Fiesta Moon (8 page)

“Just fine,” she repeated, more for herself than for the man in the bath. But she must have been mistaken. How could a bare-chested Big Bird cause anyone to
twickle?

Lord, I do not need . . .

“First, you beat on the wall like so, señor,” Soledad's voice carried from the kitchen. She demonstrated, knocking three times. The echo reverberated through the empty house. “
Y ahora . . .
turn on the hot water and—”

Mark interrupted. “I can handle a shower,
gracias
.”

“
Así así, así así
. . .”
So-so,
the housekeeper buzzed over and over with undisguised disdain.

“Better listen, or you'll be sorry,” Corinne called out as she shoved the soaked paint rags into the empty bucket.

But before she could explain why, someone from the front of the house called out her name.
“Hola,
Señorita Diaz? Are you in the house?”

“Coming!”

With a glance at the paint film drying on the floor where the tarp hadn't caught it, Corinne went into the foyer, where a Mexican gentleman stood assessing the damage done to the mural by falling plaster along the rise of the graceful, curving staircase. A tree limb had blown through the window on the upper level, causing water damage during the previous rainy season.

“Juan Pablo, just the man we need to see,” she said in welcome. Not that she'd made it a secret that the orphanage was interested in hiring contractors to complete the renovation. “How are your brothers?”

“Bien, gracias.”
He glanced past her through the dining room door where the paint had spilled.

“Do you think Juan Miguel might be able to repair the mural?” she asked. Granted, the eldest brother was primarily a sculptor, but he had dabbled in some still lifes that sold well in Taxco. A dabbler was all they could afford.

“Pues,
as the father projectates,
all things are possible
, no? And perhaps you need him for painting the walls
también,”
he observed, tucking his unlit cigar into one corner of his mouth.

“I had a little accident,” she explained. “Thankfully, it will come up if—”

A squeak loud enough to pierce the eardrum came from the utility room, followed by the sound of water—not the gentle fall of a shower, but the pounding of a tropical downpour.

“Mark.” Not only had the stubborn man not listened, but it sounded as if he were dancing a polka with the old wringer washing machine, and the tin linen cupboard had cut in.

“Madre de Dios!”
Soledad wailed in the background.

Corinne banged on the door. “Mark, just turn it off.”

“That is not good sign,” Juan Pablo said, pointing to the water oozing out from under the door. “Where is the . . .
como se dice?
. . . poomp?”

Poomp
? Corinne pondered the word. “Pump? The pump's in the—” She beat on the door again. “Mark, can you turn off the—”

“I'm try—”

Suddenly the downpour of water ceased. Soledad came shuffling in from the main foyer, face flushed in triumph. “I quit the big switch.”

Of course. The electric box was on the kitchen side of the wall. As for Mark . . .

Corinne knocked again. “Mark?”

“What
, Corinne?” came the irritated reply from inside the makeshift bathroom.

“I tell him that it will put to lose if he do not do this.” Soledad knocked three times with her fist on the wall to demonstrate the proper operating procedure. From within, loose plaster fell.

“Are . . . you . . . all . . . right?” Corinne lost patience with each word. If he felt good enough to be annoyed, he could at least answer her question with a
yes
or
no
.

“Oh, I'm just dandy, Corinne.” His voice oozed with sarcasm. “After being blasted with ice water, I decided to wrap myself in bright pink plastic and sprawl against a rusting washtub. I didn't even break my elbow when it jammed in the toilet during my fall.” He caught his breath and continued. “And I'll never need Preparation H, thanks to quality bristles of your
new
toilet brush.”

“Okay, I get the picture.” And it was not a pretty one. Funny, heaven help her, but not pretty. Suppressing a laugh, she pointed to her elbow and mouthed,
“Eso en el lavobo,”
to a bemused Soledad. “Soledad tried to tell you how to get the water—”

“I know she did,” he barked back. The tin cupboard clanged like a gong as he evidently slammed its door.

“I tol' you so,” Soledad sang in reproach.

“Soledad tol' me so.” Mark mimicked her operatic reply. The cupboard door slammed again. The catch was tricky anyway.

