In a matter of footsteps, Mark flanked Corinne’s other side. “So where do these caracoles come from, Diego?”
Putting Mark in mind of a half-baked flamenco dancer, Diego made a wide flourish with his arm. “From Mother Nature, a gem like the cosmos,” he said, an artistic finger coming to point at a patch of pasture with drifts of pink and yellow blossoms quivering above fernlike foliage in the midafternoon breeze.
What on earth could Corinne see in a guy so infatuated with himself ? And fit or not, he looked as though he’d been poured into those pants. If that fabric didn’t stretch, it was going to be Splitsville, should Diego have to pick up something from the ground.
“What I mean is, where does ‘Mother Nature’ hide these little gems?” Mark persisted.
“From under the sea or the earth—where else could they have survived all these years?”
Condescension and ruffles on his shirt—the combination almost made Mark laugh. “Or in the mountains.” He covered his mouth and coughed. The tickle in his throat that had come upon him during the night was still there, not serious, but annoying.
“I think the mountains count as under the earth, Mark,” Corinne answered, her warning glare for Mark alone.
At least a glare was warmer than their relationship had been since he spoke to Blaine. Although remaining civil, Corinne had made it a point to avoid being alone in the same room with him. Although after tonight—
“Unless you are interested in mining them yourself, you can purchase them from wholesalers over the Internet, Señor Madison,” Diego said with an edge of exasperation. “Do you have access?”
And now the man was a smart aleck. “I can stumble around on it,” Mark said.
“Simply do a search for ammonite—”
“I can stumble that far,” Mark cut him off.
“Golly day.” Corinne inhaled deeply as they approached the village. “Do you smell the fish frying? It’s making my tummy growl.”
If she was picking up on what he was, Mark doubted it was the fish. Although somehow, he found it hard to believe that Diego was behind the mischief at the house. First, the guy was wealthy. Second, the figure Mark had seen was small, like an Indio or an adolescent. But he could have hired a poor, short guy.
“Then that is what we will have for our dinner,” Diego announced. “I’ll tip Rodrigo to save us a table for two near the Cantina Roja, so we can watch the dancers.”
Mark got the message. Forced to take his leave or be more of a cad than he’d already been, he extended his hand to Diego. “You two enjoy the evening.”
He gave Corinne a peck on the cheek. “Have a good time, birthday girl. You deserve it.”
And I’ll be watching your back all the way. For now, he needed to find someone who had an aspirin. The dull ache that had lured him into sleeping in that morning had finally grabbed hold of his head and, thanks to Diego-on-the-spot, he’d had to leave the hacienda before he could take anything.
The main plaza reminded Mark of the day he’d arrived at Mexicalli. The same booths had been put together on one side, and vendors sold everything from crafts to food. Diego and Corinne headed to the opposite side, where the Cantina Roja had set out tables for its patrons to enjoy the show. At the moment, the merry mariachis played while some children and a few adults danced in front of the stage by the town center.
Mark headed toward the combination market and pharmacy, hoping it was still open. Maybe he’d pick up some cough medicine too. All he needed, now that the Tres Juanes were ready to start work on Monday, was a head cold.
Making his way through petate mats and picnic blankets, he nodded and spoke to more than a few of the villagers, many who had come to the hacienda earlier that week.
“Señor Marco!” Primitivo waved from a group of elderly men gathered around him a short distance away.
Mark picked his way to where the old man sat, a smoking pipe in his mouth. “Hola, amigo. I see you are ready to celebrate the saint’s day.”
Primitivo took the pipe from his mouth. “Each day above the dirt is a day to celebrate.”
Mark’s chuckle triggered the tickle, forcing him to clear his throat again. “Excuse me,” he apologized. “I just want to thank you again for recommending Tizoc.” He broke off with a dry cough.
Primitivo’s gummy smile faded. “No feeling well?”
“I’m feeling fine,” Mark lied, images of some nasty-looking concoction and more candles coming to mind. “Just a little too much plaster dust.”
“Tell Soledad she must clean better.”
“That might be more risky than the dust,” Mark quipped.
Primitivo nodded, missing the humor. “You smoke tobacco?”
Mark shook his head in denial.
“Shame,” the elder responded. “Tobacco smoke is good medicine.”
