“I made a promise last night to prove to you that moonlight kisses don't fade in the sun . . . and unless my eyes are telling a fib . . .” With an impatient breath, he pulled the tangled plastic from her hand, but instead of straightening it, he wadded it into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. “It's a sunny day.”
Even if she wanted to run, she couldn't. Mark slipped his arms about her waist. “I might have shared an air mattress with a peculiar pig last night,” he said, lowering his face to hers, “but I saved my kisses for a very special señorita
.”
Her mouth suddenly dry, Corinne moistened her lips. “Kisses,” she repeated. “As in plural?”
Drawing her to him, he covered her mouth with his own. The combination of his fresh-shaven, squeaky-clean scent and the suggested power of his firm but gentle embrace made her knees weak as . . . as the reason that fled her mind. The box of plastic wrap slipped from her hand to the floor, but it would have to wait. At that moment, both her head and her heart were on the line, and sweet temptation was pulling hard for surrender to the tune of the Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture.
The first measure or two whined in cheap imitation of the passion pounding in her chest, but it gradually gained sway, breaking through with an electronic insistence. Mark let her go, digging at the leather pouch at his waist. Retrieving his cell phone, he flipped it open with an apologetic look.
“Hello?” He motioned for her to stay. “Oh, hi, Blaine.”
“Yoo-hoo, I am returned!” Soledad shouted from the back of the house.
Picking up the box of plastic wrap, Corinne tore off a piece and gently placed it over the contact paper, hoping neither would melt from the heat of Mark's kiss. There. She had captured, at least to her inexperienced eye, a perfect footprint.
“Sure, everything's going fine.” Catching Corinne's sharp look, Mark added, “For living in the
Twilight Zone.”
“I'll get Soledad to help me with this,” she whispered. “See if Blaine has any ideas about getting help from the authorities for our ghost.”
Mark's expression clouded with annoyance as he covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I can handle this.” He turned his back to her. “Yeah, well things have been slowed by plans for a fiesta this week, but everyone will be back on the job come Monday next.”
Corinne left him to his delusions of control. His kisses were as good by day as by night, but characterwise, Mark was back to camel status. And she needed to reinforce her tent.
“Well, I have to say that you've surprised me,” Blaine said on the other end of the cell phone.
Mark stared at the empty doorway where Corinne had just slammed an invisible door in his face.
“Caroline and I can't wait to visit this winter to see it,” his brother went on.
“How are Caroline and the kids?” Mark asked, buying time to sort through Corinne's mixed messages.
Not that they needed much sorting,
he thought, making his way down the hall toward the salon. Corinne said it last night. She was for real. He was smoke and mirrors, dancing around responsibility as he was doing now with Blaine.
She'd given him a chance. God seemed to be doing the same. The help of the Indios, even with old Primitivo's contribution, surely fell into the miracle category. Entering the salon-office-bedroom, Mark's thoughts halted. He stared at the corner of the secretary desktop, where he'd placed the village fireworks fund. It was gone.
Blaine's voice shifted from happy family chat back to business. “I told her that I didn't want to put you in this make-or-break opportunityâ”
A sick feeling churned in his stomach. Their ghost was a thief.
“âbut frankly, I was at my wits' end with what to do with you.”
And he wasn't much better. Maybe he was in over his head. Maybe he should just 'fess up before he wound up hurting a lot of good people.
“I wouldn't make any plans to visit just yet,” Mark said slowly.
Blaine's voice grew taut. “What do you mean?”
Mark could see his future vanishing like the jar of money, but what was he saving, even if he could pull the wool over his brother's eyes? “Things down here aren't at the break stage, but they are a bit cracked.”
Blaine's long sigh across the miles made Mark think his brother could have survived Houdini's underwater feat with air to spare. “Do I need to come down there?”
Okay, God. This is it. The screwup is going to confess.
“I'll let you be the judge.” With that Mark began with his night on the town with Juan Pedro and the story of Antonio's family. And how could he leave out Corinne?
