Miranda did her best to settle the woman down, while darting nervous glances at Spencer. After walking the velador out to the hall, she closed the door and turned back to him. “Can it wait until tomorrow? Our changing hotels, I mean.”
“First thing in the morning.”
She leaned against the door, unsure of herself. Her near-death experience distorted her thinking. A part of her wanted to run to her room and hide under the covers. Another part wanted to be back in Spencer’s arms, seeing that light in his eyes. Or did I imagine it?
Spencer walked over to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You must be exhausted. And you’ll probably feel pretty sore tomorrow.”
Miranda nodded. He was right. As usual. She walked to her room, sensing his gaze following her down the hall.
Sixteen
Miranda stood out on a balcony of the new hotel. She gripped the smooth, cold railing. Solid. Of course Spencer wasn’t so absent-minded to choose a hotel with a compromised railing. That’s something I did.
Miranda bit her lip, hating the theme of her thoughts. She focused on the view, overlooking the trendy, upscale Zona Rosa part of town, and sighed.
The Pink Zone, stretching from the Zócalo to Chapultec Park, was modeled after the Champs-Elysées in Paris. Leave it to Spencer to choose one of the most expensive places in the city. She had to admit, the accommodations were wonderful, and the leafy, colorful view, very nice.
But it was different here than in Centro Histórico, and it left her feeling disconnected and separated from the heartbeat of the city. She missed the sound of the Latino nightlife, people murmuring in street lingo, the throbbing musica of strolling mariachi bands, and the perpetual traffic that was the respiration of the city. Here, she heard strident, touristy voices of people trying hard to have fun.
Be thankful. This is better and you know it.
A part of her didn’t want to admit that Spencer had managed things better than she. She hated the way she continually failed, hated the way she dragged him through her messes. That’s what her brush with death highlighted—the complete mess she’d made of her life.
That she was a failure.
Miranda let her shoulders slump. She went back into her room, noting the warm tones on the walls, the tasteful art prints, the crisp linens on the bed, the lush foliage in large terra cotta pots. At least the move had gone smoothly. They refused a refund for the days they’d paid in advance. She hadn’t had the heart to demand the money back after seeing the worried state of the velador.
Miranda went into the bathroom to fluff her curls with a brush and check her appearance. She noticed dark circles under her eyes from her ordeal the night before. Her shoulder throbbed, and she had a livid bruise near her wrist. But overall, her most emphatic emotion was of relief. She was alive. Spencer was alive. Maybe this is my second chance to right wrongs, to succeed for once. Together she and Spencer could pool their resources and find Soledad, and she could have that happy ending that always proved so elusive.
Before exiting the apartment, Miranda smoothed the front of her embroidered Indian blouse, worn over coffee-colored Capri pants along with woven leather huaraches tied above her ankle. Then closing the door behind her, she descended the curved staircase of polished wood flanked by elaborate ironwork.
Spencer waited at the bottom of the stairs. Her heart lurched at the sight of him. Despite his neat appearance, he looked as tired as she felt. His clothes were of somber colors today, a gray shirt worn with black slacks, but he looked as clean cut and dependable as ever—qualities which had become more and more appealing.
He also appeared more like a man in command of the situation. He was on his turf now. She could tell from the purposeful glint in his eye he had every intention of taking over the search.
When she reached the bottom step, he smiled. “Did you sleep well?”
She shook her head, wanting to tease him a little. “Too noisy.”
“Too noisy! After where we were—!” Spencer rolled his eyes and closed his mouth. He turned and led the way to the hotel restaurant. Miranda bit her lip, more annoyed by his reaction than she wanted to admit. The man, after all, had saved her life.
The lobby reminded Miranda of an antebellum mansion, but with definite Spanish flavor. Giant palms towered from terra cotta pots and reached up to skylights. Oak antiques lined the walls and the wood floor gleamed in the morning brightness.
The hotel restaurant boasted rattan chairs set at round tables covered with sparkling crystal and shiny silver. Immaculately dressed waiters stood at attention, on hand to cater to every whim. Miranda stifled an impatient sigh when the waiters flitted about the tables like hummingbirds on caffeine.
She looked up to find Spencer eyeing her.
“What are you thinking?” he demanded.
She snapped out her linen napkin and placed it on her lap. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked, giving him a limpid look.
“On second thought—” He firmed his lips and directed his attention to a hovering waiter.
After ordering their breakfast, Miranda placed her hands in her lap and fought the rising tide of discouragement. Why can’t I manage simple politeness?
“Let me see your hand.”
Startled, Miranda looked up at Spencer. “Excuse me?”
He reached across the table. “Was there any bruising?”
She showed him her arm. “Not too bad, considering it saved my life.” Spencer’s warm fingers encircled her wrist, turning it this way and that to inspect the damage.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
She stretched her reluctant features into a smile. “It’ll heal. How are you feeling? I think you took the brunt of it all.”
“Just a little sore. But I think my heart got a cardio workout equivalent to about a month of exercise.”
