Chapter One

Fingertips tucked a stray wisp of flaxen hair behind an ear and away from a pale cheek, and then returned to brush lightly over a worn photograph. The gesture was mostly unconscious, as any thought about the picture had long since been abandoned for the view out of the train’s picture window. Having folded the willowy length of her frame into the seat adjacent to the large, clear pane of glass, Jessie Madsen had an unobstructed view of the wide open desert basin and the remote chain of purplish mountains running along the blue horizon.

Earlier in the morning, she had left the privacy of her sleep car to get away from the overwhelming solitude. Coming to the public car to read and to just be in the company of other people had been the remedy, or so she had thought. But even now, sitting in the public car, Jessie still felt removed from her surroundings. Yet somehow, her feelings of isolation had altered from something disturbing into something strangely comforting. Shifting in her seat to get a closer view of the scenery passing swiftly outside, she secured the disregarded book on her lap, sandwiching the hardback between the slender length of her thigh and forearm all the while still absently fingering the photograph.

Rapidly, at unimaginable speeds in excess of forty miles per hour, the train moved south along the rail lines through the sundry and ever-shifting countryside. In the course of twenty-nine hours, Jessie had traveled through three climate zones. Having started out the morning before on the rocky shores of San Francisco, by evening she had found herself looking at palm trees and white beaches as the train passed through Los Angeles. Now, by Jessie’s estimation, she was 180 miles southeast of Tucson, traveling through the northern tip of the Sonoran Desert. "Yes, that has to be right," she mused, staring at the mottled green/brown landscape of dirt and sagebrush.

Jessie’s large, pale blue eyes flitted over the passing scene of jagged mountains and red sand, burning in the midday sun. Aquiline features tipped up as she gazed across the desert floor to catch a family of quail scuttling down into the fortress of shade created by a stout patch of prickly pears. Surprised at seeing the little creatures bobbing along the arid desert sands, Jessie grinned—her generous lips curling back to reveal perfect, white teeth. Leaning to get a better look at the birds before they disappeared out of sight, she lightly rested her forehead against the glass surface.

Suddenly, as it crossed over another set of tracks, the train lurched, causing the book to slip from the cradle of Jessie’s lap. Grabbing at the book, she got a tenuous hold, just to have the photo fall on the floor. Bending to retrieve the wayward item, Jessie’s eyes moved familiarly over the picture. The subject, a woman in her late thirties, looked back boldly from the photograph as though challenging the viewer to really see her.

Jessie smirked knowingly; her inherent intelligence expressed in the delicate arch of her eyebrow. She believed she could do just that—she could see through the demanding stare and straight into the soul of the woman. It was true . . . Jessie had only seen her once before, but she could see her right now with more clarity than the man napping in the seat diagonal from her. Even the black and white of the photo couldn’t prevent her from envisaging the flash of gray-blue eyes, the rich fall of chestnut hair, and the lightly freckled skin.

Jessie could still remember vividly the first moment she had seen the woman; it was still so clear in her mind. It had been her senior year in the Art History program at Berkeley, and although she was in the middle of completing her senior thesis, she had, on a whim, decided to drop by a symposium on art and social revolution.

Just as Jessie had taken a seat in the back row, the woman had stepped up to the podium, and with a flash of her eyes, she had captured her audience. Holding them enthralled, she passionately expressed her experience documenting the rise of Italian Fascism through the lens of her 50-mm. It was the woman’s voice, Jessie thought, which captured the listeners—those low, raspy tones and compelling cadences, which seized and then ensnared them. From that moment on, "rapt" was the only word that could have described Jessie as she gazed at Erin Donnevan from across the crowded auditorium.

Erin Donnevan—renowned photojournalist—she was the reason for Jessie’s mission, for the very different path she was taking from her life as an art critic for The San Franciscan. There was no doubt about it, she was headed to Mexico City to meet Erin Donnevan—at least that’s what Jessie hoped.

The trip to Mexico for Jessie was as welcome and as rejuvenating as spring was to winter. As far as she was concerned, her time at the glossy magazine was over. She was tired of trying to impart a sense of artistic appreciation to the mass of wealthy, white readers who fancied themselves delicate connoisseurs of the finer things. They could continue to consume exclusive wines and gourmet foods; they could buy and trade ballet troupes like baseball cards; and they could store warehouses of fine art without ever caring about or understanding the suffering and joy in the hearts of the people who created the very masterpieces they coveted. They could do this without her; she wouldn’t have to participate in their mindless exploitation of the artistes she so admired.

Jessie, who was armed with a degree in Art History, a natural aptitude for language, and interminable dedication, would never again willingly sit at a desk and type until her fingers cramped and her eyes blurred the letters, only to have her article pooh-poohed by the wave of a gloved hand or dismissed by the sound rap of a cane. She would never again sleepwalk through an article about yet another French Impressionist. She would never again have to attend a gallery opening with people who were more concerned about crowning themselves patron, than they were about the art they were advocating.

In frustration, she clenched her teeth, her strong jaw setting stubbornly only to be softened by the traitorous dimple in her chin. To put it plainly, Jessie was sick of her job and just about any alternative seemed better. So it didn’t matter to her that Mexico was still in the middle of a revolution. After all, the country did have a democratic government and a president, right? The Saturday Evening Post had even reported that the newly reelected Mexican President Obregón would be the man who would bring order and unification to Mexico.

Without a doubt, Mexico was dangerous, especially for foreigners. She shrugged at the thought. She was used to taking risks; just walking the sidewalks of San Francisco these days was hazardous. Between the racketeering and hooch running there were very few streets of the city that remained unmolested by violence and corruption. Besides, Mexico . . . and all its political and military unrest . . . was sure as hell an improvement over sitting in the stuffy brownstone on Union Street scribbling another article about some Bluenose artiste.

And, so far, the trip wasn’t half bad. The accommodations were comfortable, even plush. She was free to move around the train and there were occasional layovers, which allowed the passengers to get off, stretch their legs, soak up a little local color, and have a quick meal at a café or cantina.

At the outset, she had thought the worse problem would be the heat, but despite the fact that the train was traveling towards the Tropic of Cancer during the month of July, it didn’t really start to get overwhelmingly stuffy until about three o’clock in the afternoon. By five, billowy clouds would fill the sky and large, cool raindrops would fall . . . or so that was what had occurred yesterday. The train’s porter, smiling and nodding his head politely, had guaranteed that this would happen every afternoon at this time of the year.

Nature hadn’t made a liar of him yet. Much of the first day, she had spent in the observation car. The morning sun glinting down through the clear glass overhead had been a refreshing change from the gloomy Indian summers she had known all her life.

For some people the train trip might have been a hardship, but not for Jessie. She could easily take the bad with the good, because above everything, she believed herself to be an adventurer. She had even been the one to suggest this little venture to her boss, Mr. Arbuckle at The San Franciscan. Being a stodgy man of little imagination, Arbuckle had turned the faintest shade of green at the thought of sending one of his writers into a war zone.

Oh, it wasn’t that he thought the idea a bad one. He had just wished that he had been the one to come up with it . . . or maybe that he might have been able to take the assignment himself. Alas, he had a wife and three children to care for. His days of traveling to distant places for documentary work were quite over. Truth be told—but certainly not to himself—he had never had the fortitude for such assignments, and so, he never really wanted anyone else to do them either.

However, with a well-placed flutter of eyelashes and a slight sway of her hips, Jessie had managed to convince him. She normally didn’t like to be manipulative, but this assignment meant everything to her, including a means to break away from writing for the in vogue magazine and the opportunity to get down to some real authorship. Beside the article on Erin Donnevan, the assignment posed the possibility, as she saw it, of a full biography of the photojournalist. It was only proverbial icing on the cake that she would have to meet and spend time with the exquisite photojournalist to fulfill her occupational objectives.

Yes, the assignment was a prize, and the only reason she was able to take advantage of it was because of her college chum, Irene Seiger. She and Irene had met in the middle of their first undergraduate semester at Berkeley. Both art hounds, their friendship was immediate, despite the fact that the two were marked by opposites.

Irene was Jessie’s antithesis. As reserved and composed as Jessie was, Irene was equally uninhibited and tempestuous. In appearance, they seemed to be completely diametrical. As tall and blonde as Jessie was, Irene was correspondingly petite and dark. As striking as Jessie’s facial features were, Irene’s were ordinary except for her nose and her hair. Irene’s nose was bent like a bow strung by the world’s greatest archer and her hair was as dark, wavy, and wild as her personality.

In fact, Irene had many characteristics that distinguished her. She had a quick wit like water rolling down river. Her candor bordered on a staggering bluntness—people thought her either refreshingly quaint or markedly ill mannered. She was a reveler and a scholar, as knowledgeable about the distillation of beer as of molecules. She possessed a swift and unfaltering intelligence, which allowed her to perceive the world without the encumbrance of naiveté, but still like a child exuberantly embrace it.

And, right now, Irene was exuberantly embracing Mexico City. It had all started as a two-week work assignment. As an aspiring journalist, Irene had gone to Mexico to report on the Catholic priest strike. While researching, she had interviewed and struck up a relationship with a young revolutionary, Rudolfo Palavera. He, knowing what an art fanatic she was, had introduced her to the circle of eminent artistes in the area . . . "which Erin Donnevan is a part," Jessie thought with a smirk. That had been two years ago, and Irene had yet to come back. It wasn’t surprising, though. For Irene, Mexico must have been as irresistible as a flower to a bee. As she had written in a letter: "The colors, the people, both are bold and daring! You must come and see it!"

That was concisely Irene—eager and animated. Jessie had loved the endless hours of good times she and Irene had shared, but their friendship was more than cheerful moments gabbing at the campus pub. Irene had been an unceasingly supportive friend. "Even in my sophomore year at Berkeley," she thought with a contemplative smirk. During that year, her parents, Christopher and Lydia Madsen, had ignored popular opinion and created a scandal in the university’s anthropological community by embarking on a risky expedition to the high mountains of the Orinoco to study the indigenous populations.

With every pedagogue at the university discrediting and ridiculing her parents, Jessie had wanted to hide from the criticism. But Irene wouldn’t let her, instead buttressing her against the disapproval of the university professors with words of encouragement and commiseration. Not only that, but when her parents had died in Caracas from Malaria two years later without so much as a research note penned, Irene was still by her side, filling her emptiness with words of comfort and compassion.

To Jessie the death of her parents seemed like it had occurred ages ago, when in fact it was only six years—the spring of 1922. "It’s moments like that you find out who’s who," she mused with a soft sigh. When many of her friends hadn’t known what to say and instead chose to say nothing at all, Irene had stepped up to console her.

She snorted, remembering her at-the-time girlfriend, Lily, who after "enduring the sulky sullenness," had whined that Jessie should just get over it. Imagine, her parents had been dead for only a few months and Lily had complained that she was growing too depressed from being around Jessie. So, there she went, tucking her bobbed, black hair behind her ear, donning her cloche hat, and turning on the wind, the length of her jagged skirt flapping out behind her.

The funny thing was, Jessie wasn’t at all disturbed by the loss of her lover. Lily leaving her had been oddly uplifting, serving to remind her that there were better people out there, and Jessie knew that she deserved to be in love with and be loved by one of them. Love, she knew, required the ability to dedicate herself to the welfare of someone else without compromising her own self-worth in the process.

Passing through the isles, the train’s steward called out "Entramos al Canyon de Cobre." The announcement dragged her from her reflections and caused her to remember that she was already halfway through the journey, and soon the train would be buried deeply in the unforgiving terrain of Mexico’s Copper Canyon.

Glancing back out the smudgy window, she noticed that the landscape had changed, and rather dramatically too. Gone were the mounds of stout, low-growing cacti, and in its place were grove upon grove of spindly, red bark madrones. The first half of her expedition from San Francisco, down into Los Angeles, and then into Tucson had been entertaining. But now, they were undeniably outside of the States and becoming rapidly entrenched in another country. She felt a small coil of fright snake in her stomach.

At the end of her journey, she would be at least a two-and-a-half day train ride from home, and then there was the added complication of being in a country where few people spoke English. Irene had done much to reassure her that most of the people she would be meeting, in fact, did speak English. What if she ran into trouble, though? How would she be able to help herself armed with only broken bits of Spanish from a translation dictionary?

She grimaced. She had to admit that this trip had the makings of a catastrophe. The stories of corrupt Mexican federalis and bloodthirsty banditos shifted through her brain. She did her best to ignore these thoughts, chalking them up to a simple fear of the unknown. "Just like that ridiculous story about the fifty-foot Gila monster causing a train wreck in northern Mexico," she thought, a contemptuous grin forming on her lips at the idea that someone might believe that giant lizards roamed the desert like modern-day dinosaurs just waiting to derail a train or two. Certainly, none of those stories were true. They were just that—stories told by people ignorant of the country to the south.

Besides, there was enough going on in Mexico to fill several libraries. Not only was there the revolution but it was an artist’s paradise, or so that was what Irene said. Everyone who was . . . or would be . . . anyone, artistically speaking, was in Mexico. Potters, painters, sculptors, photographers, poets, novelists, musicians—all were reveling in and benefiting from the upsurge of creativity stirring and transforming the country.

And Jessie intended to be there and take advantage of it, too.

Gazing back out the window, she saw far off in the distance a rim of smooth, baked limestone walls peaked with jagged stone. The rocky perimeters seemed to merge and be focused on an extravagant waterfall, which appeared to spill from a hole in the sky and plummet the eight hundred feet, or so, to the ground. Her mind made the connection like a baby taking a first step; hesitantly, she realized she could barely make out the pool of water churning below and that the train was moving over a gorge.

She knew there was a strong trestle of steel joints and beams beneath the heavy train tracks, but the disjointed feeling still traveled along her spine, landing solidly in her brain. She sat back, pressing against the comfort of her seat and her gaze falling into the polished brass and glass interior of the passenger car. "That’s better," she thought, allowing in the illusion that the ground was again roaring directly beneath the train.

A few minutes later, when she mustered her courage and looked out of the window again, the train was moving quickly across flat, open plains of vigilant green where a few sporadic herds of llama grazed. This environment was an even starker contrast to the giant, swaggering hills and busy, worn pavement with which she was so well acquainted. San Francisco seemed, indeed, to be a far-off memory.

With one final glance, she wedged the photo safely into the binding, and then snapped the book closed. Checking her watch, she was surprised to find it was only early in the afternoon—more than a few hours before the train’s chamberlain would be announcing dinner. Maybe an afternoon nap would help pass the time.

☼☼☼☼

Jessie knew well that she was dreaming; the fantasy had come to her so often and in so many guises, she could now recognize it immediately. The elements of the dream were always the same, just the location changed. "The billiard table?" she mused from her dreamer’s haze.

Her own voice drifted to her, drawing her back into the dream. "Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?" Jessie murmured, looking down into the face of the woman lying supine beneath her. Reflected back to her from the depths of the woman’s eyes was a myriad of color cast down from the tiffany and brass trestle light hanging above the billiard table on which the two were lying.

The tips of her fingers skimmed the soft, red felt covering the table as Jessie ran her hands up along the woman’s arms and shoulders, over her neck to the back of her head. Clasping the woman to her, Jessie kissed her tenderly, her lips nipping and sucking lightly on the yielding mouth. The kisses, hesitant at first, intensified as Jessie’s tongue slipped out and skimmed across the waiting pair of lips. The woman moaned and pressed herself closer to Jessie, who deepened the kiss.

Pulling away from the woman’s lips, Jessie trailed soft kisses across her cheekbones and along the edge of her jaw. "You’re so lovely," she whispered, speaking only loud enough for the other woman to hear. The woman looked away from Jessie’s face. "You are," Jessie breathed, tracing a jawbone with her fingertips.

Shifting lower, Jessie leaned in and kissed the pulse point thrumming in the woman’s neck. Then, carefully, she leaned in and slowly drew one perfect earlobe into her mouth, gently licking and sucking on it. In response, the woman moaned, a low, rasping sound, exciting Jessie. Wanting to hear the uncontrolled reaction again, she ran her tongue along the sensitive contour of the ear before moving downwards to graze a path down the woman’s throat.

"I’ve waited for you for so long," Jessie whispered against soft skin. "I’ve wished that I could . . . kiss you, caress you. . . ." Her hands traveled lovingly over the body beneath her, and then they paused, shaking at the bodice of the other woman’s dress.

A look of uncertainty crossed the other woman’s face. Slowly, though, she grasped Jessie’s hands in her own and moved them to the buttons running the full length of the dress. Jessie cautiously undid the buttons, slowly exposing the smooth skin hidden underneath the material.

Jessie leaned back slightly, captivated by the sight of her hands opening, and then sliding the dress from the woman’s shoulders. As Jessie stared, pliant mounds topped by large, pale pinkish-brown nipples were revealed. "You’re beautiful," Jessie murmured, trailing her fingertips over the quivering abdomen, her touch reverent. She lightly caressed the smooth expanse of skin extending from beneath the other woman’s breasts to her hips until she felt the woman’s body arch up, pressing against her own.

Reverently, Jessie began mapping every inch of the smooth body with her mouth and fingertips, kissing tender lips and exciting sensitive skin. Reaching out, she softly stroked the side of one breast before leaning forward to trail her tongue down the supple breasts, hesitating over one taut nipple.

The woman groaned and buried her fingers in Jessie’s hair. "Jess . . ."

☼☼☼☼

The clang of the dinner bell pulled Jessie from sleep. Rolling onto her side from her back, she knew she had been dreaming, but as always, the dream had been exceptional in its realism and vividness. Opening her eyes, she expectantly scrutinized the narrow ledge of mattress next to her. Once again, there wasn’t any sign of her dream woman, and Jessie felt, as she always did at these moments, a most peculiar sense of discordance and loss.

Glancing around the small sleep car, she tried to pull herself from the disorientation of the dream. There it all was—the slight lurching as the train hurtled over the tracks, the plush cream-colored satin upholstery, the ornately carved cinnamon mahogany paneling and cabinetry, the porcelain washbasin. . . .

Swinging her feet to the ground, she stumbled out of the bed and took the two tiny steps to stand in front of the mirror above the washbasin. She gazed at herself as she smoothed her hands over the wispy strands of hair that had come undone while she slept. Her hair pressed back into some semblance of order, she acknowledged the high flush of color donning her cheeks. She thought that maybe she should splash some cold water on her face to help cool the fervent responses of her body. Even so, she shrugged off the idea, deciding that she rather enjoyed the feel of the heated constriction.

Stretching her sluggish muscles, Jessie considered that she would have to dress in something more formal than the light linen suit she was wearing to be properly attired for dinner. With a sigh, she tugged open the closet door, peered inside, and tried to decide what would be suitable to wear.

Finally deciding on a sleeveless dress, she pulled it from the closet and laid it on the bed. Pulling off her day clothes, she quickly hung them in the closet. Over her chemise and white stockings, she slipped on the lemon-colored, beaded gown and white satin pumps.

Glancing in the mirror again to verify that everything was in order, her stomach rumbled and she eagerly anticipated dinner, remembering the excellent meal from the evening before. With a little misgiving, she also remembered the Navy pilot who had bothered her in the dining car. "What was his name?" she asked herself, but couldn’t remember. What she did remember was his ridiculous bravado, the endless amount of bourbon he poured down his gullet, and the number of times she had to tell him she wasn’t interested in a midnight stroll, or a dance, or round of Mah Jongg, or anything else.

This time, though, she thought, if he bothered her, she would take a different approach—if it came down to it, she would just have to tell him he was barking up the wrong tree. From the thickheaded looks he had given her before, he probably wouldn’t catch her meaning, and then she might really have to do something drastic.

A smirk twisted at the corners of her mouth. If she was as bold as Flapper Jane, she just might turn to the closest woman and kiss her long and slow. "Pleasant," she thought, remembering the dark headed woman in the picture hat and impeccably tailored, silk dress she had seen in the gaming car last night. That would get her point across, but it would probably also get her arrested. Those upscale Doras weren’t nearly as liberal as they appeared; they were just playing a role, following the trends.