“She's one savvy lady . . . good looks and brains.” Mark laughed, but he meant what he said. “I think I'm in trouble . . . but in a good way for a change.”
“Caroline will be delighted to hear that,” Blaine responded. “She said she had a feeling about the two of you.” From his wry tone, Blaine obviously hadn't.
Mark told him about the Cuernavaca contractor, and how he either had to hire the
Tres Juanes
or go over budget. The delivery truck incident actually drew a chuckle from his brother, surprising Mark, but the threats of witchcraft and the ghostly visitation quickly sobered Blaine.
“And the authorities are overlooking all of this?” Blaine asked, incredulous.
“They claim there's nothing they can do. I'm telling you, I'm working in the
Twilight Zone.
Antonio's parents died by accidentâ or not. His brother is dead, if it really was his brother, and he died of exposure or a gunshot wound or witchcraft. I'm threatened by a crayon-wielding vandal, or maybe it was a witch . . . and now I have to file a report that a ghost, who left footprints, stole the jar of fireworks money.”
Every word Mark said was the truth, but it was so outrageous that even he had trouble believing it.
But Blaine did. “How much?”
“I didn't have time to count it.” Resting an elbow on the desktop, Mark buried his forehead in his hand. “It's a mess, Blaine. I'm a mess.” He hesitated. He wasn't used to admitting defeat. Failure had always been someone else's fault. “Maybe you should get someone else down here. I'll do whatever you think.”
When Blaine made no comment, Mark hoped they hadn't been cut off. He'd hate to have to go through this again. He checked the face of his phone. “Blaine?”
“Hold on, I'm making some notes.”
Good old meticulous Blaine.
Fire Mark
was probably at the top of his list.
“Look, Mark,” he finally replied. “You just keep on with what you're doing.”
Mark bolted upright, pressing the cell phone to his ear so hard that it threatened to crack the hinge. Was he hearing right?
“Problems with contractors are normal. There are shysters everywhere there's a chance to turn a buck. And problems on site happen. I was so focused on the hacienda's makeover that I didn't consider anything beyond the patio.” Blaine laughed. “Believe me, I could tell you about more than my share of mishaps.”
“I never heard about any,” Mark objected.
“You never wanted to listen.”
It was hard to argue with the truth. “Guess this means we've finally found something we have in common.”
“Yeah. If nothing else, Mexicalli's accomplished that.” There was a warmth in Blaine's voice that crossed the miles, bolstering Mark's humor more than not being pulled off the job or labeled a failure. “But this witchcraft and threat thing sounds like more than some adolescent prank . . . and frankly, I'm suspicious of the authorities' lack of interest.”
“So what should I do?” Mark asked.
“Just what you are doing, but keep your ears open and watch your back. I'm going to give my friend Aquino a call and fill him in on what's going on. Half of his relatives are involved in the government. This has got to be more than someone being miffed over losing out on the real estate.”
Mark perked up. “Like what?”
“My first thought is mineral rights. You
are
in mining country.”
“I thought the silver was mined out.”
“It was, but there are other minerals. As I recall, Mexico owns all the rights, but the government grants concessions to those who own property to mine it . . . for a chunk of the profit, I'm sure. I'm just grasping at straws here,” Blaine acknowledged, “but it can't hurt to ask around.”
“Ask away. I appreciate all the help I can get.” Mark meant it. Just having someone like Blaine to share the ups and downs seemed to lighten the weight on his shoulders tenfold.
“And Mark . . .”
“Yes?”
“You're doing okay.”
A blade of emotion caught in Mark's throat. He forced an answer past it. “Thanks, bro. I needed that.”
“I give credit where it's due. By the way, have you kissed her yet?” His brother laughed. “Never mind. I just know Caroline is going to ask how things are progressing, and she won't be talking about the house. You know how women are.”
Mark did, but he'd never thought Blaine had a clue. “Tell her I'll do my best to make her proud.”
And You
, he thought as he hung up.
You too, God, if You'll help me.
