Cinderella in Overalls

chapter Ten



No sooner had Josh’s car disappeared around the bend in the road than Jacinda appeared at Catherine’s door, a waterproof poncho covering her small figure. Without wasting time with a greeting she pulled a basket of tomatoes from under her poncho and held it up for Catherine to see.

Catherine frowned at the white spots of mildew that dusted the tops of the tomatoes. “Oh, no,” she murmured.

“Tomatoes need sun. Not much, but some,” Jacinda said. “We cannot take these to sell.”

“What about the potatoes or the melons?”

Jacinda shook her head. “Rotting in the fields.”

A sick feeling hit Catherine with the force of a tractor. Mechanically she removed her jacket and boots and put water on the stove to boil for tea. Then she turned to Jacinda.

“What will we do?” the old woman asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

Catherine rubbed her hands together. “Wait,” she said. “And while we have time on our hands, we’ll knit for Magdalena’s baby. Tell the women to come by this afternoon for a sewing bee.”

Jacinda’s narrow shoulders relaxed, and she smiled at Catherine. “I knew you would have the answer.”

After Catherine poured the tea, Jacinda leaned forward across the table. “But what about the bank? We have not been there for many days. What will Mr. Bentley say when we do not appear with the payment?”

Catherine looked at the calendar on the wall. There was a large red circle around the seventeenth. “We have a few more days to worry about that. We’ll think of something,” she said with all the confidence she could manage. “Maybe the rain will stop by then.”

Every day they crocheted blankets for the baby or knitted socks for the men in the mines, and still the rain came down. Restless, Catherine put her needles aside and went to the front window. It was so ironic that she almost laughed. Too much rain in Aruaca and too little in California. She finally wrote a letter to the bank to explain their problem, but the mailman’s truck got stuck in the mud outside of town and no messages went in or out of Palomar for days. Josh must be wondering why they didn’t show up at the stall or come by with the payment. But surely he would suspect it was because of the weather.

When the mailman finally dug his truck out, he brought a letter for Catherine. The women were in her kitchen, the sound of their voices blending with the click of the knitting needles. She saw the name of the bank in bold black letters in the corner of the envelope. Before she opened it she took a deep breath. When she scanned the print, certain words and phrases leaped out at her. They were “final notice,” “vitally important,” “further action” and “past due.” The letter was signed by someone she’d never heard of. Catherine stood in the doorway of the kitchen, feeding the blood drain from her face.

Jacinda jumped up from the table and took Catherine’s hands in hers. The letter fell to the floor. “Is it bad news from home?” she asked with a concerned frown on her wrinkled face.

Catherine steadied herself with one hand on the back of a chair. “No, not from home.” She sat down with the women and explained what the letter meant. They argued that Josh wouldn’t do this, that they should talk with him, but in the end they agreed that Catherine should take the truck back. They tried to be strong, but their disappointment was obvious. Catherine couldn’t stand the look of sorrow on their faces any longer. She turned and ran upstairs to change her clothes. As she pulled off her long skirt and exchanged it for trim navy blue pants and a matching jacket, she seethed with anger.

She knew the meaning of “further action.” It was a euphemism for “repossession.” She could understand that. She could understand their concern. But this form letter was so impersonal. Did Josh know about it? Was it his idea? He knew and she knew that she’d promised to bring the truck back if the worst happened and they couldn’t make their payments. Well, the worst had happened and she’d bring the truck back to where she’d gotten it in the lot behind the bank. Then she’d ride up to his office and put the keys on his desk. If the bank wanted to repossess the truck, she’d make it easy for them. She said goodbye to the women, stuffed the letter into the pocket of her jacket and drove out onto the highway.

It felt good to be behind the wheel again. It felt good to be taking action, instead of sitting in the kitchen and watching the rain come down. She’d had too many days to sit and think and worry. But as she climbed up out of the valley, the rain increased until she could only see a few feet in front of her. It didn’t feel good to be behind the wheel anymore. She wished herself back inside the kitchen, dry and safe.

The truck’s tires slammed into rain-filled potholes, sending sheets of muddy water up over the hood and onto the windshield. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white. She veered to avoid a mud slide, sending her to the edge of the road. The asphalt crumbled. She felt the front left tire lose its support and roll over the edge.

