Fiesta Moon (27 page)

“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.”

CHAPTER 22

The pill he'd taken earlier having expired, Mark massaged the growing ache in his temples as the dance on stage wound down with St. James triumphant. It had been a long, boring evening, although he couldn't fault the company. Father Menasco's sister had regaled them with the stories of her latest exploit in the caves over Mexicalli until the entertainment started, but once Mark discerned that she was clueless regarding fossils used as gemstones, he lost interest in both the conversation and the shenanigans on stage.

Some guy dancing around with a fake horse hung from his waist, while other dancers pretended to fight, die, and dance again, just didn't enthrall him as it apparently did his companions. He decided to hang on until the fireworks and then head for home.

Meanwhile, he'd watched Rafael Quintana examine Corinne's necklace and stalk off to the cantina like a thundercloud, after evidently having words with his son. And now Diego was playing Don Juan to the hilt, hand-kissing, no less. But as Mark fisted his hands in frustration, Doña Violeta appeared at their table, causing him to blink in disbelief. A moment ago, she'd been in her lawn chair plying him with questions about Corinne.

“You love her, don't you?” Violeta had whispered.

Mark's senses had reverberated from the word, as though struck by a bell clapper. Unable to avoid her all-seeing gaze, he groped for an answer.

“I know I've never thought about a girl the way I do Corinne.” But was that love? “I mean, I don't really know what sets love apart from attraction.”

Violeta gave him a grandmotherly smile. “Attraction consumes the senses,
hijo.
Love consumes the heart and soul.” A faraway look gathered in her twinkling gaze. “Love is like God, Mark. It is three things in one. One without the other will not last. She will make you burn for her, and she will burn for you . . . but the fires, like youth, will not last a lifetime.”

Mark could believe that. If he'd burned any more the other night, before the ghost interrupted them, he'd have spontaneously combusted.

“She will make you adore her ways, the way she cares for others and for you. Her heart will win yours and keep on until death do you part.”

Mark wondered if Doña Violeta spoke from experience, of her husband or of a love denied because of an arranged marriage. He searched his memory of the weeks he'd spent in Mexicalli, recalling the joy he'd felt watching Corinne with the children or hearing her chat with Soledad in the kitchen. And her laughter made his heart rise like a balloon in his chest.

“But her soul, her faith will overshadow it all, when you come to share it with her. That is the cement that will bind you to her through eternity.”

Would he ever be as unshakable as Corinne? Bad day or good, she always found a way to make the best of it. His rapport with God was like that of a toddler, sometimes up, as when he'd prayed the ghost didn't pack a gun, and sometimes down, as on the day the padre caught him unwittingly arguing with God. Tonight it rose and dipped like the sangria that swished in Corinne's glass before Diego kissed her.

Alarm shook Mark from his troubled reverie at the sight of Violeta dropping in Diego's chair, patting her chest. What had she done, raced across the park? Not wanting to alarm the others until he was certain there was reason for it—the old woman might just be trying to catch her breath—he excused himself.

“I think I'll mosey over to the cantina for some of those cinnamon crisps . . .
churros
,” he remembered. It wasn't exactly a lie. The tempting smell of hot cinnamon had made up his mind to go for some. “So if I don't see you folks before the end of the festivities, I'll catch you later.”

With that, Mark zigzagged across the shaded park in the light of the paper lanterns that had been strung from tree to tree by Juan Pedro. Halfway there, he met Corinne.

“What's going on?”

“I'm looking for Gaspar,” she said, looking around him at the crowd.

“Why? Is Violeta ill? There's a doctor right here.”

Corinne shook her head. “I think she forgot to take her angina pill. She insisted that Diego take her home and I fetch Gaspar, and she'll be fine.”

“She does like to give orders.”

Corinne met his gaze, affection shining through her eyes in the lantern light. “She didn't want anyone else to know of her ‘silliness.' But just in case . . .” She sobered. “Will you help me find Gaspar?”

