Fiesta Moon (12 page)

“Have you gotten any cantina contracts?”

So that's what Blaine was hemming about. Heat fired under Mark's collar. Blaine would have made a great match for Corinne. Both were control freaks.

“If you mean have I been drinking and partying, the answer is no.”

“You really have to be on your toes down there. Mexican time and business time do not often coincide, especially in the country.”

“Blaine, I have a
sober
handle on everything,” Mark assured his brother. Still, life in Mexicalli made him feel as if he'd had one too many
.
“I was even a hero to some old lady named Doña Violeta. I caught her burro when it bolted with her in the cart.”

If he told Blaine the whole truth, his brother would swear Mark was off the wagon and swimming in booze.

“Just keep me up on the project. Money is tight.”

“I know, you feel responsible to the church to stay within budget.” With Blaine and Corinne there wasn't any other option. “Nothing like working on a shoestring—a frayed shoestring.”

“If you have any questions, call me.”

And get another lecture on finance? No thanks. I can get that right here.
“Look, just cut me some slack, Blaine, and let me surprise you.”

“I'm counting on that.”

“Good.”

Doubting that Blaine counted on anyone but Blaine, Mark looked up at the sound of someone entering the hacienda foyer.

“Hasta luego, hermano,”
he said, and closed his phone as Corinne Diaz swept in, her face flushed and glowing. From under her arm, Antonio gave Mark a snaggletoothed grin.

“Buenos días, amigo,”
Mark said to the boy, returning his grin. “Or should I say
Buenas tardes?”

With a brightness that had been forced since the news of Enrique's death, Corinne pulled Antonio to her. The funeral tomorrow would be in the village on the other side of the lake, where the boys' family had come from.

“Antonio and I have a grand idea, but we might need your help.”

“With what?” Mark answered, guarded. “I don't know much about kids.”

“
Señorita Corina needs two muscle men,” Antonio informed him, posing to show off a scrawny but wiry bicep. “But I am only one.”

“To help me move some things,” Corinne explained.

Antonio was too overwrought to join the others during siesta, and she hoped that moving her things from storage into her newly painted bedroom might distract the boy from his grief for a while.

“I talked with Juan Pablo this morning. He should be here any time to do the plumbing, so I thought we might get a head start on moving.”

Soledad's high-pitched “Moving?” sounded from the kitchen. A moment later she appeared. “We are moving now . . .
today?”

“Just starting, Soledad,” Corinne assured her. “We won't spend the night here until the plumbing is working for certain.”

Juan Pablo had voiced his intentions to be here after lunch, but she knew he hadn't specified after
which
lunch—today's or another. Although given her ultimatum, he'd do his best to earn the extra money offered for completing the task as promised.

“Good, because I will not stay here without a man of the house.”

“I could move here,” Antonio offered, brightening.

“And then Señor and Señora Altman would have to search all over Mexicalli for you,” Corinne reminded him.

“Who?” Mark asked.

“Antonio's new mother and father . . . as soon as all the red tape is worked out,” she added.

“Oh!” Soledad clasped her hands together. “God is so good.” Before Antonio could dodge her, the housekeeper snagged him and smothered him in joyful kisses.

“Bringing the Altmans and Antonio together was definitely a God thing,” Corinne told Mark. She felt her eyes tear up. At least it was with happiness this time. “How like God to place a silver lining around the darkest clouds.”

The bad news of yesterday morning had been followed by today's good news. For years Antonio and Enrique's mother had worked for the Altmans, an English couple who vacationed every winter at the lake. She had often brought the boys to work with her, much to the delight of the childless Mrs. Altman. Having heard belatedly of the children's parents' death, the couple had asked to adopt the boys. And as much as Corinne would miss Antonio when the adoption went through, who could complain about a God thing?

Of course, nothing was simple in Mexico when it came to paperwork and procedure. And further complicating things was Antonio's uncle, who clearly didn't want the boy, but kept postponing signing away his right to guardianship. Father Menasco thought the man was holding out in hopes of extracting money from the desperate Altmans in exchange for his signature.

