The question gave Mark pause as he slogged through confusion to determine what had just happened. With wet paint seeping into his ears, he wasn’t certain he’d heard right. Had he done something wrong?
Wiping the fresh coat of paint from his eyes with his fingers, he saw a young woman wallowing in the paint that puddled at his feet, her dark ponytail swinging from her frenzied mopping. She was a little paint-spattered, with specks of faded blue and egg-yolk yellow to match his shoes. Had breakfast been an omen of the day to come?
Gradually the replay took form in his mind. He’d stuck his head in the door to say hello and was whacked promptly . . . by an open can of paint . . . that was propped overhead . . . like an old Boy Scout camp trick. Anger thawed his disbelief.
“And this is my fault how?”
Suddenly, the doorway of the adjacent wall was filled with a plump Mexican woman dressed in black and yellow—the same bright shade as the room.
“Ay de mí, look what has happened!” Hands flying to ample hips, she eyed him from head to toe like a mad bumblebee.
“Tell me about it.” Mark wiped the paint dribbling off his forehead back into his soaked hair. Instead of attacking, the bumblebee rushed to hand him a dishtowel. It was damp, but damp beat soaked every time. “Gracias, señora.”
Corinne bobbed up from her paint-smearing delirium. “Soledad, get some more rags. This tarp is soaked, and the floor is going to be ruined.”
“What am I, burnt toast?” Enough anger rose to Mark’s face and neck to bake on the paint the towel had left behind.
Corinne glanced up as through seeing him for the first time. “What?”
He pointed to the door. “Did you learn that trick at kiddie camp?”
She pushed herself up from her knees and winced. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—” She ran a hand through her hair and then jerked it away as she realized that she’d just streaked it yellow. “I couldn’t hold on for balance with the paint can—”
Soledad rushed back in with rags and began to toss them on the puddles of paint. Saving one, she promptly began to wipe the paint off Mark until he took the rag with a terse “Gracias” and proceeded to get off the worst himself.
“So what was your paint doing on top of the door?” he asked.
The minced question brought the bumblebee out of bending down to help Corinne. “It is that old-woman ladder, señor,” she explained. “She makes my Corina to fall.”
“Wait!” said Corinne. She lowered her head. “It was my fault. The paint rack wouldn’t hold the can, and I only had a few feet to go, so I balanced it on the top of the door.” She stopped her confession long enough to turn off the music. “And I didn’t hear you coming because of the radio.” She lifted her shoulders and dropped them in resignation. “I’m really sorry.”
The penitent pout that formed on her lips set Mark’s ire back a degree, but as her gaze ran the gamut from his face to his shoe, her penitence turned to humor.
“Here.” She leaned over to pick up one of the extra rags that Soledad had tossed on the floor, vainly attempting to hide the full tilt of amusement claiming her face. “Let me wipe some of the paint off.”
Still annoyed, Mark folded his arms across his chest as if her ministrations were his due as she raked the excess paint off his back.
“It’s just that I’ve been trying to do this job on a next-to-nothing budget and in a bit of a rush . . .”
Skipping over his buttocks, she continued her downward swipe to his feet.
“You missed a spot,” he said, a wicked grin tugging at his mouth.
With a grimace, she grabbed one of the extra rags and tossed it to him. “In your dreams, Madison.”
Now he remembered Miss By-the-Book from the wedding—a hot number in a bright pink oriental dress that curved in all the right places. Those had been her exact words when he’d suggested they skip the rest of the reception and continue celebrating on his sailboat.
“I was trying to be gracious, considering that your carelessness gave me a fresh coat of egg-yolk yellow,” he began in a teasing tone.
“If you’ll step out of your shoes . . .” she said.
“Sure.” Mark complied, cocking one brow in confusion.
“Good thing this is water-based paint.”
“Yeah.” He watched the swing of her yellow-streaked ponytail and the sway of her feminine form as she wiped the Rockports inside with a clean rag.
“There’s a shower in the utility room.” She straightened and pointed to a pass-through between the kitchen and the yellow room, where a wringer washer stood at attention next to a pink-curtained enclosure. “Towels are in the metal cabinet,” she said, pointing to the opposite wall. “You can wash the bulk of the paint off and put your jeans back on. Thank goodness it wasn’t a full can.”
“Are you thankful because you still have another can of paint left, or because I didn’t get the whole batch?” Her tactics might not be fair, but they were more fun, especially when she smiled like that.
“Both.”
Despite their differences, they had a matched sense of humor— once all stresses were removed.
“Speaking of which, where did you find such a—” No adjective Mark could summon was mentionable, so he picked a lesser one. “Hideous color?”
“Soledad picked it out at the premixed counter.”
Ah, the bumblebee. That explained a lot.
“What do you have against sunshine yellow?”
“It just reminded me of my breakfast this morning. My unfavorite style of eggs—runny.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Eww.”
“My thoughts exactly. Imagine my surprise to be wearing the matching color so soon afterward.”
“Oh no.” She broke into a melodic laugh. “No wonder you looked so . . . so . . . like a cross Big Bird. But,” she said, clearing the humor from her voice, “you’ll be delighted to know that this is Soledad’s room and not yours. I thought you might take the salon across the hall.”