She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Trees rushed by and her head hit the roof with a thud. The biggest tree she’d ever seen loomed in front of her and stopped her wild, sickening ride with a jolt that crushed the front of the truck. A pain shot through her chest as if she’d been speared, and then everything went black.

Her last conscious thought was of Josh. His face floated in front of her and she heard his voice. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Everything’s all right.” But as the darkness pressed in on her, she knew that everything wasn’t okay. And nothing was all right.

Josh stood at the corner of the cobblestone streets again at dawn as he’d done every day since he’d been back, watching the trucks rumble by. It was 7:00 a.m. and they weren’t here. Again. Was it the truck or the rain, or had something else happened? He couldn’t wait another day. He had to knew.

He took a taxi to the bank and told his secretary he’d be out for a few hours. Then he headed his car out of town toward Palomar. The rain began about an hour after he left the city, light but steady. He didn’t slow down. He looked at the sky, a sick, worried feeling nagging at his subconscious.

An hour later he saw the black tire marks veering off the road, and he screeched to a stop on the other side of the mud slide. In seconds he was standing at the edge of the asphalt where the road had crumbled away, his heart pounding, his hands shaking.

Bracing his feet on the steep slope, he saw the tracks leading down into the forest. Sliding, slipping, falling, he followed the tracks, skewed at impossible angles. He might have shouted her name if he’d had any air in his lungs, but he didn’t. Finally, when he was halfway down the gulch, he saw the truck wedged into a huge fir.

She was slumped over the wheel, a huge bump on her forehead, a cut under her eye. He pried open the door and found his voice.

“Catherine.” Her name was ripped from his throat.

She shuddered and he felt like crying. She was alive. Her eyelids fluttered as he lifted her over his shoulder and prayed she didn’t have internal injuries. Whatever she had he couldn’t wait for a stretcher or an ambulance.

He carried her up the steep slope, gasping for breath, crossed the road and placed her carefully in the back seat. She moaned and he tucked his suit jacket around her. If she was all right, he’d never let her drive that truck again. He’d never let her out of his sight again. He was responsible for this. He should never have lent them the money for the truck.

What was he thinking? Catherine was the last person in the world he could keep from doing what she wanted to do. If she wanted to drive a truck over a mountain road in the rain, she would. But why today? Why was she alone? Where was the produce? And where were the women?

The questions remained unspoken and unanswered. He made deals with himself all the way to the hospital—the things he’d tell her if she was all right, the things he’d do for her. He made deals with God, too, as he watched her being lifted into the emergency room on a gurney.

When the doctor came out, he looked serious but not grim. Josh wanted to grab him by the lapels of his lab coat and shake the news out of him. Instead he stood there and waited while the doctor found the papers he was searching for on his clipboard.

Finally he looked up. “You are the husband?”

“No,” Josh said. “Not yet,” he added.

The doctor nodded. “She has a concussion and three broken ribs,” he said in lightly accented English.

Josh nodded automatically. “Go on,” he said. “What else?”

The doctor smiled faintly. “That’s all. That’s enough. She must have complete rest until those ribs heal. You’ll see to that?”

“I’ll see to it,” Josh answered emphatically.

“As for the concussion, she’s drifting in and out of consciousness. She needs to be awakened every hour to see if her pupils are equal and if they react to light. We can keep her here for the night, or you can do it at home.”

“I’ll do it at home,” he said.

“No activities that require concentration or vigorous movement,” the doctor cautioned.

They brought her out in a wheelchair with a white bandage over her eye, then gave Josh a bag with her clothes and jewelry in it. She was wearing a hospital gown and his jacket over her shoulders. Her eyelids were heavy. Her lips formed his name when she saw him, but no sound came out. He clenched his hands into fists and felt tears gather in the back of his eyes.

She was so beautiful and so helpless. He’d never seen her like that before. She was the sturdy farm girl, unfazed by wind or rain. The one who led the way on the trail in her baggy pants and hiking boots. The one who had barged her way into his office and gotten a loan in spite of the rules. And now she was sitting in a wheelchair with three broken ribs and a concussion.