Exiting the narrow door, she moved through the carriage isles to the scarlet and brass elegance of the dining car. With great luck, or so Jessie thought, she found at the back of the car, a table lit only by low candlelight. With a satisfied smile, she sat against the far wall, feeling reasonably obscured from view. Even better than her cloaked position was that there wasn’t any sign of the annoying pilot.

As fate would have it though, twenty minutes into the meal, there he came—the ruddy complexion, the strawberry blond hair, and the dull pale blue eyes with a makeshift twinkle. What was it about him that was so . . . flat, so bland, so one-dimensional?

She noticed he had his plate balanced precariously in one hand, his napkin and silverware trapped in the joint between his fingers and thumb, and his ever-present bourbon glass tucked rather adroitly in his other hand. She wondered if he had already been tossed from another table in the other dining car.

Ducking down, she tried not to meet his eyes, and wished for the best. Nonetheless, his height, slightly greater than hers, allowed him to see her over the heads of the other patrons.

From the periphery of her vision, she glimpsed the large, boyish grin that flew across his face. She had been seen by . . . "What was his name? Oh, yeah, Don Harris . . ." she thought as he came down the isle, giving her a full glimpse of his ensemble.

She groaned, taking in his tan patent leather spats, striped, gray tailcoat, white shirt, peach bow tie, and the brown high hat perched at an angle on his narrow head. His sense of style was as misguided as his knowledge of women.

"Well, hello there, doll." He smiled Cheshire-like.

"Good evening," she responded without looking up. Maybe if she didn’t make eye contact, he would get lost.

"Mind if I join you?"

"I prefer—" she began as he sat down in the chair across from her. "This is how it’s going to be," she considered silently.

"So," he said, trying with an exaggerated motion of his head to catch her eyes even as he tucked his napkin into his vest, "you picked the seafood salad. I’m more of a pot roast kinda guy . . . You like meat?"

This time, she leveled an icy blue look at him. "What?"

"Pot roast?" he questioned innocently. "You like pot roast?"

She raised an eyebrow. "No."

He twirled his fork in the air. "Oh."

She watched him stare at her left hand. She knew what the next question would be. "So, uh, you on your way to meet your daddy?"

"No. . . ."

He leaned forward. "So why’s a gorgeous Jane like you traveling down south?"

"If you must know, I am going to Mexico City on business."

"Secretary?" he speculated.

"No," she responded, annoyed. "Writer."

His eyebrows shot up. "On the level? A real, live smarty, eh?"

She looked at him for a moment. "I look like a secretary and secretaries aren’t smart?"

He leaned back. "Uh . . . I didn’t say secretaries aren’t smart . . . you just look too good to . . ."

"Be smart," she finished with a lift of her brow.

He tilted his chin, and then he pursed his lips. "Most girls that look good don’t have to be schooled good." He followed up his ridiculous comment with an equally ludicrous smile that he must have thought fetching.

Speechlessly, she stared at him as all the things that were wrong with his statement came bubbling to the surface, bringing with it, all her angry retorts. She took another moment to settle herself.

Misinterpreting her silence, he drawled, "So, you reconsidering that midnight stroll to the caboose now?"

Suppressing her irritation, she composed herself. "No."

"Ah, come on, give a guy a chance . . . I promise I’ll be worth your while." He waggled an eyebrow at her.

She stared at him as if he was the moldy potato from her eighth grade science experiment. "Where’s a torpedo when you need one," she mused, staring into his puffy, red eyes. "Look, rummy, I’ve tried to be nice, but you’re not making it easy."

"All right, all right, don’t get yourself in a lather," he said, pushing back from the table. He pulled the napkin from his vest, stood, and then picked up his bourbon glass. Rattling the half-melted ice around in it, he mumbled, "Gotta go see a man about a dog anyway."

She watched him walk away. "Looks like that dog already bit you." She almost said it aloud, but decided not to—he might take the gesture as a flirtation, or even worse, an invitation to turn around and sit back down.

☼☼☼☼

After dinner, Jessie strolled through the train carriages, contemplating what to do with herself until bedtime. She thought she might visit the bar car. As she approached, she could see the boisterous crowd beginning to gather just beyond the plated glass windows. For a moment, everything took on a surreal aspect. At first, she thought it was seeing the scene through the beveled, leaded glass. Pausing just in front of the window, she realized it wasn’t her distorted view so much as it was the unusual composition of the car. It was like a picture show. Everything was black and white—the shiny black baby grand piano, the stiff, white tux of the pianist, the gleaming black paneling, the white, domed ceiling, the occupants in their flat black and shimmering white eveningwear.

Jessie sighed. She’d throw off the entire room with her pale yellow dress. Ah, well, she wasn’t fond of crowds, anyway—too many people, too much affinity and opportunity for airs and pretense. On top of the fact, that somewhere in this clamorous crowd was a Don Harris . . . or two.

One way or the other, she would have to pass through the milieu to get to the rest of the train, including the sleep cars. After another moment, she pulled her shoulders straight and slid open the door. The drone of voices, the clamor of clinking glass, and the clanking of the piano met her.

Moving quickly, she strode down the narrow aisle. Easily maneuvering the blustering crowd, she made it to the other end of the car, and promptly slid the door shut on the colorless cacophony. Gliding through the other cars just as quickly, she finally slipped through the slender entryway of the sleep car, closed the door, and threw the hasp lock into place.

Looking around the tiny room, Jessie again wondered what she should do with herself. Glancing at the brass regulator clock on the bed’s side table, she noticed the time—eight o’clock—too early to sleep, too dark to take a stroll to the train’s caboose for sightseeing. What could she do? The thought of returning to the clamor of the public cars definitely didn’t appeal to her. Then, the Los Angeles Times next to the clock caught her attention. She had folded the pages so the day’s crossword puzzle displayed on the front. Maybe that was the remedy to her unoccupied hours. That was the solution—she would change into her nightgown, slip into bed, and solve the crossword.

After unfastening and pulling open her travelling bag, she rummaged around inside. Sinking her fingers into the various layers of materials, she felt around for the silky fabric of her nightgown. Feeling something smooth, she quickly yanked it from its spot, hoping that she wouldn’t wrinkle the other clothes with her carelessness.

It wasn’t her nightgown, though. It was a common, white silk shirt with thin, gray vertical lines and small, flat mother of pearl buttons running down the front. The shirt had belonged to her father. Christopher Madsen had worn, on a daily basis, this shirt, or another like it, under his suit coat.

Completely unfolding the shirt, she uncovered another coveted object, her mother’s delicate, gold-etched watch. Lydia Madsen had worn it almost everyday since her husband had given it to her on their eighth wedding anniversary. Jessie’s mother had adored the newfangled watch wristlet with its sapphire crown and elaborately engraved "CM to LM" on the back of the watchcase.

Smoothing out the folds in the shirt, she lifted the watch out. These were the only objects she had kept after her parents’ deaths. Not wanting to dwell on the loss, she had donated to the Associated Charities all other personal effects, but she hadn’t been able to stomach parting with the shirt or watch.

Of course, she still had their family home and furniture and a good reserve of money in the bank from her inheritance. Her parents had always been generous, even indulgent, and as she was an only child, the Madsen’s just had to consider her well-being. She had always thought that not having siblings was an advantage; until upon the loss of her parents, she had realized she now had no one with whom she could truly share the grief of their deaths . . . or the joy of having known them.

Lifting the shirt to her nose, she sniffed it. A ridiculous gesture, she knew, because she had worn and washed the shirt many times since her father’s death. Though, somehow, the very act helped her recall the memory of the warm, slightly spicy scent of being held in the strong and shielding embrace of her father’s arms.

It had started then, in her childhood; she had loved to sleep in her father’s shirts, especially when her parents had been away on travel and she had been feeling frightened and insecure. On those occasions, after Nanny Mayfield had left her room at night, she would scamper down the hall to her parent’s room and pull a shirt—the last one she could remember him wearing—from his closet. Then, she would tiptoe across the floor to her mother’s jewelry box, quietly unlatch the fastener, and pull the watch from its blue velvet bag. Having made off with her treasures, she would run back to her room, jump into her bed, throw off her nightgown, pull on the shirt, and thrust the watch under her pillow or play with it until she fell asleep.

Feeling every bit like that six-year old, Jessie slid out of her evening clothes, pulled on the shirt, and placed the wristwatch on the nightstand. She knew it was sentimental and a bit silly, but she couldn’t help it. It was as if, as long as she had the shirt and the watch near her, she always would be protected from all of life’s misadventures.

With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, she quickly hung her dress back in the closet, and then sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching up, she pulled the pin from her hair. The pale gold mass fell softly down around her shoulders. Absently, she ran her fingers through the fine strands, trying to control the static by forcing some of the finer hairs into place. She knew it was an ineffectual exercise.

Pulling back the bedcovers, she slid between the crisp white sheets and pulled them up to her waist. Turning to the nightstand, she lifted her zyl frame eyeglasses, and with a scowl, she set them on the bridge of her nose. It wasn’t that she minded wearing them—she wasn’t prone to vanity—it was just that she couldn’t stand to have the them slide down her nose. Constantly having to push them back up was annoying.

Taking up the newspaper and pencil with one hand, she set about deciphering the puzzle. Half an hour later, she had only been able to focus her thoughts enough to solve three-quarters of the "down" section, and her eyes felt scratchy and yearned for relief. Reaching over, she placed the newspaper, the pencil, and her eyeglasses on the nightstand. She then stretched up to switch off the lamp.

Tucking back down into her bed sheets, she positioned her arms over the covers, and closed her eyes. She tried valiantly to sleep, but too many thoughts kept her mind from shutting down, images and possibilities and memories kept rumbling through . . . her parents, her job, this trip, Irene, Erin. . . .

In an attempt to cut off these random lines of thought, she rolled over onto her left side, seeking a more comfortable position to help her fall asleep faster. Unfortunately, the mattress seemed harder than it had felt the night before and it made the joint in her right hip ache.

She flipped onto her back. At once, she regretted the nap she had taken in the afternoon. If she could only fall asleep, it would be as if she was only a few hours from Mexico City. Sleep continued to elude her though. She had already tried occupying her mind with the crossword; maybe reading a book would help.

Turning onto her right side again, she slipped her hand under the brass lampshade, and with a click of the switch, the light flipped back on. Identifying the cover of the book on the washstand, she realized the photograph of Erin was still pressed between the pages. "That’ll only distract you more," she thought, flipping off the light again and resolving to force herself to sleep.

 Chapter Two

After nearly three days on the train the thought of setting foot on solid ground thoroughly energized Jessie. The fact that she was finally in Mexico City only added to the exhilaration. Now if only she could just get off the train. She looked around impatiently. There was only one obstacle, a family of four, between her and detraining. As fate would have it though, they were hopelessly disorganized and the area was strewn and cluttered with their baggage. Stewards were trying frantically to clear the area.

After another few minutes of scurrying about, the train’s personnel managed to get the family off the train and Jessie was able to make her way to the exit. Hefting her traveling bag onto her shoulder and getting a firmer grip on her hatbox, she stepped down onto the disembarkation platform. She glanced around for any sign of Irene, but instead she caught sight of a clock embedded in one of the white plaster walls of the station. "Five forty-six p.m. . . ." she mused, "twenty minutes early."

Knowing her friend well, Jessie realized there wasn’t any point in looking for Irene this early. It would be at least six o’clock before she would show up. Skimming the crowd, she tried to find a less bustling area to wait. However, passengers and their welcome wishers took up almost every square inch of the station. It was just as well. Jessie speculated that if she stayed where she was on the platform, she would be less likely to miss Irene, when she did appear.

Gradually, the station began to clear, and Jessie was better able to soak up the sights around her. One of the first things she noticed was the unusual architecture. The clean lines and white walls sloping into the domed roof reminded her of a mosque.

Her eyes, continuing to follow the arcing lines of the building, finally came to rest on an astonishing sight, at least for an art buff. Murals lined the smooth flat surface of almost every wall. Dramatic and candid, these murals were like historical epics, or maybe memory poems, written in vivid vermilions, indigos, gingers, jades, and golds.

Viewing the murals, Jessie felt, was like receiving a passionate embrace, one in which you can sense the very pounding of another’s heart. It occurred to her that the murals seemed to be alive—life art. And like life, it flowed from one historical or political movement to the next—distinct and disjointed, yet united.

Jessie hiked the traveling bag higher on her shoulder and moved closer to inspect the finer details of the mural closest to her. There was almost too much to take in. To catch all the particulars, the composition would have to be cut into sections, almost like an archaeologist marking a grid on an excavation site. Then it would have to be examined, portion by portion, to uncover all the buried clues and hidden meanings inherent in the piece.

Her critic’s mind took hold and she began to evaluate the paintings with a trained eye. They were living records of the collective conscience of a culture—scenes of war, of home and hearth, of labor, of love and peace; moments of guns, of baskets and pots, of plows, of roses and doves. She could see Aztec, Olmec, Mayan, and European influences, all swirling together in an expression of identity unique only to Mexican folk art.

A skilled hand with an utterly unique style had created these works of art. Curious who could have painted such a gorgeous piece on the wall of a bustling train station, Jessie examined the lower corners of the painting, looking for the signature of the artist, but there wasn’t one. She wondered if the missing signature was a statement in itself, as if to say that all the inhabitants of this ancient land had created these marvels.

"Spectacular, aren’t they?"

Jessie suppressed the urge to jump at the sound of the voice so close to her. Whirling around, she confronted the speaker. "Irene!"

The petite woman tossed her arms around her and Jessie returned the embrace just as enthusiastically. When they pulled back, each took a moment just to smile at one another. In that awkward moment of silence that occurs after having not seen a friend in a long while, Jessie and Irene let their eyes wander back to the murals, both gazes trapped for a moment in the pull of color. "Spectacular, indeed," Jessie agreed absently.

Irene lifted her chin at the mural. "Notice the dichotomies . . . the use of bright yet earthy colors, the Aztec deities flying over the marketplace—the fantastic and the everyday."

"Remarkable."

Irene turned her attention back to Jessie, taking a long look at the woman. "You look good—the same, in fact."

Jessie glanced down at herself, and then up again. "Thank you. . . . You look different."

Irene tugged absentmindedly at a lock of her curly hair. "I cut it."

"It looks good," Jessie complimented sincerely.

Irene’s eyes widened with pleasure. "Really? You know that I can’t make decisions like that to save my neck. Every time I try to spruce myself up, it’s a potential calamity. . . . Do you really like it?"

Jessie gave her an approving look. "Very much. It’s still curly, but the shorter length makes your eyes the focal point."

"That’s what Rudy said, too. Well, he said it brought out my eyes."

Jessie lifted a brow. "I thought he was coming with you."

"He did. He’s waiting for us outside the station near the unloading ramp for the cargo cars . . . probably already has your trunk loaded into the taxi."

Jessie gave her a perplexed look.

"He drives a taxi. Owns it," she explained, taking the hatbox from Jessie.

"I thought he was some political figure—a revolutionary."

Irene chuckled. "Oh, it’s not so dramatic as that. Not at all," she emphasized with a shake of her head. "This is a revolution of the masses, and ordinary people drive the effort."

Jessie knew that; she had read everything she could get her hands on about Mexico’s ongoing battle to bring together the divided masses of rich and poor. For her, though, the struggle remained the stuff of books and imagination.

Irene watched her friend grow introspective. "Yes, you are the same." Irene smiled. "Come on," she said tilting her head in the direction her feet wished to go.

☼☼☼☼

Following Irene, Jessie stepped outside the train station. She immediately noticed the temperature, a moderate eighty or so, and the humid air that surrounded her like a warm blanket. The sky was mostly clear, except for a few reddish and purplish clouds, which seemed to signal that sunset was about an hour away.

Around the perimeter of the train station, there were dozens of motor vehicles, carriages, and pedicabs. All of which were occupied with the loading, unloading, or transporting of the hundred, or so, travelers passing back and forth in front of the station. It was like standing at the center of a giant beehive. Across the street, office buildings and warehouses spread across the landscape, vying for space like cells in honeycomb.

Suddenly, Irene waved at a man, who was leaning casually, ankles crossed, against a gray and black motorcar. He waved back and began to approach. He appeared to be in his late twenties, of medium height and slender build. His strides, agile and energetic, moved him quickly to where she and Irene were.

A smile tripped at Irene’s lips as she introduced them. "Jessie, this is Rudolfo Palavera."

"Rudy for short," he added as Jessie took his offered hand.

Jessie examined his longish face, the sharp, sculpted features, and the wavy, ash brown hair, which he wore combed up and away from his forehead. His eyebrows arched gravely across his forehead, and the way he drew them together into almost a scowl gave the impression of an obstinate character. His soft hazel brown eyes told a different story, though, one about immeasurable compassion and sensitivity. Altogether, he had a striking and strangely aristocratic appeal. "It’s nice to meet you, Rudy," Jessie offered.

"Good to meet you, Jessie. How was your trip?" he asked with a broad smile and a hearty shake of her hand.

"It was pleasant, although, I did have moments I thought I might go stir-crazy. There are only so many things you can do on a train."

He nodded. "True . . ."

"Can I take that from you?" he said, tilting his chin at the traveling bag.

"It’s all right. I can get it," Jessie said, glancing at Irene.

He nodded again. "Irene said you were a bit on the independent side."

"Did she?" She cast a reproachful glance at Irene.

Irene put her hand up in surrender, and then smiled and offered the hatbox to Rudy. "You can take this one if you’re so anxious to carry something."

He smiled affectionately, took the hatbox, and then clasped Irene’s hand in his. "My taxicab is over there. I have your travel chest already. Is there any other luggage I should have gotten from the cargo area of the train?"

"No, that’s it."

"Well, then, let’s go." Rudy tugged lightly at Irene’s arm, guiding her to the taxicab.

When they reached the taxicab, he turned to Jessie, and said "I’m afraid you’ll have to relinquish your bag now unless you want to keep it with you."

"No," Jessie responded, handing him the bag, and then studying him for a moment. "You speak English very well."

"Thank you. My mother taught me, but I really got most of my practice in college."

"In college?"

Irene smiled. "He went to school in Jamestown, New York."

"Syracuse?"

"Mm . . . hmm . . . College of Arts and Sciences," he said offhandedly as he tucked in the traveling bag and hatbox next to her travel chest, which was already in the luggage compartment of the taxicab. "All right, let’s go," he directed as he slammed the top of the trunk closed.

Irene opened the back passenger door for her, and as Jessie passed her to step into the motor vehicle, she whispered, "Appealing man."

Irene sighed, "He could put my heart through the wringer . . . anytime." Then she took a seat in the front next to Rudy.

The taxicab pulled away from the curb and onto the main street running in front of the train station. Irene leaned over the seat and directed a pointed stare at Jessie. "I know you’re dying to ask."

Jessie’s eyes met Irene’s for a moment. "What?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "I know you’re dying to ask when you will meet her."

"You’re mistaken," Jessie denied, and then cast a paranoid look at the back of Rudy’s head.

"What? Him?" Irene asked incredulously. Jessie nodded as subtly as she could. "Oh, don’t worry about him. His girlfriend is one of those progressive types." She stroked the side of Rudy’s face and he smiled, and then she turned back to Jessie. "So ask already."

"I don’t need to ask."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Remember, I was the one who had to look at your starry-eyed face while I listened to you babble and moon over her."

Jessie crossed her arms defensively. "I didn’t have stars in my eyes nor did I babble, and I certainly didn’t moon."

"Oh, then, it wasn’t you who went on about her bright brilliance, her munificent charity, her graceful poise, her velvety rasp, and endless depths of her gray-blue eyes . . . ?"

The memory of her juvenile infatuation and the knowledge that she still harbored unrequited feelings for the photojournalist crossed her mind and Jessie blushed despite herself. Turning away from her friend’s scrutinizing stare, she gazed out the passenger window, looking for a diversion. And she found one, a grand pair of baroque styled, stone archways embedded in an immense terracotta-colored adobe wall. Beyond the arches, Jessie could see a plaza surrounded by gardens of tall palms, rows of neatly trimmed hedges, and great displays of exotic flowering plants. Peeking over the tallest grove of trees, a white, Spanish Colonial-styled church sat at the opposite end of the plaza. The fauna was so thick only the church’s top tier and bell tower with its copper dome were visible.

