Paper Moon (4 page)

Randy Gearhardt, Dana's hubby and president of Edenton's PTA, stepped aside so that she could get by. “Tight squeeze, eh?” he teased.

Randy was one of those civic-minded citizens who were involved in everything. Caroline had served with him and Dana on more than one fund-raising committee for the private school.

“Tell me about it . . . and watch the faucet. It's a shower in disguise.”

“Look, I don't know what this is about,” he apologized, “but Dana insisted I give you this.” He handed her an airline coaster with “Harrison Ford” scribbled on it.

That
was who Blaine Madison looked like—a dark-haired Harrison Ford à la
Sabrina.
It was scary how Dana and she were so often on the same wavelength. And so far apart on others, Caroline mused, envisioning her friend loading her quiver with Cupid's arrows. Why was it so hard for married women to accept that singles could lead normal, fulfilling lives?

When she reached her row, Blaine glanced up. “Looks like you've recovered after all.”

Caroline looked at him, blank. Was he seeing the mad, wet hen she'd just seen?

“The hiccups,” he prompted. “They're gone, aren't they?”

“Told you the coffee stirrer would work,” Kurt piped up.

The button that sealed the woman to the potty seat more likely
flushed them away,
Caroline thought, but she kept her observation to herself. She slid into her seat with a sheepish glance at the man next to her. “The offer still stands.”

“What offer is that?” Blaine's clear-eyed appraisal took the cold out of the air-conditioned blast chilling her wet clothing. “To sit next to your daughter, rather than by a hiccuping, water-soaked lunatic.”

“Don't let her fool you, Blaine,” Dana warned from across the aisle. “This is just one of Caroline's many facets. She's a wizard with finances, a pied piper of children, and a gem of a friend.”

“Thank you, Dana.” If her friend was trying to help, it wasn't working. Now Caroline didn't feel the dampness of her clothes at all. Self-consciousness had steamed them dry.

“A little cracked, maybe,” Dana added, “but a true gem.”

Blaine laughed—a short, manly, and genuine laugh. “Gems are scarce these days, even cracked ones.” He leaned over, an incorrigible grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I think I'll keep this seat, but . . . would you like my jacket? They've cranked up the air-conditioning, and you're shivering.”

Shivering? Who was shivering? Global warming could be blamed on the heat of her embarrassment. And that's all it was.

“A lady doesn't turn Sir Galahad down, Caroline,” Dana advised, peering over her wire-framed glasses with the authority of Miss Manners and Dr. Ruth combined. “And the flight is five hours.”

“That would be nice.” At least Caroline's voice was working, if not her brain. It was in a stall, nose-diving all the way.

“I can't believe it!” Karen peeked back at them through the crack in the seats. “My dad is hitting on your mom.”

“Your father is being polite,” Blaine corrected, wrapping the jacket about Caroline's shoulders. “So mind your own business, miss.”

Caroline sank into the embrace of the suit jacket, its silk lining still full of Blaine's warmth. She saw Karen's face disappear from the narrow opening, replaced by Annie's one-eyed appraisal. It was amazing the degree of disbelief that one eye could broadcast.

“Polite,” Caroline warned, before further fuss could be made. Her heart was making enough for the lot of them at the moment— drummed alternately by her daughter's incredulity that a man might be attracted to her
old
mother and by the certainty that even if he was, this woman was
not
interested. It was going to be a long five hours.

CHAPTER
3

Despite Señora Marron's machine-gun command of her native language, the helter-skelter passage through the maze of baggage claims and customs reminded Caroline of herding cats. At one point, it seemed as though twenty people were in twenty-five places. Caroline lost both girls once in the gauntlet of duty-free shops and Karen again in the ladies' room.

“Okay. From now on, we are inseparable, right?” Caroline linked her free arm in Annie's. “Annie, you hook onto Karen. And we don't let go of each other, got it?”

“Got it.” Karen giggled, pointing toward the newsstand just ahead where Señora Marron was zeroing in on Blaine Madison. “But it looks like it's too late for Daddy.”

“Señor Madison, we
will
keep together, did I not explain on the plane?”

Startled from his study of the
Wall Street Journal,
Blaine switched from an initial scowl at the market numbers to surprise at the interruption, then on to mischief with a rakish lift of one eyebrow. “I'm waiting for my daughter, Señora. It's also against the rules for fathers to go into the ladies' rooms, no?”

The señora's huff of irritation deflated through her flame-red painted lips. With a short nod, she clapped her hands over her head and summoned the group to her, clucking Spanish like a mother hen until all her chicks, both big and small, made a straight line through the same turnstile and customs desk to the terminal pick-up area. There, puffing hard in the thin, diesel-laden mountain air, they handed over their bags for the second time that day and boarded a once-silver bus with the Virgin of Guadalupe swinging from the panoramic rearview mirror.

After the driver slammed the gaping side of the bus shut and climbed into the faux tiger-fur-covered seat behind the wheel, a young man stood up in the front of the bus, a microphone in his hand. His black hair was as straight and unruly as it was thick, and his smile spanned the entire width of his face.

“Buenas tardes, señores y señoras,
and welcome to Mexico,” he said into a static-riddled public address system. “Although I am told that I look like the guy that chases the gopher in
Caddyshack
, I am actually just Hector Rodriguez, who will be your tour guide until you leave the country of the cactus and eagle. And this is Guillermo Josef de Aldama.”

With a twinkle in his dark eyes, the guide—who did look a little like a Mexican version of Bill Murray—waited for all the syllables of the driver's name to sink in before adding, “But to us, he is just Bill.”

Wearing a tropical shirt much like the one Caroline had donned earlier that morning, Bill waved in the mirror. Then, his mustache-crowned grin fading, he eased the bus into the mainstream of through traffic.