In front of the hospital he lifted her very gently out of the wheelchair and into his car. She drew a sharp breath, and he murmured in her ear, “Sorry, I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “A little.”

The few miles to his apartment seemed to take an eternity. He carried her into the lobby, onto the elevator and up to the penthouse. Without her heavy skirts and shawl she was as fragile as a butterfly.

Her head fell back against his arm. She was asleep again. Her eyelashes were dark smudges against her pale skin. Kneeling on the bed, he pulled back the blanket and eased her between the sheets. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek above the cut. Even the antiseptic couldn’t overpower the fresh smell of her rain-washed hair.

He put his hand on her forehead. A rush of tenderness filled him. He had to wake her every hour. Had it been an hour? No, it had only been a few minutes. He set the timer on his watch to beep every hour, then he watched her sleep.

When he woke her, she didn’t want to open her eyes, but he cradled her head in his hands until she did. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so much he had to tell her, but she went back to sleep as soon as he checked her eyes.

He made himself instant coffee and drank it as he sat in the chair at the bedroom window and watched her sleep. He dozed, his legs stretched out in front of him until his watch woke him over and over throughout the night. Each time her pupils were equal and responded to the light.

In the morning the sun rose over Teregape and streamed in his window. She opened her eyes before he told her to and stared at him in disbelief for a full minute. He got out of his chair and raked his fingers through his hair.

“Josh,” she croaked. “What happened?” She touched the bandage around her head gingerly with the tips of her fingers. Her hair, a mass of dark curls, was spread out against the pillow. She’d never looked so beautiful.

He sat on the edge of the bed and traced a gentle finger around the bump on her head. “You had an accident. You broke a few ribs and hurt your head.”

She groaned and looked around the room at the pale walls and the dark furniture. “Where am I?”

“My apartment. I couldn’t take you home. Your ribs wouldn’t stand the trip.”

Her eyes strayed to the window, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I should have known. The bedroom with the spectacular view.”

He grinned. “That’s right.” A giant weight was lifted from his shoulders. She remembered. She was going to be all right.

She ran her hand over the smooth percale sheets and the thick plaid comforter. “This is your bed, isn’t it?” She spoke slowly, her brain still befuddled. “Where did you sleep?”

He pointed to the chair. “Right here.”

She frowned. “How did I get here? What happened to the truck?”

The image of the truck smashed into the tree flashed in front of Josh’s mind. “Don’t worry about the truck. I brought you here in my car. When you didn’t show up, I got worried about you.”

She closed her eyes, and it all came back to her—the letter, the road, the rain... Sorrow, mingled with pain engulfed her body. How could he tell her not to worry after they sent her that letter. “I have to worry about it,” she said. “So tell me what happened.”

“You smashed the truck into a tree on your way down a hill. It wasn’t the best day to be out driving around on steep, slick roads,” he reprimanded her gently. He could afford to be gentle today. Yesterday he had been a maniac, afraid she was dead or seriously injured. Today she was safe in his bed with only three broken ribs and destined to remain there for some time whether she liked it or not. And from the look on her face she didn’t like it.

Catherine saw the unperturbed expression on Josh’s face, and she summoned her strength to pull herself up and glare at him. “What did you expect me to do after I got the letter? Let you come and get it? Let the whole village watch while the bank took it away?”

“What are you talking about?” be asked.

“Where are my clothes? The letter’s in my pocket. Don’t tell me it’s not from your bank.”

He found the bag the hospital had given him and opened it. In her jacket pocket was the letter. She watched his face while he read it.

“It’s a form letter,” he explained.

“I know it’s a form letter and I know what it means. I promised you I’d bring the truck back if we had to miss a payment.”

“You should have known this was a mistake. This is a final notice.” He pointed to the words on the top of the letter. “Somebody pushed the wrong key on the computer. You were supposed to get the first letter because you missed one payment. The letter that asks you nicely if there’s a problem to let us know so we can reschedule your payments. Why didn’t you let me know?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I couldn’t. The mailman got his truck stuck in the mud until yesterday.” She blinked back her tears impatiently and lay there for a long time, gripping the edge of the comforter in her fingers and staring out the window, avoiding his gaze and feeling stupid.