There would be no starting over this time, Corinne thought, exercising every effort not to laugh. But at least it wasn't her fault. Frankly, it served him right for being such a know-it-all.

“And by the way, we need a new faucet. The old one flew somewhere when I tried to turn off the ice water.”

Corinne's humor evaporated. She'd forgotten to turn on the hot water heater. An antique itself, they only used it as needed—not for scrubbing or painting.

“So what can you expect—” Soledad started.

Corinne cut her off. “Well, there's good news,” she announced, painting her pang of guilt with brightness. “You'll never guess who is here.”

“I'm not in the mood for guessing games,
Coreena
.” The cabinet clanged again, followed by a muffled word that Corinne didn't care to make out.

Ouch, he is in a foul humor.

“It's Juan the plumber,” she said as Soledad retreated down the hall, clucking to herself. “Now, isn't that a God thing?”

“I hope a heavenly hand was not involved in this.” The familiar sound of the rust-locked casters on the washtub scraping across the floor underscored Mark's raw demeanor. “Tell him I'll talk to him another day. I'm not in the mood to receive company.”

Actually, he sounded more in the mood to burn down the hacienda and take the first plane for the States.

Not that Corinne blamed him. She'd tangled with the shower trying to get water to fill a bucket, and wound up soaked. Soaked and cold, but not sprawled on the floor in the buff.

Wait, she didn't want to go there.

And not with her elbow jammed in the john and a toilet brush scraping her backside. And not after being doused in paint.
The poor guy,
she thought, wrestling with the incompatible mix of sympathy and humor.

“I'm sorry, Juan,” she told Juan Pablo, who had heard the whole bizarre thing. Given his sober-as-the-proverbial-judge demeanor, she wondered if the plumber's English allowed him to grasp the entire situation.

“Okay!” she shouted through the door to Mark. “I'll tell him to come back, but I should warn you that Juan has some time open now to work on the plumbing, and his brother is sober.”

Yes, it was absurd, she thought, but absurd was often the order of the day in this place. Mark would have to get used to it.

“Señor, are you certain that you do not need help?” Juan offered. He swiveled his cigar from one side of the thick strip of mustache to the other, waiting for an answer.

“No, Juan, I do not need help,” came the razor-edged reply. “What I need is a real shower, good soap, and the first ticket out of this place I can lay my hands on. Can you arrange that?”

“Lo siento,
señor
,
but no.” The Mexican shook his head in regret. “But the plumbing gains on you, and you must put yourself with reason, no? You cannot build on I being able to directate the building for you in the future. There is much work for us in the ordinary.”

The door flew open, and Corinne took a step back as Mark came through. His water-heavy jeans hung low on his waist, and a floral-print towel was wrapped in a turban around his head. His face and upper body still had a yellow tint.

Grinning, or at least showing his clenched teeth, he nailed Juan Pablo with his gaze. “How long will it take to replace the utility bath and kitchen plumbing, Juan, and how much?”

The plumber peeked around the jamb. “Hmm.” Water stood on the floor, while the shower ring that had once held the curtain in a pink circle at a right angle now drooped parallel to the wall. Across from it, the toilet held on to its seat with one hinge.

“Pues,”
he said, drawing on the cigar, “I must quit myself to home to projectate the cost . . . but it will be, I think, to your satisfaction.”

“
Projectate
it on paper then,” Mark insisted, “and get back to me tomorrow . . .
mañana, entiende?”

“Sí, entiendo,
but you will be needing a new key for the shower. I will have to go to Cuernavaca for—”

“Key?”

“Sí, señor,
a key.” The plumber moved his fingers as though twisting an imaginary dial. “What it is that turns the water to run.”

“The faucet?” Corinne guessed.

Juan Pablo nodded.
“Sí, como no?”

“
How not
indeed,” Mark drawled with an acerbic smirk.

With the prospect of employment in his grasp, Juan Pablo extended his hand, but had second thoughts on seeing Mark's yellowed hands.
“Biengood,”
he declared as one word.
“Hasta mañana,
jefe.”