Around the area, people milled about, sat on stone benches, and children chased each other on the grass. Like the train station, there seemed to be an endless stream of people. In fact, they were everywhere—walking down the streets, leaning against lampposts, coming out of shops, buying wares from street vendors. From this busy scene, some of the information from the books that she had read began to take hold in other parts of her brain besides her imagination. Mexico City was, in fact, a city as large and dynamic as San Francisco. "Maybe even larger," she thought.

Suddenly, Irene spoke up again, getting Jessie’s attention. "I’ve been to her home for hors d'oeuvres."

Jessie was aware of the two dark eyes examining her for any trace of a reaction. "What was the occasion . . . ? Bring a nut to cocktails?"

Irene, pursing her lips, shrank back against the seat. "Were you always so insufferable?"

Jessie leaned forward. "Irene, this is business. I admit that I had a certain fascination with the woman, but that was years ago and—"

"You still have that picture?" Irene cut in.

"Picture?" Jessie repeated, surprised.

"The one from the symposium leaflet."

Jessie sighed in exasperation. "Yes, but it’s research."

Irene’s face crinkled up dubiously. "Research!"

Jessie looked out the passenger window of the cab and watched a vendor, who was selling woven baskets on the side of the road. "Maybe I’ll use it for the front cover of the book."

"Then what would you put under your pillow at night?" When Jessie continued to stare out the window, Irene crossed her arms and smirked. "Business. Research. Baloney!"

Finally, Jessie pulled away from the window. "I don’t sleep with it under my pillow."

Irene nodded. "That’s right. You were using it as a bookmarker. I suppose, it’s still stuck between the pages of The Sun Also Rises."

Jessie swallowed. "It’s not." She glanced at her hands neatly folded in her lap. "It’s in The Plumed Serpent."

Irene chuckled. "That’s what I thought."

Jessie grew serious under the good-natured ribbing. "Really, though, I am here to do research."

Irene smiled reassuringly. "I know you are. . . . But she is an engaging woman. Isn’t she, Rudy?"

Rudy nodded, keeping his eyes on the road as much to avoid an accident as to avoid the conversation.

Jessie looked at her searchingly, trying to read the message Irene was sending her. "Your point being?"

Irene looked evasive. "Oh, I don’t know."

Jessie raised an eyebrow. "She’s not . . ." she let off, looking around. "Not like me?"

Irene shrugged. "I don’t know. Some of her closest friends are, though."

Embroiled in thought, Jessie sank back into the seat. "Doesn’t mean anything," she concluded.

"Maybe," Irene followed up. "Anyway, I suppose I should tell you a bit about where you’ll be staying."

Jessie glanced up in time to catch sight of a series of two-story buildings, each one painted a different color—dark tones of peach, yellow, and green—and accentuated by long rectangular windows trimmed in white. Each window on the second story had a small balcony encircled by intricate wrought iron rails. The terraces, being too tiny for more than one person to stand on, were inhabited instead by exotic-looking ferns and fauna planted in assorted sizes of vibrantly colored clay pots.

Returning her attention to her friend, Jessie finally responded, "I thought I was staying with you."

"No, I’ll be two doors down. You’ll be boarding with Rudy’s brother, Everado." Irene glanced at Rudy, who smiled back at her. "Everado is a good man. A bit on the stern side . . . but his family is very nice."

Jessie pursed her lips and nodded her head thoughtfully. She knew Irene made suitable arrangements. "What does Everado do?" she thought to ask, but a huddle of men standing on the street corner caught her eye. All of them were wearing white cloth masks pulled down over their faces, double bandoleers across their chests, and guns in holsters at their hips. They seemed to be embroiled in an intense conversation. One of them clutched a rolled piece of paper and waved it angrily in the air.

As they passed the men on the street, one of the men eyed her. Disconcerted by the dark eyes staring back at her from the mask, Jessie drew away from the window and settled against the seat. "Who are they?"

"Ceballistas," Rudy said over his shoulder.

"Ceballistas?" she repeated questioningly. "I thought Alfredo Ceballos was assassinated almost ten years ago."

"He was, but his memory lives on, especially in the minds of the populace."

Irene, seeing the worry lines in Jessie’s forehead, cut in. "They’re perfectly harmless, Jess. They would just like to see the land distributed more fairly. Nothing much more than that to it . . ."

"That’s too simplistic an explanation to describe the Ceballistas," Rudy interjected. "They believe that greedy landowners and corrupt government officials have usurped the lands, forests, mountains, and water. They want all of Mexico’s natural resources restored to the villages or citizens who had title to them. See, the great majority of Mexicans own little more than the land they walk on. They want it all back."

Jessie addressed Rudy, "That doesn’t explain the masks or the guns."

"They are afraid that if they are identified, they may be persecuted for going against the government."

Irene smiled reassuringly at her. "Like I said, nothing much . . ."

☼☼☼☼

The taxicab meandered down a side street, and then made another turn, taking them into a residential neighborhood. Here, courtyard walls running the perimeter of the homes separated the houses from each other. This community was in strong contrast to the city where all the buildings—homes, offices, and warehouses—seemed to be stacked like milk crates.

The taxicab slowed in front of a two-story, adobe house. The residence would have been indistinguishable from neighboring houses with their square shape and tile roofs, if not for a few distinctive touches. In particular, the door and window frames were broadly accented in a creamy blue-green color and the sides of the home had an unusual stair-stepped design molded into the adobe, which reminded Jessie of a picture of the Olmec pyramid structures at Teotihuacán.

As the taxicab pulled further along the curb and came to a stop, Jessie could see that the two corners of the house facing the inside of the courtyard were covered in thick-growing ivy. Each of the windows on the second story had a small balcony with lush plants growing in assorted sizes of painted terracotta pots. "It’s all about color," Jessie mused.

Irene broke into her thoughts. "Charming neighborhood, isn’t it?"

Jessie glanced back at the house. "It is."

"I’m just two houses down," she pointed at another adobe home. "The one with green tiles in the courtyard wall. . . . Oh, and," Irene continued, "Rudy lives with his father in the house across from the one I’m staying in."

Jessie, busily inspecting the neighborhood, nodded distractedly.

Rudy pushed open his door, and then moved around the motorcar to pull open the passenger door for Irene. She stepped out of the taxicab. "Jess?" Irene questioned, leaning through the window into the back seat.

" . . . Yes."

"You should probably get out now."

"Right," she affirmed, lifting the handle of the door and exiting the motorcar.

Rudy chuckled. "Why don’t you take her in and introduce her to the family?" he suggested, opening the taxicab’s trunk. "I’ll get the baggage."

Irene agreed, gave Rudy a pleased smile, and then wrapped her arm around the blonde. "Come on, Jess. . . . You’ll like them a lot."

"Are they a big family?"

"Not that big."

"Not that big to you or not that big to me?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "Only six."

"Six children?"

"No, three kids, two parents, and Rudy’s mother . . . Stop worrying, would you?"

"All right," Jessie agreed, and then immediately added, "I’m just a little worried about the language gap."

"You shouldn’t worry. Rudy’s grandmother speaks English very well. Everyone does except Rudy’s little niece."

"Oh." Jessie stopped mid-stride. "Should I have brought a gift for them?"

"Jess, this isn’t a dinner party. The only thing they are expecting from you is for you to be good enough to accept their generosity. Okay?"

Jessie eyed her. "All right."

"Good. Twenty questions over?" Jessie nodded. "Well, then, come on," Irene said impatiently, wrapping her arm around the taller woman’s waist again and guiding her towards the courtyard gate.

From the gate entrance, they followed the cobblestone pathway to the back door where a colorful and odiferous hodgepodge of spices woven together with a thin piece of jute hung from the roof beams. Irene turned to Jessie. "Jess, loosen up, your stiff as a board. Why so apprehensive?"

"I don’t know. Are you familiar with the saying ‘a babe in the woods?’"

"Yeah, so?"

"I’m feeling a tad like that." Jessie repositioned her shoulders and sighed.

"That’s better," Irene asserted. "It’s almost dinnertime, so everyone will be in the kitchen helping with the preparation of the food, except Everado and his oldest, Isidro. They’re both at work and won’t return until eight or so."

Jessie nodded and Irene knocked lightly on the wooden screen door. An auburn-haired woman with a round, freckled face and patient, hazel eyes answered. Immediately upon seeing them, she smiled warmly. Jessie guessed her age to be about thirty-five.

"Katia," Irene greeted as the woman opened the door to allow them inside.

The kitchen was vibrant and warm from the honey-colored cabinets trimming the walls to the terracotta tiles on the floor. On top of the cabinets, a kaleidoscope of dishtowels, jars, and wooden spoons lay scattered. From over the sink, a window allowed light to radiate through a blown-glass trinket of a hummingbird, which cast the room in a prismatic glow. The fragrance permeating also added to the room’s distinctiveness. For some reason, it reminded her of the Italian bakery her parents liked to go to for Sunday breakfast. Maybe it was the smell—like stone-fired bread but different—not quite so sour from a lot of yeast.

Slowly, Jessie came around to noticing the other occupants of the room. An elderly woman and two children, a boy and a girl, regarded her with curiosity. She recognized that her appearance must be amusing to them given the dumbfounded look she knew she was wearing. She smiled at them.

"Jessie, this is Katia—Rudy’s sister-in-law," Irene introduced.

Katia took her hand and squeezed it lightly. "Welcome to our home, Jessie."

Jessie smiled, feeling a bit more relaxed. "Thank you for letting me stay with you."

The old woman came forward, clasped her arm around Irene, and extended her hand to Jessie. "It is our pleasure."

Irene grinned down into the woman’s wrinkled face. "And this is Aidia, Rudy’s mother." Jessie stepped forward and took the hand of the small hunched figure with solid white hair. The woman was pale with age, but her green eyes sparkled with vitality and the clasp of her hand was remarkably strong.

"Jessie, it’s wonderful to meet you," Aidia addressed her with a slight squeezing of her hand and a dimpled smile.

"And you, too," Jessie responded.

Aidia closely inspected Jessie, and then she gestured to the two children at the sink. A boy of about ten and a girl of about five came up next to her. "This is Galeno." She touched him on his head of silky, straight, black hair, and the boy raised his hand quickly, gesturing a short "hi." "And this one here . . ." she said, bending to touch the little girl on the nose, "is Analee." The little girl beamed a bashful smile, which lit up her big, black eyes, and then quickly turned her face into her grandmother’s apron.

"It’s nice to meet both of you."

Galeno, still curious, inspected her. "Is your hair really that color?"

"Galeno!" his mother reprimanded.

"I mean," Galeno backtracked, "I have never seen anyone with hair like that except the ladies at—"

"Galeno!" His dark features colored a deep scarlet. Analee, having come away from her grandmother, giggled and shook her head, her curly, ash brown hair swaying at her shoulders.

Jessie glanced at Irene, who was grinning with amusement. "It’s all right," she said more for Katia’s benefit than for Galeno’s. "This is my real hair color."

The boy stepped up to her, and Jessie could see that he had dimples accentuating both his cheeks in exactly the same fashion as his grandmother’s. "How did you get it?" he asked precociously as though he might be able to catch her in a lie.

She touched her hair, suddenly very conscious of its pale color. "Both my parents had hair this color."

"Oh," he replied, shrugging his shoulders and accepting the explanation easily enough.

Jessie glanced at Katia and smiled, hoping to eliminate the agitated look she wore, when suddenly the door banged open and Rudy, his arms wrapped around Jessie’s luggage, stood teetering in the entrance.

"Galeno, ayuda a tú tío," Aidia ordered. The boy bounded over to his uncle and grabbed the hatbox and the traveling bag from on top of the trunk.

Rudy smirked, his full lips twisting up at the corners. "Thanks, you’re a big help."

Galeno grinned devilishly at his uncle, and then slung the strap of the bag over his little sister and handed her the hatbox. His hands now free, he took up one side of the trunk.

Moving slowly, the two began to leave the room. Aidia spoke up again. "Why don’t we follow them and you can get settled."

Jessie, taking the hatbox and lifting the bag off Analee, followed Aidia and Irene through the arched doorway of the kitchen and into a long hallway. It seemed that the kitchen was the heart of the house, and Jessie imagined that the hall was the main artery providing life to all the other rooms. However, as she passed the dining room and then the living room, she understood her analogy to be inaccurate. Every room was open to the next through a series of archways decorated with the painted images of flowers and vines.

And the rooms, too, were each painted a different color—dark red, dark blue, dark green, dark gold. The furniture varied as widely as the room color. Most of it was made of a dense wood, which was carved in broad strokes and stained a dark-honeyed brown, giving it an almost Moorish appearance. From the ceiling hung heavy looking, wrought iron and wood fixtures, some of which contained partially melted candles. Every room contained a floor-to-ceiling window, and she couldn’t help but visualize how light moved through this house, blending and changing colors. Taken altogether, walking through the house was much like strolling through one of those murals she had seen earlier.

As they approached the stairway, Jessie noticed something else unique to her—the walls of the home were twelve inches thick, maybe more. "Must keep the house well insulated," Jessie guessed silently.

At the top of the stairs, Rudy and Galeno turned right into the first room. The three women followed them, entering just as they put the trunk down. Galeno immediately shot around them and out of the room. She could hear him teasing someone, presumably his sister, on the stairs.

Jessie put her hatbox on the twin bed, and then dropped her bag onto the floor as she looked around the room. The walls were the palest shade of rose and sheer white drapery floated away from the window with the advent of a light breeze coming from outside. She breathed in the scent of honeysuckle. She was surprised to note that the Palaveras’ had generously given her one of the rooms with a balcony overlooking the courtyard.

She pulled her eyes from the window, and again glanced around the room. The furniture was white with tiny violet flowers painted around the edges of the headboard and the dresser mirror. The bedding was white with a hand-woven throw with the same violet flowers knitted into the pattern.

Aside from a couple of other items—a small, wooden crucifix on the wall above the bed and a finely crafted marionette of a clown, wearing droopy, patched pants and a broad, straw hat—the room was almost empty. Yet it did not feel empty, and it occurred to Jessie that someone already had ownership of this room. "I hope I’m not putting anyone out," Jessie extended, smiling at the bright-eyed girl, who having escaped her brother’s teasing was now peeking at her from around the door of the room.

"No, you’re welcome here. If someone does not welcome someone . . ." Aidia paused and turned to Irene. "How is it said?"

"One who does not welcome guests at home will meet very few hosts when he goes out," Irene offered.

Confusion crossed the wrinkled features. "We say it more simply—mi casa es su casa."

Jessie, understanding immediately, smiled at Aidia. "Thank you. It’s very kind of you and your family to allow me to stay in your home."

Aidia shook her head as she raised a tiny, crooked finger. "Now don’t think you are going to just sleep and eat here. No, you will help," she grinned, again turning to Irene. "She knows. She now makes the roundest tortillas in town."

Irene chuckled in self-deprecation as Jessie looked perplexed.

"Come along, Rudolfo." Aidia tugged on her son’s arm. "You get settled now," Aidia tossed back, moving into the hallway with Rudy in tow.

Irene waited until she heard their footsteps echoing down the stairs. "So, what do you think? Aren’t they peachy?"

Jessie turned from the trunk. "I like them. I think, after awhile, I will feel quite comfortable here."

"Good, because I’ve got to run," Irene proclaimed.

"What?"

"I’ve got an article I have to finish and get into the mail by tomorrow or my boss will blow his top."

Jessie smirked, knowing well that Irene had probably been at the receiving end of her boss’s wrath a number of times in the last two years.

"Okay," Irene said, stepping up next to her and taking her by the arm. They embraced again, and Jessie watched her as she began to leave the room.

"Oh, Jess?" Irene turned and poked her head back into the bedroom. "Rudy and I will be back tomorrow evening to pick you up. There’s a party I want to take you to . . ." she broke off, grinning impishly, "some people you should meet."

☼☼☼☼

"¿Tiene usted hambre?"

Deep in thought, Jessie jumped slightly at the sound of the tiny voice. Turning to find Analee once again poking her curly head around the corner of the bedroom door, she said, "Excuse me?"

"¿Tiene usted hambre?"

"I’m sorry, I don’t understand."

The little girl looked at her for a moment, and then her eyes lit up and she balled her right hand into a fist and curled her left hand into a bowl shape. Lifting her right hand from the center of her left hand, and then to her mouth, she pretended to eat.

Jessie chuckled. "Oh, you mean food."

"Sí, comida," Analee confirmed, drifting towards Jessie, and then taking her by the hand. The little girl looked up at Jessie as though to confirm that it was all right for her to touch her. When Jessie smiled down reassuringly at her, Analee looked so happy and proud that her large, black eyes almost seemed to glow.

As Analee towed her toward the kitchen, Jessie could smell the wonderful pungency of seafood browning in a skittle. Entering the archway, she could see that Katia was charring chopped bits of onion, green pepper, and seafood in a plethora of spices, some of which Jessie didn’t recognize.

Seeing her daughter and the tall blonde from the corner of her eye, Katia smiled. "Analee, invita a tú amiga a la mesa."

Obeying her mother, the little girl tugged Jessie over to the table, and had her sit in the chair next to her. On the table, on plates and in bowls of multihued earthenware was an assortment of sliced avocado, shredded lettuce and cheese, diced tomato, and some kind of flat bread, which Jessie couldn’t quite identify. It was thin, disc-like, and looked as though it was made of corn.

Katia turned from the stove, and after shutting off the burners, placed the griddle of sizzling seafood on a wrought iron trivet in the center of the table. She glanced at Jessie who was inspecting the griddle. "You like seafood?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, it looks delicious."

Satisfied, Katia smiled pleasantly and went back to the counter.

Suddenly, the kitchen screen door popped open and Galeno darted inside. In the tuck of one arm he had a pineapple and in the other a cantaloupe. As he laid the fruit on the counter, Aidia came through the door. She looked the spectacle—her skirt lifted up so that it formed a bowl. "Did you get settled?" she asked, hitching the skirt higher and approaching the counter.

"Yes. Thank you," Jessie said, noticing that Aidia was struggling to bring out the items bundled in her skirt. "Can I help?"

"I have it," she said, catching an orange just before it landed on the floor. "You stay right where you are."

Jessie settled back into her chair.

After a few more minutes, the two women had finished their preparations. Galeno and Aidia sat down as Katia passed around napkins and glasses of milk to the children. "Would you like something to drink? We have milk, coffee, and juice—pineapple, orange, coconut—"

"Orange is fine," Jessie answered agreeably, knowing water was out of the question.

Katia turned back to the kitchen counter, grabbing three glasses and a bottle of juice on the table. "You, help yourself."

Jessie poured herself a glass as Katia settled at the table. "Galeno, diga la bendición."

Analee, smiling, linked her tiny fingers with Jessie’s as everyone joined hands at the table.

Galeno began, "Dios Nuestro, te damos gracias por esta comida y por todas las cosas buenas que hemos recibido. Te pedimos que ven digas en la misma forma bendice aquellos que tienen menos que nostros."

When he had finished, everyone uttered, "Amen," and then Katia said, "¡Coman!"

Everyone reached for a glass, a bowl, or a napkin, but Jessie wasn’t exactly sure how to eat what was in front of her as there weren’t any utensils on the table with the exception of the serving spoon for the seafood to give her any hints. So, as she had done when she was a child, Jessie observed, hoping it would provide guidance.

Realizing that she was being watched, Aidia pulled a piece of the flatbread from the plate on the table. "Jessie, mira, it’s a tortilla. You take it like this and put what you want on it." She placed a bit of the seafood, avocado, lettuce, and tomato on top. "Then you roll it in the tortilla. . . . Then, you eat."

Jessie nodded in understanding and began to spoon some seafood carefully onto her tortilla. At that moment, a tall, olive-skinned man with lots of curly black hair heaved into the kitchen with a wiry, auburn-headed boy of about thirteen following on his heels. Both wore mechanics overalls.

Even from a distance, Jessie could see that the man was like many forty-something year-old men, he had grown harsh and lumbering from too much hard work. In contrast, the boy was carefree and energetic, and by the way he kept trying to peek over his father’s shoulder, anxious to meet their guest.

