Cinderella in Overalls

chapter Three



It was when he dumped the bags of food in the back seat of the car that he saw this thin stream of greenish liquid running down the road and forming a pool in a pothole. He exhaled loudly and cast a quick look back at the house. Catherine was nowhere in sight. She had made it clear she didn’t want to see him again. He thought she’d want to see him drive away, though, just to have the satisfaction of knowing he’d really gone.

He lay down under the car on the hot pavement, feeling the heat burn through his shirt and jeans, and confirmed what he already knew. The origin of the greenish liquid was the radiator of his car. He swore loudly in the late-afternoon silence, stood up and looked under the hood. The radiator was bone dry. He walked back to the house and knocked on her front door.

The sound of water running came from somewhere in the house. So at least she had running water, though she cooked on a wood stove and had no electricity that he noticed. Was she washing dishes or herself? He pictured her in the shower with rivulets of water running down her breasts, and the heat rose in his body from the soles of his shoes to the top of his head.

He sat down on the front porch and chewed on a stalk of grass to calm down. When the water stopped, he stood and knocked again. Silence.

“Hello,” he called loudly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to borrow a cup of water for my radiator.’’

Her muffled voice came from somewhere in the house. “Just a minute.”

She came to the door, wearing a large white towel wrapped around her body. In her hand she held a metal cup filled with water, which she gave him without a word. Maybe she thought it was a trick so he wouldn’t have to leave.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured her, trying not to notice the full curves under the terry cloth. He turned quickly and walked back to his car. When he poured the water into the radiator, it dribbled out through a crack in a rubber hose. He swore under his breath this time, just in case she was still at the door, listening. He should have realized that at this altitude water had reached the boiling point somewhere between La Luz and Palomar and split the hose. All perfectly understandable. What he didn’t understand was why it had to happen today.

He sat down on the road in the shadow of the car and stared back at the small house. If he were in a city, he’d call a tow truck and a taxi. He’d buy a new hose and have it installed. But he was in Palomar with no tow truck, no spare parts , and, worst of all, no place to get out of the sun.

Although he was within spitting distance of a comfortable house belonging to a fellow American, he might as well be in the middle of the desert for all the good it did him. At least in the desert there was the spirit of hospitality for the traveler. He had already used up his quota of Catherine Logan’s hospitality. He supposed he could sleep in a field. And he had plenty of food. He wouldn’t starve. If only it weren’t so hot. He wiped his forehead and thought about Catherine, still wet and cool from the shower. If he hadn’t wasted the cup of water on the radiator, he could have drunk it.

And now he was hallucinating. He thought he saw her on the porch, wearing shorts and a shirt, her hands on her hips. He stood up, blinked and looked again. She was real. She was moving her lips.

“What are you doing out there?” she called.

He walked slowly back to the house, the empty cup in his hand. “There’s a little problem with my car,” he said grimly. “I was wondering if I could use your telephone.”

She looked surprised. “Who are you going to call?”

“A garage.”

She shook her head. “Even if I had a telephone, you couldn’t call a garage because they aren’t open on Sunday.”

“Well, then a tow truck.”

“Get real, Bentley. There is no garage. There is no tow truck within a hundred miles. What is it you’re looking for?”

“A rubber hose. The one I have is cracked.”

“Try La Luz, and if they don’t have one, there’s always Bogota.”

He nodded slowly. “Well, I won’t take any more of your time. You’ve been more than helpful and I’ll be on my way.”

“Where are you going?” she asked with an exasperated sigh.

“Back to the city.”

“What are you going to do—walk? I hate to disappoint you, but you’re stuck here for the night, or half the night. The truck comes to get us at 3:00 a.m. for market. You can ride along if you want and try to buy a hose in town tomorrow. Until then...”

“Don’t worry about me,” he assured her. “I’ll just camp out in my car. I’ve got plenty of food.”

Her eyes took in his perspiring face, his damp shirt and his grim expression.

“Why don’t you come in for another glass of water?” she asked, tucking a wet curl behind her ear.

“Thank you,” he said, following her into the kitchen. “I gave the last one to my radiator.”

