Paper Moon (10 page)

The hotel offered the traditional breakfast of
huevos rancheros—
fried eggs on a tortilla—with a side of refried beans and chopped fresh tomato salsa laced with jalapeños. After a few wrinkled noses at some of the dishes, Caroline led the way to the reserved tables where some of the tour members waited for them.

“Where's your dad?” Kurt asked as Karen sat down across from him.

“Getting over a bad case of grumpiness.”

“But he'll be down in time for the tour,” Annie put in.

“Sleep well?” Dana called to Caroline from across the table.

Caroline knew from her friend's mischievous wink that she was expecting details of the evening on the town with Blaine Madison.

“Like a dead-tired princess,” Caroline answered. Although she concentrated on seasoning her food, she could well imagine the heat in her cheeks rivaled the red glow from the buffet bulbs.

“When Cortés first saw the Indians eating scoops of beans on their tortillas in 1517,” Hector informed the group, once the salt, pepper, and ketchup had made the rounds, “he said, ‘Sight of sights.

Not only do they eat the food, but they eat the plates as well.'”

Caroline preferred using a fork and knife. She had to smile, though, at the heartfelt amens that echoed around the table after Señora Marron asked that the food be blessed by the heavenly Father. Despite their wistful sighs for a pop-tart or a bowl of cereal, most of their party bravely tried their first Mexican breakfast.

“So, did you enjoy dancing the night away with Blaine Madison?” Dana asked later, as the group gathered in the lobby for the morning tour of the Zocalo and historic center.

Caroline kept an eye on Karen and Annie, who'd wandered into the hotel gift shop. “We danced three dances to keep from getting bored, and the club tossed us out.”

“And . . . ?” Dana prompted, her voice low.

“And . . . I scuffed his shoes, dropped my rose, and finished the night with a head butt. I almost knocked him off his feet. End of story.”

Dana turned a speculative gaze on Caroline. “Sounds promising to me.”

“So promising he didn't show up for breakfast this morning.”

Caroline raised a hand as though to stop Dana's train of thought in its track. “Besides, I don't want promising. I'm happy just the way I am, so don't go reading something into nothing.”

And it was nothing . . . right?
Because if it was something, Caroline didn't want it to be. The last thing she needed was a man adding to her responsibilities, second-guessing her at every turn, as though she didn't have enough sense to breathe on her own.

“Excusamé, señoras,
but is this the walking tour?”

Caroline turned to see Blaine standing beside them. She'd been so busy watching the gift-shop door that she hadn't seen his approach.

He did for jeans and polo shirt what a cover girl did for makeup.

“Why, Mr. Madison,” Dana said, surprised. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“Enough to get around and do a little business down here, no more.” He turned to Caroline. “I apologize for Karen this morning.

Whenever Ellie and I traveled, we always booked an adjoining room for her and a friend. She still thinks she can bob in and out at will.”

“Since you survived the shock, there's no harm done.” Caroline glanced at her friend, whose imagination by now was surely off and running at a full gallop. “Oh, look, there's the bus,” she said in hopes of distracting Dana. She pointed to the glass lobby front, where a large black-and-silver transport had pulled up to the curb.

“I'd better get the girls.”

“Today is the walking tour,” Dana reminded her.

Which was exactly what Blaine had just said. Where on earth was her mind?

Caroline shrugged, ignoring her friend's smug look. “Just wake me up when we get wherever we are going.”

She wasn't sleepy. Every inch of her five-foot-two body was on full alert. But the moment Blaine came within her radar, her wisecracking evasion of Dana's well-meaning interest became scrambled, one thought knocking the other senseless.

“Bueno, vámonos niños,”
Hector called from the lobby door, waving a red, orange, and gold fan with the tour service's name on it. “Follow the colors of the Aztec and stay close. I promise you, there will be vendors aplenty and time for shopping later.”

Great. More distraction.
Caroline filed in the line forming behind the tour guide, leaving room for Annie and Karen, who emerged from the gift shop, prodded by Blaine.

Of its own accord, her stomach fluttered as though filled with spooked butterflies. This was absurd, she reasoned. Dana's suggestions were getting to her, in spite of Caroline's logic. The best thing to do, to avoid fueling her friend's overactive imagination, was to avoid Blaine. That would take care of Dana, she decided, digging through her purse.
And a Rolaids will take out the butterflies.

Caroline chewed the chalky mint tablet and swallowed. It was probably the salsa on eggs anyway.

CHAPTER
7

The walk to the Zocalo was short and cool in the early morning air. Robbed of his usual morning workout by business calls before the tour's scheduled departure, Blaine enjoyed the brisk walk through the early bustle of traffic and vendors. Given his way, he'd enjoy a quick scan of the market section of the newspaper, a black cup of Mexican espresso—no latte or flavored frills, and
pan
dulce—
still oven hot—in one of the sidewalk bistros. The continental muffin in his room paled in appeal at the tantalizing scent of the sweet rolls that wafted from the restaurants and street stalls along the way.

Ahead of him, Caroline paused unexpectedly in front of a cascading display of woolen blankets and ponchos. “I'm almost tempted to buy one of those. It's the middle of summer, for Pete's sake. When does this place warm up?”

“By noon you'll be sorry you did,” Blaine told her.

With a skeptical look she drew away from the vendor, who'd already dropped the price of the poncho he held up for Caroline to examine. “Special price, just for the pretty
señora.”

“Maybe on the way back,” she answered, rubbing her bare arms for some friction warmth.

