Cinderella in Overalls

chapter One



The diesel truck bounced up and down on the rocky dirt road, and Catherine Logan gripped the edge of the passenger seat to keep from hitting her head on the roof. Behind her in the long flatbed, where she usually sat, a dozen Mamara Indian women were wedged between burlap sacks bulging with lettuce, parsley and mangoes. She was proud of the harvest, proud of what they’d accomplished with no machinery, and proud of the Aruacan women who worked so hard for so little. So little that at the end of a grueling market day they ended up with no more than a few pesos to show for it. The money the women earned went right through their hands and into the pockets of the workers they depended on to bring the crops to market. Catherine smoothed her layered skirts and turned to face the driver.

“Tomas,” she shouted over the roar of the diesel engine, “can’t you lower your price for us? These are poor women who can’t afford your fees.”

Hunched over the wheel, he spoke without looking at her. “And what about me?” he asked. “Do I not have to make a living, too? Do you know the price of a truck these days?”

Catherine shook her head. She had no idea of the price of a truck in Aruaca. She had been a Peace Corps volunteer for eighteen months and she knew the prices of potatoes and bread and shoes, but not trucks. She tapped the driver on the shoulder. “How much,” she asked, “for a truck like this?”

“Too much,” he replied with a glance over his shoulder, “for them. But for a rich American like you...” He shrugged. “Maybe not.”

She grimaced. Despite the fact that she lived in a small house as the other farmers did, dressed like the women in a fringed shawl and wore her hair in a long braid, there were still some local people who thought she must be rich. They didn’t know that except for the living allowance the Peace Corps gave her she would be penniless.

As they bumped along the road, Catherine was convinced the village would never rise out of its cycle of unending poverty unless the villagers owned their own truck. But how? Borrowing the money was out of the question. Or was it? The truck swayed as they rounded a narrow curve, and Catherine braced her feet against the floorboard and looked out the window into the steep ravine below. She had never driven on mountain roads like these, but if they had their own truck, she would do it. She would do anything to help these people.

Her eyelids drooped and she stifled a yawn. The women had been up since 3:00 a.m. and only now were they approaching the outskirts of La Luz. By the time the truck rumbled up the hilly streets of the capital, it was six o’clock and the Rodriguez Market was teeming with activity. As soon as Tomas parked the truck, the women trudged from the street to the market, doubled over by the weight of the produce on their backs. Catherine, with her colorful ahuayo filled with lettuce, wove her way through the crowds to their stall, a structure of vertical two-by-fours that supported a patched roof of corrugated tin and plastic.

Doña Jacinda, her small face browned and wrinkled from the years in the fields, surveyed the young woman from California and sighed. “Ah, la Catalina.” She shook her head in mock despair. “What is to become of you buried here among the burlap sacks with only farmers for company? When I was your age, I was married and the mother of six already.”

Catherine straightened her bowler hat and smiled. “But, Jacinda, it was you who taught me that ‘Women’s faults are many, but men have only two. Everything they say and everything they do.’”

A shopper arrived and silenced the unspoken retort in Jacinda’s throat. While Catherine watched her haggle over the price of parsley, she surveyed the early-morning bargain hunters. She seldom saw tourists at the market, but over the babble of Spanish came the sound of English, of Americans speaking English. She leaned over the wooden crates to see a small group of men approaching, wearing suits and ties. She hadn’t heard a word of English for weeks, not since the last Peace Corps meeting in La Luz. The man in the middle of the group seemed to be the center of attention.

He would be the center of attention anywhere, she decided, with his dark, close-cropped hair and rangy good looks. He moved easily through the throngs of morning shoppers, his suit coat slung over his shoulder. His blue eyes swept the stalls as if he were looking for something special. Guava? Papaya? Hand-woven baskets? As he drew closer, he caught Catherine’s eye, and she looked away quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Jacinda nudged Catherine with her elbow. A woman wrapped in a tattered shawl with a baby on her back was asking the price of mangoes. Catherine had been so busy watching the man that she hadn’t noticed her.