She watched him drain the glass she gave him and set it in the sink. He stood and looked at her, watching her run her hand through the tangle of damp curls. The fragrance of hand-milled soap filled the air. His gaze slid down to her bare feet and then up her legs. A smattering of freckles across her knees surprised him. He felt the muscles in his abdomen tighten, and he realized he was in dangerous territory, emotionally and physically. He had to get out of there before he made a complete fool of himself. Just as he was turning to leave, she spoke.

“If you don’t mind a cold shower, you can use mine. I’m afraid I used up all the hot water, but...” “A cold shower is exactly what I need,” he said. She showed him to a stall made of corrugated plastic tacked on to the house as an afterthought, and then she disappeared. The water was cold and clear and pumped in from the well in the backyard. The tank backed into the chimney, allowing water to be heated by the fire. The soap was her soap. He stood there and let the water run through his hair and down his face, and he wished to hell she would take the truck as a gift and they could be friends. He had a feeling she was as proud as the Indian women. Too proud to accept charity. He understood that. Growing up poor could do that to you.

The other thing he wished was that he could get into his car and drive back to La Luz. Even as he dried off with her towel, he knew the shower hadn’t solved his problem. He was filled with an intense desire for a woman who hated all bankers and him in particular and was only interested in what he could do for her. Now that she knew he wasn’t going to give her what she wanted, she was even sorrier than he was that his car had broken down. As soon as he thanked her, he’d go back to his car and wait until the truck came at 3:00. He tried not to think of the car as an inferno, its black surface absorbing the afternoon sun.

Catherine was sitting under a tree behind the house packing raspberries to sell at the market when Josh walked through the back door. She looked up and dropped several berries on the ground. Now that the dirt and dust were gone his strong features stood out in stark relief. His eyes, the color of the late-afternoon sky, held her gaze across the yard. Just when she was prepared to let him spend the night in his car, he came out of her shower looking at home, as if he belonged there, too.

Carefully she picked up the berries and resumed her packing. Casually she said, “Jacinda was here. She brought a chicken for dinner.”

“Your dinner,” he said.

“Your dinner, too. She made that quite clear.”

“That was nice of her.”

Catherine pushed the boxes aside. “She’s afraid I’ll let you slip through my fingers. She sees you as my last hope before I dry up and blow away.”

Josh leaned against the side of the house, his arms folded across his chest. “No chance of my slipping away today. Why didn’t you tell her you have this thing about bankers before she got her hopes up? Didn’t you tell her we’re all slime bags who foreclose on innocent women and children and take away their homes?”

She stood up with her basket over her arm. “I never said that. I know you’re just doing your job. I just wish—”

“You wish it weren’t my job. Sometimes I wish it weren’t, either. If I were a farmer, you would have kissed me today under the tree, wouldn’t you?”

Her eyes widened, and her heart beat out a warning. “Wait a minute. Don’t jump to conclusions. I’m not looking for a farmer. I’m not looking for anybody. I admit there may be something between us. I don’t understand it, but I don’t deny it.”

He nodded. “Like lightning bolts. You don’t have to understand them to feel them when they hit you.”

She swallowed hard. So he felt it, too, the current that flowed between them. It was time to put a stop to this right now, and the best way to do it, other than telling him the truth, was to agree with him.

“You’re right, you know. I do have a thing against bankers that goes way back. I can’t change it, you can’t change it, no matter what you do. Even if you lend us the money. That’s why it has to be only business between us. Surely you can see that lending us money is good business. We’ll take good care of the truck. We’ll make our payments on time. And you’ll get a whole lot of new customers.” The words were coming faster and faster. She paused to take a breath. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, in theory. But I told you—”

She brushed past him and walked to the back door. “I know what you’re going to say. I don’t want to hear it again. Let’s drop it. We’re stuck here together for a few more hours. Then you can go back to banking and I can go back to farming.”

Josh felt as if she’d slapped him in the face. “I’m sorry I ruined your day. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“You can start a fire out back to barbecue the chicken. That way we won’t have to heat up the house.” She turned and went into the kitchen.

As he tossed branches of apple wood into a pile, he realized she didn’t bother to deny that he’d ruined her day. Well, she hadn’t done much to make his, either. Except for the lunch, and Jacinda had made that. Then there was the encounter under the mango tree, where he had almost lost his control and she had almost given in to the feelings she tried so hard to hide. Was this really a generic hatred of bankers as she claimed, or was it something else, something he couldn’t even guess at?

