Fiesta Moon (3 page)

“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 pocket.

“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 to
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.

“If I thought I could get back up, señorita, I would lie down and bare my throat.” Instead he sat on his suitcase, his square jaw shifting in irritation to one side. “I decided to take a minivacation in Acapulco instead of flying in through Mexico City. It was probably the last moment of pleasure I will enjoy until this project is complete. This morning I started toward Mexicalli in a fine sports car, but it was arrested after a produce truck threw a wheel just as I passed it.”

“The
car
was arrested?” she echoed.

“Until it could be cleared of wrongdoing.” He raised his hands, head shaking in equal disbelief. “I honestly think the local
alcalde
thought he might get a hot red, only slightly scratched, Jaguar out of this, but it's rented. Now it's between him and the rental company. I'll have to pay the fine through our contract, I guess. I'm turning it over to the corporate attorneys as soon as I report in.”

Corinne had heard of such occurrences, but had never encountered it firsthand. In traffic accidents, the vehicles were impounded until the matter was sorted out and damages paid. But it didn't increase her sympathy for Mark Madison.

“Think of the poor farmer who owned the produce truck. He'll be without his livelihood until it's settled.”

Mark shot her an incredulous look. “If he'd tightened his wheel nuts, it wouldn't have happened.”

“That doesn't change the fact that his family will suffer—a family most likely living hand-to-mouth.”

Of course Madison cared very little about what she was saying. But for God's grace, she might think the same way. They'd both been raised in comfort. The difference was that Corinne had been drawn into helping the needy through her involvement in church missionary programs. Mark Madison, on the other hand, was only here because his irresponsible drinking had gotten him into more trouble than ruining a good dress and shoes. From what she'd heard, his brother had pulled some big strings to get the three-time offender this much lenience.

Mark shrugged, mimicking Antonio.
“Ni modo.
It's not my fault.”

Not his fault.
That was probably the same argument he'd offered in court. Corinne had no patience for slackers. She'd earned a degree in teaching and, because she carried a heavy academic schedule, a second one in social work at the same time. Why couldn't people simply admit that they made wrong choices and accept the consequences? If one parties the night before an exam instead of studying, one fails the exam. If one gets drunk and gives in to temptation, one may get pregnant. Alcohol addles judgment. People didn't have to drink it.