Fiesta Moon (6 page)

Both of them backed away, equally startled by the impulse. Chaste wasn't his style, but today had disrupted the status quo big time. Uncertain what to expect, Mark watched disbelief freeze on Corinne's face. Finally they parted. Instead of erupting with an ear-splitting Bruce Lee
heeyah
accompanied by a kick below the belt, she spoke.

“You're welcome.” With yet another backward step, she pivoted and started down a beaten path that Mark had missed earlier in his rush to shower and join the fun at the plaza. “Good night, Mr. Madison. Sleep well.”

Mark swallowed the urge to insist she call him by his given name. He liked living
on
the edge, not astraddle it.

CHAPTER 4

Morning came, complete with a crowing competition among all the roosters of the village, followed, as if cued in, by a church bell. Mark struggled to keep his eyes shut in the hopes that the noise would subside, but soon someone decided to torture a burro.

The smell of strong coffee brewing cajoled his nose from his pillow. He inhaled deeply, hoping for a vicarious caffeine fix to rouse him from his bed. Instead, it alerted his stomach that the cold plate of black beans and rice he'd been fed by the orphanage cook before he went to the plaza was long gone. She'd called it “Muslims and Christians.” Strange, but then this entire place was strange.

Throwing off the covers that had protected him from the cool mountain night air, he finally rose from the bed. He opened the red shutters covering the rear window of his room and peered out. The meager farmstead adjoining the orphanage property gloried in the sunlight as a young boy frolicked with the loud-mouthed burro, while his little sister, perhaps summoned by the head rooster, scattered feed on the ground for the barnyard fowl.

“Thank God I'm not a country boy,” Mark muttered under his breath. Leaving the window, he surveyed the scattered clothes on the floor with a sigh of resignation. Things weren't likely to get any quieter. The children sleeping in the dormitory next door would be stirring soon, if they weren't already. From the few times he'd dated women with young children, he'd noticed that the latter's eyelids seemed to open in concert with the sun.

Trudging over to a washstand not unlike the antique piece in his mother's front hallway, he checked the temperature of the water in a painted clay pitcher that was nested in a matching washbowl. The parsonage plumbing was modest at best and concentrated in one section of the house—away from the bedrooms. At least there was running hot and cold water for the kitchen sink and the shower, which was closeted, almost literally, along with a toilet between the kitchen and the dining room. Mark supposed the tiny enclosure had once been a pantry. Washbowls and pitchers served for powder room facilities.

Rubbing a coarse bristle of overnight growth on his chin, he studied the tousled image of the man in the small mirror mounted over the washstand, when he felt something scurry over his foot.

“What in—?”

As he jumped back, a large black beetle dropped off his foot and dashed under the washstand. Along with primitive plumbing, the house also had primitive insect control. Little gauze bags containing some sort of herbs lay in the corners of the room. Obviously the insects he'd heard running around in combat boots on the tile floor during the night simply avoided the corners. Twice he'd pulled the string fastened to his headboard, flipping on the single lightbulb overhead in time to see roaches and beetles scatter. Finally he'd succumbed to sleep and left them to their business— perhaps a soccer game between the two species with some kind of seed for a ball.

Three sharp knocks on the door distracted Mark from his infested reverie. Before he could answer, the housekeeper-cook barged in. Wearing a bright blue blouse and black skirt, she greeted him with a bright,
“Buenos días,
Señor Madison!” Without so much as a glance at him, she made straight for the other window and threw open the shades. The morning sun flooded the room with just as much enthusiasm.

“The good padre is back soon from the morning prayers, so I am ready to fix your breakfast. So how many eggs is it that you want?”

Mark shielded his eyes until they became accustomed to the sunburst. “Two over well would be nice.”

“
Bueno, dos huevos
you will have.” The same energy that blew her into the room whooshed her back out, drawing the door shut in its wake.

Boy, when this town wakes up, it hits the ground running—and squawking, braying, and cooking.

After a quick shower in the utility room—outfitted with a plastic stall, toilet, and laundry tub—and a shave in his bedroom over the bowl and pitcher, Mark exited onto the patio.