Prompted by heaven only knew what, Mark seized her hand, making a bow. “Your wish is my command. You take the cantina side of the plaza, and I'll take the market side.”

Mark hardly recognized Gaspar when he found him. Clad in the traditional loose white trousers and shirt, the man was sharing a picnic of homemade delicacies wrapped in tortillas with his family near the right of the stage. The moment he heard of Doña Violeta's distress, Gaspar hugged his wife and said good-bye to the others in his party. Mark assumed they were his children and grandchildren.

“She should be well,” the manservant assured Mark. “Usually she takes her pill, rests, and is fine, but, still, I will make haste.”

Spying Corinne across the plaza, Mark waved to catch her attention. When she finally saw him, she heaved a visible sigh of relief and indicated through gestures that she was going on ahead to Violeta's home.

“Gaspar,” he told his companion, “you go ahead with Corinne, but don't rush too fast or we'll have both of you to care for.” Mark wasn't sure of the man's age, but the iron gray of his hair implied he was no spring chicken capable of running uphill. “I'll get the lawn chair and catch up with you both.”

“Bueno. Gracias,
Señor Madison.”

By the time Mark fetched the folding lawn chair and explained to Father Menasco and Dr. Flynn what was going on, perspiration cloaked his skin, making his cotton polo and trousers cling to his body. Thankfully, they understood the lady's embarrassment and wishes, but he assured them that he would send for them if there was the slightest chance that Doña Violeta needed the doctor's help.

At the moment, Gaspar was probably in the better shape, Mark thought, as he trotted up the hill. Maybe he was getting a cold. He couldn't seem to draw enough air into his lungs to fuel his energy. His legs burned with each uphill pull, while his heart beat itself against his breastbone. And as deserted as the street was from the celebration, if he collapsed, no one would be the wiser until the fireworks display was over.

The courtyard gate to Doña Violeta's home was open. Once inside, Mark dropped on the bench to catch his breath. After all, the people Violeta needed were there. He was just bringing up the rear with a lawn chair and a head filled with a complete section of timpani. And he'd left his bag of medicine at the square, he moaned inwardly.

Once the burning in his legs abated, and he determined that neither his heart nor head was going to explode, he got up and walked to the open door of the salon. Inside, a bright-eyed, pink-cheeked Doña Violeta held court with Gaspar and Corinne in attendance.
Now, what is wrong with this picture?

Aha,
he thought, stepping inside.
Don Juan Diego is missing.

The burning rushed back, taking sheer effort to override it. He felt as if he'd inhaled helium, making both his head and his stomach light. What on earth was wrong with him?

Violeta, Gaspar, and Corinne, even the furniture in the room, started to circle around to his right.

“Mark, are you all right?” Corinne's question joined the whirl of sensation inside his head.

“Just . . . a . . .” His voice was distorted, too deep and slow for his malady to be caused by helium. “. . . little . . . winded.” It sounded to him as though someone had turned on the haunted hacienda sound effects.
Haunted hacienda!

Mark fell down with laughter at his private joke. Or at least he thought he fell. The rest faded into blackness.

“Estúpido!”
Don Rafael paced back and forth in his aunt's courtyard after Mark Madison had been carried out by Gaspar and Capitán Nolla to the police car for transport to Hacienda Ortiz.

Don Rafael had come with the police captain, who was summoned by Corinne via cell phone to bring Father Menasco and his sister to Violeta's house after the engineer's collapse.

After a warm toddy to calm her nerves, his aunt retired, although it was clear that she was more upset about Mark Madison's malady than her own.
If she had truly suffered any manner of heart problem at all,
Don Rafael thought, recalling the sly wink she'd given him as he and Diego retired to the courtyard.

Perhaps she'd succeeded in separating her nephew from Corinne Diaz when he could not. Regardless, he was at last alone with Diego. “I risk everything for you, and you let your fancy for a woman get the better of you,” he fumed at his son.

“No one will be able to present a collection before mine, Father,” Diego replied, his tone nothing short of condescending. “The necklace was just a small example.”