When she came outside again, the smoke was curling up from the fire. Expertly she threaded the chicken on the spit, and Josh turned the crank until his arm ached and his face was covered with soot. She set the table and brought out a pot of rice and a platter of homegrown tomatoes. Then she poked a fork into the chicken and nodded her approval.

After he washed up, they made polite, impersonal conversation while they ate. But when she wasn’t looking he allowed himself some very personal glances—at the neckline of her T-shirt and the line where her shorts met her thighs. As the shadows lengthened, he studied her profile and the way her hair brushed her cheek. When she got up to get the coffee, he realized he would never see her legs again or the freckles on her knees, because tomorrow she would be wearing her market clothes and that would be the end of it. Of everything.

No more would he make a fool of himself hanging around the Rodriguez Market, waiting to see if she’d appear. No more feeble attempts at bargaining. As she had said, she’d go back to farming and he’d go back to banking. Finally. This had been the longest and most frustrating day of his life. And it wasn’t over yet.

He stood and walked around the yard. It was almost dark. If it hadn’t been for the light from the fire, he wouldn’t have noticed the hammock swaying invitingly in the evening breeze. He leaned against the canvas. It was wide, big enough for two. Fat chance, he told himself. Catherine set two cups on the table and a pot of coffee.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she cautioned. “That’s where I sleep.”

He straightened. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to stretch out in the back seat of my car. Don’t forget to knock on my window in the morning so I won’t miss the truck.”

“That’s not necessary. You can have my bedroom upstairs. It ought to cool off pretty soon. That way I won’t have to knock on your window. You’ll hear the rooster crow.”

“If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure. I never use it in the summer.” She poured a cup of coffee and delivered it to him, determined to be hospitable to the end which, God willing, would be only a few more hours. Then Josh Bentley would disappear from her life. Hopefully an anonymous tow truck would come to get his car, then she would never have to see him again.

After he finished his coffee, she led him to the small bedroom furnished with only a narrow bed and a chest of drawers. She paused long enough to collect her nightgown from a hook on the wall and a blanket from the foot of the bed. In the dim gaslight on the wall the large outline of his body filled the doorway. She stood at the top of the stairs.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked politely.

There was a long silence while she felt rather than saw his eyes on her.

“Do you?”

She shook her head and hurried down to the kitchen where she changed into her nightgown in the dark. Did she need anything else? Good question. He made her want something else, she knew that, and wants were only a hairbreadth from needs. Needs that were as basic as food and water and just as primal. Her skin prickled as the soft cotton slid over her breasts.

Barefoot, she tiptoed out past the dying embers of the fire and lay down in the hammock, her blanket wrapped around her. As she watched, the gaslight in the upstairs window went out. She closed her eyes tightly and willed herself to go to sleep. But she thought of the man in her room, in her bed, and the thought disturbed her more than she imagined. The light in her bedroom went on again. Why didn’t he go to sleep? He said he’d been up since 5:00.

There was a thumping sound. The sound of someone coming down the stairs in the dark. Then kitchen sounds. Glass clinking against glass. What was he doing?

“Josh?”

He came to the back door. “I can’t sleep. It must be the coffee. I was looking for something to drink.” He lifted a glass.

“There’s fresh water in the icebox.”

He returned to the kitchen, then she saw the outline of his body as he stepped out into the yard, wearing his same clothes, but barefoot, too. He bent his head back and let out an appreciative whistle. “What a view of the southern sky. From my balcony in town it looks like soup.”

“Too much peripheral light,” she agreed.

“Hey, there’s the Southern Cross. I’ve been here for two weeks, and this is the first time I’ve seen it.”

Catherine stood and wrapped her blanket tightly around her instinctively. “Where is it? I’ve been here for eighteen months and I still haven’t found it.”

He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “That’s because it’s not really a cross. There’s no central star to mark the X. It looks more like a kite.”

She felt the warmth of his hands through her blanket as she tilted her head back. She told herself she could see the stars just as well from the comfort of her hammock, but for some reason she stayed right where she was, leaning back against his chest, listening to him point out the brilliant Jewelbox cluster and the dark nebula called Coalsack. His deep voice caused vibrations to echo through her body.