Seated at a table shaded by laurel, the man who'd introduced himself yesterday as Father Menasco read a newspaper. At his elbow was a coffee tray containing a fiesta-red thermal carafe, spare mugs, and, Mark hoped, some of the tempting brew he had smelled earlier. He looked up as Monty left the father's side for an obligatory pat, tail wagging. As Mark rubbed the part-shepherd, part-who-knew-what dog, the priest motioned him to sit down.

Casually clad in jeans and a collarless shirt, Father Menasco still looked like any other man of God that Mark had ever seen—cheerful, exuding a peace that went beyond Mark's understanding. And whatever that peace was, it was better for wrinkles than Botox. The guy had some tanned-in crow's feet and maybe a laugh line or two about his mouth, but that was it.

“
Buenos días
, Señor Madison. I trust you slept well?”

Mark pulled up a chair and joined him, and Monty settled down beneath the table. “The setting took some getting used to, but all in all, I slept just fine.”

There was something about being in a priest's company that always put Mark on edge. Perhaps it was due to the number of pinches he'd received from his mother as a boy in church, if he so much as thought about acting up.

Father Menasco's lips twitched on one side as he folded his paper and put it aside. “The cats keep the mice at bay, but the bugs rule around here,” he said, as if reading Mark's mind. “Sometimes I think they drum with toothpicks on the tile floor. It takes getting used to.”

Mark gave a short laugh. “I thought it was soccer—the beetles versus the roaches.”

“Well, it is a big sport down here,” the priest concurred, with a playful arch of a woolly-bear brow. Fuzzy and thick like the weather-predicting caterpillars back home, it looked as if any moment it could straighten itself and crawl off his forehead. “Annamaria puts bags with her homemade concoction about, but it only works so well. She hates the smell of the insecticide . . . unlike her sister Soledad. Corinne has named Soledad ‘the Terminator,' with her can of bug spray and fly swatter.”

“Soledad?” Mark asked.

“Corinne's maid.”

“I thought Corinne lived in a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Soledad works for the bed-and-breakfast part-time, but intends to leave with Corinne as soon as you can make rooms suitable in the Ortiz place. The two have been over there cleaning . . . and
spraying.”

“She said she wasn't afraid of the house ghost . . . Corinne, that is.”

“I don't think Corinne is afraid of anything—certainly not of hard work,” Father Menasco said. “She works in the office or with the children in the morning and then goes to the hacienda with her notebook and tools—”

“Tools?”

“She wanted to get a head start.”

Great. All he needed was amateur help. Although—

“We thought it was wonderful when Edenton managed to purchase the hacienda and Madison Engineering donated its services to design and oversee the project—but Corinne managed to get a grant to fund the renovation.”

“I can imagine she's a go-getter.”
Not to mention a control freak.
“And I'll do my best to remain on target, budgetwise.”

“She'll watch every peso, that's certain,” the priest reflected with a chuckle. “She used her own money to paint one of the downstairs rooms for herself and is now working on an adjoining one for Soledad.” He snapped the newspaper and folded it neatly into quarters, placing it on the table while Mark poured some coffee from the thermal carafe into the spare mug.

“Which brings me to an awkward question.”

“What's that?” Mark asked as Father Menasco shifted in his seat.

“I was hoping that you might set up quarters there as well. My sister is coming to spend some time at the end of the month,” he explained in apology. “And besides, I'd feel better knowing a man was there with Corinne and Soledad.”

“Sure. No problem.” That way he could tell Blaine he was literally living at work. Besides, the hacienda had to be more accommodating than the parsonage digs. And a live-in maid wouldn't be hard to take . . .

“Bueno, sus huevos rancheros están aquí.”

Edging sideways through the screen door to the kitchen, Annamaria held a large tray pressed against her ample bosom. She crossed the patio and placed the steaming breakfast before them.

“Gracias,
Annamaria,” Father Menasco said.

“Yes,
gracias,”
Mark added, as the two eggs—sunny side up— stared up at him, quivering on a tortilla smothered in bean sauce.