“Do not go lower than three pesos a piece,” Jacinda whispered urgently.

Catherine flushed and bit her lip. “Three pesos,” she said softly. She could plant, she could plow and she could pick, but she couldn’t bargain. For months she had tried to learn, but she always came down too low too fast, or stayed too high too long until her customers shook their heads and went elsewhere. Maybe today, with Jacinda at her side, she could finally get it right.

The customer complained loudly that she couldn’t afford to pay that much for a mango, and then her baby started crying.

Out of the corner of her eye Catherine saw the man with the blue eyes at the edge of the crowd regarding her intently. She wiped her damp palms against her skirt and cleared her throat, but no sound came out.

Jacinda, weighing fruit with one hand and making change with the other, was at Catherine’s elbow. In a flash she closed the deal, grabbed the mangoes and wrapped them up. The customer paid and walked away grumbling, but Jacinda’s black eyes gleamed.

“Did you see that, chica?” she asked Catherine. “There was nothing to it. It was a fair price and she knew it. Start high so you have room to come down.”

Tiny worry lines etched themselves in Catherine’s forehead. The man was now leaning against the stall across from them and still watching her. She looked down at Jacinda. “But she looked so poor, and she has a baby to feed.”

Jacinda snorted. “That is not her baby. And she wears those old clothes on market day. I see her every week. Harden your soft heart, Catalina. We will make a bargainer out of you yet.”

Catherine nodded. “I just need a little practice.” When she glanced up, the man was standing in front of her holding a half-dozen mangoes in his hands, so close she caught the masculine scent of pine soap.

“How much?” he asked in careful Spanish, and Catherine slanted a desperate look in Jacinda’s direction. She wasn’t ready for another customer yet. And she definitely wasn’t ready for the man in front of her whose broad forehead and wide, generous mouth made her heart skip a beat.

Jacinda took in the situation with a flash of her dark eyes and opened her palm as if she were handing the man over to her. This one is for you, she seemed to say. Don’t blow it this time.

Catherine took a deep breath and looked up into dazzling blue eyes. “Six pesos each,” she said firmly. The sights and the sounds of the market faded except for the beating of Catherine’s heart. Start at six and come down to three, she repeated to herself. But the man didn’t say anything. How could she come down to three if he didn’t speak? He just stood there, holding the mangoes and staring at her until she felt her knees weaken, and she swayed back against a wooden crate.

The man’s eyes widened in alarm, and he dropped the mangoes in an effort to steady her. His friends picked up the fruit and advised him to offer two instead of six.

Just as loudly and just as firmly every one of the vendors in Catherine’s stall began shouting reasons why the mangoes were worth more. They may not have understood the Americans, but they knew how to keep the bargaining alive. There was a glimmer deep in the man’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Catherine thought that if he laughed she wouldn’t be able to control herself, and then her career as a vendor would be over. Bargaining was serious business, and she knew she was being tested. Right here and right now.

“Six pesos each,” she repeated over the hubbub.

Suddenly the stall fell silent. He reached into his pocket for a handful of silver and counted the coins one by one as he placed them in her outstretched palms. His fingers were cool, and she felt the current flow from his hand into hers. Then he carefully closed her hand around the money and held it tightly for a long moment.

There was no amusement in his eyes this time. There was something else, something that caught and held her for longer than the transaction required. His companions were incredulous.

“What is it with you, Bentley? The first woman you see and you lose it.”

“Come on, boss. We’ve got to get you the hell out of here and back to the bank before this woman talks you into a crate of potatoes and we have to store them in the vault.”

The women surrounded Catherine to congratulate her. The noise level rose, and when she looked again he was gone. He and his friends had been swallowed up by the crowd. But she had held firm and made a big profit. She had passed the test. She was one of them.

