Fiesta Moon

by Linda Windsor

  “Pigs of a feather,” Corinne said, her mouth contorted with the effort not to laugh outright.

  “This is a joke, right?” he asked the man. One brow lifting in suspicion, he cranked his head in Corinne’s direction. No, she wouldn’t know a joke if it fell on her.

  “Perdonamé, señor,” his visitor repeated. “I … bring … your … peeg.” Clearly, that was the only English the man knew.

  This was unreal. Mark shook his head. “No. No es mi … pig.” What was the Spanish word for pig?

  At his feet, the pig grunted.

  “Your pig seems to think otherwise.”

  The man’s face brightened. “Mira, your peeg.”

  Soledad buzzed into the room, armed with her broom. “Salga! Get out. I allow no creatures in my house.”

  Startled to its feet, the pig darted behind Mark. “Whoa, wait!” he shouted as Soledad missed the swine and clipped Mark soundly with her broom.

  “Calme, calme,” he told the riled housekeeper.

  “That creature cannot stay.”

  “I know.” Mark looked at Corinne for reinforcement, but her amused demeanor told him no help would come from that quarter. Nonetheless, he tried. “Will you please tell this man to take the pig out into the courtyard until we can resolve this?”

  Corinne repeated Mark’s request in rapid Spanish, while Soledad stood, broom at the ready, gaze narrowed, until the peasant moved to fetch the animal.

  “You go,” Mark told the housekeeper. “We will get the creature out of your house.” Then, “What is it with this pig?” he exclaimed as the animal circled him to avoid the man’s reaching hands. “And if you can stop smirking long enough,” he told Corinne, “can you find out who this guy is?”

  Mark walked out into the courtyard—the only way to get the pig out of the house without further chaos. Only then did the pesky porker oblige. After some questioning by Corinne, Mark discovered that their visitor was the son of the farmer who owned the swine that had accompanied Mark on his trip from the produce stand fiasco to Mexicalli.

  Seated at a concrete table and bench set that had been too heavy for the previous owners to move, Mark strained to pick out the story behind this odd delivery, particularly why the animal was deemed his.

  After a staccato exchange of Spanish, Corinne turned to him, her eyes dancing. “José says that this pig was not supposed to come with your other traveling companions. It seems your livestock entrepreneurs bought this piglet from a bruja.”

  Bruja … the translation triggered incredulity in Mark’s voice. “A witch?”

  José nodded. “Sí, una bruja que …” The rest was lost on Mark’s limited academic knowledge of the language.

  Corinne nodded, taking on a sympathetic expression. “Lo siento, señor,” she said, before turning to Mark. “Your pig is bewitched.” Her lips twitched. “But then it would have to be, to be so enamored with you.”

  “I love you too.” He gave her a pained smile. “But what’s the witch got to do with me?”

  “Sí, una bruja,” José put in with pride. “Witch.”

  “The Indios are very superstitious, especially the more rural ones. When José’s father discovered the pig had belonged to a witch, he was reluctant to take it, but since it was so cheap, he decided to put it in with the other pigs. But then they started to get ill, so his father said to get rid of the enchanted pig.”

  “Y además, el puerco no crece,” José added, shaking his head.

  Corinne translated. “And besides, he says, it won’t grow.”

  Now it all made sense. “In other words, no one wants the runt.”

  Beneath the table, the piglet wormed its way around Mark’s leg. “Sheesh,” he exclaimed, shoving it aside with his foot. “It’s not enchanted. It’s just plain crazy.”

  “You must put off some killer pheromones … for swine, that is.” Corinne covered her mouth with her hand, but Mark knew a giggle when he heard one.

  Annoyed, he glared at her. “You didn’t seem to mind them a little while ago.”

  The sobering sting of Mark’s retort brought color to her cheeks. He was not only forward, but he was rude. No wonder the pig liked him. She peeked under the tile-inlaid table at the animal resting its head on Mark’s shoe, its little pink-rimmed eyes closed in contentment. It was cute … for a pig.

  “Bueno, I go ahora.” José rose from the table bench, addressing Mark. “Usted debe darme diez pesos para el puerco.”