Aware that the cook was waiting for him to try them, he picked up his fork, but Father Menasco interrupted with a short grace.

“
Cristo, pan de vida
—Christ, Bread of Life,” he translated for Mark's benefit, “
Ven y bendice esta comida
—come and bless this food. Amen.”

Mark didn't suppose there was any hope of asking God to turn up the sun enough to harden the eggs.

Brow raised expectantly, Annamaria wrung the fabric of her apron as if her entire livelihood rested on Mark's approval.

He cut up the egg-bean-tortilla mix until the yellow was somewhat disguised and popped a forkful into his mouth. Chewing with a forced enthusiam, he nodded. “Good . . .
muy bueno
.” Thankfully, the other ingredients did a good job of disguising the yolks . . . at least until the cook turned on her worn
huaraches
and darted back to the house with a titter of delight.

Mark grabbed a napkin and rid his mouth of the contents. “I'm sorry, Father,” he managed, chasing the taste away with a gulp of coffee. “I have this aversion to runny eggs. I just can't deal with yolks quivering on the plate.”

The priest held up his hand, stopping Mark's apology in its tracks. “No need to explain. Unfortunately, that is the only way Annamaria can fix them. She says she cannot bear to blind the eggs or turn them over on their eyes when they stare at her so. And I won't go into her boiled egg hang-up.”

Mark could well imagine, with the yolk-eye connection.

“Although I have managed to convince her to cook pancakes,” Menasco said, as if that somehow made up for it.

Mexicalli was becoming more like the
Twilight Zone
introduction by introduction. “Well, I hope to move into the hacienda this week . . . I'll hope Soledad is a more versatile cook. That way, I can free up your guest room.”
And let the bugs have their own place.

By the time Annamaria returned to collect their dishes, Mark's plate was licked clean—literally. Monty had been more than happy to help with the egg dilemma. Delighted that she'd pleased her guest, the cook left with the dog at her heels, promising him a special treat in the kitchen.

“You have no idea how much face that dog has saved me with Annamaria. Fortunately, he likes everything she makes. Not that she's a bad cook, by any means,” the priest quickly added. “And my tastes are simple.”

At that moment, a bell rang at the gated entrance to the courtyard. Father Menasco glanced at his watch. “That would be Doña Violeta.”

“The lady with the decked-out donkey cart?”

The priest nodded and smiled. “Every day except Sunday, she buys all the day-old sweets from the bakery and brings them to the orphanage. It's her way of helping.”

Mark envisioned a donkey cart filled with Entenmann's. Now, that would be a promo picture.

“Of course, Rosaria and Raul make certain there is enough left over for her to buy.” At Mark's quizzical expression, he explained, “They own the bakery. It is their contribution to the
niños
. . . and, I suppose, to Doña Violeta's kindness. She gets a great joy out of being called
Doña de los Dulces.”

“Lady of the sweets,” Mark translated to himself as he followed Father Menasco to the gate.

There was the wizened old lady, dressed in dark purple, which was also the color of the band around the donkey's hat. The entire interior of the cart was filled with white boxes and plastic bags, so that there was barely room for the driver, who held the reins in one hand and an open parasol in the other.

She smiled at Father Menasco, but upon seeing Mark, she brightened even more.

“Buenos días,
Señor Madison.” She extended a delicate gloved hand with all the majesty of a queen in her court.

“Mucho gusto,
señora,” Mark answered.

The glove was made of the same fancy lace that festooned her hat. It reminded him of an old-time stewardess cap, just large enough to cover the very top of her head. Beneath the lace that cascaded from it, he could see the tortoiseshell combs in the back, pulling the rest of her steel-gray hair into some sort of plaited knot.

“Will you come with Father Menasco and me to deliver the children's pastries?”

Her English was heavily accented, but perfect. More surprising to Mark was the pale blue gaze that peered out of the pleasant folds of her eyes. The milky covering of cataracts could not hide the life behind it. Come to think of it, she'd been pretty feisty yesterday, when Corinne pulled her up from the bottom of the cart, but Mark had been so taken by the señorita that he hadn't paid much attention.