“Hey, congratulations, man,” Mark said, offering Antonio his hand.

Pulling away from Soledad, the boy took it in a manly shake.
“Muchas gracias.”

“Let's celebrate,” Mark said, shoving the tray of food at Corinne and Antonio.

“We just had a snack.”

“But I can always eat more, no?” the boy cut in, helping himself to a handful of the fruit.
“Hay
soda?”

“We have iced tea,” Corinne told him.

Soda was too expensive to keep on hand, but thankfully the mountain spring water on the hacienda property was good. Blaine Madison had taken care of all the health department concerns prior to purchasing the place.

“I get it now,” Soledad announced, returning to the kitchen.

“So, what kind of
furniture
are we men moving?”

Mark's voice smacked of cynicism, but he'd have to get over it.

“You remember. The furniture I bought with my own money?”

“Ah, yes, with the pennies you pinched from your purse.” He popped the
P
's, mimicking her.

With a short retreat in mind, Corinne lifted Antonio up to seat him on the edge of the desk. “But nonetheless mine,” she said. “Be back in a minute.” Regrouped and ready to fire. “I'm going to help Soledad with the—”

“Aquí está,”
the housekeeper announced, heading her off at the door with a pitcher and paper cups. She handed them to Corinne.
“Pues,
I wish to take up some water before Juan Pablo puts it to off.”

“I'll take care of this. You go.”

Taking a reinforcing breath, Corinne returned to the library table and served the tea. As she leaned over the table to pour it into the cups, a stiff envelope in her pocket reminded her of the invitations she'd found on her desk that morning. She'd been so preoccupied with Enrique and Antonio that she'd forgotten to give Mark his. She fished it out of her pocket and handed it to him.

“What's that?”

“An invitation from Doña Violeta to supper tomorrow evening. It's in your honor for saving her.”

At Mark's suspicious lift of the brow, she added. “No, I didn't open your mail and reseal it. I got an invitation too.”

Mark slid his finger under the wax seal. “Fancy.”

“
Doña Violeta is old Mexico,” Corinne said, pointing to the elegant calligraphy on the expensive stationery. “She's in her eighties and still has a steady hand. Diego says that he gets his artistic gift from her.”

“Not a lot of advance notice though.”

“She's also eccentric.”

“
Doña Violeta Quintana de la Vega,” Mark read aloud. “That's a mouthful of old Mexico for sure.”

“Can I come?” Antonio asked. “I helped save her too.”

Corinne handed him a cup of tea. “It will be late, after your bedtime. And besides, it's for grownups only.”

She didn't mention that they would probably be emotionally and physically tired from crossing the lake for the funeral. At least for now, she hoped to keep the boy's mind off Enrique.

“So, are you in or out?” she said, handing Mark a cup.

“Sure I'm in,” Mark declared. “I need some entertainment besides the cockroach races under my bed each night.”

“No, I mean helping us move.”

“
Your
furniture, right?” he asked, hopping back on the pity wagon. “Oh, I'm in, Miss Muffet. There's no sense in all of us roughing it.”

“What did you call me?” she asked indignantly.

“You know,” he said. “Miss Muffet. Prim and proper and penny-pinching on her tuffet.”

“And afraid of the spider,” Antonio laughed, unaware of the strong undercurrent between the two adults.

Why she ever thought the man had any redeeming qualities eluded her. He was incorrigible, plain and simple.

“Thankfully, I only need your muscle and not your wit.” She grabbed half a sandwich and a cup of tea. “I'm going to see what Soledad has to be moved while you two finish your lunch.”

“So we can talk man-to-man,” Antonio said, with as much seven-year-old machismo as he could muster.

Muffet, indeed,
Corinne thought, leaving before Mark could regroup. Besides, there was nothing wrong with being prim or proper. And yes, she did pinch pennies when it came to using money wisely to help a good cause. What was wrong with that?

Spying a spiderweb in a corner that had obviously formed since Soledad cleaned, Corinne brushed it aside with a sweep of her hand and shook it off along with Mark's cloaked barb. She might be a Miss Muffet, but he'd soon see that she'd not be scared from her tuffet, not for kisses . . . er . . . love, nor money.

