshift booths on the plaza for the event. Along the adjacent side of the square were a number of Indios selling handmade crafts from petates, or woven mats of split palm. The Cantina Roja, Mexicalli’s only eat-in restaurant, bar, and gathering place, had moved its tables across the cobbled street so that guests might partake of its food and drink and have a front-row seat for the festivities. Even now, a visiting group of mariachis from the village on the other side of the lake were tuning their instruments near the stage.
“If I were your mama, I would say you should be making your own babies, not chasing after someone else’s. It isn’t like you need the money, no?”
Corinne turned, a wistful smile settling on her lips. “No, Soledad. I’ve been very blessed. Although if the ladies at the orphanage where I was left as a niña had not chased after me and found me a good home, it might have been very different. I might be begging on the streets of Mexico City or worse. Now, maybe I can make a difference in another orphan’s life.”
It was a God thing, of that Corinne was certain. The search for her biological mother had begun at Cuernavaca, where Corinne had been adopted at the age of two. From there, Corinne and her parents traced María Sanchez to Mexicalli, which at the time had no orphanage. There the trail ended. As for Corinne’s birth father, he’d been recorded as an American artist, John Smith—probably not his real name. Since Corinne had blue eyes and a lighter complexion than the cocoa or copper tones of María’s people, the chances were good that he’d been fair.
The search was initiated not out of Corinne’s longing to find her roots, but because of a tumor found during an annual physical. It was benign, but it led to a precautionary quest for her biological parents’ medical histories. Unfortunately, María Sanchez was a popular name, and “John Smith” could have been any of the numerous Bohemian artists who came and went through the region.
So instead of finding the parents who’d given her up twenty-seven years ago, Corinne had found what her life might have been like had she not been adopted and raised by loving parents. And Mexicalli itself was a charming village, seemingly frozen in time. It felt like home, a part of her she hadn’t known existed. The place and the people, especially the orphans, so enchanted her that she felt led to give back some of the blessings she’d received.
“Aha,” Soledad exclaimed, drawing Corinne from her reflection. The housekeeper pointed across the zócalo to where a crepe-paper-bedecked runaway bowed in front of Mexicalli’s wealthy patroness, Doña Violeta. The setting sunlight crept under the jacaranda trees and glanced off the foil epaulets on Antonio’s shoulders as he wielded his wooden sword against an invisible opponent.
“Better we hurry before he annoys Doña Violeta, and she ceases to help Hogar de los Niños forever. That one can be eccentric.”
Eccentric was an understatement for an eighty-three-year-old woman who rode around town in an upholstered donkey cart. Her burro always wore a straw hat with a band to match its mistress’s somber dress. The color of the day was navy blue.
Corinne stayed the housekeeper with her hand. “I’ll take care of Antonio. You enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
“Pues,” Soledad said, easing back down on the park bench without much protest. “Perhaps I should untire myself.”
Smiling at the woman’s unique grasp of English, Corinne set out through the picnicking clusters of family and friends gathered around the stage under the shade of the jacaranda trees. Her full skirt swished about her calves as she passed by so many familiar faces. Mexicalli was a small town, so even if Corinne did not know all their names, she had seen or dealt with most of the villagers in the two months since her arrival.
She reached the opposite side of the plaza, where Antonio was regaling Doña Violeta with the importance of his role. It had now advanced in rank from general to none other than Archduke Maximillian himself.
“I am second only to the great Napoleon, who could have conquered even the conquistadores,” the boy boasted, assuming a proud stance, hand on the hilt of his wooden sword.
At that moment a thunderous clap erupted from the edge of the plaza where the road entered the city at its southern tip. The high-strung Antonio fumbled his sword. Doña Violeta clutched her purse to her chest as though it had been her heart that made the noise.
Corinne looked in the direction of the noise, where a rusty yellow livestock truck belched gray exhaust and hiccuped to a squeaky stop.
With the entire population of the zócalo watching, Capitán Nolla—Mexicalli’s only policeman—and mayor Rafael Quintana swaggered over to the truck as its passengers streamed out of the cab like clowns from a Volkswagen Beetle. But Corinne’s attention was sidetracked by a lone figure that hopped down from the company of grunting swine in the back of the vehicle.
CHAPTER 2
This is definitely not Kansas,Mark mused as he jumped lightly from the back of the livestock truck. And the pink-nosed pig that had snoozed with its head in Mark’s lap was not Toto. Feeling as if he’d been pummeled by every stone in the Sierra Madres, he stood on the cobbled street of Mexicalli and stretched his six-foot-plus frame. Instead of inhaling the mountain air, he opted to keep his breath as shallow as he’d done since climbing into the back of the Swine Transport from Hades. After getting up close and personal with pork on the hoof, he wasn’t sure he’d ever eat bacon again.
A suit-clad official, who identified himself to the driver as the alcalde, or mayor, and a uniformed policeman now approached Mark. With his graying dark hair slicked back from a broad forehead, the mayor resembled a short version of Brando’s godfather character.
“Bienvenido a Mexicalli, señor.”