"You’re home a little late," Katia greeted her husband as she stood up. "Come in, sit down, and meet our guest—Jessie."

Coming further into the kitchen, he extended his hand to Jessie. "Hello," he said, but instead of the booming voice she expected all she heard was a deep, low rumble.

"Hello," she answered and as he nodded to her, she noticed his hazel eyes still held a devilish glimmer of the boy he once must have been; although, she could tell he chose to hide it between the deep lines furrowing his forehead. He bore little resemblance to his younger brother.

Everado, gesturing behind him, said, "This is our oldest—Isidro."

Isidro moved his head to the side, stealing another look around his father’s form. Finally, he bounded out from behind Everado and awkwardly extended his hand to Jessie. "Pleased to make acquaintance with you," he assured her with a silly, ear-to-ear smile and a slight bowing of his head.

A loud snicker came from across the table. Isidro shot Galeno a menacing look.

Jessie smiled. "It’s nice to meet you as well."

As he continued to hold her hand hostage, she noticed the light smattering of freckles that spilled across the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks.

"Isidro, toma tú asiento," Katia directed.

With one final glance at her, the young man moved to an empty chair at the table, and then sat down morosely.

Katia opened a cabinet and pulled out two more glasses. "¿Quieres tomar algo?" she asked her husband as he sat at the head of the table.

"No," Everado replied tersely, taking up his fork.

Katia glanced at her oldest son, who was between mouthfuls, staring at their guest. "¿Isidro?" He turned and looked at his mother. "¿Tienes sed?"

"¿Que?" Isidro inspected his area on the table, and then realized what his mother was asking. "Si, Mamá, deseo la leche."

Katia got up to retrieve a glass and the milk bottle from the counter. Returning, she placed the items in front of Isidro. "Gracias, Mamá."

As she sat she turned her attention to Everado. "¿Cómo estuvo el trabajo?"

"Bien," he grunted.

"¿Lo vio—?" Katia started.

"No deseo hablar sobre eso," he grunted, and then fixed his wife with a glare.

Jessie ran the unfamiliar words through her mind, trying to understand the conversation. She had been able to pick out a few words and from that she knew that Katia had asked Everado about his work, but Jessie still didn’t understand what had prompted his angry retort.

Katia glanced nervously around the table, her eyes briefly meeting Jessie’s, and then finally landing on Aidia, who turned to her eldest grandson. "¿Isidro, tocará la guitarra para nosotros esta noche?"

The green-eyed boy puffed up his chest. "Si, abuela. Con mi dinero propio, compré secuencias nuevas."

Aidia smiled at her grandson, and then turned to Jessie. "He plays la guitarra very well. Maybe someday, if he keeps practicing," she added, looking pointedly at the boy again, "he will be a famous musician."

Isidro began to say something when Everado looked up from his plate. "Katia, un cristal de leche." Jessie knew it was an order just from the tone of his voice.

Katia stood, but before she could move away from the table, Aidia held up a hand to her daughter-in-law. "Siéntaté."

Katia sat down.

"Mamá," Everado said sharply.

Aidia looked composedly at her son. "No deseo oírlo. La primera vez que ella era generosa. Es incómodo ahora. Tú estás más cercano a la concina."

Everado got up repentantly and moved towards the kitchen. Jessie kept her eyes averted as though she hadn’t noticed anything, because she wanted to keep him from any embarrassment he might feel at having been corrected in front of a guest.

Aidia placed her hand on Jessie’s arm, patting it. "My son sometimes forgets that taking care of his home is a day and night effort."

Jessie nodded, and then changed the subject. "The food is very good."

"Then, have another . . . ," Aidia offered, placing another tortilla on Jessie’s plate. "You are very thin." She held up her hand before Jessie could protest. "I know. I know. It’s the fashion. All these delgadas walking around in their dresses tailored to make them look like young boys. It’s not right."

Jessie hesitated, pressing her hand against her stomach. Glancing around the table she noticed that she had the attention of everyone there.

"Eat. Eat," Aidia insisted.

☼☼☼☼

Sitting on a large brick block, Isidro gripped the diminutive guitar, pulling it into his lap. The moonlight reflecting off the native copper inlay at the base of the guitar flashed into Jessie’s eyes for a second. Just as quickly, Isidro repositioned his hands on the neck of the instrument to adjust his grip and the light moved away from her face. His left hand moved along the neck of the guitar and the fingers of his right picked at the strings. He played the guitarra beautifully, with a grace and fluency Jessie would have never expected from the awkward teenager.

A little hand moved in hers, and she looked down at the little girl who occupied the spot on the porch step next to her. Analee had taken up a stick and was drawing in a small patch of dirt. Jessie watched her for a minute. The little girl, although busy, showed no signs of relinquishing the loose clasp she had on Jessie’s hand. It was endearing, Jessie mused, being adopted by the tiniest Palavera.

Gazing at the shaky circle patterns, Jessie noticed the red brick, well worn and chipped in spots, laid in zigzags to form pathways through the thick vegetation. And even with all the plants and trees, there were still more growing in pots scattered around the yard. In the far corner of the wall was a domed structure made of clay and standing approximately four feet high. A small, open arch, bordered in tiny white and blue tile, allowed her to see the ashes on the floor of the dome. "An oven of some kind," Jessie thought.

Just to the left of the oven, Katia and Aidia sat in wicker rocking chairs. Katia darned a sock while her mother-in-law relaxed, her eyes closed and her hands folded neatly in her lap. Above their heads, small paper lanterns hanging from the branches of the trees let off just enough light to illuminate Galeno’s face among the leaves. Even he seemed to be satisfied to sit quietly in his tree and listen. While high above him in the canopy of jacarandas, the cicadas sang their strange rattling buzz song in crescendos.

Many people walked passed. Some strolled casually, some sauntered cheerily, some strode purposefully; nevertheless, all of them greeted the family and regarded Jessie with inquisitive but friendly smiles. From all the activity on this mild, moonlit night, she suspected that the late evenings were reserved for moving about the streets, visiting neighbors, conducting business, and doing all the things that it was too hot to do at any other time of the day.

They all seemed much like the Palaveras—generous, kind, and if nothing else, pleasant. The only member of the Palavera family she had reservations about was Everado. From the periphery of her vision, she could see him leaning against the courtyard wall. With one ankle crossed over the other and a slight smile on his face as he listened to the music, Jessie now could see the resemblance between him and his younger brother. Maybe the hardnosed act was just that, an act . . .

A subdued thump-thump-thump distracted her from her thoughts. Jessie glanced around the courtyard, once and then twice, and had almost decided that she hadn’t heard anything at all, when it came again—strange muffled sounds, almost like something struggling to get out of a cardboard box.

To hear the sound better, Jessie turned her head towards the direction the noise seemed to be coming from. At the same time, she saw Everado lean back slightly and glimpse down the street. The half grin melted off his face as he pushed away from the wall. "Isidro, esto es suficiente. Podemos comenzar manana temperano."

"Pero, Papá, apenas acabo de comenzar," Isidro complained, and then glanced at Jessie. "Not yet time to go in. I’m just getting warmed up."

"Otro tiempo, Isidro." Everado glanced reflexively behind him again. "Everyone inside . . . Isidro, can play for us again tomorrow," he added as an afterthought.

Chapter Three

The sun set a purple blaze in the sky as they headed down the street away from the Palaveras’ home. The further they walked the fewer people and homes they saw. As Irene had promised, she and Rudy had come to take her to a party, but as of yet they hadn’t revealed just where the party was or whom it was for. Irene had disclosed only that there were some people Jessie should meet. She wasn’t exactly sure to whom Irene might be referring, but she assumed one of them was Erin Donnevan. Jessie contented herself with that thought.

Rudy and Irene strolled a few paces in front of her and talked together in hushed tones. Glancing around, Jessie realized they had walked less than one mile and were already in a rural locale. To the left of the road, rows of sixty foot mango trees reached slowly to the sky, and to the right, a couple of horses lazily grazed in a field of alfalfa.

The atmosphere was tranquil and calming, giving her a chance to relax and think. She had spent much of the night before awake and waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, the strange noises and Everado’s ostensible reaction to them—shuffling them all quickly indoors—put her on edge. She had remained tense throughout the night, finally falling into an exhausted sleep in the early morning hours.

Jessie had woken to the smell of coffee steaming and eggs frying. The bright sunshine filtering in through the window sheers seemed to confirm it—nothing had happened. There wasn’t any dark undercurrent or sinister threat here. Jessie felt ridiculous for having thought so. The night and fatigue had simply conspired to play tricks on her.

Realizing that Jessie had fallen behind, Irene glanced back, noticed how preoccupied her friend was, and slowed her pace to fall into stride with Jessie. "What are you thinking about?"

Irene’s question and the unmistakable clomping of horseshoes on the dirt road pulled Jessie away from her thoughts. From an intersecting road, a grey haired man on horseback approached them. As he passed Irene and Jessie, he took off his hat and ducked his head in greeting to the two women. Dismounting, he came up next to Rudy and slapped him heartily on the back. "Rudolfo, ese fue un gran discurso que pronunciaste en el Palacio Nacional."

"Gracias, Armando," Rudy responded.

"Yo pienso realmente que tuviste toda la atención."

Rudy smiled. "Es posible."

"Amalio, todavia no lo a hecho. Él soy demasiado pasivo. Él cede la presión al gobierno demasiado rapido."

"Los pasos pequeños conducen eventual a los saltos grandes."

The man shook his head. "Sí, pero yo no soy un hombre paciente y yo quisera ver algunas concesiones antes de que muera. Lo pienso soy el hombre que puede hacer eso."

Rudy and the old man shook hands. "Gracias por ayudarme, mi amigo."

The old man turned, gave them both a toothless smile and a tip of his hat, and then mounted his horse and headed back the way he had come.

"I feel inept. I don’t understand half of the conversations around me," Jessie murmured.

Irene chuckled. "You’ll get used to it, and the next thing you know, you will begin to pick up more and more of what’s being said."

Jessie gave her a skeptical look even though she knew that after two years, Irene would have a good command of the language. Her curiosity outweighed the logic of asking. "What were they talking about?"

"Armando, the old man, was congratulating Rudy on the speech he gave at the National Palace."

"That is it? Many words for—"

"No, that’s not it. He said he has every confidence in Rudy and that he is the man to get the government to make some concessions."

"Is that all?" Jessie prodded.

Irene gave her a perplexed look. "No, he also said that Rudy was more likely to get the attention of the government than Amalio Cotero"

"Who is that?"

"Amalio Cotero? Oh, he is another spokesman for the general populace movement, but most of them think that he is too passive to make any real change."

Rudy interrupted. "What are the two of you talking about?"

"I was just giving Jessie a language lesson."

He looked away, focusing on a large grove of trees to the left of the road. "Well, there are the orchards. We’re almost there."

Jessie gazed at the long lines of citrus trees. "Where exactly is there?"

"The Contreras’ home," Rudy tossed back.

"Vivianna Contreras’ home," Irene explained further. "You’ve heard of her, right?"

"I have not."

Irene chuckled. "She hasn’t heard of Vivianna, Rudy."

He turned, walking backwards, and winked at Irene. "You better prepare her," he said, and then turned his attention to Jessie, "because you will never forget her."

Jessie tilted her head inquisitively, looking to Irene for enlightenment.

"Let’s see, Vivianna Contreras and Pablo Mescarenas . . ." Irene opened. "They are a little unconventional."

"I am familiar with Mescarena’s work. He’s a muralist," Jessie added.

Irene nodded. "That’s him."

Jessie raised an eyebrow. "What’s so unconventional?"

Irene pursed her lips. "He is married to Vivianna Contreras."

"And?"

"Well, they don’t really have an everyday kind of marriage. Vivianna didn’t take his name. They don’t live together, but they do have children. They carry on illicit affairs in front of each other and Vivianna . . ." She stepped up next to Rudy and put a hand on his shoulder. "Should I tell her or let it be a surprise?" She smiled back slyly at Jessie.

"Tell her about what?" he asked. Irene pointed her finger at her shoes and ran it up to her hat and back down to her shoes again. "Right," he said, understanding. "You should tell her or she may not know."

Irene glanced back at her friend. "Look at her . . . she’ll find out right away."

Jessie looked down at her pale blue dress. "I am dressed inappropriately?"

"No, not at all," Irene grinned, noting how the garment complemented Jessie’s voluptuous figure and long legs. "You’re dressed perfectly."

"What is it, then?" Jessie asked, glancing off to the right and thinking that she had heard the beat of music on the breeze.

"It’s nothing . . . really," she said, trying to sound convincing. "Speaking of our hosts, it’s their son’s birthday."

"You are changing the subject," Jessie observed, realizing that she was hearing music and now she smelled the woody smoke of a pit fire.

Irene didn’t reply, and Jessie had known she wouldn’t. Whatever it was that Irene wasn’t telling her, she would just have to find out on her own.

As they strolled around another bend in the dirt road, a massive adobe wall came into view. At the intersection of road and wall, an immense set of intricately carved wood doors stood. Jessie squinted against the glare of the sun setting so she could better make out the whittled designs. The handiwork appeared to be some sort of sundial. As they approached, Jessie could see that it was in fact an almanac—the round calendar of the Aztecs’ complete with the expressive face of their Sun God in the center.

Jessie stepped up to it for a closer look. It was striking from the golden sunbeams marking the cardinal points to the two vermilion serpents meeting at the heads and tails to form the outer ring of the calendar. Jessie recognized some of the Aztec glyph representations of the lizard, deer, rabbit, eagle, and jaguar making up the middle ring, but others were unrecognizable to her. Reaching out, she touched one.

"They represent the days of the week," Rudy explained. "The four large squares lodged in each quadrant of the calendar represent the cyclical cosmogonic epochs—the Jaguar Sun, the Winds Sun, Rain of Fire Sun, and the Water Sun."

"A month cycle of twenty days," Jessie guessed, stepping back from examining the carving.

Rudy pulled open the doors, the calendar dividing into two sections. "Exactly," he responded ushering them inside.

A gust of sight, sound, and smell rushed at them. Off to the right under a large olive tree, a small band of musicians were keying up their instruments. To the left, children ran in the grass. Behind them, people gathered around a long table and sampled the obligatory food. In the distance, men sat on milk crates and tended a small fire while they played cards. At the center of all this activity, loomed a large, square adobe home, encircled by a porch and topped by a pitched, tin roof. All the window frames and doorframes were painted a pale turquoise blue, and in front of the house, a cumbersome, three-tier water fountain permeated the air around it with a hazy mist.

The front door of the house banged open and a short man carrying a lit candle came through. Starting with the torch closest to the porch, he began lighting them. The candle bearer paused for a moment as he passed the buffet table. After moving some items around, he resumed setting the torches ablaze.

"There must be seven dozen people here," Jessie murmured, surprised to see so many people in various modes of celebration—talking, drinking, eating, laughing. Frivolity pierced the air.

"Give or take a half dozen," Irene added.

"Do you know all of them?" she asked her gaze moving over the crowd.

"I don’t know half of them. I do recognize them though. Many of them are relatives of Vivianna’s or Pablo’s. For the most part, they are friendly and kind. But see the old man in the brown derby with the cane?" Jessie nodded. "Stay away from him. He likes to hug."

Jessie’s eyebrows rose. "To embrace . . . strangers?"

Irene grinned sarcastically. "Yes, everyone says he is senile and just mistakes others for members of his family."

"Logical."

She shook her head. "I don’t buy it. You don’t hug a relative the way he hugged me."

Rudy demonstrated by wrapping his arms around himself, squeezing tightly, and rubbing his own back forcefully. "There was nothing elderly, or senile about that hug."

Jessie chuckled and Irene nodded in concurrence. "Just stay away from him."

Just as Jessie agreed to avoid the old man, the band struck up, delivering the sound of a rousing violin accompanied by the resonant pulsating beat created in the belly of a cavernous guitar.

"May I have this dance?" Rudy asked as he bowed exaggeratedly and extended his hand with a flourish.

"Why, of course, you may," she said, taking his hand. She turned to Jessie before he could pull her towards the other dancing couples who had created a makeshift dance floor in the dirt. "How about you, Jess?"

Jessie smirked at her. "Go ahead. I’m just going to get something to eat." They headed off and she glanced at the throng of people gathered around the picnic table. Truthfully, though, she wasn’t in the least bit hungry. She was eager to explore on her own, anxious to find Erin Donnevan and introduce herself.

However, after having covered every square inch of the courtyard and even venturing into part of the orchard, she still had yet to see Donnevan. Maybe she was in the house and Jessie would just have to wait until she came outside. Disappointed, Jessie moved towards the lessening crowd at the picnic table.

Sliding up next to the table, she surveyed the spread of food. As she picked up a plate, Jessie felt that immanent creeping along the back of her neck, which told her she was being observed. She had felt that way throughout the evening, but she had set aside the feeling by telling herself it was simply that she felt out of place. Instinctively, she looked around.

A dark headed man, leaning against a wall and smoking a cigar, watched her unabashedly. He was alone and set apart from the other men who were in groups gathered around the fire pit, at a table playing chess, or otherwise occupied with comparable activities. He was also distinguishable in his finely tailored gray suit and a rather spectacularly black and silver striped tie. His short hair was parted fashionably in the middle and slicked back to the sides. Altogether, the man had the look of someone who took pains with his appearance.

Great puffs of odious smoke circled overhead and quickly fled the area on the light evening breeze. He gazed at her, catching her in the periphery of his vision, as he tilted his head down and snuffed out the cigar under his shoe. His shoes were unusual, too. They were custom made, maybe with insteps to make up for the man’s lack of height.

Jessie turned from the coy gaze. She was used to being stared at. Her height alone made her stand out, but here where almost everyone had an olive complexion and dark hair, she expected to attract curious looks. However, the relentless attention from this man proved disconcerting. "Ignore it," she told herself.

Bending over to retrieve a spoon from the bowl, she was startled by someone next to her. Turning her head to the side, she confirmed her suspicion. He smiled at her. Jessie’s eyes darted over his face. His features were softly sculpted. He had full lips and a pale olive complexion. It occurred to Jessie that he somehow seemed pretty with his soft black eyes, long neck, and slender build—not at all handsome.

"Try the barbecue. It’s been roasting all day." His voice was light and surprisingly melodic.

Jessie picked up the fork and placed some of the steaming meat on her plate.

"You’re new around here. Are you a friend of the host?" His dark eyes gleamed suspiciously at her.

"No, I came with friends." Jessie picked up a tortilla, which was the only other thing on the table she could identify.

"Oh . . . Maybe I know them." His eyes moved over her.

"Irene Seiger and Rudy Palavera." Jessie turned and looked at him, noticing the tiny beauty mark below his eye and to the right of his nose. His ears were small and delicately shaped. "You know them?"

"Of course." He smiled, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. "Yes, lovely couple. I don’t know Irene very well, but I have known Rudy since we were children."

Jessie nodded and started to walk away.

The man jogged to catch up with her. "You should try one of these, too" he said, placing some sort of sugar cookie on her plate. She watched his surprisingly dainty hand withdraw from her plate and slip into the pocket of his suit coat. Perplexed, she looked at the cookie, and then back to the stranger. Not knowing what else to say, she said, "Thank you."

"You’re welcome," he muttered so low that Jessie could barely hear.

"I’m sorry, did you say something?"

He pursed his lips, seemed about to say something, but stayed silent. He met Jessie’s eyes again. "What I really meant to say is you are exquisite."

Jessie shifted her shoulders. "Pardon me?"

"You are exquisite."

Jessie looked quite astonished at the forwardness of the man, but managed to say, ". . . Thank you" just as a tall, pale woman with light brown hair streaked with gray marched up behind him. "You’re embarrassing your father, Vivianna."

Jessie repeated "Vivianna" in her mind. The stranger, whose twinkling eyes were still trained on her, smiled knowingly. "Mother, my father is happily playing poker with his chums over there." She pointed towards a short, Hispanic man sitting at a table with several other men. "You are the one who is embarrassed by my appearance, and I am sorry that you feel that way. But this is my house and—"

"Enough." The woman held up her hand, dismissing her daughter, and then turned away and headed back from the direction from which she came. When Jessie looked back at Vivianna, the petite woman was again inspecting her.