“Is that why you were on the road yesterday, without the women or the produce, because you thought we were going to repossess the truck?” he asked incredulously.

She nodded and a tear slid down her cheek. “And now I’ve smashed it.”

“Don’t worry. You have insurance on it. I’ll send somebody to tow it back to town.”

“I should have known better.” She twisted her fingers together, wishing she didn’t have to meet his gaze. She stared out the window without noticing the morning sun shining on the mountain. “It was still raining in the valley when I left. The vegetables were rotting in the fields. There was nothing we could do. And then the letter came. I took off without thinking.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and wiped a tear off her cheek with his thumb. “You’re alive and in one piece. Well, almost one piece. That’s all that counts.”

“What about the payments. We missed a payment. If it doesn’t quit raining, we’ll miss another one and then...”

“And then we’ll sit down and talk about it. Change the schedule, alter the interest rate. We don’t want to take the truck back. We want to see you succeed.”

She met his gaze at last, pressed her lips together and nodded gratefully. The look in his eyes told her more than his words how worried he’d been and how relieved he was that she was all right.

“I probably ought to be getting home now.” She pulled herself up on her elbows. “Everyone will be worried about me.

He shook his head. “I’ll send word back to the village with some of the women in the marketplace. They can come by to see you in a few days.”

“A few days?” She looked around the room, really seeing it for the first time, the huge window with the spectacular view.

“You’re not going anywhere until those ribs heal. And after that I thought I might talk you into staying around.”

“Here in the city?”

“It was just an idea.”

“How would you feel if I asked you to stay around with me on the farm?”

“Is that a proposal?” he asked with a gleam in his eye.

She looked up. His mouth quirked up at the corners, but his eyes turned serious. “No,” she said. “Was yours?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t say a word. She put her hand on his arm. “You don’t mean that. You were scared when you thought I was dead. But I’m alive, and pretty soon I’ll be well and we’ll go our separate ways. You rescued me and I’m grateful, but—”

“But not that grateful.”

“Yes... no. People can’t get married because they’re grateful. They have to be in love.” The more she said, the deeper the hole she dug for herself. Now he’d ask her if she loved him and she’d have to say yes if she were honest. It wouldn’t do any good to lie. She’d been lying to herself too long. She lied to Jacinda, but Jacinda saw through her. All the women did. Josh must see it, too, her love for him shining in her eyes and hear it in her voice.

She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillow, exhausted by trying to keep her secret. Even with her eyes closed she felt his gaze on her, asking the unspoken question. She pressed her lips together to keep from blurting the answer. And then she drifted off into blissful unconsciousness.

She woke up hungry and thirsty. He brought soup and tea and watched her eat. “Where did you get this?” she asked, squinting up at him. “And where are you going?”

He straightened his tie. “I’m going to the bank for an hour. Just to check in and pick up my mail. Here’s the phone. If you need me, here’s the number.”

She slept all afternoon, and when she woke up it was evening. From the bed she could see the lights of the city below. Josh was standing at the window, his body outlined against the glass, so tall, so strong and so wrong for her. How could fate be so cruel as to send her a man she couldn’t have? Even if she canceled her five-year plan, what good would that do? How could he possibly imagine that she could live in the middle of a city, this city or any city?

Sensing she was awake, he crossed the room quietly. As he approached, she saw he was wearing a soft denim shirt and faded jeans. She wanted to feel his shirt against her face, and touch the jeans with her fingertips, feeling the hard muscles of his thighs. She hungered for his touch.

“Hungry?” he asked, as if he’d read her mind.

She smiled and held out her hand to him. He knelt there on the floor, and even in the dim light she could see the warmth in his eyes, the love and the care.

“Dinnertime,” he said, and went to the kitchen. When he came back, he had baked beans and brown bread on a plate.

“These are your emergency rations,” she protested, remembering from her earlier visit.

“This is an emergency,” he said. “And I don’t need to save them anymore. I’m going home at the end of next month. I got my promotion.”