Meh-chee-CAH-yee? He’d have to revise his pronunciation.
“The driver tells me that you are looking for our Hogar de los Niños.” The stocky gentleman tucked an ample chin to his chest, giving Mark a head-to-toe appraisal. “By chance, would you be the brother of our Señor Blaine Madison of Pennsylvania?”
His sister-in-law, Caroline, had warned Mark that the people of Mexicalli made visitors one of their own. Extending his hand, Mark replied in kind. “Yes, señor, I am. I guess that makes me your Mark Madison.”
Producing a smile almost as wide as his mustache, the man shook Mark’s hand. “And I am Rafael Quintana, mayor of Mexicalli, at your service. My village has been expecting you.”
Mark glanced around, taking in the festive decorations in the plaza. “All this for me? Wow.”
“No, no, no, Señor Madison,” Quintana protested, Mark’s humor zipping over his head. “Not that we would not put out such a welcome, of course, but today is Cinco de Mayo. All of Mexicalli is here to celebrate.”
Puffing up like a proud father, the mayor made a wide sweep with his arm, encompassing the town plaza, but Mark didn’t miss the unobtrusive way he managed to wipe his hand by shoving it into his trouser pocke
t.
“I’m kidding, Señor Quintana,” Mark said, resisting the urge to sniff his fingers. There was no way a man could ride with hogs for two hours and not smell like them. “I made a joke.”
“But of course you do.” Quintana’s laugh stemmed more of relief than humor. “But tell us, what became of your car?”
A thump, followed by a sharp squeal, distracted them as the pig that had mistaken Mark’s lap for a pillow scrambled to its feet. Not quite as large as its companions, it had managed to wriggle under the plank tailgate. Before the driver or any of his compadres could stop it, the pink porker made a break through the crowded plaza.
Mayhem ensued. Small, but swift of foot, the pig eluded its pursuers. Picnic blankets were abandoned; children squealed; their mothers and grandmothers screamed. One of the Cantina Roja tables was upended when the pig sought refuge beneath it, causing the patrons to abandon their seats in all haste. Mark watched in disbelief as the troublemaker circled in front of a stage where a group of mariachis played without pause.
Everyone was so preoccupied with the pig that no one noticed a rather sophisticated cart, with brass rails and polished black sides, heading swiftly downhill, preceded by a bolting burro wearing a hat adorned with a bow. No one, that is, except the pretty señorita and little boy who chased after it. Determination on her face, the young woman hiked her full skirt above her knees, revealing a distracting display of shapely legs. Just then the child, garbed in some sort of paper uniform, lost his footing and sprawled on the cobbled walk in the wake of the cart and the señorita.
With a heroic surge of adrenalin, Mark left the mayor shouting directions to his minions and sprinted across the street to head off the runaway burro. Rushing into its path, he held up his hands.
“Whoa, boy!” he called out, his voice as calm as the staccato clippity-clop of approaching hooves on stone would allow.
Just as it seemed the steed was going to run him down, Mark stepped to the side with all the finesse of a matador and seized its bridle. After a few awkward attempts to dig into the stone street with his feet, he finally succeeded in bringing burro and cart to a halt.
“Easy there, fella,” he cajoled, stroking the quivering flesh of the donkey’s neck.
Downhill momentum having its way, the señorita gasped as she collided with the cart. “Doña Violeta …” She reached into the bottom of the vehicle, drawing Mark’s attention to a drawn figure curled on the carpeted floor between twin leather upholstered benches. “Are you all right?” She helped the elderly female into an upright position.
Bizarre as the rich leather upholstered donkey cart and its aristocratic octogenarian were, Mark couldn’t take his eyes off the señorita. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes blue enough to shame a sapphire. Concern surfaced from their luminous depths. Perhaps he’d rescued her grandmother.
Mark handed the burro’s reins over to one of the village men, as others gathered around to help the lady out of the cart. She was stooped, no taller than the senorita’s shoulders, and clad in a dark blue dress with a high lace collar straight from the Victorian era.
“Doña Violeta, permit Antonio and me to take you home,” Señorita Blue Eyes said to the dowager in fluent Spanish. Suddenly, as if she’d just missed the boy, the younger woman cast a frantic look about and found him at the edge of the crowd. “Antonio, are you all right?”
Here was definitely a reason to dust off his college Spanish, Mark thought as the boy answered with a glum nod.
“See to the child. See to the child,” Doña Violeta ordered above the cacophony of concern over her welfare. An accustomed authority rang in her voice. “It’s not the first time I’ve taken a tumble in Chiquita’s cart.”
This old lady was tougher than she looked.
“You are sure?” Blue Eyes asked.
“The boy, Corina,” the old woman insisted.
Co-ree-nah. Making note of the name and pronunciation, Mark stepped forward, ready to receive the credit due for the rescue.
But instead of acknowledging him, the young woman rushed to the boy, who stood, chin trembling, with ebony pools for eyes. Was it her brother?
“Antonio,” she said, in a tone that would melt butter. “Let me see your hands.”