"Mothers can be very critical." Vivianna winked. "That was really the wrong foot to get off on." She extended her hand to Jessie. "I’m Vivianna Contreras, and you must be Irene’s friend from San Francisco."

Jessie clasped her hand. "Yes. Jessie Madsen."

"It’s nice to meet you, Jessie Madsen. I hope my little masquerade hasn’t proved upsetting to you."

"No . . . not at all."

"Good. So, I understand you’re here to do an article on Erin."

"Yes."

"An admirer of hers, are you?"

Jessie looked her in the eye, trying to decide what she was getting at. "Yes."

"Well, then, we will just have to introduce you to her."

"She’s here?"

Vivianna smiled at the hint of excitement in Jessie’s voice. "No, unfortunately, she is not. But I could arrange for you to meet her. Tomorrow she will be over for lunch. Why don’t you join us?"

"Yes. Yes, I would like that. Thank you."

A tall, corpulent man came up behind Vivianna and picked up several pieces of cheese rolled in ham slices. "Vivianna, who is your lovely friend?"

Vivianna jumped at the sound of the deep voice. "Oh, you frightened me, Pablo. I didn’t know you were there."

"Obviously," he muttered flatly.

Jessie noticed that a little of the playful sparkle had left Vivianna’s eyes. "Jessie Madsen, this is my husband, Pablo Mescarenas."

Jessie gazed up into the large, round, jowly face of the muralist. Topping his head was a mop of curly, brown hair, which he wore longer than most men. The long locks leant him a boyish look even though he must have been in his late forties. His eyes were brown and turtle-like, and he wore hexagonal, silver-rimmed glasses. His body was disproportionate with excessively long, thin legs supporting a bulbous belly. He reminded Jessie of a maraca.

Mescarenas smiled warmly and extended his hand to her. She shook his hand, noticing that they were remarkably gentle for their size. "I’m an admirer of your work," she greeted.

He seemed surprised. "You know of my work?" he asked tugging on the waistband of his suspender pants.

"Yes, of course."

Vivianna cast a look between the two. "Jessie is Irene’s friend."

"Ah, from Chicago."

"No, Jessie is from San Francisco."

"Yes, that’s right—San Francisco," he paused, trying to recall the particulars. "The art critic doing the article on Erin."

"Yes," Vivianna remarked with a roll of her eyes.

"Erin is not here tonight, but I can introduce you to her husband," Pablo volunteered.

Jessie’s eyes grew wide. She felt as though the floor had been pulled out from under her. Why hadn’t Irene told her Erin was married?

"Her ex-husband, Pablo." Vivianna turned to Jessie. "They’ve been divorced for more than two years. Pablo has a tendency to forget such details"

Jessie nodded stiffly.

"Pablo, Julio is waiting for you to hang the piñata."

He eyed his wife suspiciously, and then glanced past her at the little boy who was trying to throw a long piece of twine over a tree limb. "Julio, that string is not strong enough." He turned to Jessie. "It was a pleasure."

She barely had time to respond with a "Nice to meet you, too" before he rushed off, tugging on his pants as he went.

"He’s an expert piñata hanger, if you couldn’t guess." Vivianna chuckled. "He is as much a child as his children. Maybe more . . ."

Jessie grinned.

"Eat up, and then I’ll introduce you to some more people."

☼☼☼☼

True to her word, Vivianna introduced Jessie to many people—mostly, relatives and friends who regarded Jessie with a polite curiosity. For Jessie’s part, she could hardly keep track of all their names. Usually, her memory was very good, but at some point, the whole lot of them just began to run together.

"You’ve met everyone . . . except maybe the very one you hoped to meet. Am I right?" Jessie looked at the ground without replying. "Soon enough," Vivianna assured. "Now, though, I’d like to show you something." Jessie lifted a brow at her. "My work . . . my paintings. I’d like your opinion. They’re inside . . ."

She took Jessie by the waist, guiding her towards the house and the door closest to them, which happened to be the entrance into a great hallway running the length of the home. The corridor was nondescript except for the carved wood beams serving as a ceiling.

A little girl in braids and a pink nightgown appeared around the corner from another hallway.

"Marianna, why are you awake?" Vivianna asked her.

The little girl wiped drowsily at her eyes and said, "Agua."

Vivianna kneeled down next to Marianna. "It’s late, mijita."

"Please, Mamá?"

"All right," she said, and then she turned to Jessie. "I need to get a glass of water for her. We passed the kitchen as we came in."

Vivianna gently lifted the little girl into her arms and carried her into the kitchen where she poured some water into a cup and handed it to Marianna. She drank down a couple of gulps and handed it back to her mother. "Okay, now?" Vivianna asked.

Marianna nodded and Vivianna picked her back up. Before leaving the room, she glanced at Jessie and gestured at the cup. "Will you bring it?"

Jessie nodded, picked up the cup, and followed behind the two. As she rounded the corner into the little girl’s room, she was surprised to find two more children inhabiting the bed closest to the window. "Are they all yours?" Jessie whispered.

"Every one. We have four children." She laid the smallest in her bed, and then took the glass from Jessie. "Mijita, take a sip." The little girl sat up and drank from the glass. "The rest is here," Vivianna said, placing the water on the table between the beds.

The little girl nodded her head and sunk down into the sheets.

"You sleep now." Vivianna kissed her cheek and softly ruffled the girl’s hair. She turned to Jessie. "The one true joy of my life."

Jessie was stunned by this dramatic change in character. It seemed to her that Vivianna was a person split into two conflicting halves and the end result was nothing less than a contradiction. How could she move from wife to mother to masher in men’s clothing? It was preposterous and yet she was here in front of her, looking like she could guess Jessie’s very thoughts.

"I am an individual like you with my own notions and feelings, likes and dislikes, opinions and judgments, complications and simplicities. Some think I’m eccentric, immoral . . . loony. Some just think I’m fun. But all of them know I love my children . . . and my husband."

Jessie stated the obvious. "You don’t live together."

"Some can’t no matter how much they’d like to. Is it worth throwing love away? No. This is what works for two who look and want and desire what they don’t have."

"Interesting . . ."

"Some also think I’m that, too."

Jessie smiled. She wasn’t about to begin analyzing this woman; she suspected Vivianna already did enough of that herself. She didn’t know how prophetic this thought would prove to be until Vivianna threw open the double doors of the library. At the center of the room was a bulky desk littered with papers, bills, and sketches. The walls of the room were lined with bookshelves and on every vacant surface were paintings—portraits, really—all of one person—Vivianna.

"My work," Vivianna said, pausing. "Take a look and tell me what you think." Obviously, she expected Jessie to take a good, long look, because she swiftly headed for the desk where a rum bottle and a glass sat next to a large coffee container of brushes. Taking up a glass, she poured herself a drink. "Can I offer you some?"

Jessie shook her head and turned back to inspecting the portraits. Simply put, the paintings were horrifyingly intriguing like watching a surgery. One painting after another, done by a competent, even skilled, artist’s hand, mirrored a chillingly vivid if not overtly morbid theme—ghastly, bloody, and realistic depictions of birth, death, anxiety, loneliness, loss, insanity. Ultimately, the whole of them reminded Jessie of Robert Browning’s poetry, which often manifested a powerful and derisive sense of humor.

What would she say to the artist, to Vivianna? The best she could offer was that they were bold, riveting, and unique. At worst, they were stilted, grotesque, and ribald. Jessie busily contemplated how she could convey her opinion diplomatically when a crash echoed from another room.

Vivianna put down her drink quickly and rushed from the library. Jessie followed her across the foyer, into a large, L-shaped room. They first entered the attenuated space, which was the living room. Not able to see any visible sign of what caused the crash, Vivianna hurried through it to the connecting room—the dining area. Coming up behind Vivianna, Jessie saw a man sitting at the dining room table. Upon first inspection, he appeared to be asleep.

"Samuel?" Vivianna questioned, then noticed the spilt glass. "I’d introduce you, but as you can see he’s preoccupied with pulling a snore at the dining room table. Why this spot of all places . . ." She rolled her eyes. "Samuel Wakefield—the very reason Erin didn’t come tonight," Vivianna muttered.

Jessie stared at the man sitting in the chair. His head was slung to the right and his mouth was open as if to speak, but his eyes were closed and a small wheezing escaped from his gaping lips. She examined his face. He had long angular features and a small moustache beneath a narrow nose. The hair on his head was light brown, wavy, and receding on both sides.

"He once cut a dashing figure. I think that’s what Erin saw in him at first. He was . . . is," she corrected herself, "a brilliant photographer. She could never understand why someone hadn’t taken notice of his work. Now she knows . . ."

Jessie stated the obvious. "He’s a drunk."

"Mmm . . . world class." Vivianna shook her head. "It’s a waste. Erin is right. He is talented but for every great photograph he produces, he has dozens of horrible ones he created while beautifully boiled."

Jessie stared at the stubble, several days’ growth, on his cheeks and chin. "Why did she marry him?"

"Oh, he hid it from her. Drank small amounts on social occasions. Drank a lot, alone, late at night. It’s gotten worse since he lost the fellowship and also since Erin’s reputation has grown."

"What reputation?" Jessie inquired warily, taking in his silk shirt stained brown from dirt and yellow from photographic bath.

Vivianna met her eyes. "As an outstanding photojournalist. Whatever else?" The relief on Jessie’s face made Vivianna grin wildly. If it was as she was beginning to suspect, there was the possibility of a happy conclusion. She squirmed in delight.

"Do they have any children?" Jessie probed, her eyebrows pulling together in curiosity.

"Not a one," Vivianna replied, knowing that this was just what Jessie wanted to hear.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a door opening. Contreras whirled around at the sound of a door slamming and men arguing. "Boys, be kind to the door. They are expensive to replace," Vivianna called out, but if they heard her, they were too preoccupied to respond.

Two young men, one a tall redhead and the other a short blond, stormed into the room. Jessie discontinued staring at Wakefield, and turned her attention to the two occupants at the other end of the room.

"Why are you making such a fracas over this?" the redhead fumed.

Vivianna leaned up and whispered to Jessie, "Allow me to introduce you to Jacques Reindeau."

"The poet."

Vivianna nodded. "He rents a room from us."

The blond man responded to the other man’s enquiry by throwing his dinner coat violently down on a chair.

"That’s Jacob . . . uh, I don’t know his last name, but he’s in the export business," Vivianna explained.

Jacques, his complexion growing ruddier, watched Jacob. "Now see here, don’t put that there!" he bellowed, picking up the crumpled coat. "That’s what a closet is for." With a flourish of his arm, Jacques picked up the coat and handed it back to Jacob. Jacob yanked the coat. "There isn’t a closet in this room," he said contritely.

"Fine," Jacques uttered, his nostrils flaring. He grabbed the coat back and dropped it on the floor in front of him.

"What’s the idea? I placed it on the chair," Jacob said.

"And I placed it on the floor."

Jacob leaned over and picked the coat up. After dusting it off, he looked up at Reindeau. "Ironic—that’s what I intend to do to you." With that, Jacob turned dramatically and walked out of the door. A few seconds later, the front door slammed closed.

Vivianna frowned and murmured, "Didn’t I say not to slam the door?" She gave Jessie a perplexed look. "Well, maybe now isn’t the best time to introduce you to Jack . . . Poets—have you ever met one who wasn’t temperamental?"

Jessie grinned wanly as she watched Jack stalk over to the cart and pour two fingers of gin into a shot glass. He slugged it down just as she felt Vivianna’s arm snake around her waist, trying to guide her out of the room. "Shouldn’t you talk to him?"

"He’ll be fine."

"But it looks like . . . I mean, his love—friend and he just had a fight."

"It is what it looks like, Jessie, but in his case it happens all the time. Jack is rather a master of short-lived relationships. Good at making love, but everything is down hill from there."

Jessie looked unconvinced.

Vivianna smiled at Jessie’s concern. "They’ve only been together for three weeks."

"Three weeks?"

"Yes. See, no reason to worry. He’ll finish his drink, go to his room, and fall asleep. When he gets up tomorrow morning, he will have himself completely convinced that Jacob, Mario, Alberto, and any other man that comes along, just can’t understand him. Poor boy, he’s just so complicated." Her lips twisted into a wry smile.

"He’ll write a poem and that’ll be the end of it until the next time," Jessie guessed.

Vivianna chuckled. "So you’ve already met him."

"Indeed," Jessie confirmed. "What about him?"

Vivianna glanced at Samuel, who still slept soundly in his chair. "We’ll let him sleep it off. He is safer here than if he ventures home at this time of night."

Jessie eyed her. "What do you mean? Thieves?"

Vivianna seemed to consider the question, and then smiled reassuringly. "Yes, thieves. He’s easy prey. Don’t you think—smashed as he is?"

"Undoubtedly," Jessie agreed absently, her gaze slipping to the floor.

Vivianna’s eyes swept over Jessie, who appeared to be lost in thought. "That’s a beautiful dress on you. That blue compliments your eyes in just the right way."

"Thank you."

Vivianna grinned openly. "Care to walk with me outside?"

"Certainly," Jessie agreed.

After Vivianna had checked to make sure her littlest wayward child was still in her bed, she led the way onto the front porch and down the stairs to the fountain. The night was quiet and overcast, making the sky seem endlessly gray and moody. The crowd that had been at the party earlier in the evening had thinned visibly. With parents having to put their children to bed and lovers wanting to be only in each other’s company, there were few people left. Others had ventured inside when the cool breeze had kicked up, and now the only partiers left were the men still sitting on their crates next to the fire.

Maybe it was the intimate setting or that she was nearly alone with Vivianna, but Jessie suddenly felt uneasy to be in her presence. For the first time that night, Jessie wondered where Rudy and Irene could be. She hadn’t seen them all night; the only exception being when she caught a glimpse of them helping line up the children waiting to take a swing at the piñata.

Vivianna sat on the edge of the fountain and gestured to a spot next to her. Jessie sat down hesitantly, trying to keep the uneasiness at bay and think of something to say. "You speak English very well. Did you attend a college in the U.S. like Rudy did?"

"No, I didn’t go to college, but I did go to elementary school in Boston . . . My Mother is from Boston. My Father is from here. My parents met in an elevator one day. My father was in the U.S. looking for moneyed people who might be willing to invest in his citrus orchards. That was his dream—citrus orchards," she spread her arms out to the trees surrounding the courtyard. "Well, my Mother had other ideas and he put aside his plans and went to work in a bicycle factory."

"How did you meet Pablo?"

"It was on a trip to New York City. He had been commissioned to paint a mural on one of the walls of the Madison building."

Jessie looked off at the fountain. "I don’t recall any murals in that building."

"You’re right. He got into a fight with R. H. Madison over the content of the mural. Told him that he lacked vision, and Madison told him he lacked a job. Madison had the whole mural chipped right off the wall."

Jessie looked incredulous. "Really?" she breathed.

Vivianna nodded. "That’s when I met him—red faced and bellowing at a waitress in a 42^nd Street diner, because she couldn’t understand his English. What made me approach him, I don’t know." She chuckled, and then went silent for a few moments. "It takes remarkable restraint not to ask."

"What’s that?" Jessie questioned.

"To not ask why I am dressed like this."

"You prefer that attire to the more traditional."

"True, but that’s not why. . . . When I was little, they used to call me Little Miss Mary Quite Contrary."

"Because of your last name?" Jessie questioned.

"Yes, that and because that is what my family called me. . . . So, you see, I am just upholding tradition."

"I suppose it also has something to do with emancipation."

Vivianna nodded briskly. "It’s liberating to act and do and say things with the freedom of a man." She grinned, her eyes gleaming. "How else could I tell you how beautiful you are?"

Jessie’s eyes darted past Vivianna.

She slid closer to Jessie and brushed a wisp of hair that had fallen into Jessie’s eyes. "Does that make you nervous?"

Jessie remained passive. "No."

Vivianna pulled away slightly. "Hmm . . . it doesn’t, does it?"

"No," Jessie repeated.

"Imagine that," she said almost to herself, her eyes glowing devilishly. "You will be joining us for lunch tomorrow?"

Jessie lifted a brow and nodded. "Yes, unless you think Ms. Donnevan will be disturbed by my presence."

Vivianna raised one arched brow. "Ms. Donnevan? Oh, no . . . she won’t mind at all."

 Chapter Four

From the window over the sink in the kitchen, Vivianna candidly inspected her friend as she walked across the portico. She cased her approvingly until her eyes discovered the billowy bow at Erin’s neck. "Damn that bow!" she muttered under her breath as she watched Erin deposit her camera bag on a bench just outside the door.

Entering the kitchen, Erin smiled and opened her arms in greeting to Vivianna, but instead of receiving a vigorous embrace, she received a scowl. Vivianna waved a hand at her. "Why that shirt?"

Erin looked down at the suit she was wearing. "Why not?"

"It’s so conservative . . . reminds me of a librarian."

"Librarian?" Erin sighed in exasperation. "What’s this about, Viv?"

Ignoring her question, Vivianna moved towards Erin. "I can help."

Erin backed away. "Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t look like a librarian."

"No?" Vivianna raised a brow quizzically.

"No!"

Vivianna reached for the bow. "You’re covered up to your chin . . ."

Erin stepped back again.

"Just the bow," Vivianna entreated.

Erin tossed her a wry smile, and then undid the bow.

Noting the button still holding the blouse hostage at Erin’s throat, Vivianna sighed in frustration. "The top button," she stated emphatically.

Erin placed her hands on her hips. "What’s this about?"

Vivianna returned to the sink, plunged her hands into the water, and retrieved two forks. Leaning against the cabinet next to Vivianna, Erin glanced at the intricate weave on the silverware. "A bit formal for our usual lunch."

Picking up a kitchen cloth, Vivianna began drying the utensils. "Someone will be joining us."

"Oh?" Erin, retying the bow, glanced out the window at the table in the portico. "Why are there only two table settings?"

Ignoring the question, Vivianna placed the forks next to the linen napkins on the cabinet.

Erin fixed her with a pointed stare. "You’re not masterminding another blind date for me, are you?"

Vivianna looked away, her gaze falling on the wall behind Erin. At that response, Erin moved to pick up her camera bag.

Vivianna sprang towards her friend, taking her by the upper arm. "Your lunch companion is . . . is beautiful, intelligent, and charming." She thought about saying "young," but knowing Erin that wouldn’t be something to use to sway her with.

"Oh, no. The last time you did this, the end result was dreadful," Erin protested, moving away.

Vivianna clutched her arm, pulling Erin back toward her. "Did I say beautiful? I meant gorgeous, stunning. . . ." Her argument didn’t seem to be convincing her friend. "An American. From San Francisco. A writer."

Defeated, Erin sighed and Vivianna knew she had her. "It’s just lunch. You can sit and talk. Eat my wonderful food. . . ."

Erin sighed again. "What’s this man’s name?"

Vivianna’s eyebrows shot up on her forehead. She composed herself until only her eyes still twinkled. "Jessie."

"Jessie? Jessie what?"

"Jessie Madsen," Vivianna responded casually, picking out two glasses from the cabinet above her.

"No wife?" Erin asked, remembering the last time Vivianna had tried to fix her up. She had miscalculated the fly’s marital state and this blunder had torn holes through Vivianna’s web when he had shown up for dinner with his very pregnant wife. Erin remembered the moment she tried to make room for the woman at the tiny table. It was one of the most awkward moments of her life.

Vivianna put the glasses down, and then looked up at her. "Erin, I spent all last evening with her—err . . . Jessie."

Suspicious, Erin canvassed Vivianna.

"Jessie doesn’t have a wife," Vivianna stated emphatically. "Would you stop being so skeptical? You and your journalistic instinct. I’m telling you, someday that attitude is going to get the best of you . . . when you least expect it," she went on, "it’ll jump up and hit you between the eyes."

Erin listened to the chatter, knowing well that when Vivianna exhibited this kind of anxious behavior, it was due to a great case of the nerves. "I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t like it already."