“Bill will be driving us from here to the coast and . . .” Hands flying to his hips, Hector swung them in a little circle à la Macarena. “. . . Acapulco.”

The teens on the bus erupted in a cheer.

“But we must do our history before we play, no?”

To the collective “Awww” of his audience, Hector shrugged.
“Ni
modo.
It can't be helped. All play and no history makes Hector a dumb boy. Besides,” he added, “no history, no paycheck for me.” He rubbed his fingers together, his expression a mirror of mischief that could not help but elicit the goodwill of the group.

The bus started up and around an overpass, with Hector holding on to the pole behind Bill's seat and swinging with the flow. “But you will see that Mexico City is more than just history. Tonight we go to Banditos, the hottest dance club in town for peoples your age.”

Again the youngsters hooted with enthusiasm, feeding the impish light in Hector's gaze. “Don't worry,
mamás y papás
, no alcohol is served from eight till midnight,” he assured the parents. “So you will have time to check in and have a look around, exchange currency, if you wish, and get ready to dance the night away . . . at least until the late karaoke show. Then all the
Seen-der-eh-yas
and handsome princes from seventeen years down turns into squash.”

“Squash?” Christie's expression mirrored the skepticism in her voice. “You mean pumpkins, right?”

“Squash, pumpkin, whatever you are, don't miss your ride,”

Hector advised. “Or you will be squashed.
Entiende?
Adults only after midnight.”

“Sí.”

“We
entiende.”

“Got it.”

By midnight I'll feel like squash,
Caroline thought.

“The palms you see lining the highway surrounding our Alameda Park,” Hector continued, “are royal palms. The museum to the right houses the mural of the Alameda painted by famous Diego Rivera. It was nearly destroyed by the 1985 earthquake—”

“Looks kind of run-down to me,” Kurt observed from a nearby seat.

The way she felt. At the moment, the entertaining tour talk stimulated sleep more than cultural interest.

“But alas, it was saved and put into that museum over there.”

Hector pointed through the tinted windows.

“Who's Diego Rivera?” Annie asked.

Hector looked as if she'd asked who Santa Claus was. “You don't know Diego Rivera?”

Unaffected by his dramatic censure, Annie shook her head.

The guide broke into a wide grin and shrugged. “Neither do I, but we'll find out on our tour tomorrow.”

Grinning, Annie shifted next to Caroline and moved to put her backpack under the seat in front of them.

“Just hold it in your lap, honey,” Caroline suggested. “Señora Marron said it's only twenty or so minutes to the hotel. With luck, we can get a nap before dinner.” “But why?” her daughter complained. “I thought you and Mr.

“But you heard Hector. We need to get some Mexican money and look around,” Annie protested. “Besides, you already had a nap.” With the finesse of a magician, she brandished a Polaroid shot from the knapsack and waved it in Caroline's face. “See? I have proof.”

Caroline cringed. There she was, wrapped in Blaine Madison's jacket, her head pillowed against his shoulder, his head resting on her crown of curly hair. Both were lost in a dream world of their own . . . until someone saw the photo op and grabbed it. She had been awakened by the sudden flash of light to see Kurt fairly glowing with mischief.

“That will look great in the September school newsletter!” he crowed.

“As who?” Caroline couldn't help her yawn, nor the first thing that popped into her mind. “Mr. and Mrs. Van Winkle?”

“As if.” Annie and Karen giggled in unison.

Mr. and Mrs.
Caroline didn't try to retrieve the words. Chewing them once was enough. Better to fade away in a meltdown of embarrassment.

Which was why, when she corralled Annie away from Karen in the terminal, Caroline had made it clear that the two of them should ride together on the bus.

Madison were getting along great.”

And they had been, despite Caroline's adolescent appearance, her fear of flying, the hiccups, and her verbal faux pas. But when she flung her arm out in a motherly instinct as the plane braked after a bumpy touchdown, she surely must have cracked his rib cage. Blaine had been startled, but gracious.

As for Caroline, she hoped to avoid the man until at least the next millennium.

Karen's stricken voice drew Caroline back to the present. “You can't work tonight, Daddy. This is our vacation.”

“Karen, you know I cut my trip short to make this work,” Blaine answered, apology in his tone. “I have to finalize the contract details and send them to the office to get things moving.”

“But everyone is going.”

“Perhaps I might make a suggestion,” Señora Marron interjected from somewhere behind Caroline. She raised her voice so that everyone might hear. “Tonight is a free night. Since we have been traveling all day, the trip to the show club is optional. Señor Rodriguez and I will be happy to chaperone the students who wish to sample our nightlife. Although it is my hope that some parents will accompany us.”

“Mom will,” Annie volunteered. “I mean, we paid for the whole trip. We might as well get our money's worth, right?”

Part of Caroline wanted to go, but at the moment the Sleepy in her dwarfed Happy.

“And
you'll get to practice your Spanish.”

When the value of the dollar and high school Spanish failed to raise a response, Annie resorted to pity. “We all worked so hard to raise the money to go.”

The whining echoed up and down the line as youngsters petitioned their parents to go, or at least get permission to attend the club with Señora Marron. The kids had put on car washes and bake sales to raise money for the trip, giving up several Saturdays throughout the spring. While a few parents supervised, the students had done all the work. They had to earn half the money, even though most of their parents could afford to pay their way. It was all part of a plan to make them appreciate the trip. They'd done so well that they'd had repeat customers and tips.

“Hey, you guys, keep the line moving,” Hector called to two errant students who'd been so involved in a hand video game that they'd lagged behind. “Let's went.” He'd been moving the party along with his unique interpretation of
move out,
since they'd gotten off the bus.