The prayer dart stopped Mark in his mental track. It had come so naturally for someone who'd considered himself spiritually estranged. As though God was on the spot, ready to pick up where Mark had left Him years before . . . ready to give Mark another chance. As though God believed in him, even if Mark didn't believe in himself.
Mark stared at the cell phone in wonder. Even more miraculous, Blaine had been doing the same. After all, God was God, but Blaine was . . .
A warmth filled Mark's heart.
Blaine was a godly brother. And more shocking yet, Mark wanted to be like him for the first time in a long, long time.
Fingering the buttons on the cell phone, Mark called up the directory and scanned down the list of numbers. Drinking buddies, golf buddies, yachting buddies, college friends . . . When he reached the
P
s, he found the name he wanted and pushed a button.
Three rings later, a man answered.
“Pyro, Mark Madison here. I have a favor to ask, old friend.”
Despite the three days of intermittent showers that followed the night of the “ghost,” when the dawn of the fiesta day arrived, the sun shone over a greener landscape dotted with the golds and oranges of wildflowers. Corinne stood in front of her dresser and stared at the brightly clad woman in her mirror. Mexicalli had made her feel the presence of her biological heritage in her blood. Not that she was no longer the red, white, and blue American that her adopted parents had raised, but she'd developed another dimension to her personalityâthat of the birth mother she never knew. If Corinne could map out her future, it would comprise summers spent working in Mexico with her mother's people and teaching back home at Edenton during the school year.
How fast the days fly, Lord.
It was already August. In a few weeks she'd need to leave these people that she'd taken into her heart.
The image of Mark Madison flashed through her mind. She'd be leaving him as well. And that, she told herself, was probably for the best.
I gave him a chance, Lord, and You heard him putting the spin on his progress for his brother. How can I tell he's not spinning me, too?
She adjusted the sash at her waist, a woven blend of Mexican colors that tied the turquoise of her skirt with the yellow of her blouse.
And why would I want someone whose word I could never quite trust?
Even as she prayed, her fickle, smitten heart twisted in protest.
And since I know I can't trust him, what I'm feeling can't be love. It's just infatuation. And it wouldn't be
that
if I hadn't let St. Matthew knock my guard down.
God surely knew she'd succumbed to Mark's sweet seduction because she wanted to avoid being a Pharisee, straining out the gnats, Mark's nitpicky flaws, while letting the camel-sized ones slip by. Was that charm of his a camel in disguise?
A brisk knock interrupted her one-sided spiritual debate. Spinning so that her gathered skirt flared around her, Corinne went to answer it, but Mark beat her to the door.
Just outside stood Diego Quintana, dressed in a Spanish suit, a rich cinnamon with black soutache trim on the trousers and the short jacket.
Shades of matador,
she thought, noting the flattering fit. Not every man had the height or build to pull that off, much less the bravado to wear the ruffled shirt tucked into his narrow black sash.
“Señor Quintana, what brings you here?” Mark said, surprised.
Diego brandished a smile. “The lovely señorita standing behind you.”
Mark gave Corinne a questioning glance before standing aside. “Then by all means come in.”
“No need for that,” Corinne objected. “I'm ready.”
She hadn't told Mark that she was going to the festival with Diego. It was none of his business. Besides, other than passing conversation, she'd not had a lot to say to him, partly because she'd been busy at work and partly because Mark at a distance was safer. So when Diego stopped by the orphanage to ask her to the fiesta, and the ladies there insisted that they could take the children without her, she'd accepted.
“Since Soledad has gone to spend the night with her sister, give me time to get my shoes on, and I'll walk down with you,” Mark said cheerfully.
“But Primitivo's nephew isn't here yet,” Corinne pointed out through a clenched-teeth smile.
With a smirk of triumph, Mark pointed to the road beyond the courtyard. “Coming as we speak.”
The man who had volunteered to guard the hacienda while Corinne and Mark were gone approached with a loaded market bag. Corinne groaned, hoping it contained no more than candles and some incense.