To celebrate, Jacinda took her to the tiny bar-styled cafe late in the afternoon when the shadows fell over the stall and the other women were packing their empty bags and counting the money. The cafe was warmly lighted and inviting with the aroma of strong coffee. Jacinda patted a bar stool and motioned for Catherine to sit next to her.

“It was a good day,” Jacinda remarked as the proprietor set small cups of black coffee in front of them. “Do you know I have worked in the stalls since I was fourteen years old and I have never seen anyone pay full price for anything? It was most amazing.”

“Amazing,” Catherine agreed, wrapping her hands around the cup to feel the warmth. “But I can’t take full credit, amiga mia. The man was North American. Unaccustomed to bargaining. Like me. I’m afraid I won’t be able to take advantage of anyone again.”

Jacinda picked up her cup and stared thoughtfully at Catherine. “Unless he comes back.”

Catherine shook her head. “He’s not coming back. Why should he?”

Don Panchito leaned across the counter. “The norteamericanos were here also this morning.”

Catherine leaned forward on her tall stool. “Is it true they’re bankers?”

The old man nodded and refilled Catherine’s cup. “The big bank in the middle of town.”

Catherine set her cup down on the counter. She swore she would never set foot in another bank again, never speak to another banker. But a loan for a truck would make all the difference to the village. If fate had sent her a banker, could she refuse to go and see Mr. Bentley in his big bank in the middle of town?

Joshua Bentley stood at the window of his office on the twelfth floor of the International Bank Building. Before him lay the city of La Luz spread out like a tapestry woven of poverty and riches. He had only been in the city for two weeks, but it called to him, tempting him to come down out of his lofty tower and rub elbows with the people—people like the woman with the dark eyes and pink cheeks. His eyes sought out the corrugated roofs of the Rodriguez Market, barely visible in the haze. Was she sitting there today with her bowler hat tilted tone side, taking advantage of newcomers again? She hadn’t been there yesterday or the day before.

He hadn’t minded being taken or laughed at. Maybe it was the altitude that made him feel this way. At twelve thousand feet hallucinations and faulty judgment were common. But women who ignited sparks with a glance weren’t common, not in Josh’s experience. The phones on his desk rang, the fax machines poured out messages with the prices of gold and silver and yet he stood at the window, wondering where she was and what she was doing.

Finally he could ignore the insistent ring of the telephone no longer. It was the receptionist in the lobby.

“There’s an American woman who wants to see you.”

“What about?” He shifted impatiently. He had work to do. Never mind that he wasn’t doing it.

“She says it’s about a loan.”

“Send her to the loan department.”

“I tried, but she asked for you specifically.”

He sighed. Probably the wife of a businessman who had overdrawn her checking account. “Okay, send her up.”

In a few minutes his secretary, in her high heels and tailored suit, knocked on his door and gave him a puzzled look. “A woman is here to see you...” she began.

He nodded. “I know.” The words died in his throat as she walked into his office. The same woman he’d been thinking about nonstop for the past five days. How in hell had she passed herself off as an American? She was still wearing her ridiculous bowler hat above dark eyes that stared boldly into his.

He was trying to construct a sentence in Spanish, any sentence just to break the silence, but the words wouldn’t come and all he could do was point to the chair that faced his desk.

She nodded slightly and carefully folded her long skirt underneath her. Then she pressed her palms together. “I’ve come to ask for a loan,” she said, her unwavering gaze locked with his.

He leaned back against his desk so that he wouldn’t fall over. It was the shock of hearing her speak perfect English. If only she hadn’t asked for something he couldn’t give her.

“Have I come to the right place?” she asked when he didn’t say anything.

“Not really,” he answered reluctantly. “But no matter where you go the answer is no.”

Startled, she stood up. “No? But you haven’t even asked me how much I want or what I want it for.”

“All right,” he agreed. “Tell me how much you want and what you want it for. But first tell me how you happen to speak such good English.”