Miranda thought of when he comforted her on the balcony after the rescue. “I, um, know what you mean.”
He looked as if he meant to say something more, but was distracted by the arrival of their breakfast. Spencer had ordered huevos rancheros, and she’d requested an empanada de queso and bottled juice. She nibbled at the cheese turnover, stifling a sigh of disappointment.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like your food?”
Miranda jumped at his tone. “It’s fine.”
Spencer put down his knife and fork. “Admit it. You’d rather be eating something made on the street, something from a dubious source.”
Miranda opened her mouth to speak, but realized she'd never be able to communicate the nebulous, confusing thoughts tumbling around in her brain.
He shook his head. “I’ll never understand you.”
Miranda frowned at the look of disapproval on his handsome features. “Who said you needed to?” And to think I thought he wanted to kiss me! I must’ve been insane.
“Miranda.”
Taking a deep breath, she pushed back her chair and stood, anxious to get away from Spencer and the contrary emotions he stirred within her.
“Where are you going?”
She ignored him and continued past. His hand closed on her wrist as he stood. Miranda cried out, crumpling at his grip.
Spencer dropped her hand. “I’m sorry, I forgot about the bruise.” He reached up and touched her arm. “Please don’t leave. We need to talk.”
She lightly rubbed her wrist, keeping her gaze lowered. The warmth from his hand seeping through her blouse made thinking difficult. “What about?”
Pulling out the chair next to him, he patted the cushion. Miranda sat down, feeling like a recalcitrant child. He sat opposite, their knees touching.
“I know things haven’t gone well since we arrived, and I take responsibility for that.”
Miranda peeked up at him. How could someone so attractive always sound so pompous? “Why?” she said softly. “Do you think you can control everything, Spencer?”
His eyes widened. “Pardon me?”
“So what if
things haven’t gone the way we wanted. That’s life. You can’t always decide what happens and what doesn’t. You’re only human.”
“I never implied I was anything else,” he said stiffly.
“You’re missing the point.”
Spencer leaned back in his chair and surveyed her from under heavy lids. “So do you have some kind of plan?”
Miranda nodded slowly, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. “I want to go to the neighborhood where I found my mother.”
“Do you have a map?”
“Más o menos. More or less.” She tapped her head. “It’s all up here, at least what I remember from when I was last in the city.”
Spencer sighed.
The corner of her mouth twitched. “There are many places in the poorer sections of the city that not only have no maps, but no street names.”
“There’s a cyber café with Internet connections down the street. We could go there and surely get a rough idea of where to begin looking. Why are you shaking your head at me?”
“Spencer. I’ve been here before. I know where I’m going.” At least I think I remember. Despite having a good idea of where to start in Neza, she also knew things may have changed drastically since the last time she was here—and she knew it could be a complete dead end.
“I thought you said you didn’t know where your sister was.”
“Not exactly. My idea is to find the neighborhood where my mother lived and ask around if anyone heard anything about another child and where that child might be.”
Spencer stared at her, his jaw slack. “That’s it? That’s your grand plan? Ask around?”
“Lower your voice,” she chided. “You’re starting to attract attention.”
Spencer leaned close, his face mere inches away. Even overbearing and arrogant, he was a dream to look at. She wondered what his Puritan response would like be if she chose that moment to kiss him. She then wondered at her own mental state for even thinking up such a notion.
“Miranda,” he said in a mild tone at odds with the gray sparks in his eyes.
Miranda’s gaze fell to his lips. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat. “Let’s be logical about this.”
“Why?” she asked, enjoying his discomfiture. “We’re in terra incognita, now. A land of mystery and complexity.” She put her hand over her heart. “Mexicans have been ruled by Aztecs, the Spanish, and Catholics, subjected to human sacrifice, political revolutions, and the Napoleonic Code. You can’t dissect it and comprehend it in one week, you know.”
Spencer straightened, grimacing in an obvious effort to control his temper. Miranda gave him a sweet smile.
He sighed. “Have you considered going to the orphanage where you were adopted from?”
“It’s since been closed down. That was the first thing I checked. And I have no idea where my sister was placed.”
“Where were your parents stationed as missionaries?”
Miranda leaned back in her chair. “My birth certificate said I was born here in the city, but I grew up in Veracruz. My parents worked at planting churches in the area.”
That was the sum of her information. When she was alive, Lupe would weep whenever Miranda pressed her for details. She'd eventually quit asking questions. Now she wished she’d pressed a little harder.
“What church? Maybe we can contact someone there and they’ll know where they got you.”
“I already tried that when I was in the states. Their church didn’t have any more information.”
“Then what about the adoption papers?”
“Sealed. Lost. It doesn’t matter.” Miranda stifled a groan of pain. Aches in her shoulder, wrist, and head competed for the upper hand. “And that’s what the DIF and everybody else wants. I found all that out when I was trying to find my mom.”
“What is the DIF?”