Obviously, gazillions of dollars in research to the contrary didn’t count down here.
“Well, I’d best be moving. I want to get a Coke before the market closes.”
“Hasta luego.” Primitivo stuck his pipe between his lips and turned to listen to one of his compadres.
Despite the fiesta, the market was open and would remain so, according to the sign in the front window. A wise decision, Mark thought, easing through the aisles thick with customers.
“Lo siento,” he said, bumping into a shopper as he reached for a bottle of what looked like cold medicine. Glancing back when he received no reply, he recognized Antonio’s surly-mannered uncle shuffling away behind his wife—the witch, according to Soledad. Or was she the daughter of a witch?
Sheesh, he was starting to think Twilight Zone. “Señor Pozas,” Mark called.
Reluctantly the man turned. “Sí?”
“Do you know the caves in this area?”
Pozas shook his head. “No, señor . . . only that there are caves.”
“I was just wondering if there were any caracoles around here.”
Score. Although whether the surprise that registered in Pozas’s gaze was innocent or not was hard to say.
“I am just a farmer, señor,” Pozas said. “I know nothing of what is in the caves. Adiós.” With a slight tip of his head, he ducked around the end of the aisle.
Mark’s mind tumbled with possibilities as he emerged from the market, a bottle of Coca-Cola in hand. Pausing long enough to pop one of the cold tablets that claimed to help both his cough and headache, he headed across the plaza toward the Cantina Roja’s outside tables. After all, he had to eat, and fish did smell good.
It was a beautiful day, perfect for a fiesta, Corinne thought as she viewed the activity in the park from the table she shared with Diego. The young Indio women wore colorful prints and solids, while their elders dressed in their town-best black woolen skirts with multicolored belts. Corinne had little doubt that the fabric had been made on their own looms, just like the white fine-gauge weave of the triangular lace garments some wore on their heads.
“I love this place,” she said, taking a sip of the special sangria that Diego had ordered for her. “I feel as though I’ve discovered a part of me that I didn’t know existed.”
“You did,” he agreed. “Mexico is in your blood, Corina. And all these years you have been misplaced.”
“Not completely. I am the product of my North American upbringing, too,” she reminded him.
“Then you are the best of both worlds.” He lifted his glass. “To the best of both worlds.”
After the toast, she contemplated the deep red liquid swirling in her glass. “When nonalcoholic sangria tastes so good, why would you want the other kind?”
With a chuckle, Diego leaned over and whispered in her ear. “It is like separating the heart from the soul, Corina.”
“I didn’t know it had a heart and soul. I thought it had a bouquet.”
The poet in Diego was a little overdone at times, but it was genuine. It was who he was . . . whether Mark Madison appreciated his way with words or not. She still couldn’t believe the guy had horned in on their walk to the village. Granted, it wasn’t a date, but he didn’t know that.
Having seen Mark join Doña Violeta, Father Menasco, and the priest’s visiting sister at another table near the stage, Corinne couldn’t help glancing in their direction. She’d met Dr. Elizabeth Menasco Flynn at the orphanage. She was a vivacious woman who loved hiking and exploring when she wasn’t practicing her first love—medicine.
Around the stage, the villagers prepared for their rendition of the Santiago, a medieval dance drama of St. James, their patron saint. Unlike on Independence Day or Cinco de Mayo, today the adults were on stage and the children in the audience. With front-row mats, the entourage from the orphanage squirmed under the supervision of María Delgado and the staff.
“Ah,” Diego said as his father climbed to the stage to introduce the entertainment. “So Don Victor’s son is Santiago Caballero this year.”
“Don Victor the butcher?” Corinne said, watching as someone helped strap a fake horse to a dancer’s waist near the stage entrance.
“The same. You see, the role of St. James is elected every year,” he explained. “So he inherits the horse from last year’s St. James.” Diego helped himself to more of the sangria. “Tradition has it that if he does not feed the horse a bowl of corn and water every day, it will run away to another village.”
The music of the flute and drum grew louder, signaling the entrance of the characters on the stage from both sides. They were clad in military costume, and all that set apart the dancing and fighting Moors from the Christians were Moorish turbans. Everyone was masked except for St. James, who led the Christian forces into the battle dance on his white horse—the front and back sections of which were secured to his waist by a painted wooden belt.