CHAPTER 9

“Now,
that
is a fine automobile,” Juan Pablo observed through the window of the bedroom, where he was giving Mark a hand with assembling Corinne's wrought-iron bed.
“Pues,
I must quit to my work, if I am to finish this day.”

Mark finished with the last bolt and stood, wiping the sweat from his brow. Whoever had crafted this piece would never be accused of undercutting quality. It probably weighed as much as the vehicle he saw easing through the narrow courtyard gate of the hacienda—a new-model four-wheel drive, luxury—with Corinne Diaz sitting pretty behind the wheel.

This was the final straw. Tossing the borrowed wrench back to its owner, Mark headed out to the patio.

“You have a new SUV?” he demanded as the car came to a stop in front of the patio.

He'd wondered, when she left to get her things from the bed-and-breakfast, why she hadn't taken Juan Pablo's pickup, which she'd borrowed earlier to move the furniture out of storage at the orphanage. But he'd been too busy figuring out how to assemble the bed to say anything. Now he understood fully. Why ride in a junker when Miss Muffet could travel in style?

“Don't tell me.
Daddy
insisted,” he drawled, still smarting over the new box spring and mattress set waiting to be put on the bed frame.

“That's right.” She made no apology as she breezed past him with a box marked
linens
.

“And it has a CD player,” Antonio said, explaining his belated exit from the leather passenger seat. “I have never seen such a fine automobile.”

Mark had. But his had been “arrested.” He grabbed another box identified as curtains and rugs. It was easy to be a saint when
Daddy
saw to one's every need.

“I don't suppose your father would want to adopt a son?” he called after her, following her through the entrance at the juncture of the L-shaped building.

The corporation had funded his ticket to Mexico City and bus fare. The Acapulco switchover and stay had been on Mark's own account, which was supporting his plush condo in Philly while he wasted away in Mexicalli-ville . . . with no margaritas.

No more. He was out of here—the hacienda; unfortunately, not Mexicalli.

Barging into the room to tell Miss Muffet where to stuff it, Mark slowed upon seeing Corinne and Soledad whispering in the kitchen doorway. By their distraught faces, they weren't discussing the arrangement of the furniture.

“Antonio,” Corinne called out to the boy who came in behind Mark, carrying a rolled-up scatter rug. “Will you look in the car for me and see if you can find the Ricky Martin CD?”

The boy dropped the rug and, with an eager nod, scampered back outside.

“What's up?” Mark asked, once Antonio was out of earshot.

“We were just discussing the funeral tomorrow and arrangements to get there,” Corinne told him, the mist in her eyes knocking the wind out of his peeve. “I guess we'll have a minicaravan going around the lake to the family's village.”

“But they just found the body yesterday,” Mark observed.

Corinne rushed into the kitchen and snatched up a tissue from a box on the counter.

“Pobrecita,”
Soledad said in a hushed tone. “She has so much love it hurts her.”

Before Mark realized what the housekeeper was about, she shoved him into the kitchen after the young woman. “Go, go.”

Mark gathered his wits as Corinne turned, her face a mirror of wretchedness. “Come on,” he said, closing the distance between them. “Let's take a walk.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder.

To his surprise, she leaned into him as he led her out the back of the house. The thought slipped inside him and filled him with a sense of awe: for one moment, someone actually needed—and trusted—him. For one moment, it felt as if he was born to fill that need, satisfy that trust.

This place was definitely getting to him.

“I love this time of evening,” she said, moving away from him as they meandered up the slope toward the orchard. Above the white-blossoming trees, the setting sunlight cast its last rays on the purple mist tucking in the mountains for the night.

“Yeah.”

Although he hadn't noticed it before, it was a spectacular view, almost as grand as that of the pristine village with its red-tiled rooftops nestled next to the lake, which looked like a fire-glazed mirror from their vantage. Beyond the parsonage, Mark spied the farmer with the noisy livestock closing a gate behind his handful of cows. The crack of dark wasn't nearly as annoying and noisy as the crack of dawn.