Blaine checked an instinct to draw her under the protection of his arm as some of the other men had done for their chilled companions. But he'd already made a fool of himself last night and sent the poor woman into shock. He must have been caught up in Hector's Cinderella nonsense, to play the gallant, sending her sprawling in disbelief. And she wasn't the only one dumbstruck.

Blaine had never kissed a woman's hand, not even Ellie's.

His mom was right about one thing. He had been working too hard. And now that his right brain had been given a little leeway, it wanted the whole playing field.

“Vámonos
, peoples,
vámonos
,” Hector shouted from the street corner, where the light had changed in favor of the pedestrians to cross over.

The historical center of the city was a mix of the Aztec and Spanish past and the present Mestizo evolution of the two. The Plaza of Three Cultures was constructed upon the ruins of an ancient Aztec temple. Blaine had been there without a guide to have a look at the architecture, but Hector's spiel regarding its history gave him a broader perspective.

The building materials the Spanish used to erect the massive Metropolitan Cathedral had come from the pyramids of the conquered Indians. While he didn't approve of the Spanish motivation and unconscionable acts of cruelty, Blaine could find no fault with their practical use of the pyramids. The Indians no longer used them. Now the excavations of their ruins lay open to the public, and the church in turn struggled to remain intact on the unstable foundation of the city originally built upon a lake. The modern design of the adjacent museum brought both worlds into the present.

“Stand in one spot,” Caroline told the girls with a hint of conspiracy in her voice, “and slowly turn full circle. Use your imagination. It's like a time machine.”

Bemused, Blaine watched as they all three did so, clicking off pictures with their disposable cameras all the way. “You know,” he told Caroline, “you can buy postcards with better pictures in the museum.”

“But it wouldn't be what I actually experienced, and I want to take it with me.” She looked at him, almost breathless. “Can't you just feel it?”

Arms flung wide, she pulled another spin, nearly taking out a camera-blinded Japanese tourist. Blaine caught her in time, pulling her out of the way with an apology to the disconcerted photographer.

“Oh!” Caroline turned to the man. “I'm
so
sorry.”

He nodded. She nodded. He backed away, and Caroline turned her bright-eyed attention back to Blaine, her arms folded harmlessly against her chest. “But it is beautiful, isn't it?”

No, the dingy concrete and ruins weren't beautiful, but Mexico with Caroline was an entirely different country. It was as if she had infected him with the wonder and awe on her face. Even the dourest Scrooge couldn't help feeling her kid-at-Christmas excitement.

“The pride, the pain. In the midst of all this concrete and rock is the color of the people,” she gushed on, shades of a stage diva.

“Look, I have goose bumps.”

“Probably the morning air.” Yet, as Blaine followed Caroline's gaze, he almost envisioned more than the drab buildings that he actually saw—images of the heart, not logic. And they were breathtaking.

“Hey, you two, come on,” Karen called back to them, as the loosely knit group started off behind Hector.

“Omigosh.” As if prodded by a sharp stick, Caroline broke away from the still frame that captured them and hurried ahead, leaving Blaine to catch up.

“He'll do a head count before we leave,” he called out in assurance, but by now she was power-walking beyond earshot toward the gathering at the cathedral's dark arched doors. Blaine grimaced, certain now that Caroline Spencer was as spooked by his behavior as he was. Even Karen looked at him like he'd grown a third eye.

Although, on second thought, his daughter did that on a regular basis. Realizing his feet were still glued to the spot, Blaine shook himself free with an energized pace, as if to outdistance that which he was at a loss to understand.

“Maybe the Indians knew what they were doing when they refused to attend services inside the church, but worshiped with the missionary fathers here in the open plaza,” Hector said as Blaine brought up the rear of the group on the opposite side from where Caroline stood. The guide pointed with a cryptic grin to some scaffolding where repairs were being done on the looming stone structure. “Perhaps both would have done well to take the Scripture about building on a rock literally, eh?”

The “amens” that echoed around Blaine sobered him in an instant. The rock he'd leaned on in his past was like the facade of this church, dark and stern, with all the ornate trappings. When Ellie's alcoholism came to light, he'd wondered what he'd overlooked, what he'd done to deserve the lot dealt him. But he'd clung to the faith of his childhood, believing—hoping—that God would make things right. Then his wife died in the accident, and anger set in. Now there was a strained coexistence of spirit. Blaine didn't bother God, if God didn't bother him.

“Now it's time to discover your ancient roots,” Hector announced, drawing Blaine out of his dark thoughts. “We will separate into the hunters and the gatherers. Meet here at the door of the National Palace in one hour.”

The group broke apart very much as Hector, tongue-in-cheek, had predicted. The “hunters and explorers,” mostly men, staked out a bench or section of railing, while the “gatherers”—the women—meandered through the rows of tables and blankets displaying Indian crafts and jewelry. The merriment that drifted Blaine's way as Caroline tried a handwoven hat and posed for her young charges contrasted with his shrouded desire to escape.

Maybe he should have remained at the hotel and followed through on the news that his brother hadn't yet read the contract prepared by Blaine's secretary. Mark was out of the office until the following Monday, according to Alice. Heaven forbid his younger sibling work a full week when the fishing was good or the weather perfect for golf.

Instinctively, Blaine reached for his cell phone and realized he'd left it on the nightstand beside the bed. He never went out without it tucked in his jacket, but today he hadn't suited up for business. Nor did he usually start his morning by seeing a sleep-tousled redhead try to shrink inside an oversized nightshirt. Flustered, Blaine leaned on a section of rail overlooking the temple excavation, and was promptly interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, would you mind taking a family picture of us with the dancers?” Ron Butler handed Blaine a good digital camera.