She swallowed a mouthful of beans despite the lump in her throat. “That’s wonderful,” she said. She was proud of her quick response, but not as proud of the way her hands shook or the sudden pounding in her head. Just when she was getting better, she felt worse. Much worse. She set her dish down and pressed her hand against her heart. Bones break, but not hearts. It was just a saying, but it was a lie.

“What is it?” he asked, easing himself onto the bed. He pressed his hand against her chest. “Do your ribs hurt?”

She nodded. “I think so.” She took her hand away, but his stayed, his fingers below her breasts, sending vibrations through her body.

“I want you to come with me,” he said.

“Where, to Boston?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“It doesn’t have to be right in Boston. People do live outside of town and commute.”

“Have you ever lived in a suburb?” she asked.

“No, but I thought it might be a good compromise,” he said, outlining the opening of her hospital gown with his finger.

Trying to think rationally, she pulled the gown to her chin and tied the strings together. “How could I use everything I know, everything I’ve learned—grafting mutations, crop rotations—in a suburb? Besides I’m not ready to go back to the States. I can’t stand to see how my parents live or what’s been done to our land. Not yet.”

“I’ll wait.”

She sighed. He had that determined look in his eyes, his chin set at a stubborn angle. She remembered how he got what he wanted. By patiently waiting. He said no more about going home or getting married or living in the suburbs. She finished her beans and bread, and he carried her out to the balcony, put her in a lounge chair and spread a blanket over her.

They listened to Andean folk music on his stereo, the reedy flutes and the stringed gourds reminding her of the outdoor restaurant. She’d never be able to hear this music without thinking of him.

What would life on the farm be like if she couldn’t share with him the progress of her potatoes? How would she get along without him coming by the stall when she least expected him, sending her pulse racing and the color flooding into her cheeks?

Tears filled her eyes and blurred the lights of the city below. Fortunately he was standing at the railing of the balcony, looking out, and couldn’t see that she was crying. If he did, he might think she was sad about his leaving, when she was really just sad about being stuck here in town with a bump on her head. That was all it was. Really.

When he carried her back to bed, she fell asleep and dreamed of living in the suburbs with a husband who came home at night with a newspaper under his arm and talked about banking. It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. Josh went to work in the morning after fixing her a piece of toast and putting the telephone next to her bed.

She tugged at the drawstrings of her gown. “I want to get out of this.”

“Your clothes are in the plastic bag. But I don’t think you want to wear them. Besides, you should stay right where you are.”

She looked at the sliding doors of his closet. “Do you have an old shirt I can wear?”

“Help yourself,” he said, and kissed her softly on the lips.

She put her arms around his neck. A pain hit her in the chest, but she ignored it. He deepened the kiss and she drank in the taste of him, memorizing the lines and angles of his face for the future. Then she sank back on the pillow, her mouth curving up in a smile.

“I’ll be back for lunch,” he promised.

“You come home for lunch?” she asked, surprised.

“Now I do.”

After he left, she took a shower and washed her hair, very slowly and very carefully. Afterward she put on a shirt from his closet that hung down almost to her knees. It wasn’t an old shirt. He didn’t have any old shirts, it seemed, but she borrowed it, anyway. Exhausted from her activities, she went back to bed and fell asleep again.

She woke up when she heard the door open, then footsteps and hushed whispers. She sat up in bed. The door to the bedroom opened, and Jacinda’s face appeared, followed by Doña Blanca, Margarita and the others. Josh stood behind than, looking pleased.

“How did you get here?” she asked, flinging back the blankets and swinging her legs to the floor.

They crowded forward, throwing themselves at her to exclaim over the bump on her head and the bruise on her cheek. Josh was looking at her as if he were afraid she’d break. She gave him a reassuring smile. They explained that they’d come to town with Tomás in his truck. They had come as soon as they could. They’d been frantic until they’d gotten Señor Bentley’s message. Now they were relieved to see her for themselves. The rain had stopped and they had brought her some food. She must be starving. She looked so thin. They held up sacks of cheese, eggs, peppers, lettuce, potatoes and bread.