She tossed her long braid over her shoulder, and he thought he saw a glint of amusement in her dark eyes. But when he smiled back it was gone and he was disappointed.

“I’m an American,” she said. “In the Peace Corps in Palomar, over in the valley.”

Josh’s eyes swept down her body from the hat to the black flat-heeled shoes. So the woman who caught his eye in the market wasn’t a Mamara Indian; she was a Peace Corps volunteer gone native who wanted to borrow money for silver jewelry or a ticket home. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

She held out her hand. “Catherine Logan, agricultural specialist.”

He shook her hand and felt the calluses on her palm. He thought he could smell fresh fruit, ripening on the trees, but it was the clean scent of her hair and her skin reminding him of summer days and country roads.

He was still holding her hand, and she looked up inquiringly until he realized she was waiting for him to introduce himself.

“Josh Bentley, assistant vice president.”

She nodded. “Then I have come to the right place.” She sat down again, as if she hadn’t heard him say that the answer was no. “I’m working with the villagers to develop a new strain of potatoes, one that takes up less space and produces a higher yield in a shorter time.’’

Her eyes glowed, and he felt light-headed again. They said it took months before the altitude sickness disappeared for good. He folded his arms across his chest. “How is it working out?” he asked, watching her lips move as she spoke, still in semi-shock to find she was an American.

“Fine. Wonderful. Better than I hoped. I’d only done it on the experimental plot at the university, never on a big scale. I’m very excited about it.”

He smiled. “I can see that.”

She leaned forward and drew her eyebrows together. “Can you? Do you mean I’ve stumbled across the one banker in the world who understands why we need to borrow money to buy a truck to haul our own produce to market?”

Josh rubbed his forehead. He didn’t seem to be able to think straight. He didn’t know how to explain that he couldn’t lend her the money, although he understood why she needed it. But he’d been sent here specifically to put a lid on lending, to put a stop to the making of bad loans.

“Look, Catherine Logan, understanding your need and being able to do something about it are two different things.’’

She stood up and stared at him. “You mean the answer is still no?”

He put his hand on her arm. “Do you know there’s an international debt crisis and that inflation in Aruaca is running about two hundred percent? Have you heard that every time a borrower defaults on a loan the rate goes up and then poor peasants can’t buy shoes or potatoes or—”

She pulled back and squared her shoulders. “Thanks for the lecture. I won’t waste any more of your time, since I see your mind was made up before I got here.” She pressed her lips together. “I should have known. You bankers have an answer for everything. And the answer is always no.”

Josh watched helplessly while she blinked back tears and walked to the door.

“Wait a minute,” he said, following her across the roam. “That’s not a fair assessment.”

She grasped the doorknob tightly. “That’s not fair? I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Foreclosing on a family farm after a lifetime of planting and living and—” She pushed the door open without finishing her sentence and walked out through the reception area to the elevator while he watched.

He stared at the open door. What had set her off like that? He could understand why she would be disappointed, but to cry over the plight of the family farm seemed like an overreaction. But she wasn’t the only one to overreact. Why did he feel such a sense of loss as he stared out the window into the street below, trying to catch a glimpse of a bowler hat and a tear-streaked face?

Dusk fell over the city and lights began to appear across town. The telephone finally stopped ringing. If he hadn’t turned the Logan woman down, she would still be sitting in the chair across from his desk, her dark eyes brimming with warmth instead of tears. She would have leaned back and told him in her lilting voice why she had joined the Peace Corps and how she had learned to speak perfect Spanish.

But he’d had no choice. The Aruacan economy was in terrible shape. He was there to tell the people to tighten their belts, not to buy new equipment. But if he couldn’t even explain it to a woman with a degree in agriculture, how could he get it across to the man in the street, the people down there hurrying home from work to a meager dinner of beans and rice?

