Fiesta Moon (9 page)

“Ahora,
my presupposition.” Juan Pablo put the estimate on the table with a flourish. It was a printed form with
Tres Juanes
across the top, but beneath was the brothers' surname.

“Morales,” Mark read. “So you are Juan Pablo Morales. I didn't think to get your last name.”

“
Por qué?
For what is it
importante
among
amigos?”

The term
amigos
triggered a memory of Blaine's voice lecturing Mark after he'd accepted a bid from a golfing-and-sailing buddy without bothering to shop. “The sooner you learn that one doesn't play with one's associates, the better. It interferes with the ability to keep business
business.”

Mark's poor judgment that time resulted in the Madison Corporation being underbid by a competitor.

“Besides, in Mexicalli, everyone knows everyone,” Juan Pablo went on, oblivious to Mark's fleeting consternation. “When I hear ‘Señor Morales,' I know I am in the oven.”

“Kind of like when my mom calls me by my full name, eh?”

“So I said,” he agreed, chuckling.

“And you can call me Mark.”

Juan Pablo's humor vanished. “Oh, no, Señor Madison. That I cannot do. You are the jefe.” The plumber hesitated. “And there is only one of you, but three brothers Morales.
Entiende?”

Mark scowled, not understanding . . . exactly anyway. “But there are three Juans, too.” He pointed to the header.

“Como no?
But we are Juan Pablo, Juan Pedro, and Juan Miguel . . . not the same.”

Time for the
Twilight Zone
theme again. Instead of arguing, Mark nodded. “Got it. You are Juan Pablo, I am Señor Madison.”

“Buenogood,”
Juan Pablo rattled out in satisfaction as the jefe studied the quotation.

It was written in Spanish, although some words jumped the language barrier. At first the bottom line threw Mark, until he converted the 4,000 pesos to dollars. “About $350,” he said aloud. A similar job at his Philly condo had cost about that much. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Three hundred fifty dollars for what?” Face flushed from her walk from the orphanage, Corinne stepped into the room, a half-eaten orange lollipop in her hand. Surprised to see her this early, Mark checked his watch. It was midday; time flew, whether one was having fun or not.

“For the plumbing fix,” he explained, taking note of her skirt and blouse. It was the same outfit she was wearing when he arrived in Mexicalli and just as attractive as he remembered.

Juan Pablo cleared his voice. “There is much damage to the pipe, especially after Señor Madison tore off the key.”

Corinne popped the candy stick into her mouth and held out her hand. “May I see,
por favor?”

Was that color creeping to the plumber's face? Juan Pablo's swarthy complexion made it hard to be sure, but the way he looked away from Corinne's appraisal made Mark suspicious. With a slight sinking feeling, he watched Corinne switch the lollipop stick from side to side as she read through the estimate.

“Have you been talking to your cousin in Los Angeles again, Juan Pablo?” she asked upon reaching the final number.

“
Pues
. . .” The plumber gave her a sheepish grin.

She finished the candy and flicked the stick into the plaster-filled waste can. “All he's doing is replacing the faucet and the pipe from the wall,” Corinne told Mark. “I checked on the Internet, and a simple faucet is only 460 pesos, tops. It shouldn't take you over an hour to cut off the pipe where it comes through the wall, Juan Pablo, and join new PVC fittings. That should cost . . . what? About ten dollars—or a hundred or so pesos?”

She looked at Mark for confirmation, but he hadn't had nearly the practice in peso conversion. With a chiding press of her lips, she handed the estimate back to Juan Pablo. “Assuming it takes you three hours, and that is really stretching it, you are charging us a little less than a hundred dollars an hour, according to this.”

“A little less than one hundred U.S. dollars?” The plumber scowled at the paper as if it were responsible. “Perhaps there is an error in my
mathematics
.” He nodded as if that were the answer. “I will hurry myself to return in one hour with the right estimation.”

Corinne shook her head. “We'll give you half your estimation, and even then you will be earning wages equal to a Los Angeles plumber and not those of your peers. And that is only because we need it done by the weekend. If you cannot do it then,
pues
. . .”