“I’ve always wanted to see Scorpio,” she said in a dreamy voice she scarcely recognized as hers. If he had let her go, she would have fallen over backward. But she knew he wouldn’t.

“Actually,” he said softly, his lips against her ear, “the hammock is a better place to watch the constellations.”

Scorpio flashed her a warning signal from four hundred light-years away.

“For you or for me?” she asked.

“It looks as if it’s big enough for two,” he suggested as they walked together toward the hammock.

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.” She looked up for a sign from Scorpio, but he seemed to be urging her on, asking her, “What harm would it do to study the sky for a few minutes?” Telling her it was a wide hammock, large enough for two.

But no matter how strong or how wide the hammock, when Josh settled down next to her, their bodies were pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. He crossed his arms under his head and continued his lecture, apparently unaware of the heat waves he was generating in her body. How could he know he had started a chain reaction a few weeks ago in the marketplace that grew stronger and harder to resist every time she saw him?

The sound of his voice describing the location of the South Pole soothed her, and the constellations blurred before her eyes. She turned onto her side, her back to him. He stopped talking and shifted so that they were back to back. She sighed. She should tell him to leave now and go back upstairs, but it was so hot up there and the air was cool out here. So deliciously cool. And it felt so good to lie there, her back against his. She opened her mouth to tell him... what was it she was going to tell him?

“Do you know what?” she whispered.

“No.”

“You paid too much for the mangoes.’’ There, she’d gotten it off her mind.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, she felt his hand tousle her hair. “I know,” he said, “but it was worth it.”

When the rooster crowed, Catherine sighed and buried her head in her blanket. It took a long moment before she realized she wasn’t alone. She lay perfectly still, afraid to turn and see if Josh was awake. Maybe if she rolled over the edge of the hammock and onto the ground, she could pretend she really hadn’t spent the night as close to Josh Bentley as a person could get. Well, almost as close.

But just as she moved her leg over the side, she felt him shift his weight and drop one arm over her shoulders. She twisted around to face him. In the darkness she saw that his eyes were closed. The shadow of a dark beard grazed his face. A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. He was breathing deeply. Still asleep.

She felt her muscles relax as she unconsciously matched his breathing with her own, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest. What had happened to her plan to slip away? Maybe Jacinda had put something in the wine. Some herb, some magic potion to rob her of her self-control. She wouldn’t put it past her. Jacinda was determined to push her into someone’s arms. Not just someone’s—Josh’s.

Before she realized what was happening, Josh tightened his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, the half smile deepening. Taking a deep breath, she slid out from under his arm and rolled out of the hammock. A low moan escaped his lips, and Catherine looked down at him, her blanket over her shoulders, her hands on her hips.

“It’s time to get up,” she said firmly, ignoring the sight of his broad chest as he stretched lazily.

He gave her a sleepy smile. “I was in the middle of a dream,” he protested.

“Sorry,” she said briskly. “No time for dreams. The truck will be here in a few minutes. And I know you’re anxious to get to town and get your... whatever it was.”

“My hose.” He sat on the edge of the hammock and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. His clothes were wrinkled, his face lined with sleep, and she realized that he was still the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

She turned quickly before she said something stupid. “I’m going up to change.”

He watched her go, long, slender legs, bare feet hitting the ground as if she were wearing boots. The remnants of the dream clouded his vision. He was holding her in his arms and swaying in a hammock on a tropical beach. The best part was that Catherine wasn’t a dream. If anything, she was more beautiful, more bewitching in real life. The worst part was that sleeping next to him had meant nothing to her. He could tell by the look on her face as she had stood there gazing down at him, announcing the arrival of the truck as if he were a passenger in a bus station.

The harsh beep of a horn broke his reverie. A diesel engine clattered in the distance. He walked across the yard and stood under her bedroom window. “Catherine.”

She leaned out the window, hair braided, shawl in place, and looked down at him.

“Are my shoes up there?” he asked.

Without speaking she threw them down one at a time, and he caught them in one swift motion. Then, very firmly and deliberately, she shut the window and was gone.

