Fiesta Moon (21 page)

“Ay de mí,”
Soledad wailed. She scooped up the pig with such haste that she nearly dropped him. “What is this creature doing in my house?” she exclaimed, speeding past the set table and a stunned Doña Violeta as if the devil himself were nipping at her heels.

Her guest started. “Is that the same pig . . .”

Corinne nodded. “I'm so sorry. I can imagine your shock, but it's not really as vicious as we first thought, and it can kill snakes.”

This brought Doña Violeta up short. “Snakes?”

“Sugar?” Corinne said, trying to recoup her manners. “Yes, it got in the house, and we found it killing a snake in the salon fireplace.”

Doña Violeta helped herself to the sugar and stirred her tea once, taking care not to clink the unbreakable glassware with her spoon. Still caught in thought, she helped herself to one of the sugared bread treats.

“Shall we resume our talk about Mark?” she asked, her hat making the slight cock of her head more noticeable.

“Were we speaking of Mark?”

As though she still couldn't quite believe what she'd seen, Violeta cast a glance at the back door where Soledad had retreated with Toto. “Yes . . . at least that was my intent. Matthew 23:24, I think.”

“Matthew . . . what?”

While Corinne did a mental backtrack, her companion said a short grace of thanksgiving. Okay, Mark, pig, and a snake belonged in this picture, but how did Matthew get into it?

“‘You blind guides, you strain out a gnat and swallow a camel.' Yes, that's it,” Doña Violeta said to no one in particular. Realizing that she'd lost Corinne at their joint “Amen,” she leaned over and placed a hand on the younger woman's arm. “I don't want you to make the same mistake I did, Corina. The same mistake the Pharisees did in Jesus' day.”

“With regard to the Law, you mean?” Maybe after the wall crumbled behind Violeta, the shock of the pig was just too much.

After another bite of the still-warm
pan dulce,
Violeta let her gaze drift from Corinne to the open casement window over the counter. “Many years ago I was so busy sifting gnats through my idea of God's law that I let a camel through.” After a sigh of relief, remorse, or both, the older woman went on. “I was so concerned with what
I
thought a Christian should be that I sifted out my prospect for happiness, judging too harshly instead of looking at my own actions.”

“Judging whom, Doña Violeta?” Corinne recalled what Soledad had said—that Doña Violeta was not always so gracious and generous. Had lost love caused her change?

“That is not important. It was in the past, which cannot be changed.” She swallowed a dainty gulp of tea, as though the past were with it. “Mark is a good man with a good heart. He needs a chance to prove himself and the heart of a woman who will forgive him and love him, as God charges us to do with our fellow man.”

Do you think that they were worse sinners? I tell you no; but unless you repent you will all likewise perish.

The words from Enrique's funeral were totally unrelated to today . . . weren't they?

“I had a loved one who walked on the edge of faith, Corina. And I, in my self-righteousness and judgment, pushed that person off instead of closer to God and to myself. Take the words of an old woman who has lived long regretting it. Treat others with love, as you would wish to be treated if you were on the edge.”

Even as her hackles raised in rebellion, there was a part of Corinne that wondered if Doña Violeta was right. Was Mark “on the edge,” and was she, as a Christian, ready to push him off rather than pull him aboard?

“Mark doesn't think he needs any help for anything. If he goes off the edge, it's his doing.”

“Perhaps.”

There it was again, that intonation that agreed, but left the door open to doubt. The Mexicans made using it for all possibilities into a fine art.

“But what Mark does, he will have to live with. How you react to his mistakes or triumphs, you will have to live with . . . as I have these many years, because I extended judgment instead of love.”

Corinne did not know Doña Violeta well enough to discuss such personal matters, yet she felt compelled to defend herself. “So I should love it when he messes up royally?”

“Love the sinner, not the sin.” Doña Violeta's hand shook, causing the cup to clatter against its saucer as she put it down. “Easier said than done, I will grant you.” She thought a moment. “We waste our time fretting over that which we cannot change. Those things should be left to Him who can change them. It is our calling to focus on what we do have control over—our own reactions.”