She raised her hands as if there was nothing else to be done. “Then we will have to pay you Mexican wages for the job . . . which is what we expect,” she added, “
if
you want the contract to do the entire hacienda. After all, we are in Mexico and not Los Angeles.”

“Como no, señorita?”
Folding the rejected estimate, the embarrassed Juan Pablo tucked it into the brim of his hat. “And I will return
por la mañana,
with the new key and the PVCs, no?”

Smiling as though Juan Pablo had just promised her the moon, rather than tried to swindle her—if he had, that is—Corinne gave him a nod of approval. “That would be wonderful.
Hasta mañana,
Juan Pablo. And give my regards to your wife.”

“That you can build on, señorita.” With a slight bow to her and Mark, the plumber made his exit, calling over his shoulder,
“Hasta mañana.”

“Later, amigo,” Mark replied as he turned to Corinne. “Boy, I thought you were hard over the toilet brush, but—”

“Some of the contractors practice what I call creative math. It could be a genuine mistake, especially with converting the currencies, or it could be intentional.”

“Well, you were right on it.” A little flattery always helped, although she deserved every word.

“But that wasn't my job. It was yours.”

Mark wasn't certain which was worse, Blaine's criticism ringing in his memory or the unspoken
But I didn't expect any better
in her sigh.

“I wouldn't have signed anything until I'd rechecked the math.” Okay, it was a little white lie. The price had sounded reasonable based on his previous experience. Very reasonable. “So I wasn't as quick with the pesos as you. I've only been here two days. And it's like the old ‘fool me once' adage. Twice doesn't happen.”

Corinne hoped that was the case. If not, her worse fears about Mark Madison's irresponsible approach to life and work would be confirmed. And that was the last thing she needed after the phone call she'd received just before lunch. The body of Antonio's brother, Enrique, had been found above the village by some hikers. Because animals had gotten to it, there was no way to tell how the boy had perished without an autopsy. And his nearest living relative, the boy's uncle, asked to have the body released for burial without one.

When she called to object, Mayor Quintana explained to her that it was the logical way. The body would have to be taken to Cuernavaca, where it would wait in line for who knew how long? There were deceased residents from the smaller villages who had been kept so long that they'd practically been forgotten. There was nothing more to be done, according to the
alcalde
.

“Señor Mark,” Soledad called from the kitchen. “Did you forget to ask about the furniture?”

“Aw, man,” Mark groaned. “Yes, Soledad, I forgot.”

Trying to follow the wisdom of the Serenity Prayer that hung over her desk, accepting what she could not change . . . at least for now . . . Corinne pushed the discussion to the back of her mind and switched to the one at hand. “Furniture? What furniture?”

“Nothing much,” he said in dismissal. “I thought I'd buy a desk with a file drawer and a bed and dresser for this place. A television would be nice. Soledad said one of Juan Pablo's relatives owns a furniture store in Taxco.”

“A desk, bed, dresser, and a
television.
” Annoyance flared in her words. “And I suppose you'll want a satellite dish, since cable hasn't reached Mexicalli.”

“Only after I double-check the pricing.”

The wisecrack ate at Corinne's already raw disposition. “Juan Pablo's brother-in-law sells
new
furniture. As in, not in the budget.”

“So, I don't want a furnished house. Just a few essentials. I don't think that's asking too much.” He lifted his hands and turned away. “Sheesh, I feel like I'm married,” he said, as if he'd contracted some flesh-eating virus.

“Not hardly
.”
Corinne could feel the serenity she'd struggled for slipping away. “But you do have some responsibility . . . not that you're used to being accountable for anything you do.” A part of her cringed the moment the words were out, but it was too late.

Mark whirled about, electric gold flecks snapping in the brown of his gaze. “Okay, let's get this straight. I don't need your permission to do squat, Miss Pinch Penny.”

“Pinch Penny?” Anger was not the answer, but at the moment it offered more relief. Her resolve to remain patient melted in its path. “You wouldn't know how to pinch a penny if your life depended on it.”