"Erin, you’re going to like this person. Give Jessie a chance. . . . . Where’s your sense of adventure?"

"I left it in Genoa."

Vivianna rolled her eyes. She was familiar with the story of Erin’s stay in an Italian prison. The Italian government, having decided that she was a spy, had her plucked off a street in Genoa and thrown her into a prison camp. As ugly and degrading an atmosphere as it must have been, Erin joked about it, which was merely her way of dealing with the memory. "All I am saying is that you could stand to take a few more risks."

"This kind of criticism from a woman who paints portraits of herself and her marriage hell instead of getting out of it?"

Vivianna grew excited. "I started another one this morning . . . Pablo hasn’t seen it, yet."

"Why do you do it?" Erin pressed.

"What? Stay with Pablo? Paint?"

"One seems synonymous with the other, so either or . . ."

"To keep in touch with myself and my needs . . . to exorcise my demons so they don’t grow out of control." She glanced at Erin. "You should, too."

"Paint?"

"No, get in touch with yourself. Reconnect with your needs. You’ve grown used to ignoring them."

Erin cocked her head to the side and tossed her a derisive look as she moved towards the hallway. "Have I?"

"Yes," Vivianna stated emphatically.

Erin pursed her lips, deciding to end the disagreement before it could really get started. "I take it, it’s in the library."

"What? Oh, the painting . . . yes, in the library on the easel. It’s all about the initial impression. Pablo will hate it," she called out as Erin turned down the hall.

☼☼☼☼

Jessie waved to Rudy in the taxicab as he made a U-turn and headed back down the dirt road. When she had come downstairs to begin her walk to Vivianna’s, Rudy was waiting. He had been resolute about driving her even though Jessie had insisted that she didn’t mind walking. Ultimately, she had conceded when he had confided that she would be doing him the favor by getting him out of his mother’s way before lunch.

Pushing open the heavy courtyard doors standing guard at the entrance to Vivianna’s home, Jessie was met by Julio, Vivianna’s and Pablo’s oldest son. A quiet boy, he did little more than smile up at her, and then gesture for her to follow him. He led her around to the back of the house and into the large portico.

Coming around the corner of the house, she focused on the only person in the portico. A petite woman in a dark blue chiffon dress and red and white checkered apron fussed over a table. Her back was to Jessie and so she could make out few details of the woman beyond her light olive complexion and her short, dark brown hair.

"Mamá," Julio called and the woman in the blue dress wheeled around.

"Jessie! Come over here. . . . Mijo, thank you. Your lunch is on the table in the dining room." The boy turned and beat a hasty retreat inside.

Caught by the sight of Vivianna looking so ordinary, Jessie was taken aback. For some reason, she found her appearance hard to rectify. It was jarring to see Vivianna dressed in a fashion typical to most women, because there didn’t seem to be anything typical about her. Or maybe it was that Jessie preferred to think of her in men’s dress; it was more fanciful than the reality of Vivianna, the wife and mother. More than likely though, it was that after having seen Vivianna’s self-portraits, Jessie suspected those two roles lay at the heart of the woman’s discontent.

"Lunch is almost ready. I’ve made laminas de bacalao al pil-pil de pimientos rojos," Vivianna paused, noting the odd look on Jessie’s face. "Codfish in a garlic and red pepper marinade . . ." she explained, although Jessie continued to look perplexed. "Erin’s inside looking at my latest masterpiece. She’ll be out in a minute."

The bewildered expression began to clear and Jessie nodded, smiled, and was about to add that the meal sounded consummate when the door to the house opened. She still wasn’t quite prepared for the person who came through . . . Erin Donnevan, looking as self-assured and vibrant as she had the first time Jessie had seen her. And as on that day, Jessie felt engulfed by the mere presence of the woman.

To other less perceptive people, Erin might have seemed like just another career-oriented woman in her mid-forties, but it was in the subtleties that Jessie found the extraordinary. Dressed in white, the fitted suit glorified her slim figure, emphasized the elegance of her hands, and accentuated her slender neck where it peeked out from beneath the billowy bow of her shirt. High cheekbones and a prominent jaw line gave her face expression and strength. Her blue eyes, at once dark and light, could only belong to someone immensely intelligent and passionate. Above all else though, was Erin’s radiant smile, which transformed her from simply classically good looking to strikingly beautiful.

For Erin’s part, her first thought at seeing Jessie was "Oh no, he did bring his wife!" However upon realizing there was no one else in the portico, only the three women, she felt at once relieved and dismayed at the thought of what part she was to play in Vivianna’s next act as matchmaker. And what role was the blonde to play? She gazed at the tall woman, not really knowing what to think with the exception that Jessie was possibly the most attractive woman she had seen in a long time.

But it wasn’t solely that Jessie was appealing; she was distinctively alluring with her pale eyes, hair, and skin. Her body was long, lean, and rounded in all the desirable places—like a marble sculpture, she was seemingly devoid of any imperfection. If there were any flaws, they weren’t to be seen in the aquiline features or the large blue eyes, which glowed with intelligence. Even her clothes were impeccably styled and completely flattering, Erin thought, noticing how the skirt of Jessie’s lavender silhouette dress shifted around her knees. Her hair was perfectly irresistible—flaxen and coiled up in a twist, but wispy strands had escaped and drifted softly about her face.

"Jessie Madsen, this is Erin Donnevan," Vivianna introduced them.

Erin, while casting a sidelong look at Vivianna, closed the gap between her and Jessie. Extending her hand, she said, "I’ve heard a lot about you, Jessie," she paused and looked at Vivianna, "although, Vivianna did leave some things to the imagination."

Jessie cast an inquisitive glance at Vivianna, who crossed her arms and scratched at the back of her neck. She clasped Erin’s hand in hers even as she tried to ignore the shock that raced up her arm and then through her body. "I’ve heard a lot about you, too," Jessie managed.

Erin smiled, drawing Jessie into an ardent examination of the small details of her face. Erin looked older, but it was the sort of maturity that enhanced instead of depreciated the looks of a woman by adding a knowing gleam to the eye, a playful sparkle to the smile, and a soft glow to the skin. All of these attributes worked together making it impossible for Jessie to keep her eyes on Erin’s face. Her gaze seemed to be pulled by some intangible force down to the length of exposed calf, around a narrow hip, over soft mounds, up a slender neck, and back to the gleaming cobalt eyes.

If Erin caught the silent appraisal, she didn’t acknowledge it. Vivianna was a different story, though. Immediately she recognized the assessment for what it was—attraction. She let a wide grin slip across her lips. There wouldn’t have to be any persuasion here; as she had suspected Jessie would be a willing participant. She cast a sideways glance at the russet-haired woman. Erin didn’t stand an earthly chance against Jessie’s charms or her skills as matchmaker; she would see to it.

The three stood silent for another few moments. "Why don’t we just get settled?" Vivianna pulled a chair away from the table. "Jessie, have a seat right here."

Jessie started towards the table and for the first time noticed there were only two place settings. "Are you sure I’m not interfering?"

"No, no, you are perfectly welcome. It’ll be you and Erin. I will be serving."

Jessie looked back at her. "That’s not necessary. Really, we can do this another time."

Vivianna raised her eyebrows. "No, now is good. It’s not a problem." She turned to Erin. "Now, Erin . . ." Erin pinned her with a look, and for a moment, Vivianna almost lost her nerve. "You take a seat, too."

"I thought you needed help in the kitchen." Erin commented nonchalantly.

"I—uh, yes, I could use some help with the dishes."

Erin smiled politely at Jessie. "Excuse us, we’ll be right back." She pushed at Vivianna from behind.

"There’s Sangria on the table under the window," Vivianna tossed out as Erin shoved her through the doorway and into the house.

Erin pulled Vivianna into the kitchen. "You arranged a date for me with a woman?"

Vivianna fiddled with her apron, before meeting Erin’s eyes. "Yes."

"A woman?" she exclaimed again in disbelief. "You may like women, but I am less adventurous . . . in this arena. What am I supposed to do, take her home to my Irish Catholic parents, and say "Here, Mother and Father, this is your daughter-in-law?"

Vivianna looked up. "You were adventurous in Venice or have you forgotten . . .? And don’t over complicate the situation. You’re far too old to be presenting anyone for parental approval."

Erin stepped back.

"I think you’re upset, because you like her," Vivianna declared smugly.

"I just met her, and even if I do like her, I don’t like her like you like her." It sounded juvenile and ridiculous even to Erin’s ears and she was the one who had said it.

Vivianna’s face turned red, and then she sputtered into laughter. Erin grinned and waited for her amusement to come to an end. "I am going to finish dessert and that’s it."

"Why? Why not at least let her do the article on you? She came all the way down here to give you some much-deserved recognition." Vivianna turned to the cabinet, picked up a cloth, and began washing down the counter.

Erin sighed and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. "What article?"

Vivianna spun around. "You don’t know about the article."

"No," she paused, "I don’t know about the article."

"She’s an art critic with The San Franciscan and she wants to do an feature on you and your work."

Erin crossed her hands over her chest. "You said she was a writer."

"She is a writer. She’s just not a novelist writer. She happens to write for a magazine—a good one."

Erin sighed. "Why didn’t I know anything about this?"

"Because you would have never have agreed to it."

"You’ve got that right."

"Erin . . . give her a shot. She’s an admirer of your work. The rest of this, it was all my idea. I arranged it. She doesn’t have any designs on you. She only wants to talk with you, ask a few questions, and write an article." Vivianna shrugged her shoulders. "That’s all, I promise."

Erin’s eyes softened. "All right, I’ll think about it, but no more funny business."

"Fine, no more funny business."

Erin turned and began to walk from the room, but as she reached the doorway, she turned back. "Viv, why her?"

Vivianna swallowed the urge to smile. "You are two of the most . . . extraordinary people I know."

"Thank you, but you just met her."

"Call it intuition, then."

Erin looked incredulous. "Intuition? Since when have you become an advocate of intuition?"

"Since I’ve listened to you go on about it. I figure that if it’s kept you alive this long in your line of work, there must be something to it."

Erin snorted. "It was also because of intuition that I married Sam."

Vivianna didn’t miss a beat. "There are also things known as mistakes," she called as Erin left the room.

☼☼☼☼

By the time Erin returned from the kitchen, Jessie had poured herself a glass of Sangria and had taken a seat at the table. Her chin perched on her hand, she gazed out towards the orchards, giving Erin a moment to study her without interference. Beginning at the ankle-strap shoe, her eyes trailed up the length of leg until it disappeared underneath the skirt. The memory of another slender leg, skin warm and dewy, sliding from bath water slipped impermissibly into her mind, startling her. Discontinuing the surreptitious inspection, Erin heaved a calming breath before stepping into the portico.

Jessie heard Erin’s footstep echo on the wood floor. She turned and at seeing Erin there, Jessie stood and fumbled for words. "It’s good," she said, pointing at the glass. "The Sangria. Would you like to join me?"

Erin smiled generously. "Uh, yes . . . you, sit. I’ll get it myself."

Jessie watched Erin move towards the small table and pour a glass of the red wine drink from the brightly colored carafe. As she turned, Jessie pulled her eyes away and gazed back out at the trees.

Settling herself in a chair, Erin glanced up, meeting Jessie’s eyes. "So . . ." she scrambled for words, "you’re from San Francisco?"

Jessie inhaled. "Yes, I live in San Francisco now, but I grew up in Berkeley."

Erin nodded slowly and took a sip of her drink. "I lectured there a couple of times."

"I know. It was at one of those lectures that I became acquainted with your work."

"Really." A lock of Erin’s hair, slipped off her shoulder and she pushed it back. Her hair was shorter than the last time Jessie had seen her, but at shoulder length, it still flattered her.

Jessie’s features grew animated. "Yes, you spoke about your experience in Italy."

Erin chuckled. "Oh, yes, I remember it well. Tough crowd. There was a young man who kept insisting that women didn’t belong in such a dangerous field."

"Yes, he was notorious on the campus after that. He couldn’t get a date with any of the co-eds."

"Incorrigible, little pain," Erin commented with a smirk. "Everyone must have thought I was a terrible lecturer."

"On the contrary, you handled yourself well. I don’t think anyone found the fault to be yours. As a matter of fact, we found your lecture riveting."

Erin leaned forward. "Riveting?"

"Absolutely. Learning about fascism from a person with a first-hand account. You made it real."

"A little too real," she began to say as Vivianna bustled through the doors, a large platter taking up the breadth of her arms. "See, what did I tell you? You’re getting along famously."

Vivianna leaned over the table, placing the platter in the center. As she did, she cast a glance at Erin, and then winked. "Fresh, warm, and plump—exactly like you like them."

Erin pursed her lips. "Thank you."

"When you taste it, you’ll more than thank me."

Erin glowered at her. That was enough to tell Vivianna to put it on ice.

Vivianna finished placing the dishes on the table and retreated to the kitchen as quickly as she had appeared.

Jessie scrutinized her plate as she placed the napkin in her lap. Looking up, she caught Erin inspecting her. Erin smiled. "I promise you it’s very good. Vivianna has a way with food."

"I’m sure she does," Jessie replied with a slight smirk.

Erin noticed the delicate dimple gracing the strong chin, and for a moment fell quite silent. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen a cleft chin before, it was merely that in Jessie’s case, the dimple seemed to be so much more charming—as though it held a hint of the devilishness that lay beneath the younger woman’s tightly controlled demeanor.

Erin picked up her glass and sipped at the contents. "So, how did you become one of them?"

Jessie took a small swallow of her drink. "Them?"

"An art critic."

"You know that I am an art critic? Then you must know why Vivianna made these arrangements."

"To amuse herself," Erin quipped, brushing a lock of hair off her shoulder.

"Indeed," Jessie agreed with a small nod.

"I am aware that you wish to write an article on my work . . ." Erin, placing a napkin in her lap, shifted in her chair. "I don’t usually consent to such requests."

"I am aware of that."

"And I am aware that you can write the article anyway. It wouldn’t be the first time—"

Jessie’s fork paused in mid-air. "I will not."

"Excuse me?"

She put her fork back down on her plate. "I won’t write anything without your consent."

Erin sat back. She wanted to believe Jessie but her years of dealing with unscrupulous journalists and ruthless art critics had made her skeptical. "You mean to say that if I don’t give my consent, you won’t write a word?"

"Correct." Jessie inspected her lunch companion for a moment, loosing herself in the softly furrowed brows. "You won’t consent then."

Erin smiled warmly. "I’ll think about it . . . How about we just enjoy our lunch for now?"

Jessie, a tiny smile flickering across her face, nodded in agreement.

☼☼☼☼

Erin entered the kitchen to find Vivianna settled at the table, drinking iced tea and thumbing through a magazine. "I thought I’d find you with your nose pressed against the glass."

Vivianna smiled confidently. "No need. Nature will take her course."

Erin shook her head in exasperation. "Dessert?"

Vivianna rose from the table. "I’ll be right out to serve it."

"That’s not necessary. I can take it."

Vivianna, glimpsing out the window over the sink, moved to the icebox. Jessie was no longer in the portico. "Where is she?" She looked at Erin accusingly. "You didn’t—"

"I didn’t do anything. I’ve been perfectly affable."

She pulled a bowl of pudding from the icebox and placed it on the counter. "Then, where did she go?" Vivianna, with a slightly accusatory tone, asked as she reached into the cabinet above her and pulled two glass dishes out.

"To the table under the trees. We decided to have the dessert there."

Vivianna grinned complacently. "Like I said nature will—"

"Viv," Erin interrupted, "I’m not interested and even if I were, she probably wouldn’t be."

"She would . . ." Vivianna corrected, spooning the pudding into the glass dishes.

"She’s not?" Erin questioned.

"Of course, she is."

"She doesn’t look it."

"Neither do I except when I wear my suit and some would argue that even then I don’t look like a les."

"How do you know she is unless you asked her or you and she . . ."

"We did not. Not because I didn’t think about it," she huffed. "I mean, did you see those legs and those large, round—"

"Vivianna!"

She smirked. "Tell me you think she is ugly, unattractive, plain."

"She’s not."

"So you admit that she is attractive."

"Yes, but that doesn’t mean I am attracted to her."

"Fair enough, but your argument might be more convincing if you’d stop primping in front of her."

"You were watching . . . and I am not primping."

"All right, preening."

"I’m not doing that either."

"Than why do you keep playing with your hair?"

"My hair was giving me fits this morning. I’m simply trying to make sure it stays in place."

"For her."

Erin rolled her eyes as much to express her exasperation as to calm herself. "Arguing with you is pointless."

☼☼☼☼

Jessie leaned against the trunk of a large tree standing at the entrance to the orchards. The sun had moved passed its apex in the sky and was slowly making its way west. Jessie shifted her weight, allowing her body to be exposed to the sun on the eastside of the tree.

She thought lunch had gone well—a little bit of casual conversation, good dining, nice atmosphere, and Erin seemed to be relaxing and enjoying herself. Despite the good tidings, Jessie was beginning to think there was something going on to which she was not privy, because it was taking Erin some time to return. As she began to consider going into the house to enquire after Erin, she appeared from the portico, carrying two dessert dishes with spoons sticking out of them. As Erin approached, Jessie had a few moments to admire the strong stride of the woman’s shapely legs and the confident sway of her hips.

Erin returned the look, her eyes running casually up the figure bathed in the golden glow of the sun. Simply put, Jessie was beautiful; Vivianna always had such good taste in women. Her taste in men was debatable, she thought, remembering the wedding portrait of Vivianna and Pablo.

Her eyes still trained on the other woman, Erin noticed the diffident grin Jessie displayed as she moved towards the table. Suddenly, Erin realized that she was being given the once over, and positively at that. She and Jessie traded bashful looks.

"Arroz con dulce," Erin explained, placing the bowls on the table and taking a seat next to Jessie.

"Rice with sweet?"

"More like rice pudding," Erin explained. She watched Jessie look at the lumpy, white dessert. "It’s good, I promise."

Jessie chuckled. "I’m not familiar with the local cuisine."

"I wasn’t either. You’ll get used to it."

"I am sure you’re correct. . . . I’m staying with a family—the Palaveras—"

"Rudy’s family."

"Yes . . . and yesterday at lunch they served chicken in some sort of sauce. It was thick and brown like stew, but instead of being smooth, it was granular. I believe they made it with ground cocoa and pumpkin seeds—"

"Molé," Erin clarified.

"Yes . . . in appearance it was quite unappetizing, but the taste was rich and palatable."

Erin chuckled, the raspy tones rolling over Jessie tangibly. "Well, this is nothing more than rice pudding with a little cinnamon." Erin dipped her spoon into the sweet.

Jessie followed suit, plowing her utensil through the dessert and bringing the spoonful to her mouth. Erin watched the full lips close around the spoon.

"You’re right. This is good," Jessie remarked’ glancing at Erin. " . . . Do you cook?"

Erin pulled her eyes away, seemingly to consider the question. "Anything beyond a ham sandwich is beyond me. Why?"

"I was thinking that someone in a creative career like yours might participate in other creative endeavors."

"Afraid not. Photojournalism is about all I can handle. To tell you the truth, I did try my hand at landscape and even portraiture, but well, let’s simply say they weren’t for me. I just don’t have the patience. That’s why photojournalism is my field of choice. I get to hide all my mistakes behind fast-paced, politically-driven photos." Her tone was mischievous, bantering, and confidential.

"Untrue," Jessie corrected with a slight smile. "The body of your work suggests a person who is exact of mind and quick of hand."

Erin grinned and pushed at a wisp of her hair. Catching herself this time, she self-consciously pulled her hand away. "Flattery will get you no where," she remarked, knowing that aside from her current company, it was otherwise true.

Jessie glanced back to her dish on the table. "I must apologize. It must seem like I’m flattering you so that you will agree to allow me to write the article."

The sun cast rays through the swaying trees, causing prisms of light to flare across Jessie’s apologetic face. Before realizing what she was about to do, Erin reached across the table and laid her hand over Jessie’s. "It doesn’t seem that way at all . . ."

Jessie swallowed. "I respect your work and I appreciate that you didn’t leave when you discovered my occupation."