  “Ten pesos?” Mark echoed.

  “Oh, sí, señor. Pero eso incluye la carga de la entrega.”

  “That’s ten pesos for the pig, including delivery charge,” Corinne explained.

  “But I don’t want the pig.” Mark couldn’t believe his ears—or anything else about this scenario. “No,” he said, pointing a stern finger at José. “Take it elsewhere.”

  “Now, there’s no need to get disgruntled,” Corinne said. “No pun intended.”

  “Just tell him.”

  “If you insist.” With a sobering sigh, she addressed José. “Lo siento, José, pero tome el puerco a otra parte.”

  “It is good buy, jefe,” Soledad observed from the door of the hacienda, where she eavesdropped, broom in hand. “If we feed it, it will make good dollars when it is grown.”

  “How would you know a good buy on a pig, Soledad?” Mark snapped, what little good nature he had going to the hogs.

  Corinne suppressed what was rapidly becoming hysteria. As far down as the report of finding Enrique’s body had pushed her, this scene was having the opposite effect. If this didn’t end soon, she’d go totally crazy.

  The cook approached them, a condescending look on her face. “Pues, Señor Mark,” she began with authority. “I go to the market every day, no? I shop good for la Señorita Corina. Why, just this morning—”

  Mark held up his hand to cut her off before he received the entire market report and addressed Corinne with measured words. “Tell him I don’t want the pig.”

  José’s face fell. “Ah, bien, dígale que es suyo, gratis.”

  Corinne gave Mark a wicked grin. “Good going. He says it’s yours at no cost.”

  “I will keep the pig in the orchard,” Soledad volunteered. “And we will share the moneys when it is grown.”

  “I don’t want a pig.”

  “No one will take it,” Corinne pointed out, “now that it has a reputation. The Indios are very—”

  “I know.” Mark cut her off. “They’re very superstitious.”

  She almost felt sorry for him as he buried his face in his hands and then ran his fingers through his sun-streaked hair as if to erase the whole affair from his mind. Almost.

  “So, does the pig stay or go?” she asked, glancing from Soledad to Mark and back.

  With absolute denial in his demeanor, Mark turned to the cook, but the expectation of profit on Soledad’s brow practically lifted her off the ground. Corinne watched his certainty wage war with reluctance to disappoint the housekeeper.

  “Okay, it stays.”

  The hard case that Corinne had built against Mark Madison in her mind and around her heart cracked.

  Soledad broke into nothing short of worship. “I knew you were a good businessman, jefe, and I am very happy to be in business with you.” She wrung her hands with excitement. “There is a— cómo se dice?—un cajón de abono—?”

  “A compost bin,” Corinne translated.

  “Sí, como no? I can put the leetle creature in that.”

  Mark rose and shook the bewildered José’s hand. “Gracias, José.”

  “De nada, Señor Madison. Me costó solo mi viaje largo y el precio del puerco,” the peasant said with a heavy sigh.

  “It cost him only the cost of the pig and his long journey,” Corinne translated at Mark’s bemused expression. “It’s only six dollars, Mark. That’s a lot of money to someone like him.”

  With a skyward roll of his eyes, Mark dug into his pocket and pulled out a money clip, flipping a modest
wad of bills. “I don’t have anything smaller than a ten,” he said.

  “I’m sure that would delight José. After all, he had a long journey.”

  With a cutting glance, Mark tugged the bill loose from the clip and handed it to the peasant. “I just bought a pig I don’t want when I don’t even have a decent bed. This place is getting to me.”

  Oblivious to Mark’s grousing, José took the money and pocketed it before the jefe changed his mind. “Muchas gracias, Señor Madison. Muchas gracias, señorita. Adiós.” He repeated himself as he backed through the courtyard gate.

  “Come to Soledad,” the cook cooed, trying to coax her future fortune pig from under the table.

  “Did you buy a boy or a girl?” Corinne teased.

  “How should I know? … and I don’t dare look, or you’ll accuse me of some other decadence.”

  Breathless and red faced, Soledad rose and leaned on the table for support. “Señor Mark, he will not leave from your feet.”