“Diego, Corina . . .” Mayor Quintana approached from the Cantina Roja behind them. Unlike his son, who’d donned traditional Spanish dress, the alcalde wore a pale blue business suit, complete with shirt and tie.
“What a grand fiesta,” he said, placing one hand on his son’s shoulder and the other on Corinne’s. “The vendors are selling faster than they can count.”
“Always the alcalde—my father,” Diego said under his breath.
“And everyone will be especially pleased when they see the surprise your Señor Madison has graciously provided.”
“Mark?” Corinne said, taken back. “What do you mean?”
“Since the fireworks collection was given to the hacienda, he said his corporation would provide fireworks for the festival.” Don Rafael leaned over between them, extending his arm toward a white van parked near the stage. “Those men have come from Mexico City to put on the show for us.”
Corinne didn’t want her heart to warm again, but it did. Each time she was ready to toss Mark on the impossible heap, he did something that made her think there was a chance.
“Well, what is this?” Don Rafael said, pointing to Corinne’s necklace.
“An early birthday present from your son.” She smiled at Diego. “Who really shouldn’t have.”
“May I?” the mayor asked. At Corinne’s nod, he fingered the pendant, turning it to catch the light of the lanterns that gradually overtook over the setting sun’s duty. “It is a beautiful piece, but . . .” His lips pressed together, as though censoring his words. “But I thought that you were going to release your new collection this fall.”
“I am, Father, but I wanted something special for Corina’s cumpleaños.” Diego shrugged, but his dark eyes told Corinne that the matter was far from settled.
“Now your competitors will know of your plans, and perhaps preempt them with their own.”
Apparently Don Rafael’s dictatorial hold on the village extended to his son’s life as well.
“What if I put it away and don’t wear it again until after your collection is out?” Corinne suggested. “I really wouldn’t mind. I can wait until Christmas and have the fun of getting it all over again.”
Diego caressed the side of her face. “She is a princess, no?”
“On that we agree. And if you listen to your father, you will be a prince.” With that, Don Rafael pivoted and headed back toward the Cantina Roja.
Diego drew his fists to his side, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “You will wear your gift every day,” he told Corinne. “My father thinks that he is the only one with a mind for business, that as an artist, I am lost in the clouds somewhere, unable to count past my fingers.”
“I think that no matter how old we are, our parents will always look out for us and sometimes second-guess us,” Corinne consoled him. “My parents certainly weren’t in favor of my coming back here after I couldn’t find my birth mother.”
A smile returned to Diego’s face, banishing the brief storm his father had provoked. After handing her glass to her, he lifted his, clinking the two. “And I, for one, am very glad that you didn’t listen to them.” He leaned over and lifted her hand to his lips.
Corinne laughed at his cavalier wink. “You are incorrigible.”
“Tsk, tsk . . . look at you two.” Doña Violeta stood in front of their table, petite but regal in a purple dress and matching gloves. Her lively gaze snapped disapproval. “If I had such actions when I was your age, I would still be locked in the basement of the convent.”
“But this is a very different day, Tía Violeta,” Diego told her. “Besides, I believe it was you who taught me always to make a woman feel like a queen, no?” Rising to his feet, he repeated his gallantry for his aunt, raising her gloved hand to his lips.
“But that is not the reason . . .” Placing a hand to her chest, the elderly woman swayed.
In an instant, Diego eased her into his seat, concerned. “What is it, Tía?”
Corinne’s voice echoed his alarm. “Should I get a doctor?”
“I am such an old fool,” she said, “I must have forgotten to take my heart medicine.” She glanced up at her grandnephew. “You know the one.”
“I will send someone to get it immediately.”
Doña Violeta waved her hand at him. “No, no. Gaspar is here at the festival somewhere . . . and I do not want the world knowing of my silliness,” she added, with a slight tilt of her head toward her companions at the other table. Biting her lip, she placed a hand on Diego’s arm. “Dear nephew, I am distraught to ruin your courtship . . .”
“We’re just friends,” Corinne put in, emphasizing the last word for everyone’s benefit.
“But if you would take me home,” the elder lady continued, “perhaps Corina could find Gaspar and ask him to come at once.”
Corinne jumped at the chance. “Of course, we will. You know how much you mean to us.”