Erin heaved a sigh and removed her hand. "I would have missed a lovely lunch if I had . . ." She leaned closer to Jessie and she found herself heedlessly staring at the pink lips. "Are you still interested in that article?"

"Yes . . ." Jessie gazed intently at Erin.

Erin’s mouth opened to catch a breath. "Then how about joining me on a shoot tomorrow?"

Jessie felt the excitement stream through her body at the invitation even as she fought for some semblance of control. "I don’t want to inconvenience you."

Somewhere, the breeze ruffled through the trees. Erin leaned back. "Then it’s settled. Tomorrow, I’ll meet you at noon at the steps of the National Palace," Erin established, standing. It was then she noticed that they really hadn’t finished their desserts, but it was too late to retrace her steps with any grace as Jessie was now standing, too. "Well, I need to be going," she said, picking up her dessert dish.

Vivianna, taking that moment to make an appearance, strode out of the house and down the portico steps. "Erin, you’re not leaving already?"

Erin handed her the dish. "It is three o’clock."

"It’s still early . . . You didn’t finish your dessert," Vivianna commented. "Sit, stay, and talk with us a little more."

"We will see each other tomorrow, Vivianna. Jessie is going to accompany me as I shoot the rally at the Presidential Palace," Erin cast out, turning towards the portico.

Vivianna looked like the cat that ate the canary. Hooking her arm in Jessie’s, she and Jessie followed Erin. "Well, in that case. I suppose, you will get to know more about each other tomorrow."

"You’re welcome to come," Erin extended, already knowing what the answer would be.

"No thank you. You know I can’t stand riotous crowds."

When she reached the portico, she climbed the stairs and retrieved her bag. "I know . . . Anyway, I have to get home."

"You keep your camera with you?" Jessie asked as she and Vivianna came up from behind.

Erin smirked. "Most of the time. Duty never ends." She tugged her bag onto her shoulder. "And you?" she asked matter of factly. Jessie tilted her head in confusion. "You don’t take a pad and pen to an interview?"

"Oh," Jessie grinned. "I don’t need to."

Erin put her hand on her hip. "Aren’t you afraid of misquoting someone?"

"No," she paused, "I have a very good memory."

Erin exhaled, pursed her lips, and then smiled. "Hmm . . . I’ll have to remember that."

Chapter Five

Erin glanced into the mirror, and then back down at the cream-colored blouse she was wearing. She pushed the panels of the shirt into the waistline of her pants. Tugging gently on the garment, she tried to straighten it and pull it into precisely the right position. Pressing her hand down the flat of her stomach, she smoothed her clothing into place one final time before gazing into the mirror for inspection.

She sighed. She still gave the impression of being too conservative in her brown suit, and conservative wasn’t the way she wished to appear this morning. "Why should this morning be any different from any other?" she wondered. Even as she did so, she knew why. It was the same reason she had changed her clothes three times already. A visitor would join her at the rally this afternoon and the very thought of that visitor made her feel at once eager and anxious.

She rolled her eyes at her reflection. It really was quite ridiculous. A forty-three year old photojournalist keyed up at the thought of spending an afternoon with a thirty-something year-old art critic. "Maybe that’s only twenty-something," she rebuked herself. What did it matter, though? It was a working date, after all. "She’ll be working. I’ll be working. Right, Ratero?"

At the sound of his name, the gray and white, bristly-haired dog lying on her bed opened one eye and surveyed his master. After verifying that she was not offering him anything to eat or play with, he groaned and closed his eyes. "That says it all. I know, Rat, I have to keep my mind on the assignment."

Lying next to the dog was the wide-brim hat she usually wore while working. It kept the sun from her eyes. Retrieving it off the bed, she put on the hat and turned back to the mirror. "Even more schoolmarm," she thought. She pulled the hat off and hid it behind her. She seemed younger and more stylish without it.

She snorted. Ten years ago, no one went out without a hat. These days, though, it was better to go out bareheaded than with the wrong hat. And this was definitely the wrong hat.

"Old dogs and new tricks, Rat," she sighed, smoothing her hair back into place. The dog didn’t even open an eye this time; only a slightly raised white eyebrow acknowledged that someone was speaking.

Reaching for the tower of clothes piled at the foot of the bed, she pulled them into her arms and advanced to the closet. Placing the garments on the dressing chair behind the closet door, she began to hang the clothes only to discover the brown poor boy cap hanging on the wall above her. The hat had been a gift from Sam, before their relationship had fallen apart. He had said it reminded him of the stable girls at the racetracks.

Distracted, she let the clothes slip off the dressing chair as she took the cap from its peg on the wall. Putting on the hat, she stepped out of the closet, moved to the mirror, and examined her new look. Not quite satisfied, she took off her suit coat. Outfitted only in the light tweed pants, blouse, oxfords, and the cap, she grinned. The cap had done exactly what she wanted, taking away the seriousness, giving her a more carefree guise.

Now satisfied with her appearance, she picked up the coffee cup from the nightstand and headed for the kitchen. After taking note of the time from the pendulum clock on the wall, she poured herself another cup of coffee from the kettle on the stove. Picking up the daily newspaper from the counter, she settled into one of the two chairs at the tiny wooden table. She cased the front page, seeing several articles she might like to read. She finally settled on one.

Halfway through the piece, she became distracted, and after reading the same paragraph for the fourth time, she set the paper aside and allowed her mind to wander unrestrained. Invariably, it drifted back to the spot it had been exploring all morning: Vivianna was up to what?

Clearly, yesterday’s meeting had been a fix up. "Business or pleasure?" she wondered. That’s what wasn’t clear to her. Had Vivianna taken a harmless request for an interview and turned it into an exercise in matchmaking? Would she be so reckless? Even as Erin asked the question, she had the answer—not with someone else’s life. Nevertheless, she still felt that she and Jessie were to some degree puppets and Vivianna was pulling the strings.

Sighing, she wished for it to be otherwise. Leaning back in the chair, she allowed the sunshine filtering through the window to swathe her head and shoulders in light. She, never realizing that she had been cold, shivered as the warmth spread over her.

Really, it was terribly ironic. Jessie had been at Vivianna’s to petition her for an interview. Erin had been asked many times, but she hadn’t granted one in six years. Yet she had been so worried that she had insulted Jessie that the next thing she knew she was not only consenting to the interview and article, but also inviting Jessie to accompany her while she worked. Why? The answer was simple—she felt comfortable—that’s what unnerved her. The young woman had easily managed to get through the chinks in her armor.

There had been only one other person—woman, she corrected herself—who had been able to move so seamlessly past her defenses. Sophia . . . and Venice—why had she told Vivianna about it? It was so long ago, in fact, at the very outset of her career. She had been young, in her early twenties, and she had been curious and Sophia had been so beautiful, exotic, and persuasive.

A twist of a smile came to her lips as she remembered one of Sophia’s moments of influence. Sophia had taken her to the island of Murano to see the glassblowers. Starting out late in the morning, they had begun their excursion under a cloudless sky. But by the time they had taken a boat across to the island, the weather had turned overcast and threatening. After having visited only a few workshops, the rain had started. She had suggested they make a break for the ferry and head back to Venice. However, Sophia had assured that it was only a midday summer storm and it would soon blow over, so they had taken shelter in a small tavern.

Six hours and a couple of bottles of wine later, the storm still hadn’t let up. Fearing they might miss the last boat back to Venice, she had insisted they venture into the storm. Drunk and running through the empty streets, they were soaked less than three blocks from the tavern. In the middle of the street, she had stopped to reconsider her plan. Laughing at her sober expression, Sophia had pulled her into an arched alcove of a doorway.

Knowing her lover so well, she had begun protesting even before Sophia, using her greater body mass, had pressed her against the wall. Sophia had kissed her until there wasn’t any protest left. Having her way, as she so often did, Sophia had made love to her right there in the doorway of some artisan’s workshop with only a curtain of rain and fog to hide them.

She smiled down into the bottom of her cup, and then swallowed the last of the contents. "Youth," she thought, getting up and emptying the last of the coffee from the kettle into her cup. After taking another sip, the sound of the phone ringing pulled her into the living room.

"Hello."

"Well, hello, Erin."

It was Felix Nichols, her agent. "What can I do for you, Felix?" she asked, checking her watch.

The syrupy sound of his voice came across the wires. "Why nothing at all, Erin. Just calling to check up on my favorite client."

"I’m fine, Felix. But I have to get to the rally at the Presidential Palace, so let’s make this quick."

"All right, Erin. Time wants to know if you have the photographs from the Excelsior goodwill flight. They say they haven’t received delivery of them, and they need them for the post-up of August’s issue."

"They’re on the drying rack in the darkroom. I’ll get them into the mail tomorrow. . . ."

"Erin, those were supposed to be in their hands last week."

She held up her hand. "I know, I know . . . there’s been a lot of activity here lately."

"We aren’t getting paid for that activity. Time is a paying customer. They are paying for your photos."

There was no use in arguing with him. She sighed. "You’re right. First thing tomorrow, I’ll send them express."

"Erin, can’t you do it today . . . ? Maybe now?"

"No, I’ve got—"

"To get to the rally," he finished, clearly irritated.

"Right. And I’m going to be late as it is."

He seemed to pause for a moment, which gave her enough time to end the discussion. "Goodbye, Felix." She hung up the phone.

She didn’t know why these calls from him annoyed her so much. All agents were bothersome, weren’t they? Maybe it was how Felix pressed her to take every guest assignment so he could line his pockets with every penny of additional income. He had surely been unhappy when she had married Sam. Marrying him had put a veritable end to her accepting extra offers of work.

Whenever she was offered a new assignment, which was often, Sam would become jealous, pout, and then try to distract her from her work. On at least one occasion, he tried to outright sabotage her photographs by switching photo fix with developer. When she had confronted him, he had said it was a simple mistake and then simpered about her not believing him. She had flippantly told him that she did believe it, because only a drunk wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

That had marked the end of the relationship. It was better to be alone than be strapped to a person like that, she thought. The house seemed to resonate her decision as the heels of her shoes echoed resolutely on the tile floor, the sound only serving to remind her of how solitary her life had become. She had always told herself that the demands of her career required her to be alone. She could hardly drag another person, no less someone she cared for, into the trenches of war-torn countries.

She had thought the solution lay in becoming involved with someone in her field. "Sam was my solution," she told the small painting of Saint Veronica hanging on the wall. The saint peered back at her skeptically, a bit in the same way Samuel had looked when she had said she wanted a divorce. He hadn’t granted it until she had taken him in front of a judge.

With the divorce completed, she had demanded that he leave. He had refused. He may have thought she had no other recourse except to stay with him, married or not. They were living in her house—certainly, she wouldn’t leave it. She didn’t want to, so at first, she had tried getting the Mexican authorities to show him out, but they ignored her requests. "Apparently, the castle belongs to the king even if it was the queen who had purchased it," she thought snidely. Nevertheless, she wanted so adamantly to be away from him that she had finally just left.

She had been lucky to find this place to rent. But two years later, her new home still gave the impression of being deserted . . . even neglected. The walls were almost barren. She had little in the way of furniture. And other than the solitary plant sitting in the corner, there wasn’t a touch of her personality. Bending low, she guiltily inspected the drooping leaves and dried blossoms of the Clavillia.

Picking up the tin pail next to it, she went to the kitchen and filled it up with water from the kitchen faucet. After filling the pot with as much water as it could hold, she went to the foyer, pulled open the camera bag sitting on the wall table, and began taking inventory of its contents.

Dust cloth, pen, paper, flash— she wouldn’t need the flash. The day was clear and bright. "Thank God," she thought. She could see herself breaking yet another expensive Sashalite. The cumbersome flashbulb took up too much space in her bag and was always getting smashed between the camera and her body, especially in congested areas or volatile situations.

She continued to fumble through the bag. Exposure meter—being able to guess most readings, she didn’t need it on a sunlit day. "Film," she noted silently. She didn’t have any spare spindles of film.

Rushing over to the closet, she opened the door and reached up onto the top shelf. The tips of her fingers contacted three spindles of unexposed film. Going up on her tiptoes, she grabbed them, and then dropped them into her bag.

"Money," she thought, opening the drawer in the wall table. She grabbed several bills, depositing them into one of the pockets in her pants. Money, she had learned, needed to be carried close to her body. She had had one two many scrapes with thieves that had taken off with her bag. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any way to secure the bulky camera on her person.

"Passport," she said, fingering the document and tucking it into her other pocket. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips. She had forgotten to tell Jessie to make sure she brought her passport. She had learned that if the gathering grew unruly, it was helpful to have an American passport on you. The passport could mean the difference between spending a night in the hoosegow or at home.

She hoped that Jessie would bring her passport with her, but this time it really didn’t matter because this afternoon’s event was only a rally for President-Elect Obregón, a gathering to welcome him back into the capitol city before his inauguration in December.

She glanced into the bag one final time, then tossed it onto her shoulder and called out, "Ratero!" The dog came scampering from the bedroom and followed her out the front door.

☼☼☼☼

Trying to get rid of the hot, sticky feeling, Jessie pressed her palms together and wiped her hands. She knew why she was so anxious. Ironically, it wasn’t that she had been granted a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to interview Erin Donnevan, but that she was going to be "alone" with the photojournalist. She had so much nervous tension built up in her body, she felt like the slingshot she had seen Galeno playing with earlier in the day.

Shifting from one foot to another, she fidgeted. "It’s business," she thought. Taking two more steps up to stand at the main entryway to the Presidential Palace, she cast a look around the immense town square. People occupied every inch of space, and where there weren’t people, there were enormous buildings. For a moment, it occurred to her that she might not be able to find Erin, but as the disappointment began to take root, she caught a glimpse of an auburn haired woman pushing her way through the swarming mass of people.

Jessie couldn’t help but gawk, taking one look and then another. Erin seemed playful and charming from the poor boy cap on her head to the oxfords on her feet. And then, there it was, the smile—Erin’s smile. Jessie’s heart leapt up and she felt warmed by it. How was she going to get through this without flirting, without doing something completely unprofessional, or making an oaf out of herself in some other way? Forcing back her nervousness, she calmed herself and tried to strike a casual pose.

Erin spotted Jessie over the packed square. Her hands clasped snuggly behind her back, she stood stalk straight, her height and fair complexion making her easy to find. Erin smiled privately at the imposing figure the woman made with her hair pulled back in the tight twist and dressed in the burgundy drop-waist dress. Her body wasn’t really made for garments with such severe straight lines. Jessie was well-curved and full-breasted and Erin thought she might like to see her in something more fitting to her voluptuous form.

"Business," Erin muttered to herself before extending her hand. "I’m glad you could come."

A gentle smile gracing her lips, Jessie took her hand. "I wouldn’t have missed it."

A silence grew between them until Erin said, "Well, we had better find a good place for me to get some shots."

Jessie examined her. "Do you want me to help you carry some of your equipment?"

"No, I don’t have much . . ." She patted the bag hanging under her arm. Let’s see if we can move to the northeast quadrant of the square." She moved off into the mob of people with Jessie following closely behind.

"Is this your first foreign assignment?" Erin asked, pushing through the multitude.

Jessie, feeling as though they were being pursued, glanced behind them. "Yes, I have been working for The San Franciscan since I graduated from college six years ago."

"Oh," Erin answered, disappointment grazing her brow. She quickly calculated Jessie’s age—twenty-eight years young. "You started college right out of high school?"

Again, Jessie distractedly glimpsed behind them, this time spotting the source of her uneasiness. "Yes."

"Is something wrong?" Erin asked, following Jessie’s line of vision.

"There’s a dog following us."

Erin laughed. "Oh, he’s mine." She bent down to the dog and tapped him on the head. "His name is Ratero."

"Ratero," Jessie repeated with a slight smirk.

She grinned. "Yes, it means pickpocket. I was shooting a caucus of landowners petitioning for stricter water rights. It was near lunchtime and I had bought a stuffed nopale from a vendor, but before I could eat it, a fight broke out between a landowner and a sharecropper. I put the food in the side pocket of the coat I was wearing. Well, by the time it was all over, I had forgotten all about the nopale. I sat down on some steps to switch the film in my camera and I heard this snuffling at my side. I looked over and there was this fellow," she left off, gesturing to the dog, "with his nose in my coat pocket and . . ."

Jessie broke in, "And you didn’t have the heart to shoo him away."

Erin chuckled. "He was so thin."

"And look at him now," Jessie teased, patting the stocky dog on his gray back.

☼☼☼☼

After a few more minutes of forcing their way through the swarm, Erin stopped suddenly. The area they were in was less chaotic and off near the side entrance to the plaza. "Here seems as good a place as any. Give me a moment and I’ll get setup. I want to get a few shots of people in the crowd and also be able to get some when Obregón enters the square." She dug into her bag.

Jessie watched the strong muscles flex in Erin’s jaw as she struggled to bring the camera out. "Here, let me help."

Erin tilted her chin up, meeting the inquisitive gaze. "Okay." She handed the bag to Jessie, and then dipped her hand inside to retrieve the camera. After fixing a few settings, Erin turned her attention to Jessie. "Now, it’s a matter of patience."

Shouldering the bag, Jessie nodded, understanding that they might be standing there for awhile. "May I ask you some questions while we wait?"

A wry grin gracing her features, Erin cocked her head to the side and put a hand on her hip. "Can I get some shots at the same time?"

"Of course . . ." Jessie glanced at the camera. "I noticed that you’re using the Leica I. Is that your preferred camera for situations such as these?"

Erin brought the viewfinder to her eye. "Actually, it’s my only camera. I use it in all situations." She pressed the shutter release.

Jessie’s brows came together quizzically. "Really?"

"Yes," she responded as the camera dropped away from her face. "You find that surprising?" Erin broke off casing the masses and settled her attention on Jessie.

"I do. Your photographs are multifaceted, versatile. I am amazed that you’re able to convey so much in so many ways with only one tool."

Erin turned and canvassed the area again, finding a small girl selling tins of tobacco. "I know it’s a bit unusual. Some might even claim that without a whole repertoire of cameras, I am not a photographer at all. I like to keep it simple." She pulled the camera back up to her eye, and then the shutter snapped. "The photograph might not ever get shot, if I first had to decide what camera to use."

Jessie chuckled. "Are you saying you’re indecisive?"

"Not so much as I simply value the event above the technicalities of taking the photo."

"A purist," Jessie clarified.

Erin nodded. "That’s a diplomatic way to put it."

Jessie watched her case the commotion around them. "What appeals to you about the work?"

"Taking photographs is like freezing a moment in time. If done with some integrity, it’s as if you’ve written a history book. One image captured in a fraction of a second can tell you everything you need to know. Photographs, if good enough, turn that second into symbols—icons, if you will."

Jessie turned her gaze on the crowd. "There are many news worthy places throughout the world." She fixed her eyes back on Erin. "Why Mexico?"

"Look around . . ." Erin waved a hand in the air. "Everything is alive . . . with history, diversity, tradition, conflict, creativity. It’s alive because the people are resilient and strong. Every photograph is a tribute to the triumph of the human spirit." She pulled the camera up and focused on the old, gnarled, hands of a gray-haired man, who was weaving colored straw into a hat. The camera shutter clicked, perpetually committing the image to film.

Jessie continued to regard her intently. "Stare is more like it," Erin deliberated silently. She looked into Jessie’s face, trying to discern what precisely she was thinking.

An eternity of silence ensued until that moment when Jessie finally realized that Erin had stopped speaking, and was now staring back at her. Her face flushed with embarrassment, Jessie finally managed, "You have a very successful career. Is the work always for a client, or do you ever take pictures for your own pleasure?"

Erin noticed the small wisp of hair that had escaped its bounds and fallen across Jessie’s cheek. Pushing down the urge to sweep it back into place, Erin smirked and muttered, "Pleasure . . .? Working for all these years has allowed me the freedom to enjoy producing photos for my own pleasure occasionally. That is, when my schedule is not very stressing. I am lucky that many of the images I have taken also have been bought. When I first started out in the field, I wasn’t given such independence. I was told to go out and take a picture of this or that in this or that light. But now, I choose the subject matter, and ultimately, decide how the subject will appear and what statement the photo will make. . . ." she left off, observing that Jessie was silently studying her again. "Am I being long-winded?"