“Sounds good. I’ll check it out after I get some of this off.”
As he peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto the pile of dirty rags, Corinne did an abrupt turn, hastening to straighten the rumpled tarp. Mark grinned from the inside out with mischief as he glanced down at the faded version of the yellow on his chest. “I’ll call you when I need my back scrubbed.”
Head pivoting in his direction like a tank turret, she aimed and fired. “I don’t feel that guilty, Madison. But there is a new toilet bowl brush in there.”
“You’re a hard woman,” he said over his shoulder, heading into the utility bath and closing the door behind him.
“Remember that, and we’ll get along just fine,” Corinne called after him, dismissing the twinge of chemistry that shot through her when he stripped off his shirt. She and Pam, her college roommate, had coined a word for it. Twickle.
“Just fine,” she repeated, more for herself than for the man in the bath. But she must have been mistaken. How could a bare-chested Big Bird cause anyone to twickle?
Lord, I do not need . . .
“First, you beat on the wall like so, señor,” Soledad’s voice carried from the kitchen. She demonstrated, knocking three times. The echo reverberated through the empty house. “Y ahora . . . turn on the hot water and—”
Mark interrupted. “I can handle a shower, gracias.”
“Así así, así así . . .” So-so, the housekeeper buzzed over and over with undisguised disdain.
“Better listen, or you’ll be sorry,” Corinne called out as she shoved the soaked paint rags into the empty bucket.
But before she could explain why, someone from the front of the house called out her name. “Hola, Señorita Diaz? Are you in the house?”
“Coming!”
With a glance at the paint film drying on the floor where the tarp hadn’t caught it, Corinne went into the foyer, where a Mexican gentleman stood assessing the damage done to the mural by falling plaster along the rise of the graceful, curving staircase. A tree limb had blown through the window on the upper level, causing water damage during the previous rainy season.
“Juan Pablo, just the man we need to see,” she said in welcome. Not that she’d made it a secret that the orphanage was interested in hiring contractors to complete the renovation. “How are your brothers?”
“Bien, gracias.” He glanced past her through the dining room door where the paint had spilled.
“Do you think Juan Miguel might be able to repair the mural?” she asked. Granted, the eldest brother was primarily a sculptor, but he had dabbled in some still lifes that sold well in Taxco. A dabbler was all they could afford.
“Pues, as the father projectates, all things are possible, no? And perhaps you need him for painting the walls también,” he observed, tucking his unlit cigar into one corner of his mouth.
“I had a little accident,” she explained. “Thankfully, it will come up if—”
A squeak loud enough to pierce the eardrum came from the utility room, followed by the sound of water—not the gentle fall of a shower, but the pounding of a tropical downpour.
“Mark.” Not only had the stubborn man not listened, but it sounded as if he were dancing a polka with the old wringer washing machine, and the tin linen cupboard had cut in.
“Madre de Dios!” Soledad wailed in the background.
Corinne banged on the door. “Mark, just turn it off.”
“That is not good sign,” Juan Pablo said, pointing to the water oozing out from under the door. “Where is the . . . como se dice? . . . poomp?”
Poomp? Corinne pondered the word. “Pump? The pump’s in the—” She beat on the door again. “Mark, can you turn off the—”
“I’m try—”
Suddenly the downpour of water ceased. Soledad came shuffling in from the main foyer, face flushed in triumph. “I quit the big switch.”
Of course. The electric box was on the kitchen side of the wall. As for Mark . . .
Corinne knocked again. “Mark?”
“What, Corinne?” came the irritated reply from inside the makeshift bathroom.
“I tell him that it will put to lose if he do not do this.” Soledad knocked three times with her fist on the wall to demonstrate the proper operating procedure. From within, loose plaster fell.
“Are . . . you . . . all . . . right?” Corinne lost patience with each word. If he felt good enough to be annoyed, he could at least answer her question with a yes or no.
“Oh, I’m just dandy, Corinne.” His voice oozed with sarcasm. “After being blasted with ice water, I decided to wrap myself in bright pink plastic and sprawl against a rusting washtub. I didn’t even break my elbow when it jammed in the toilet during my fall.” He caught his breath and continued. “And I’ll never need Preparation H, thanks to quality bristles of your new toilet brush.”
“Okay, I get the picture.” And it was not a pretty one. Funny, heaven help her, but not pretty. Suppressing a laugh, she pointed to her elbow and mouthed, “Eso en el lavobo,” to a bemused Soledad. “Soledad tried to tell you how to get the water—”
“I know she did,” he barked back. The tin cupboard clanged like a gong as he evidently slammed its door.
“I tol’ you so,” Soledad sang in reproach.
“Soledad tol’ me so.” Mark mimicked her operatic reply. The cupboard door slammed again. The catch was tricky anyway.
There would be no starting over this time, Corinne thought, exercising every effort not to laugh. But at least it wasn’t her fault. Frankly, it served him right for being such a know-it-all.
“And by the way, we need a new faucet. The old one flew somewhere when I tried to turn off the ice water.”