“Desarrollo Integral de la Familia. They oversee child welfare in Mexico. The problem is, they require reams of paperwork I don’t have, and every Mexican state has different adoption laws. We don’t even know what state my sister was put up for adoption in.”
“Have you considered legal counsel? Sometimes records can be opened.” He frowned. “Or found.”
“Don’t have enough money for either.”
Spencer’s face reddened, a sure sign he was becoming more flustered.
“And you tried the American consulate?”
“They told me to contact the INS.”
He ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up in adorable little spikes. “Which you did.”
“Which I did. They want official documents.” She raised her brows. “Do you see a pattern yet?”
“It seems you’re at an impasse. You have no records which makes this search a complete waste of time.”
Miranda’s light mood vanished. “Only for some. Not for me.”
“It’s impossible. A wild goose chase.”
A throbbing began in her temple, a painful counterpoint to the other aches riddling her body. “I’ll stay until I find Soledad. I don’t expect the same commitment from you.”
Spencer’s face looked stiff and set. He gazed at her, not saying a word. Miranda stared back. The impasse wasn’t the lack of paperwork.
He was ready to give up because the search didn’t follow a logical path. Instead, it would require twisting and turning down nameless streets amid of mass of humanity to find the one person who might have the information she needed. A wild goose chase? Definitely. But one that was utterly necessary.
Spencer turned his head to look out the window. Miranda watched him. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. Miranda’s wild goose chase.
The tinkling of silverware on china and low murmur of polite voices rose and fell around her. She clutched at the napkin in her lap, wondering what he’d say next. Despite her protestations to the contrary, she needed him. In more ways than one.
Spencer turned back to her, his gaze bordering almost on a glare, but he was probably too well mannered to stoop to such a thing. With every second that passed, Miranda was reminded of her failure to have a real plan, and of her ridiculous angst that he just might have a better one. She returned his look with a steady one of her own.
After a moment, Spencer motioned to the waiter. “Check, please!”
Seventeen
After Spencer paid the bill, he escorted Miranda out of the hotel to the street. Walking a little behind her, he noticed the colorful Indian blouse and sandals she wore. It’s as if she’s shedding her American side and becoming more Mexican by the day.
He thought about the futility of their mission. Why didn’t I press her for more details before getting on that plane? It was a question he’d asked himself a million times since arriving in Mexico.
It was almost as if every time he looked at Miranda, he lost his train of thought. Her very presence in his life tangled his thinking more than he wanted to admit. Is she just a disorganized person who affects everyone she meets that way? He thought back to his father’s office. He remembered it being neat as a pin and Miranda had always sounded very professional on the phone.
Regardless of her office skills, she had a lot of personal problems that managed to clutter his life. Spencer flushed at the thought. He couldn’t blame her entirely for that. Those problems went both ways.
He looked up and down the street, attempting to draw strength from the orderliness of straight avenues lined with trees and prosperous-looking businesses. It was a far cry from the crumbling buildings and noisy streets of their previous hotel. Surely not everything was as haphazard as Miranda made it sound. Where there was logic and reason, there was hope.
He turned to Miranda. “I still think we should stop by the cyber café.”
“By all means.”
Spencer shot a suspicious look at her. She acted too complacent, which probably meant she was up to something.
They walked down the sidewalk to a doorway flanked by heavily leaded glass w
ork. Inside, the room was dim with highly polished furnishings and a bar dotted by rows of monitors, the screens glowing eerily in the gloom.
After making arrangements for the use of a computer, Spencer considered searching for the information himself but wondered if his lack of knowledge of Spanish would hinder him. He stepped aside to let Miranda take over.
Her fingers hovered over the keys while she caught her lip between her teeth. Her blue eyes glowed like the monitor screens. “Like I said, I don’t have a street name. I don’t know what to put into the search engine.”
Spencer leaned against the counter, tamping down a burst of impatience. “Let’s look at this systematically. You were adopted here in the city. Why not look up orphanages in Mexico City and see what you come up with.”
Miranda typed in the information and hit Enter. Spencer blew out a breath when he saw the endless list of sites. “We need to narrow this down. Was your mother of any particular religious faith? Perhaps she may have chosen a faith-based organization over a state run agency.”
“She was Catholic and once told me it was a priest who convinced her to give me up.” Miranda turned and entered the information into the computer. Another list appeared, but not quite as long. She looked up at him. “You do realize that not all churches are online, don’t you? It could’ve been in some hole-in-the-wall place that never heard of the Internet.”
“Let’s just check out these sites and see if anything rings a bell.”
“Spencer, I told you, I have no way of—” She stopped and pressed her lips together.
“Did she mention a particular saint she worshiped?” Spencer asked in an even voice, in an attempt to lower her tension level.
Miranda sighed. “She had pictures in her room, one of Christ and one of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. But it doesn’t really help, since most all of the churches listed here are affiliated with the city’s patron saint.”
“Can you alter the search to Catholic churches with adoption services?”
Her fingers flew over the keys with angry little taps, as if to punctuate the uselessness of the exercise. “There are several.”
Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love) Page 11