“Thanks,” he said loudly to the closed window. Then he washed his face in the kitchen sink, put his shoes on and stood in front of her house. The lights from the truck grew brighter as it came down the hill. At the edge of the road he glared at his useless car. “Traitor,” he said loudly. “Deserter. Where were you when I needed you?” Over the whine of the fast-approaching truck he didn’t hear her walk up behind him.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” she said. “You were saying?”

He turned to look at her. A glimmer of humor danced in her dark eyes. “It’s a well-known technique talking to cars,” he explained dryly. “They need encouragement just like people.”

“Well, that didn’t sound like encouragement to me”

“What this car needs is a kick in the tires,” he explained.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the breaks squealed and the truck pulled up in front of her house. He helped her load the baskets of raspberries into the long flatbed between bags of lettuce and mangoes. The farm women he had met yesterday welcomed him with shrieks of surprise, made room for him in the corner next to Catherine and erupted into a stream of gossip in their Indian language.

He gave Catherine an inquiring look. She smiled at him for the first time since yesterday when he arrived. And with the smile came the first streaks of light across the sky. A new day, filled with new possibilities. With Catherine Logan? Probably not. Probably he’d never see her again. A garage would send a tow truck or a man with the parts. He would never go to the Rodriguez Market again. He would buy his groceries at the supermarket in town. She didn’t want to see him. He didn’t want to see her. But there was that smile, and the eyes and that look she had that was half farmer’s daughter and half exotic gypsy.

“What are they talking about?” he asked.

There was a glint in her eyes. “You and me. They want to know what happened last night. They’re very curious, you know.”

“Did you tell them?”

“There’s nothing to tell. We had dinner, went to bed, got up and that’s it.” She twisted the fringe on her shawl and avoided his gaze.

“You forgot the astronomy lecture.” He slanted her a look, hoping for some reaction, anything. She didn’t disappoint him.

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you even hint that we slept together in the hammock. That’s the kind of thing that’s cause for a shotgun wedding. They don’t understand casual... informal...” She faltered. “They wouldn’t understand. Trust me.”

He reached for her hand and shook it firmly. “I’ll trust you if you’ll trust me. Now just let me explain the whole thing.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. “Give me a chance,” he said, and she pressed her lips together.

He turned to Doña Jacinda. “My car,” he began in halting Spanish, “has a problem.”

Jacinda threw back her head and laughed loudly. Unperturbed, he continued. “Catalina was kind enough to offer me shelter for the night.” At this the whole truckload of women shouted their approval. Catherine’s face turned red, and she pulled the brim of her bowler hat down over her eyes.

“What happened?” Josh asked. “I know my Spanish isn’t very good, but what did I say?”

She shook her head helplessly. “It doesn’t matter what you said. They think they know what happened. Anyway, you’ve made their day.”

He looked around at their smiling faces, listened to their chatter without understanding one word, then leaned against a sack of peppers. “How often do you do this?”

She tilted her head back, feeling the heat recede from her cheeks at last, grateful for the change of subject. “Twice a week during harvest. We’re better off than most of the women you see in the market. We grow our own crops so we keep our own profits. Or we would if...” She paused and looked at the driver.

“If you didn’t have to pay the driver. If you had your own truck,” he finished for her.

“You said it, I didn’t.” She gave him a long look. “For every head of lettuce, every mango, every bunch of parsley we sell, he gets half the profits.” She tied her shawl in a knot under her chin, choking back her resentment.

“How much does he charge?” Josh asked with a troubled frown.

“It’s not what he charges. It’s the interest. We don’t have the cash to pay him in the morning, and by evening the interest has risen by fifty percent.”

His dark eyebrows drew together. “That sounds like usury.”

“Of course, but we have no choice. We just hope to break even. They think that’s the way it has to be, but I know better. I know you go to the bank in the spring for seed money and in the fall you pay it back.” The picture of stern old Mr. Grant floated before her eyes and she paused. “Theoretically,” she added.

“You do know what happens if you can’t make the payments,” he said soberly.

“Of course I know. I’ve seen farms sold and I’ve seen divorces and suicides. But we’re not talking about mortgaging the farm here. We’re talking about a truck, one truck, even one used truck in good shape.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t talk about it anymore.”

The wooden slats that held the produce rattled as the truck rounded a curve, and Catherine fell against Josh’s shoulder. She tried to move back to her place, but he put his arm around her waist under her shawl and held her tightly.