Waiting until Juan Pablo exited through the front entrance, Mark asked under his breath to Corinne, “Projectate?”

“He's a proprietor and speaks the way he thinks such a man would speak,” Corinne explained. “It's just that his use of English is a little skewed. And by the way, while
como no
literally means
how not,
it translates into
why not
or
what else
among the people here.”

“Thanks for the language lesson.”

Unable to resist, she reached up and straightened his turban. “Flowers become you.”

“Back at ya with the paint.” Mark pulled a pained grin and walked past her in the footsteps of Juan Pablo.

“You know what Scarlett said,” Corinne called after him. “Tomorrow is another day.”

Pausing at the door, he looked back, his face stricken. “I certainly hope so. I don't ever want to repeat this one.”

“Bad beginnings, good endings?” Or something like that.

To her surprise, instead of reacting with annoyance, he pointed a finger at her and winked. “I'm counting on it, Corina.”

Coreena
. Even wearing a flowered towel as a top hat, Mark Madison possessed an irrepressible charm. Or maybe it was the six-pack abs and low-slung jeans that brought a heat wave into the room. The moment he was out of sight, she'd open a window.

For now, she'd just admire that deliberate, long-legged retreat. What a waste of gorgeous—like a French pastry—all puff and no substance. And just as bad for a no-nonsense woman like herself.

CHAPTER 6

The water damage was worse than Blaine had counted on in his estimate, Mark thought as he swept fallen plaster into a pile in the corner of the salon the next day. When the former owners moved out, they didn't latch all the shutters and windows. With the onslaught of rainy season and storms, the current damage had been done. Several rooms were littered with chunks of plaster, but for now, Mark was only concerned with the main salon where he was supposed to set up his quarters. Thankfully, the year-round spring-like weather was optimized by the astute design for cross ventilation and surrounding shade trees, making the work to be done bearable without air-conditioning.

It was a crying shame to turn the grand hacienda into an institution. Its history of an elegant lifestyle spoke to him through its graceful arches, murals, and frescoes. Mark could envision settling down in such a place, if it weren't located in the boonies of the
Twilight Zone
.

“Perdonamé,
Señor Madison, but Juan Pablo is here with his presupposition,” Soledad said from the doorway. “Or so he calls his paper,” she added with a disapproving sniff that declared her estimation of Juan Pablo—or at least his use of English—pretentious.

“Great, send him in.” Considering the layer of plaster dust and dirt covering him from head to toe, Mark hoped Juan could fix the shower.

“And you must remember to ask him about his wife's brother's furniture store in Taxco.”

Mark took a dustpan full of the debris to a thirty-gallon trash can and deposited it. After discovering that all that the orphanage had to offer for furniture was an inflatable air bed and a kiddie desk, he'd asked Soledad if she knew where he could find some things locally. He should have expected he'd be sent to a relative of someone he'd already met.

“Got it.” Mark wiped his hands on his jeans and, using his arm, cleared off an old paint-spattered library table that had been left behind. It was wobbly, but he could use it until something better came along.

“Buenos días,
Señor Madison,” Juan Pablo greeted him, a large, wide-brimmed hat in one hand as he extended the other.

Conscious of the white dust, Mark wiped his hand against his leg once more and shook the man's hand. “Sorry, the place is a mess.”

“You have much work to be done, you can build on that,” the plumber agreed. Juan Pablo's mustache broadened with an understanding smile. “I work in such conditions most of my days.
No me importa
.”

“Well, it matters to me.” Mark encompassed the room with a sweep of his arm. “This is
not
my usual working condition.”

His sweat-soaked cotton shirt clung to him, smudged and gray where it had been white. His jeans were dappled with the plaster dust that irritated his eyes. Never would he have thought that he'd miss the modern office of Madison Engineering that he'd grudgingly occupied a few weeks ago. Nor had he realized that he'd taken for granted his designer suits or his massage shower with its consistent water temperature and pressure. The shower at the parsonage was hit-or-miss, and the one he'd taken out at the hacienda was outright vicious.