Before they left they went out onto Josh’s balcony and leaned over the railing, calling to the people below. Then they looked into his giant refrigerator and turned the stove on and off to see how it worked. And as suddenly as they had come, they hurried to the door, anxious to get back to the market. Josh offered to drive them.

He stood in the doorway as they filed out. “Sorry about the lunch,” he said with a rueful smile. “They appeared at the bank just as I was leaving. I didn’t have time to get anything for you.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “There’s enough here to feed an army.”

His gaze drifted down the shirt she was wearing to her bare legs, and he nodded. “I’ll be home as early as I can.”

Her heart thumped against her chest. Home. It had such a nice ring to it.

It took her an hour and a half, resting often, to make a cheese soufflé and a salad for dinner. When Josh came in the door, he was carrying a newspaper under his arm just as in her dream. She gulped. Maybe dreams did come true. No, she reminded herself firmly, it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. He paused in the doorway to look at her, and she raised the spoon to give the salad a final toss. He came up behind her and enclosed her waist with his arms.

“Didn’t I tell you you’re not supposed to do anything that requires concentration or vigorous movement?” he warned. He kissed the top of her head and she closed her eyes.

“Cooking doesn’t require any concentration. And I’ve been moving very slowly. It’s taken me ages to make this simple dinner.”

His hands moved up to cup her breasts under the cotton fabric of the shirt she was wearing. “I could get used to this,” he said, nuzzling her neck with his lips.

“It’s just a soufflé,” she said breathlessly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

She pulled away and opened the oven to check on the soufflé. She could get used to it, too, having Josh come home every night to her. But she didn’t dare. She had to get back to the farm as soon as possible, to make that break as easy as possible before she was hopelessly entangled, hopelessly in love. She was in love, she admitted to herself, but not hopelessly, not yet.

They ate on the balcony. He told her about the weavers’ new alpaca sheep and about the new group of hat makers who had just applied for a loan. They laughed. They talked. They drank coffee and lapsed into a comfortable silence. Too comfortable. Catherine stood and looked into the living room.

“Where have you been sleeping?”

“On the floor in my sleeping bag.”

“I’ll take the floor. I’ve been in your bed for days now. It’s your turn.”

He took his coffee and stood by the door to the balcony. “No, it isn’t.”

“I’m much better. I won’t put you out much longer.”

His eyes made a tour of the long shirt that grazed her knees. “You look better, but you’re not well yet.” He set his cup down and crossed the room to tilt her chin with his thumb. “What’s your hurry? The women seem to be doing fine without you. The truck’s being repaired. Until then they’ll ride in with Tomás.”

“I feel guilty. Farmers aren’t allowed to get sick or take vacations. I’m restless.” The first part was true. There were always cows to be milked and horses to feed. The last part wasn’t. She wasn’t restless. She was happy to lie in bed and look at the view from Josh’s window all day, then make dinner for him at night. But she didn’t want him to know how happy she was. He might get the wrong idea. And she knew that when she got well she would be restless and she’d leave.

The next night Josh brought a flat of strawberry plants the women had sent her and a clay pot. “They said they noticed my balcony had a southeast exposure, perfect for strawberries.”

Catherine pressed her finger into the damp soil. “They’re right,” she said. The next day she planted them in the pot, a feeling of contentment stealing over her as she felt the sun on her back and the soil between her fingers.

A week went by. The women sent tomato plants next and squash seedlings until the balcony was almost full and Catherine told Josh to tell them to stop. So they sent food instead, and Catherine cooked more dinners. After dinner they talked and laughed and fell silent and thought.

“Will you water these plants when I leave?” she asked one evening.

“If you’ll take them when I leave,” he said.

She nodded. She didn’t want to know when that was. He hadn’t asked her again to go back with him. He didn’t talk about going back to Boston, so she didn’t, either. But she figured he didn’t have many weeks left here.

He finally had to admit that she was well enough to leave. The doctor had made a final examination. The bump had receded on her forehead. The pain still came when she made a sudden movement, but the color was back in her cheeks. Wearing the cleaned and repaired pant suit she’d started out in on that rainy day, she stood and looked around the apartment, her gaze lingering on the balcony where they’d spent so much time.