She picked up the remains of her
pan dulce
and finished it off with a delight that took years off her age. When she'd chased it with her tea, she removed the paper napkin from her lap and placed it on the table beside her plate.

“If I have misread what I see between you and my Mark,” she said, shoving away from the table to rise, “then you have my humblest apologies. Please know that I would not have brought up the pain of my past if I did not fear for the same in your future, Corina. Perhaps to talk of it will grant me comfort of mind when I face my Savior, rather than bearing the guilt for having said nothing. I have only spoken because I am moved to, not out of judgment, but out of love.”

Corinne hadn't finished her tea yet, but her guest was ready to leave. As she started to rise, Doña Violeta placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Sit, sit. I am not so senile that I can't find my way out of the house.”

“I really need to get to work anyway,” Corinne objected.

“After you finish your tea . . . and perhaps think about what an old woman has shared with you.”

To Corinne's astonishment, Violeta gave her cheek a motherly pinch.

“And who am I to talk about a pig in the kitchen, when I dress my Chiquita and treat her like my own child? Tell Soledad that I am sure he is a dear house pet.”

Gathering up her folded gloves, Doña Violeta exited with more spring in her step than she'd had on arriving . . . as if sharing her story had lightened her load.

Recalling how she'd felt the night she'd talked about forgiving her father, Corinne understood at least the lightness of spirit. However, the message—just what she was supposed to do with regard to Mark Madison, treating him with love—needed clarifying.

Faith
. Her own advice to Mark came back to haunt her. With no appetite for the rest of her
pan dulce,
Corinne shoved the plate aside and folded her hands.

All right, Father, I'll try to do unto Mark as I'd have him do unto me. But all I can do is try.

Dona Violeta's reply to Mark flashed bold in reply.
That's all He asks.

CHAPTER 17

Discouraged, Mark stared at the pile of supplies outside the rubble of the courtyard gate. Instead of diminishing with each load he hauled inside, it seemed to grow in the blistering heat of the noonday sun. Self-pity painted a dark mental picture of Mark-against-the-world with brush strokes of Blaine's smug
Knew you couldn't do it,
the silent
I told you so
behind Corinne's tight-lipped retreat into the house, and Mark's own insecurities.

And he was alone, unless one counted the pig that lazed nearby in a cluster of wildflowers. Unlike Soledad, it refused to be driven off by Mark's bad humor. Instead it followed his progress—or lack or it—with pink-rimmed, white-lashed eyes.

Mark wiped the gritty sweat from his brow, squinting in the overpowering sunlight at the sky. If God was in control, He definitely was not on Mark's side. In addition to the delivery debacle, He'd changed the mind of Salvador Gonzalez as to the financial wisdom of sending a crew an hour's drive into the mountains from Cuernavaca. But the contractor's mind could be changed again, if Mark was willing to up the payment 25 percent.

Bottom line: with the hacienda in ruins from the initial work, Gonzalez had Mark over a barrel. He was either going to have to find more funding or—or quit. It was a dumb project, akin to making a silk purse from a sow's ear . . . or rather the reverse. The house was too fine to serve as a dormitory. It wasn't designed for such use.

How not?
The Mexican expression reared up with an image of Antonio and the other children. But for an accident of birth, they could have been born and raised in just such a house.

Try
. Doña Violeta's advice surfaced in the whirlpool of Mark's despair.

Try with what?
cynicism mocked, as Mark pulled a piece of two-by-four from the pile.

Faith
. Corinne flung the word in his memory like a gauntlet.

Sure,
cynicism countered. Her faith had come through. All the items on the bill seemed accounted for, but it was all junk grade. How had Blaine ever completed a project in this south-of-the-border
Twilight Zone
? No one and nothing could be counted on.

The whole of Doña Violeta's message streamed through his mind.
Try . . . that's all He asks.

“I am trying,” Mark shouted, slinging the board onto the pile. “I came here, didn't I?”

And now he was talking to himself.