  “I think I’ll leave you to put those pheromones to good use,” Corinne said, getting up.

  Mark grimaced at her as he followed suit. “Come on, Toto. Kansas isn’t anywhere near these parts.”

  Corinne headed for the gate.

  “Wait,” he called after her. “Where are you going?”

  “To check on a munchkin,” she said, taking up the theme.

  “Toto.” Soledad reflected on the name and, after a second, nodded. “Toto is fitting for such a creature. But Señor Mark, perhaps if you walk to the …” She paused to retrieve her version of the new word. “The composta, I think the way will be easier. Our pig is strange to this place, and you are all our little Toto knows, no?”

  “No … yes,” he stammered, the thought on his face turning to confusion. He waved Corinne on. “I’ll catch you later.”

  Not if I can help it. Caught off guard once was enough. She still felt the heady effects of his kiss when she thought about it.

  Which she wouldn’t.

  “Sure,” she answered as Mark led the contented Toto out of the house with an excited Soledad bringing up the rear. Now, there was a partnership she’d never envisioned.

  Stay tuned for the next episode of the continuing prodigal saga. Chuckling, Corinne started out of the hacienda. She couldn’t wait to tell her friend Pam about Toto. As for Mark Madison … Pues, as Soledad would say … maybe he wasn’t quite as self-absorbed as she’d deemed him after all.

  CHAPTER 8

  The following morning, Soledad insisted that Mark check on how well she was caring for their new investment. The plank pen was closed everywhere except for a wheelbarrow’s width opening, so they’d used a damaged door to close it off. Afterward, the housekeeper mopped and scrubbed the salon, while Mark hauled the trash cans of plaster he’d swept up to a pile of debris next to the pigpen. Each time he went near the pen, Toto went wild, trying to get out.

  Pigs. Mark rubbed his temples as if to push the distraction from his mind and then zeroed in on a room labeled Ballroom-Gym on the renovation blueprints. Blaine’s plan to leave the support walls intact and make the best of the space they had for the dormitory rooms was the cheapest way to go. The ballroom, with its two-story cathedral ceiling, was big enough for a gymnasium, but there would be no room for bleachers. But after all, it wasn’t as if the orphans had family lining up to watch them play.

  Mark found himself thinking of Antonio and wondered how the little guy was doing. Instead of coming back to the hacienda, Corinne had gone straight to the bed-and-breakfast before Mark could find out anything or make amends as he’d promised Soledad.

  When he was Antonio’s age, he’d practically worshipped his big brother. If he was honest, he still did, but in a grudging way. Still, the thought of losing Blaine—well, Mark just didn’t want to go there.

  Laughter wafted in through the open windows from the meadow beyond the open patio gate, drawing Mark’s attention to the cute little copper-and mocha-toned kids with shining black hair that cast off the same shades of blue and purple as a raven’s wing. They danced and frolicked behind a tall, lithesome young woman. He recognized Corinne as she led them in what appeared to be a game of follow-the-leader.

  Like Mother Goose with her goslings trailing after her, Mark observed, kicking back in the folding chair he’d pilfered from the parsonage with Father Menasco’s permission. Of course, the prickly young woman bore no resemblance to the nursery rhyme figure, clad as she was in Capri pants and a tank top that hugged her figure. If Mark had to personify her in Mother Goose context, she was Little Miss Muffet, perched on her high little tuffet, purse strings tight in her fists and a smile that, when she was in good humor, was to die for.

  Something about that dark hair pulled up into a ponytail with a bright red scarf, bold and perky, and that petulant pursing of her lips—even when he was the source of the peeve—turned Mark into a cross between Jack Horner, caught with his finger in the financial pie, and the girl kissing Georgy Porgy.

  “Caray, look at you,” Soledad chided, bursting into the room with a plate of sandwiches and a bowl of fresh sliced watermelon.

  Nursery rhymes. Mark gave himself a mental smack. This place was getting to him. That morning, after the rooster’s crow and the starving burro’s woeful bray for food, he could have sworn he’d heard the sound of a cow being pushed over the moon. Upon looking out the window, he’d seen a farmer driving his reluctant livestock to pasture. And now he, Mark Madison, had a pig—or at least half of a pig. His money, Soledad’s care.