Corinne’s humor evaporated. She’d forgotten to turn on the hot water heater. An antique itself, they only used it as needed—not for scrubbing or painting.
“So what can you expect—” Soledad started.
Corinne cut her off. “Well, there’s good news,” she announced, painting her pang of guilt with brightness. “You’ll never guess who is here.”
“I’m not in the mood for guessing games, Coreena.” The cabinet clanged again, followed by a muffled word that Corinne didn’t care to make out.
Ouch, he is in a foul humor.
“It’s Juan the plumber,” she said as Soledad retreated down the hall, clucking to herself. “Now, isn’t that a God thing?”
“I hope a heavenly hand was not involved in this.” The familiar sound of the rust-locked casters on the washtub scraping across the floor underscored Mark’s raw demeanor. “Tell him I’ll talk to him another day. I’m not in the mood to receive company.”
Actually, he sounded more in the mood to burn down the hacienda and take the first plane for the States.
Not that Corinne blamed him. She’d tangled with the shower trying to get water to fill a bucket, and wound up soaked. Soaked and cold, but not sprawled on the floor in the buff.
Wait, she didn’t want to go there.
And not with her elbow jammed in the john and a toilet brush scraping her backside. And not after being doused in paint. The poor guy, she thought, wrestling with the incompatible mix of sympathy and humor.
“I’m sorry, Juan,” she told Juan Pablo, who had heard the whole bizarre thing. Given his sober-as-the-proverbial-judge demeanor, she wondered if the plumber’s English allowed him to grasp the entire situation.
“Okay!” she shouted through the door to Mark. “I’ll tell him to come back, but I should warn you that Juan has some time open now to work on the plumbing, and his brother is sober.”
Yes, it was absurd, she thought, but absurd was often the order of the day in this place. Mark would have to get used to it.
“Señor, are you certain that you do not need help?” Juan offered. He swiveled his cigar from one side of the thick strip of mustache to the other, waiting for an answer.
“No, Juan, I do not need help,” came the razor-edged reply. “What I need is a real shower, good soap, and the first ticket out of this place I can lay my hands on. Can you arrange that?”
“Lo siento, señor, but no.” The Mexican shook his head in regret. “But the plumbing gains on you, and you must put yourself with reason, no? You cannot build on I being able to directate the building for you in the future. There is much work for us in the ordinary.”
The door flew open, and Corinne took a step back as Mark came through. His water-heavy jeans hung low on his waist, and a floral-print towel was wrapped in a turban around his head. His face and upper body still had a yellow tint.
Grinning, or at least showing his clenched teeth, he nailed Juan Pablo with his gaze. “How long will it take to replace the utility bath and kitchen plumbing, Juan, and how much?”
The plumber peeked around the jamb. “Hmm.” Water stood on the floor, while the shower ring that had once held the curtain in a pink circle at a right angle now drooped parallel to the wall. Across from it, the toilet held on to its seat with one hinge.
“Pues,” he said, drawing on the cigar, “I must quit myself to home to projectate the cost . . . but it will be, I think, to your satisfaction.”
“Projectate it on paper then,” Mark insisted, “and get back to me tomorrow . . . mañana, entiende?”
“Sí, entiendo, but you will be needing a new key for the shower. I will have to go to Cuernavaca for—”
“Key?”
“Sí, señor, a key.” The plumber moved his fingers as though twisting an imaginary dial. “What it is that turns the water to run.”
“The faucet?” Corinne guessed.
Juan Pablo nodded. “Sí, como no?”
“How not indeed,” Mark drawled with an acerbic smirk.
With the prospect of employment in his grasp, Juan Pablo extended his hand, but had second thoughts on seeing Mark’s yellowed hands. “Biengood,” he declared as one word. “Hasta mañana, jefe.”
Waiting until Juan Pablo exited through the front entrance, Mark asked under his breath to Corinne, “Projectate?”
“He’s a proprietor and speaks the way he thinks such a man would speak,” Corinne explained. “It’s just that his use of English is a little skewed. And by the way, while como no literally means how not, it translates into why not or what else among the people here.”
“Thanks for the language lesson.”
Unable to resist, she reached up and straightened his turban. “Flowers become you.”
“Back at ya with the paint.” Mark pulled a pained grin and walked past her in the footsteps of Juan Pablo.
“You know what Scarlett said,” Corinne called after him. “Tomorrow is another day.”
Pausing at the door, he looked back, his face stricken. “I certainly hope so. I don’t ever want to repeat this one.”
“Bad beginnings, good endings?” Or something like that.
To her surprise, instead of reacting with annoyance, he pointed a finger at her and winked. “I’m counting on it, Corina.”
Coreena. Even wearing a flowered towel as a top hat, Mark Madison possessed an irrepressible charm. Or maybe it was the six-pack abs and low-slung jeans that brought a heat wave into the room. The moment he was out of sight, she’d open a window.
For now, she’d just admire that deliberate, long-legged retreat. What a waste of gorgeous—like a French pastry—all puff and no substance. And just as bad for a no-nonsense woman like herself.