“It still hurts to think about your farm, doesn’t it?” he asked, his lips against her ear.

“Yes.” She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it, but sometimes it came back to her like a bad dream. Not as often as before, though. These past eighteen months had been good for her. As long as she stayed far away from Tranquility, California, and the States, she could keep the bad dreams at bay.

“Are you sure you want to take a chance again with a loan, with a bank and with a banker?”

She looked around the truck at the women, at their round, honest faces, weathered by the sun, lined with hard work. “Yes, it’s worth it. If you never take chances, you’re stuck in a rut. If they had a loan...” She bit her lip, determined never to mention it again. She leaned back and closed her eyes, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid to hear him say no again.

Josh stretched his arms along the top of the wooden slats. Taking chances was what bank loans were all about. He’d been a loan officer once. On his way to becoming a vice president. Minimizing risks was the name of the game, and this was a risk that had No written all over it. He reminded himself of the balance of payments, of rising inflation, and all he could think about was the woman next to him, the scent of her hair, the way her body felt pressed next to his and the swaying motion lulling her to sleep.

Was he going to violate every principle of good business just because he was touched by her story? He studied the faces of the women. Or was he going to make a decision based on some cockeyed idea that one truck loan could bring them into the twentieth century?

Take a chance... if you never take chances... The words went around in his brain. His father took chances. His life was made up of one chance after another, and you couldn’t say that he was ever stuck in a rut. To him a rut was staying home.

It was taking a job and going to work every day and bringing home a paycheck.

By the time they reached the outskirts of town, Josh was still undecided and Catherine was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. The truck screeched to a halt, and she woke up, her gaze so open, so trusting that he knew he’d do whatever it took to earn that trust, to get them their loan. The driver twisted around in his seat and nodded at him, and the women moved aside so he could step over the produce and jump out.

With a belch of diesel smoke the truck pulled away. He stood on the corner with the small cars and buses rushing by and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Thanks for the ride,” he called, but his words were swallowed up in the cacophony of horns. He watched as the truck turned the corner. She hadn’t even said goodbye. He went home to shower and change. He had a big day ahead of him.

In the afternoon the market was filled with masses of people. The mountain air was cool, but the sun was hot, beating down on the corrugated plastic and turning the stall into a sauna. Catherine yawned for the third time and Jacinda beckoned to her.

“Come,” she said, removing her apron and settling her hat at a jaunty angle. “I’m going to see my friend Doña Margarita, the weaver. I promised her some of my peppers.”

Catherine put her hat on a wooden crate, wiped the perspiration from her forehead and gratefully followed Jacinda up the steeply inclining street. At the top of the hill she gazed in awe at Teregape, one of the most spectacular mountains in the Andes, its white peak visible in the clear afternoon air. The awesome sight lifted her spirits and made her forget for a moment her fatigue and her humiliation at being turned down—again.

Doña Margarita was too busy to admire the beauty of the mountain that towered above her shop. Briefly acknowledging the arrival of her friend Jacinda, she supervised her daughter at the loom and waited on customers. An alpaca sweater dyed a natural rose color hung on a hanger at the entrance to the stall. Rubbing the soft wool between her thumb and forefinger, Catherine caught Jacinda’s eye. Jacinda smiled and nodded emphatically.

“It was meant for you, chica,” she said. “Perhaps we can trade for eggs or—”

Catherine shook her head. She wouldn’t take their produce and use it for barter. It was too precious. She reached into her pocket. “I have money. A birthday present from my mother.” She examined the price written on a paper pinned to the hem of the sweater. “It’s not expensive.”

Jacinda held the sweater up to Catherine’s shoulders and nodded her approval. “Leave the bargaining to me,” she whispered.

When Margarita finally cleared the stall of customers and turned her attention to Catherine and Jacinda, she sent her daughter to the crate in back to fetch a bolt of hand-woven wool. The loosely woven fabric was a mixture of pink and rose and mauve and a perfect match for the pink sweater. Catherine stood still while they wrapped the material around her hips, then pinned and tucked and turned her around like a department store mannequin.

