I’m not sure who gasped louder, me or Mom. I could have dressed myself for two years, maybe three, with the cost of a single night here; we’d never be able to afford this.
Dad cleared his throat. “We’ll find other accommodations in town and meet up with you all later.”
“Come on. It’s what? Nineteen hundred square feet? We can all fit in,” said Hank, plunking down his platinum card. When the receptionist mumbled something about an extra fee per guest, Hank waved her off. “No problem.”
“We can pay—” started Christopher.
“This is on me,” Hank said with finality, glancing at Helen. The way he still sought her approval was sad, especially when she just nodded once in agreement. His gushing fangirl was gone. Maybe it wasn’t confidence that made him come off all brash and bold but insecurity. Who was I to talk? Hadn’t I been all I-know-boys to Reb and Ginny when, really, I had been dumped by Dom?
Grace said, “Well, this is so kind of you, Hank, Helen. I know we all appreciate it.”
At last, a real smile spread across Hank’s face. “It’s the least I could do,” he said, no longer fighting to be heard or first or right.
If anyone had told me that a hotel casita could be larger than our home, I’d never have believed them. But here I was, standing in one. Handwoven rugs brightened the terra-cotta tile floor. A couch and two chairs were arranged before a fireplace in a snug sitting area. Another rich tapestry that Mom immediately inspected hung on a wall. If anyone thought I was weird for taking a picture of the king-size bed with blankets made from alpaca, they didn’t mention it. I think we were all overwhelmed. One moment we were escaping tents collapsed in a mudslide, and the next we had stepped into a man-made paradise.
I geared myself up for Dad to jump into his usual bedbug-hunting mode, but he just lowered himself into one of the dining room chairs as though he’d given up. It was futile to fight anymore.
Chapter Twenty
Reacquainting myself with running water and flushing toilets—blessed, beautiful porcelain toilets—took no time at all. Which made me doubt whether photojournalism could ever truly be my calling. Four days without bathing was more than enough for this girl. I didn’t mind sleeping on the rug in front of the fireplace that night, especially not when I luxuriated in a five-minute shower with lukewarm water the very next morning. Electricity was so spotty, I had three minutes to blow-dry my hair before the power disappeared. Who cared about a little dampness? My hair was clean.
My parents returned from their walk around town with a couple of browning bananas they had scavenged for our breakfast and news. First, Stesha had called sometime while everyone was out. So she had left a message at the front desk, assuring us that she was recuperating so well in a hospital she was ready to make a break for freedom. And second, rescue helicopters were arriving today. Even better, Mom’s age-group had been called, which meant that families lucky enough to have someone fifty-five and older would be home-free in four or five hours.
So why was I reluctant to leave? Quattro’s eyes and mine met across the sitting area in our casita as though he had the same thought, both of us looking away shyly.
With a dramatic flourish, Mom placed her hand on her chest as she eyed Dad and me. “O ye of little faith. Aren’t you glad that I slept with our passports and extra cash in the waist wallet that you two made fun of me for buying?”
It was only now, as I listened to Mom gloat about safeguarding our passports, that I kicked myself for leaving the cameras in the mudslide. I knew I should concentrate on being grateful to be alive, but if I had only reached back into the tent and grabbed my backpack. One second and I would have rescued the cameras and all the photos I’d taken.
Gone.
Just like our departure.
Wouldn’t you know it. After all our good-byes and hugs at the casita—even Quattro embraced me briefly but tightly—it started to drizzle on the way to the helipad, and Dad was back to ominous frowning. An hour before the helicopters were supposed to land, we were told that the rescue mission was back on hold due to rain. Nobody but Grace was in the casita when we returned, and that only because she had come back to collect her raincoat. Mom and Dad huddled together on the sofa, complaining about the disorganization of the Peruvian government.
Grace lasted all of a minute before she interrupted their ode to woe. “Then let’s get out and do something.”
“No, we should wait right here in case Stesha calls with more info,” Dad said, jabbing his finger toward the handwoven rug. “Besides, it’s not like any of us will be able to do anything to help much.”
“It’s better than sitting around.”
“Yeah!” I agreed. When did my take-charge dad ever just wait for someone else to fix a problem and right a situation?
“And staying here when you could have left and straining our resources is better?” Dad asked.