“God, I hate this place, I hate the people, and I hate all this holier-than-thou crap. I could do better, and I don't even go to church.”

“Sounds like a challenge to me.”

Mark pivoted to see Father Menasco standing behind him. Enough color heated Mark's face to stop traffic in downtown Philly.

“I, er . . . I was just . . . just venting.” Fixing his hands on his hips, he pretended to study the pile of supplies. “Been a bad day, Father.”

“So I've heard.” The priest walked over to a mound of stones from the gate and made himself a seat. “I'd suggest praying, but I see you're well underway on that account.”

Mark cut a disconcerted look at the man. Was the priest laughing at him? There was no sign of humor on Menasco's face. Beyond serenity, some curiosity filled his gaze as the priest scoped out the damage.

“What do you mean, I was praying?”

The priest returned his attention to Mark. “You were talking to God, weren't you?”

Suddenly ashamed, Mark braced himself from the urge to look away. He was a man now and owed no explanation to anyone.

“I was yelling at Him,” he answered in spite of himself. “I'd hardly call that praying.”

“Any communication with God is prayer. It doesn't have to be petition or praise or thanksgiving. He hears it all.”

Excerpts from previous rants shuddered through Mark's memory. He'd never thought about it that way. Rebelling against an innate certainty that the man spoke the truth, Mark dug in stubbornly. “I'm just saying I wasn't doing the
Now I lay me down to sleep
bit.”

But he had been voicing his frustration and anger to a God whom he thought he'd given up on. Was that a remnant of faith?

Father Menasco shook his head, his salted black hair glistening in the sun's halo. “I imagine God gets tired of those canned words from adults, don't you? Not that they won't do in a pinch,” he added in afterthought. “I've been so tired that
Now I lay me down to sleep
has served me in good stead at times.”

“Look, if Corinne sent you here to save my soul or get me to ask for God's help, forget it. He hasn't been on my side in a long time.” The croak of emotion in Mark's confession betrayed more than he intended.

“Oh? When was the last time you asked for help?”

“A long time ago, Father.” Bitterness welled in Mark's throat as memories came rushing back. His best friend, ironically the minister's son, had hung between life and death after a skiing accident. Mark prayed with the church for a recovery that never came.

A lightbulb flash of realization filled him with surprise. He hadn't actually stopped
believing
in God, but he
had
stopped trusting Him.

“And that was God's last chance, eh?”

Father Menasco's question stopped the warm beams of wonder— or was it hope?—spreading through him. Mark Madison, screw-up extraordinaire, had given God one chance when his own life had been a series of second chances. Even Blaine had given Mark a second chance.

“That kind of puts it in perspective, doesn't it?” Mark admitted, and he didn't like the way it shook out. “Me giving the God who built the world in seven days an ultimatum, when at the rate I'm going, I won't be able to pull this project together in seven years.”

Menasco gave him one of those benevolent smiles that priests always do, but this time Mark saw it—grabbed at it—as encouragement rather than part of the spiritual uniform.

“I imagine so,” the priest said, “but that's between you and God.” He rose, rubbed his back, and looked toward the hacienda. “Me, I came up for a glass of Soledad's iced tea. She in the house?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Mark motioned at the disorder surrounding him, hoping his stinging eyes did not betray the emotion building inside. “I've got some work to do.”

By the time Menasco stepped into the hacienda, he was nothing but a vanishing blur of black to Mark. But in Mark's mind was the vivid image of a picture that hung in his old Sunday school room—of Jesus knocking on a knobless door.

Feeling as if something were ripping the door of his heart off by the hinges, Mark stumbled blindly to the privacy of the stone pile and fell to his knees.

Is that You, Jesus? Do You really want a fiasco like me in Your camp? Look what I've done. I've had everything and wasted it . . . and now, when I'm really trying—You know I am—everything is coming apart at the seams, me included. I don't know what to do except pray for Your help.

I know I've made You my last choice this time, but if You give me one more chance, I am ready. God, I just can't do this alone. Help me.