Josh stood at the door, holding his breath. The pain in his chest made him wonder if he hadn’t broken a few ribs, too. The past weeks had been a taste of what could be, and he wanted more, a whole lifetime more. But if she didn’t feel it, didn’t want it, it was better that he know now. If there was going to be a painful separation, he wanted to get it over with now.

Finally she turned and gave him a bright smile. He exhaled slowly. That was it. Nothing. This magic time had meant nothing to her. Just a brief interlude, an inconvenience. He smiled back, feeling the skin tighten at the corners of his mouth.

He drove her back to Palomar. It was a warm, sunny day, and they drove past the place where she’d gone over the bank. Only a few rocks were left on the road to remind them how slick it had been, to bring back the fear and terror he’d felt looking down through the trees.

They exchanged looks, but he didn’t stop. And he didn’t linger at the farm. He said he’d let her know when he got the report from the geologist on the mine, and she said she’d see him at the bank. He kissed her on the cheek and she turned and hurried into her house.

She went through the rooms, opening windows and airing them out. It was good to be back, good to be able to walk out the front door and into the fields. But at night she set two plates on the table by mistake and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She put her head down on the kitchen table and sobbed uncontrollably for no reason.

She told herself it was a delayed reaction from the accident. She told herself she’d been holding the tears back all this time. When Josh was around, she had to be brave, but now that she was alone, there was no need. By the second day she admitted it to herself. She was alone and she was lonely.

She didn’t do anything about it, though. What could she do? Tell him she missed him? Tell him she loved him? Loved him, but not enough to go back with him. Not enough to spend the rest of her life pulling weeds from a postage-stamp yard.

When they went to town, she looked for him at the bank, but when she saw him he smiled briefly and hurried away. He must be busy tying things up before he left. He looked worried and harassed. He had circles under his eyes. But then she didn’t look very good, either. She hoped he didn’t notice. Probably not. He never got close enough.

Jacinda got close to him. She told Catherine the truck was fixed. He’d have someone bring it to the market next week. Jacinda was the one who told her when he was leaving.

Out in the berry patch Jacinda looked puzzled. “What is wrong with Señor Bentley that he has not yet asked for your hand in marriage?” she demanded. Catherine didn’t know what to say without unleashing a full-scale argument. “This is the correct way to do it,” she continued, “then take you back with him. Why not?”

Catherine reached across Jacinda to pick a handful of berries. “Perhaps he thinks I wouldn’t go.”

Jacinda pursed her lips. “What nonsense. Anyone can see you love him.”

“Sometimes love isn’t enough. As you know, Mr. Bentley works in the city and lives there, too. You saw his apartment. Can you imagine me in such a place?”

“If you loved him,” Jacinda replied.

“I’m afraid I don’t love him enough for that,” Catherine said slowly.

“There is only one way to find out,” Jacinda said.

Catherine waited, but Jacinda didn’t say what that was.

The day before he was to leave Catherine hadn’t gotten the plants from Josh’s balcony, nor had she heard from him about the results from the mine. So instead of riding home with the women, she gathered her courage and went to Josh’s apartment. He wasn’t there, but the doorman remembered her and let her into the penthouse. The living room was full of boxes, the same boxes she’d helped him open only a short time ago.

She thought of the picture of his father and how he’d come to terms with his inheritance. It no longer seemed important to him if the mine paid off or not except for the others. For himself he’d found something more valuable—his father’s memory.

She sat in the dark on the floor of the balcony, her body trembling, waiting for him. She was trying to decide what to say. She held her hands up to her eyes to block out the peripheral light so she could locate Scorpio, the constellation that had gotten her into this situation in the first place.

She pictured herself on the farm where she’d grown up, but the outlines of the house and the fields were just as fuzzy as the outline of Scorpio. It had been almost two years since she’d left the land of her birth. Long enough to grieve over the lost land and her lost heritage. Josh had learned to put his loss behind him and move on. Wasn’t it time she did the same?

The front door opened. Josh stumbled on a box in the dark and swore. She jumped to her feet. The door swung closed behind him. She waited while his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, wiping her damp palms against her skirt.

“I didn’t know anyone was here,” he said after a pause.