Jutting out his chin in a brave attempt to stall his welling tears, the tattered paper soldier extended them, palms up. They’d been scraped raw by the cobblestones. “My uniform, it is ruined.”
“Now you look like a general who has really been in battle,” she told him. She stepped back and gave him a once-over. “Yes, this will make you more believable. You must make sure that you show your hands to the audience during your performance, so they will know how brave you are.”
Antonio grew a good two inches in height from his former withered stance. “Es verdad?”
“Of course it’s true.” As she drew him into a motherly embrace, she glanced in Mark’s direction and smiled.
Mark introduced himself. “Señorita Corina, me llamo Mark Madison. I’m glad that I was able to stop your grandmother’s cart before anyone was hurt.”
Her smile dissipated and her gaze narrowed.
Mark did a quick mental replay of his Spanish to make certain he’d not made an inadvertent insult. Me llamo was as basic as Spanish could get.
“Perdonamé, Señor Madison,” Corina replied, her words stiff as a tuxedo collar. “I did not recognize you with all the calamity your pig caused.” She lowered her gaze to Mark’s feet.
Following it, Mark was astonished to see the pig standing at his heel, breathing heavily from the chase. “It’s not my pig,” he answered, a confused frown knitting his brow. “Excuse me, but have we met?”
“I shouldn’t wonder that you don’t remember.”
Her pained smile only affirmed Mark’s growing sense that they had not only met before, but he hadn’t made a good impression. He braced himself. “No, but I have feeling I’m about to be enlightened.”
“We danced at your brother’s wedding … just before you became sick on my shoes.” She extended her hand. “I’m Corinne Diaz. And, for better or worse, we’ll be working together at the orphanage.”
Mark stared. No way could this wholesome Mexican beauty be the pinch-mouthed shrew who had sent him a bill for the cleaning of her dress and shoes, along with a scathing note suggesting a long stay at a good rehabilitation center.
A smirk tugging at his mouth, he took her hand in his and brushed her knuckles with his lips. “El gusto es mío, Corina.” He rolled the syllables of her name off his tongue in a tigerish purr. “If the mountain air does as well by me as it has by you, the pleasure will definitely be mine.”
As he turned away to fetch his luggage, Mark let out the trepidation building in his chest with a long sigh. Every time he thought that it couldn’t get any worse, it did.
Mark Madison. Corinne was tempted to look over her shoulder at the retreating, disheveled hitchhiker just to be certain that this was indeed the prodigal of the Madison family. That he had arrived with a truckload of swine, looking like a walking dust bag in designer clothes, was not lost on Corinne’s sense of humor. Maybe this, too, was a God thing—as in a rebuke for the man’s decadence.
“I have to ask,” she began, succumbing to a smile as he returned with his bag. “Who booked your transportation from Mexico City?”
“Cute,” he replied. “About as cute as the rest of this godforsaken place. Where is this hacienda anyway … on the mountaintop?”
Antonio turned toward the struggling traveler, walking backwards. “Are you the new jefe?”
“I guess you could say I’m the boss, hombre. I’m the construction engineer.”
“Then you will need a mozo.” The boy thumped his ragged paper-covered chest. “Perhaps you will consider me.”
Corinne chuckled. “I think Mr. Madison can do just fine without a young servant.” She rubbed Antonio’s thick dark hair. “At least one who is seven years old. Besides …” She glanced at Mark. “He has come t
o serve, not to be served.”
“But I’ll keep you in mind, hombre, if I need someone of your talents.” Mark extended his hand to the boy, who shook it enthusiastically.
Corinne turned Antonio face forward again. “Before you fall and skin your backside,” she explained.
“How about we stop a minute before I fall on my face?”
Mark shifted his leather suitcase from one hand to the other and stopped to catch his breath as they neared the end of the main street through the village. Corinne and Antonio paused and turned as he wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand, smearing the dirt collected there.
Dust seemed to hang in the air over the parched, faded green landscape. The livestock truck had stirred it even more.
“So, care to explain why you are three days late and arrived in a livestock truck? When you’ve caught your breath, of course.” To herself Corinne acknowledged that the steep streets had nearly done her in at first exposure also.
“Talk about holding a grudge.” Mark cocked a sandy brow at her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Unaware of the strained undercurrent between the adults, Antonio consoled him. “All gringos take their breath climbing the street of our village, jefe. Ni modo.” He shrugged. “It can’t be helped, no?”
“You were to arrive on the Mexico City bus three days ago, according to Blaine’s e-mail,” she prompted. “I was just curious.”
As far as Corinne was concerned, the orphanage could have taken the blueprints and subcontracted the labor itself, rather than subjecting her to Mark Madison with his high opinion of himself and the fruit of the vine. She had little patience with playboys, which, from all that she’d seen and heard, was exactly what the man was.
She allowed that most of her information had come from sorority sisters who’d set their sights on landing one of the area’s most eligible bachelors and failed. But when he’d made a fool of himself at his brother’s wedding, he’d confirmed his reputation in her eyes.
Fiesta Moon Page 2