  “Whoa, Soledad,” he exclaimed as she put the tray of fruit and sandwiches in front of him. “That’s enough for two people.”

  “I will feed the pig on the rind. That is good business, no?” she said, her head moving with a proud sway. “The same shopping for the hacienda and our livestock.”

  “Excellent thinking.” Mark checked out the scored cucumber slices on the chicken sandwiches. The bowl beside it was filled with caterer-perfect melon balls. When had the housekeeper had time to do this? She’d just taken her mop and bucket out a few moments ago. “And this is too fancy for me, Soledad. These are fit for a king—and his court.”

  “You make such silliness, Señor Mark,” the housekeeper tittered. “And for now, you are the king of the hacienda, no?”

  She’d better take that up with the queen. Mark kept his acerbic reflection to himself. He knew when to hold them and when to fold them, and he’d best hold on to Soledad’s goodwill. Not that it was hard to do. Now that they were business partners, he had the feeling she was completely on his side.

  “Who am I to argue?” He forked a melon ball and popped it into his mouth. It helped offset the dryness of the plaster dust he’d swallowed that still made his tongue stick to the side of his mouth. “Delicious.”

  “Howsoever,” she said, looking past him through the open window to where Corinne and children played. “You must make up for your disgust with Corina.”

  In addition to the ears of a bat, the woman had a memory like an elephant.

  “You know I haven’t seen her since she left here yesterday.”

  Soledad kept busy morning to dusk, setting up her kitchen and working in and around the hacienda to make it habitable. Some of her labors were a waste of time, given the construction planned, but she’d not hear of letting workmen come into such a filthy house. Besides, her salary came out of Corinne’s budget. He might as well get some benefit from this project.

  “Bueno, she will come for lunch soon. That will be the time, no?”

  “Absolutely. If she’s still talking to me.”

  “Oh, Señor Mark, do not try to fool Soledad. A man so guapo as yourself knows his women.”

  “Corinne isn’t taken in—” The cell phone on his belt cut him off, playing an electronic version of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony that would send the master spinning in his grave. Mark took it from the sling and flipped it open.

  “Mark Madison here.”

  Satisfied with the resu
lt of her efforts, Soledad gave a broad smile of approval and exited, humming, “Da, da, da-dah …” in an operatic effort.

  “So how are things south of the border?”

  Blaine. Talk about timing.

  “I’ve had saner times.” Since Blaine’s family was out when Mark had checked in on arrival, he’d yet to tell his brother of the eventful journey and arrival at Mexicalli. Mark wasn’t inclined to share recent events either.

  “What was it you called it in your message?” his older brother chuckled. “Hades with sombreros?”

  “Something like that.” Forcing into his voice a brightness he was far from feeling, Mark went on. “But it’s improving. The weather is pleasant, the people are loco, but friendly, and I have my work cut out for me. What more could a guy want?”

  A pity party with a few drinks at the Cantina Roja came to Mark’s mind, but he wanted to prove Blaine wrong even more. His body had yet to adjust to going to bed and getting up with the chickens … not to mention the burros and cows and now pigs.

  “Have you gone over the specs yet?”

  That was Blaine, a line or two of pleasantry and to the point.

  “They are on my desk as we speak.” And they were—under the melon balls. As Mark leaned back, he spotted a drawer handle on the table front that he’d not noticed before.

  “Will they work, or will you have to make some adjustments?”

  “Not sure yet. I imagine the usual adjustment or so will have to be made, once we get into the project.” Mark could imagine Blaine squirming at the idea that he might possibly have overlooked something. “But for now, the plan is good to go.”

  “Have you contacted any contractors?”

  “Just a local yokel for an immediate plumbing fix.” Who should have been here this morning. “I think the whole system is going to need replacing.” He eased the drawer open and found a thin book inside; some kind of Spanish novella, a romance, he presumed, from the heart on the cover. “The pipe is old and filled with sediment and rust.”