“The doorman let me in. I didn’t want you to leave without ...” All of a sudden her nerve deserted her and she faltered.

He crossed the room and joined her on the balcony. “Without saying goodbye. Of course. I meant to come by the market, but they had a surprise party after work. Then it was too late. I thought you’d have left.”

His voice was cool and reserved. How could he talk to her that way if he really loved her?

She looked around at the bare walls, at the hallway to the bedroom, toward the kitchen. “I’ve missed you,” she said, the pain rising in her chest. “I’ve missed this place.”

He stared at her. “I thought you hated this place.”

“I thought I did, too. But I discovered I’d rather live in the city with you than anywhere else without you.”

“Even Boston?” he asked incredulously, afraid to believe his ears.

She felt her lips curve into a smile. She hadn’t smiled much since she’d left this place weeks ago. “Even Boston.”

He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “Is that a proposal?”

She slid her arms around his neck. “I know I’m supposed to wait until you ask my parents for my hand, but I’m an American, and American women sometimes take matters into their own hands.”

“Thank God,” he muttered against her ear.

“I’m not free for three months, though. Until then I belong to the Peace Corps.”

He pulled back to see happiness spilling from her dark eyes. If she didn’t have three ribs still mending, he would have crushed her to him and swung her around the living room.

“I’ll need three months to find a place for us to live, someplace with a field or an orchard that’s within commuting distance to the city,” he said.

She pressed her hands together, unable to resist the tidal wave of joy that threatened to engulf her. All this and green grass, too.

“Josh,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. I meant what I said. I’ll live anywhere with you. I came here to teach people how to farm. But I learned much more—how to let go of what’s gone, and how to love. You can’t take all the credit,” she said, taking his face in her hands. “Just most of it.” She brought his mouth down to hers and gave him the most profound kiss he’d ever had.

Moments later he broke away and looked down at her. “If you were completely well...” he said shakily.

“I’ve never felt better in my life,” she assured him.

He lifted her into his arms. “Are you trying to get me to take you back to that bed in there?” His eyes were smoky blue.

“Mmm,” she answered, lowering her mouth to his for another kiss.

He stopped at the doorway to the bedroom. “Catherine,” he said, “you still can’t do anything that requires vigorous movement or concentration.’’

“Those are the only kinds of things I want to do.”

“Me, too, but we’ll wait until your ribs are back together again. I’ll give you three months to heal and plan the wedding.”

She gazed off dreamily. “It’ll be like Magdalena’s in the village church.” He set her on the bed, and she looked up at him, her eyes wide and luminous. “Sleep with me,” she said. “I thought about you sleeping in this bed with me every night I spent here.” She saw the worry lines form in his forehead. “No vigorous movements,” she promised. “Just hold me. All night long.”

She wore his one clean shirt that wasn’t packed and her cotton bikini panties. He wore the flannel shirt he was planning to leave behind and pin-striped boxer shorts. Josh pulled the comforter up over them, carefully tucking it over her shoulders. He held her gently, as if she might break, remembering the time when she almost did.

She shifted to feel the weight of his body against hers. His hard planes and muscles pressed against her soft hollows. She sighed with happiness.

His hand cupped her breast and he felt her heart race. He couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t sleep until he got on the plane tomorrow. “Oh, no. I almost forgot.”

She turned to face him. “What?”

“The report from the geologist.”

“It must not be good news or you wouldn’t have forgotten.”

“Good news and bad news. The bad news is that there was no silver in any of the samples. The good news is that the rock you picked up is zinc, ruby zinc, to be exact. You have good taste in rocks.” He caressed her bottom lip with his thumb.

“Why, is it valuable?” She absorbed his touch and the clean male scent of his skin.

“It is if there’s enough of it. So they’re going to send a team to do a survey.”

“That would be the icing on the cake,” she said, her cheek against his. “So it does work.”

He inhaled the fragrance of her hair, still unable to believe that she was here in his bed, in his arms. “What?” he asked lazily.

“Sleeping on a piece of wedding cake. I dreamed about you that night.”

He kissed her eyelids. “Will you dream about me tonight?”

“Every night,” she promised. “Until you get back.”