“If you mean that I don't suffer from your missionary mania for self-righteous deprivation, you're right.”

“Self-righteous?” Somewhere the word struck a chord of reality, but was choked by her tangled emotions. “I just want to get the most for the money we've managed to raise. So if good stewardship is a crime,
mea culpa.
And all this”—she flung her arms in a wide circle, nearly clipping Mark's nose with the back of her fingers— “is not a mania; it's a passion . . . a passion to help children, who, but for God's grace, might have been me.”

Mark braved a step closer, so that she had to look up to turn the full glare of her fury on him, and replied, “And if wanting some semblance of comfort while I'm
stewarding”—
he rested his hands on her shoulders—“is a crime, I'm guilty too. It's the least I should have, considering I'm doing this work for free.”

Victory surged in Corinne's veins. “Let's get this clear,” she said, shoving his hands away. “You're doing this because you were sentenced to community service for your third DUI. It was this or jail time.”

He didn't flinch. “At least they have television in jail . . . and a bed.”

“We have an air mattress for a bed. And for entertainment, Father Menasco has a delightful selection of reading materials that he's accumulated during his years.”

Mark stepped even closer, as if to stare her down. “
You
have furniture. Or do you get some special dispensation for being such a holy example for all of us?”

“It is used furniture,
which”
—she raised her voice, rising to the tip of her toes until she was almost eye-to-eye with the six-foot-plus ignoramus—“I paid for out of my own penny-pinching little purse.”

Time stilled, but not the calculation in her opponent's gaze. He was desperate, on the run. Her breath grew short with triumph so close, so—

“Your what?” the lips just a breath from her face demanded.

Distracted by them, Corinne did a quick mental backtrack and gathered steam. “I said that I paid for it out of my own Penny— with a capital
P
—Pinching Purse.”

She was tempted to poke back at him for emphasis, but somehow in the heat of the argument, they'd become too close. Toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, eye-to-Adam's apple.

Disconcerted, Corinne raised her head, her gaze locking in a dead heat with Mark's. Like two storm clouds on the verge of collision, there was no backing away.

“So,” she began, the remainder of whatever it was that she'd intended to say evaporating as Mark pulled her against his sweaty, plaster-dusted body and lowered his mouth to hers.

Corinne heard thunder—or was that indignation pounding in her ears. She felt the lightning shooting through her from the fierce contact, leaving every nerve ending sizzling in its wake. Her mind raced for reason's cover, but her body braved the tempest with shameful eagerness. The hands she placed on his shoulders to push him away curled into useless fists as the fury of the assault gave way to something far more disconcerting—tenderness. And then it was over.

Breathless, she pulled back and looked up into his eyes, where remnants of the storm still snapped and crackled.

“You need a man, lady,” Mark said, taking in a shaky breath.

A man? He
had
to be kidding. He was a man—definitely so— and he was the problem. The shredded bits of her fury came together, strengthened.

“But don't look at me.”

“You?” Corinne spun away from him, rubbing her arms as if to rub off the aftereffects of whatever it was that had happened. “Believe me, Mark Madison, if I ever wanted a man, much less
needed
one, you can rest assured that it would not now or ever be you or . . . or . . . or anyone like you.”

Head lifted high, she spun on her heel and left the room, storming through the foyer to the patio steps. The man couldn't handle a simple plumbing contract, and when it came to a woman's needs, he sure as the dickens didn't know what he was talking about. Hah! A man was the last thing she needed . . . particularly one like Mark Madison.

“Corina!” Soledad's shout stopped Corinne short at the gate.

She turned, impatient. “What?”

“You not going to eat your lunch?” the housekeeper asked.

Lunch. The word doused her anger with a sheepish awareness from tip to toe. From there embarrassment took over. One of Soledad's salads was why she'd come to the hacienda in the first place—lunch and a quiet retreat before she told Antonio that Enrique was not coming back. Suddenly there was Juan Pablo and Mark, and before she knew it, her emotions ran away with her, carrying her into a heated argument that boiled over into, of all things, the arms of Mark Madison.