She didn’t remember saying yes, but she had no intention of saying no as the women chattered and beamed their approval. While she watched, Margarita’s daughter stitched up the side and sewed a waistband around the top. Jacinda and Margarita settled on a price, and Catherine paid and walked out with the first new clothes she’d bought since she’d arrived in Aruaca. The fact that she had no place to wear such a beautiful handmade outfit didn’t occur to her until she returned to their stall. Oh, well, she could always send it to her sister for Christmas.

The other women insisted she try on the new clothes, and behind the crates they spread their skirts to give her privacy. Pulling the sweater over her head, Catherine loosened her braid and let her dark hair fall over one shoulder in a mass of waves.

The skirt flared from her hips, then floated to midcalf, the rose-colored sweater caressing her skin above her pink lace bra. She held out her arms, and to the women’s delight, twirled around in front of the parsley and melons.

Giddy from lack of sleep, Catherine suddenly realized that shadows were falling over the marketplace. Without taking time to change her clothes she began packing up to go home. She didn’t look forward to being in the truck without someone to sleep on. Resolutely she banished the thought from her mind, the thought of strong, broad shoulders and a soothing voice, and picked up her old clothes to change for the ride home.

But out of the corner of her eye, as if she’d made him appear by thinking about him, Josh was approaching. Easily visible above the crowd, he was wearing his three-piece suit, the jacket slung over his shoulder just like the first time she’d seen him. She stood staring at him as the contrast of light and shadow played tricks on her eyes, afraid that if she took her eyes away for even a moment, he would disappear like a mirage.

Their eyes locked and held as he came closer and closer until he finally stood facing her, his eyes taking a tour of her new skirt and sweater. She felt her body respond as if he’d touched her. But he didn’t. He only looked. Her skin tingled, her heart pounded until he finally spoke.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.

“Yes, home.” She followed his gaze. “Oh, you mean because I’m wearing... These are my new clothes I bought from Jacinda’s friend the weaver.” She was babbling. She couldn’t stop.

Jacinda sidled up to Josh. “¿Le gusta?” she asked, nodding her head at Catherine.

He smiled. “Me gusto mucho,” he assured her, using one of the phrases he was sure of. The Spanish class he’d taken before he’d come occasionally paid off.

Pleased, Jacinda went back to her packing while Catherine’s face turned the delicate pink of her sweater.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “I owe you a dinner. And I’ve got some news for you.”

She shook her head. “You don’t owe me anything. Can’t you just tell me the news? The truck will be here in a few minutes.” She began piling papayas into boxes with potatoes without knowing what she was doing.

“It will take longer than a few minutes. It will take about three hours, about as long as it takes to eat dinner in a restaurant around here.” He rocked back on his heels, radiating patience, waiting until she made up her mind.

“Not if you go to the Folklore Club in the city,” she said, smoothing the fabric of her new skirt.

“Is that the place that’s crowded with Peace Corps volunteers?”

“Yes, it’s busy and noisy, but the food is good and cheap.”

He shook his head. “That’s not where we’re going.”

“Oh.” She was suddenly out of breath and out of fruit and vegetables to pack. The women were starting the trek to the truck, the leftover produce on their backs once again. “How would I get home?” she asked a little desperately.

“Taxi,” he answered. “I’m going to go get my car, anyway. I have my new hose in here.” He lifted his briefcase, then set it down. “I know what’s bothering you. You don’t know how to tell Jacinda and the women. I’ll handle that.”

Openmouthed, she watched him waylay Jacinda as she passed with a stack of empty boxes and explained, augmenting his limited Spanish with sign language, that he was taking la Catalina to dinner and would bring her home in a taxi before the rooster crowed.

There was no mistaking Jacinda’s approval. The look in her eyes was worth a thousand words. And before she knew it Catherine was being hustled out of the marketplace with Josh’s hand firmly on her elbow. Skyscrapers, rising to meet the hills that surrounded the city, cast shadows over the wide streets. Teregape was bathed in a reddish glow.

With the sun sinking behind the altiplano the temperature was dropping, but Catherine didn’t notice. She felt the warmth of Josh’s hand on her arm. He said he had news. He wouldn’t take her out to dinner to give her bad news, would he? Standing there waiting for a break in the steady stream of cars, she didn’t know.

She couldn’t think. She could only feel, and what she felt was light-headed and short of breath. And after eighteen months she could hardly blame the altitude. It must be something else.