Actually beans and rice didn’t sound so bad, he thought, if you had someone to share it with. He wondered where Catherine Logan was right now. How would she get back to Palomar at this time of day? Or was she still down there in the city alone somewhere, carrying a grudge against him as she carried the ahuayo on her back?

There was a knock on his door, and his secretary stuck her head in to remind him he had a meeting at 5:00. He walked down the hall to the conference room, and soon he was describing his plan to reduce imports. But his mind continued down another track, a track that led to a farm in a valley where a woman grew potatoes but had no way to get them to town.

There was enough money represented in that room to fund a whole fleet of trucks. If he asked, they would probably agree to make a charitable donation to the agricultural sector. He wouldn’t ask them until he asked her if she’d take a truck as a gift. He could picture the look on her face. Joy, wonder, gratitude. He smiled with satisfaction, and the meeting was adjourned.



* * *





Catherine didn’t tell the women of the village she didn’t get the loan. They didn’t even know she had gone to ask for it. That way they wouldn’t have to share her disappointment. Or her anger. Or her humiliation at being turned down.

Doña Jacinda took her aside one day as they walked in from the fields, the golden sunshine at their backs, baskets of parsley on their heads, Jacinda’s grandchildren trailing behind, munching on carrots. ‘“Tell me, chiquita, what is troubling you? You have not been yourself since you returned from La Luz last week.”

Catherine steadied the basket on her head. “I’m a country girl,” she said. “The city doesn’t agree with me. And...” She sighed. “I must go again next week for a meeting and a party to celebrate our Independence Day.”

Doña Jacinda clapped her hands together. “A party is just what you need to cheer you up. On our Independence Day there is dancing in the streets. When I was your age, I could dance all night and still work in the fields all day.”

Catherine turned to look at the older woman.” How did you manage to do that? When you were my age, you were married with half a dozen children.”

Jacinda chewed thoughtfully on a stalk of parsley. “Did I say that?”

Catherine smiled. “I’ll never be half the woman you are, Donacita.” They reached the small house of Doña Jacinda and set their baskets on a shelf in the hut behind the house.

“How is it that you are not married, Catalina? What is wrong with the men in your country?” The wrinkles in her forehead deepened as her dark eyes probed for the answer.

Catherine leaned against the rack used for drying herbs and fruits. “I don’t know any men, Jacinda. I only know boys. And I feel too old for them. Sometimes I feel about one hundred years old.”

Jacinda tilted her head to one side and surveyed Catherine carefully. “You are old, that is true, though not quite one hundred. But I am older still and experienced in the ways of the heart. Have I not outlived three husbands already? I saw the look in your eye at the market the other day, and I felt the electricity in the air when you sold the tall man the mangoes. Do you deny you felt something?”

Catherine felt a flush creep up her face and bent over the baskets of parsley to inspect them. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, Doña.”

Jacinda smiled knowingly. “Of course not. There have been so many men buying mangoes, how could you remember this one? But I tell you if I had been thirty years younger, I wouldn’t have let him get away. You heard that he works in a bank. I have never been in a bank, but I think they may have more money than I have ever seen.”

Catherine looked up. “Never been in a bank? Never cashed a check or had a bank book?”

Jacinda shrugged. “No.”

Catherine looked at her thoughtfully. “You’re a farmer, yes. But you’re a businesswoman, too, and you need a bank. One day you and I will go together.”

Jacinda’s eyes flashed. “And we will find the man in the suit, the one you don’t remember.”

Catherine smiled and ducked under the hanging bouquets of sage and rosemary and waved goodbye. The woman was uncanny. Matchmaker, homemaker, mother and farmer and businesswoman. How could she have felt the vibrations in the air when Catherine herself was doing her best to ignore them? Thank God she hadn’t confided in Jacinda about the truck. Let her think the tall stranger was a rich, generous banker. She would never know that the man who caused the electricity in the air was the one who stood between than and the truck they needed.

Let Jacinda hang on to her illusions. Catherine had none left.