"No, not at all. You’re answers are perfect." Jessie smiled shyly, and then continued although somewhat absently, "Why do you do it?"

Erin gave her a puzzled expression.

"Let me rephrase that question. Are you trying to convey a message with your work? For example, one of my favorite photographs is the image of all the tattered soldiers huddled around the London Times, and the headline heralds ‘German Sailors Mutiny’. Behind them, the sun is—"

"Peaking out from behind the clouds. Yes, hope and . . . how much we have to lose is what I want people to realize. In this tumult, during all these times of bloodshed . . . when everyone seems to be drowning in shadows, I try to take photos of the hope expressed in the wake of the tragedy—it’s a wish for a change," Erin left off, her blue eyes darkening perceptibly. "With my photographs, I want to let people take a glimpse into the mirror and realize how much they have to lose. Each photo is kind of like a prayer."

Jessie stared at Erin, watching the emotion flit across her face. The beauty of it surprised her to the extent that she couldn’t think of anything to say.

Erin met her eyes, and smiled warily. "I didn’t mean to sound so sappy."

"It’s lovely," Jessie maintained as she watched Erin’s slender hand tentatively finger the crystal face of her wristwatch.

Erin looked up, examining the delicate features of Jessie’s face. "Around here, time is so suggestible and never absolute. One o’clock means sometime after twelve and before two, I’m afraid. You’ve asked me all sorts of interviewer type questions . . . if I’m not mistaken, you need background information to write this article. So, while we wait—"

"I already have it."

One eyebrow rose smartly. "Pardon?"

"I already have it. The leaflet handed out during your lecture at Berkeley. Your background is laid out quite specifically in it."

"You kept the publicity leaflet?"

Jessie thought about her answer for a moment. She didn’t want to tell her that she did still have the symposium flyer. After all these years, that would be a little odd. The only other option was to lie. "No, not exactly . . ."

Erin eyed her. "Is this one of those ‘I have a very good memory’ instances?"

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jessie nodded. "Precisely."

Erin put a hand on her hip. "I’m curious, then. Give me a little bit of it."

Jessie tilted her head to the side inquiringly.

"My background from the pamphlet."

Jessie grinned. "You were born on May 25, 1885, in the town of Evansville, Indiana. Your parents, Jack and Mary Donnevan, are schoolteachers. In 1903, you graduated from Wingate high school—a year early—and entered college at the University of Pittsburgh. During the four years you were in college, you completed a two-year internship with the Pittsburgh Gazette-Times. You graduated magna cum laude with a bachelor of arts in photography with a minor in English. Your first assignment was overseas in Italy as a photographer for National Geographic—"

Erin interrupted, "Yes, but did you know that I won first place in Miss Clark’s fourth grade math competition?"

Jessie, a slight smile on her lips, glanced at the ground, and then back up. "I didn’t know that. I’m sure there are many things I do not know about you. Why don’t you tell me some of those?"

"A woman must have her secrets," Erin drawled.

The smoky timbre of Erin’s voice wrapped around Jessie and distracted her for a moment. Finally, she murmured, "Undeniably."

They exchanged diffident smiles. Having reached a mutual accord and comfort with one another, Erin wanted to know more about Jessie. As she was about to ask Jessie about her education and upbringing, she heard the recognizable sound of horse hooves on cobblestone. Turning in the direction of the clattering, she spotted a wagonload of men trailed by more men, some on horses and some on foot. All were armed. A man, sitting next to the wagon driver, stood and shot his gun into the air. The swarm now surrounding the wagon seemed to grow still.

"¡Obregón ha sido asesinado por el gobierno asqueroso!" he cried, pointing a finger at the Presidential Palace. The mob roared in fury.

Suddenly, as though manifesting from the very bricks of the building, soldiers stood on the steps of the Presidential Palace and more were mobilizing into place in front of the line of abutting federal buildings.

Jessie stared at Erin. "What’s happened?"

"Obregón has been assassinated. . . . The allegation is that Elias-Calles and his regime is responsible."

The wind pushed from Jessie’s lungs, "Assassinated?"

Ignoring the question, Erin scanned the horde around them; it was an endless sea of people, but to the north, rising up on the horizon was the massive cathedral. Erin grabbed onto Jessie’s forearm and leaned in. "The church towers—move towards them."

Jessie, steeled by the command in Erin’s voice, began pushing her way through the mob. Gunfire cracked through the plaza and the throng seethed up around them. Bodies seemed to fill up every space with anger and confusion like some great, heaving belligerent sea. The crowd roiled and spit, breaking Erin’s hold on Jessie and setting her adrift to be swallowed up in the groundswell.

Chapter Six

Tattered remains of newspaper blew remorsefully around the desolate square. The only signs of the massive struggle were the shotgun blast marks in the façade of the Presidential Palace and the fierce red splotches where victims had fallen on the impassive cobblestones. Here and there, heedless birds pecked at bits of food and trash on the ground.

Erin stood on the top step of the entrance to the cathedral. From her vantage point, she examined the square again. She had scoured the area for Jessie, but to no avail. She was tired and her muscles ached from being jostled and tossed about in the crowd. All she really wanted was to lie down and gaze up at the early evening sky.

Even as she did look up, the late summer moon, now beginning to peek reluctantly though the thin clouds and pale sky, filled her with an irrational sense of loss. Releasing the powerful grip she had on her camera, she let it slip from her right hand to her left. Even in the mayhem, she had managed to hold on to it. "But I lost a person . . . Nothing new under the sun," she admonished herself.

Erin shook her head, dispelling the suddenly looming guilt and despair that crowded around her thoughts. What she needed to do was take action, to find Jessie and return her to the Palaveras’ home. Thinking that she had last seen Jessie on the north side of the square, she cast a look in that direction and spotted two women who were down on their hands and knees scrubbing the cobblestones. Maybe the two women had seen something that might help her find Jessie. Even in the confusion, someone like Jessie would be hard to miss.

"That is as good a place to start as any," she mused, slinging the strap of the camera over her head and around her neck. With reinvigorated purpose, she made her way across the nearly deserted square.

Nearing the women, she bent down next to the oldest one and addressed her. "¿Señora, con permiso, ha visto usted una mujer joven—alta y rubia?"

Both of the cleaning women looked up at her. "No, señorita, he visto a nadie que parece así." She went back to scrubbing at the nasty, pink foam she had made with soap and a brush.

Understanding that the older woman had not seen anything, Erin nodded and directed the question to the younger woman. "¿Y usted?"

She shook her head. "Yo no he visto tampoco nadie esa," and then she paused. "El policía prendío cualquier persona que los soldados no tiraron."

"Gracias," Erin thanked them as she turned away. Neither one had seen Jessie, but now she knew that the police had rounded up and carted away many of the rioters from the square. The possibility that Jessie was sitting in a jail cell somewhere was disturbing but the alternative was worse. She wouldn’t check the hospitals until she had exhausted all other alternatives.

Tossing a look to the street, she realized the entire centrality was empty and catching a cab to nearest police station was going to be impossible. "Not a problem," she told herself. The closest station was within walking distance. If she didn’t find Jessie there, she could have one of the officers call her a cab.

¤☼☼☼

Jessie, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, leaned more heavily against the old, stone wall. She was tired and her head ached from where she had knocked it against the rusty bars when she and twenty or so people had been shoved into the tiny jail cell. Softly touching the spot, she winced. On the right side of her skull, there was a painful bump, so swollen that it hurt just to pass her fingertips over it.

Pain and fatigue—those were the least of her problems. The worst of her problems sat about two yards to her left—a scrawny but menacing man of questionable hygiene and manners. She didn’t like the way he stared at her in increasingly longer intervals, because given enough time, he would approach her again, stand far too close, and breathe revolting words into her face—at least she deemed the words were revolting. She couldn’t know for sure as all his words were in Spanish. It wasn’t what he said so much as it was the slurry and slimy way he said it.

There was no point in dwelling on him. She seemed to be able to dissuade his harassment by moving away. She could do that all night even in the cramped quarters of the jail cell. If worse came to worse, she could call out to the guard, who appeared to be sleeping in a chair two cells down. The reality of the situation was that if she could make it through the night, she would be released in the morning, and then the disaster would be over for her. In any case, that’s what she had been able to understand from the few words that she had picked up from the guards as they were herded into the cells.

But what about Erin? Jessie cringed at the thought. It had been at least five hours since she had last caught sight of her. For all she knew, the gritty photojournalist may have bustled her way to the front line where the soldiers had been firing into the crowd. Jessie hadn’t been in the most heavily hit area, and yet she had seen people around her brought down in a haze of gunfire.

The muscles in her jaw twitched convulsively. She hoped to God Erin was safe. Glancing around at the people in the jail cell, she recalled the vast numbers rounded up by the police; maybe Erin was even as close as one of the other cells. With that thought in mind, Jessie righted herself from the wall and moved towards the one empty space at the rusty bars. A shadow passed before her, and suddenly he was there, blocking her way.

"Chiquitita" he sneered, "Se me hace que estarías mas tiernita y blanca que la nieve fresca en el Pico de Orizaba. ¿O puedo decir picos?" The man’s rancid breath prickled her nose. She glanced around him, hoping that someone might intervene this time. When no one did, she pressed her shoulders back and glared down into the maniacal face.

The other men in the cell snickered . . . at her or at him, she didn’t know.

He shifted his body, leaning in closer to her. If he touched her, what would she do? Yell to get the attention of the sleeping guard? Slip away from him again? Hit him? The options ran rapidly through her mind. She couldn’t decide even as she watched as his stubby, dirty hand move towards her breast.

A voice boomed from behind Jessie. "Quítate de ella antes de que tiagarre de los testículos he te los amarrare de las barras."

The hand moved slowly away, as did its owner, creeping back into the shadowy recesses of the crowded cell.

Jessie turned in the direction from which the voice had come. A burly police officer was unlocking the cell door. He glimpsed up and gestured to Jessie. "Venga. No se porque usted está aquí, pero no está segura aquí con esos."

She came towards him and stepped outside of the cell into the long corridor running the length of the room. The officer locked the cell again, and then gestured for her to lead the way. They passed rows upon rows of jail cells. At the end of the room, he stopped her, opened another cell, the only empty one, and signaled for her to go into it.

She glanced at him warily, and then stepped inside. She looked back at him as he closed the door behind her. "I’m an American. An art critic. A journalist for the San Franciscan. I was at the Presidential—"

"¿Americana?"

"Yes, I—" Jessie began.

"No," she ventured.

He started to move away. "I mean yes, sí, tengo un pasaporte."

He nodded. "¿Donde?"

She sighed. She had already been through this vein of conversation with two other officers. "No lo tengo conmigo," she pronounced slowly.

He pursed his lips, and then shook his head apologetically. "No puedo dejarle ir sin la autorización . . ."

He spoke so quickly that Jessie only understood that he couldn’t let her go. She tried to formulate a response, something that would make him change his mind. Before she could, though, the jail door clanged closed.

☼☼☼☼

Coming around the northernmost corner of the square, Erin strode along the side street until she spotted the smudgy white wall, almost gray with overuse. She pulled open the heavy wooden door marked simply with a red and white sign that said "Comisaría de Policía Numero Siete."

Entering the lobby of the police station, she expected to see a madhouse of rioters, pillagers, and various other felons. However, the only person in the room was a tall, uniform-clad, bulbous-featured man sitting behind a long counter.

Recognizing him immediately, Erin grinned at his down-turned head, buried as it was in the pages of the evening edition of the Excelsior. At a protest, he had saved her camera—and possibly her—from a group of Communists who had decided to turn on the closest perceived enemy.

It was odd, but Erin had always thought her camera hid her, at least ideologically, but the pack had wanted a sounding platform for their hostility and frustration and she had been the nearest American. Having immediately recognized the chaotic situation, the police officer had shrewdly negotiated with the faction for the release of her, her camera, and her film.

Erin approached the desk. "Enrique."

He glanced up and smiled. "Erin?" he asked in a thick accent.

She inspected his pleasant but pockmarked face, and then she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I’m glad to see you here."

"Oh?"

"I’m looking for someone."

"Are you?" He grinned crookedly at her. "They are probably here."

She pulled the camera strap from around her neck and placed the camera on the desk. Leaning her weight against the counter, she rubbed at the back of her neck. "It’s really important."

His grin immediately disappeared. "Erin, we have half of the city in here. We’ll just be holding them for the night. In the morning, they will all be let go."

"Humor me. She is Anglo. An American. Tall. Blonde."

"Oh, sí, I know the one."

Erin leaned closer. "Here?"

"Sí."

She felt relief flow through her, releasing her tense muscles. "Enrique, she shouldn’t be in here. She was with me. We were just taking some photos at the—"

He held up one bulky hand. "Okay, you don’t have to convince me. She came in with a group. Whoever brought them in just did a sweep of the area. That’s the only way we could control the crowd . . . so many people," he let off, shaking his head. "I’ll get her. What is her name?"

Erin sighed, and then smiled. "Jessie Madsen. . . . Thanks, Enrique." She watched his back as he unlocked the door that presumably led to the jail cells.

"De nada," he called over his shoulder as he pushed open the door. Before the door closed behind Enrique’s hulking form, Erin caught sight of the rows upon rows of jail cells—all full. "No wonder the streets seem deserted," she marveled aloud.

☼☼☼☼

Having stared at the closed door for what seemed an interminably long time, Erin placed the camera strap back around her neck and pushed away from the counter to pace the floor. After passing the window several times, she finally came to a stop in front of it. The sun was setting and she stood and watched the crimson sky peeking around the buildings across the street.

Sunsets always served to remind her that life would always go on—that nothing short of a meteor colliding with the Earth would keep the sun from coming up the next morning. "Whether or not we will all be there to see it is a different matter all together," the fatalistic piece of her mind grumbled.

Erin cut off that stream of thought and instead focused on the matter at hand—she had found Jessie. Why had she been so concerned anyway? She hardly knew her. She told herself it was because Jessie was relatively young and inexperienced, and in that way, she was responsible for her well being. Erin knew that explanation wasn’t completely sound, but delving much further into the reasons might have provided an answer she wasn’t prepared to deal with.

Hearing a noise and glad for the distraction, she glanced behind her just as Enrique emerged with Jessie coming up close after him. Jessie smiled softly when she spotted Erin. She returned the smile and moved towards Jessie as she came from behind the counter. At once, she took in Jessie’s scuffed shoes, wrinkled dress, disheveled hair, and pallid complexion. Gently, she touched Jessie on the arm. "Are you all right?"

Jessie nodded tiredly.

Erin shot a look at Enrique. "What took so long?"

He shrugged and moved back behind the desk. "They moved her to a different cell."

"Why?"

"The men in the first cell were harassing me," Jessie explained.

"Oh," Erin frowned. "Are you all right?"

"Yes . . ."

"Okay. Let’s get you back to the Palaveras’ then." She turned and looked at Enrique. "Can you get us a taxicab?"

He held up the phone receiver. "Right away."

Erin nodded with a polite smile. "Thank you."

He smiled back. "You are welcome."

She took Jessie’s arm and started to lead her towards the front door of the police station. Jessie stopped suddenly. "Your bag."

Erin turned and gave her a perplexed expression. "Bag?"

"Your camera bag. I still had it with me when I got here. They took it."

She glimpsed into Jessie’s pale face. "Don’t worry about it. I have another. There wasn’t anything valuable in it. Just a few reels of film. . . .," Erin paused, taking Jessie’s arm. "Let’s get you back."

Jessie stayed put. "It was film you shot. We should retrieve it."

Erin recognized from the obstinate tone that they would not be leaving the station without the bag. "Okay," she muttered, letting go of the hold she had on Jessie’s arm and making her way back to the desk.

"Enrique, Jessie says that the bag that she was carrying was confiscated."

He glanced at Jessie. "What does it look like?"

"She was carrying it for me. It was my bag. . . . Brown. Leather. Square. Big," Erin replied.

"Anything in it?" he asked, picking up several sheets of paper from the desk.

"Some spindles of film. A cloth. Maybe a handkerchief or two."

He examined the contents of the papers, and then looked up. "It’ll be just a minute. Let me check holding."

Erin nodded, and then turned her attention back to Jessie. "Come on. Over here. Have a seat. He’ll be back soon."

Jessie allowed Erin to guide her to a set of chairs along the back wall of the lobby.

Shifting the camera out of the way, Erin took a seat next to Jessie. She examined the younger woman’s pale countenance. "You seem a little shaken. Are you sure you’re all right?"

"Yes," Jessie sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I’m just tired."

Erin tilted her head towards the door to the jail cells. "What went on in there?"

Jessie glanced away. "Some men . . . a man—he was . . ."

Erin knitted her brows. "He didn’t?"

"No! No. . . ." She glanced at Erin. "He was close to me. Speaking in Spanish. Saying . . . things I couldn’t understand, but I still knew what he was implying."

"Implying?" Erin questioned, her voice sounding too shrill for her own ears.

Jessie inhaled and met her eyes. "He was trying to intimidate me."

Erin felt heat suffuse her face. "Did he touch you?"

"No."

Erin finished the thought, "But he was going to. Is that why you were moved to another cell?"

"Yes."

Erin stood. "I think we should register a complaint."

Jessie got to her feet. "No, it’s not worth it. The man—he was just trying to frighten me."

The door behind the desk opened, and Enrique came through it with the bag in hand. "Is this it?"

Erin started to speak, but a gentle hand on her arm stopped her. She gazed up into Jessie’s beseeching face. Glancing back at Enrique, she finally replied, "Yes, that’s it."

Coming around from behind the counter, Enrique handed her the bag. She dropped her camera into it, shouldered it, and then addressed Jessie. "Are you ready to go?"

Jessie nodded stiffly and began moving towards the door. Behind them, Enrique had already returned to his post at the counter. Erin, tossed out "Thanks again, Enrique."

"You are welcome." He smiled, and then went back to his newspaper.

As the two approached the door, Erin slid her arm through Jessie’s and then she pulled open the door. Outside the taxicab was waiting. Opening the door to the motorcar, she let her hand skim across Jessie’s back, guiding her as she slipped into the backseat. Jessie sensed the contact and felt a gloominess fall resoundingly over her. It wasn’t that she minded Erin touching her—not at all. It was the reason for the touch that bothered her. Erin was acting as if she were as impressionable as a child.

She watched as Erin settled into the seat next to her. Their eyes met briefly and Jessie had the desire to reassure Erin that she really was just fine. However before she could get the words out, the cabbie twisted his head to the right, clucked his tongue, and looked expectantly at Erin.

"Oh, Avenida Londres," she tossed out.

He nodded and shifted the taxicab into gear.

☼☼☼☼

The ride was quiet. Both women, lost in their own thoughts, stared into the darkening night. For Jessie’s part, she was struggling with finding a way to rid Erin’s face of the overt concern she saw there every time Erin looked at her. She had to convince Erin that she wasn’t the vulnerable youngster Erin seemed to think she was.

"It may rain," Jessie ventured.

Erin looked away from the side window, giving Jessie her full attention. "Yes . . ." When a gentle smile graced the narrow features, she smiled back, holding Jessie’s eyes for a moment. Feeling an indefinable sentiment permeate her, Erin had the urge to dispense with the idle talk and tell Jessie how sorry she was for the distress she had caused Jessie by having her accompany her to the rally.

Jessie tilted her head, trying to catch the preoccupied woman’s eyes. She wanted Erin to know she was grateful that she had come looking for her. "Thank you."

Erin saw the words form on Jessie’s lips but was so distracted by her own thoughts, she continued to study Jessie’s face for a few more seconds before responding. "Hmm . . .? For what?"

"For coming to get me. For finding me."

Erin grimaced. "It’s the least I could do . . . Really."

Jessie, hearing the reproach in Erin’s voice, sought to assure her. She reached over and gripped one of Erin’s hands. "It wasn’t your fault."

Erin dropped a look at her hand wrapped in Jessie’s, and then gazed back up into her face. "You’re being very gracious about this mess."

Jessie’s eyebrows rose. "Gracious?" She released Erin’s hand and turned her body so that she was facing the other woman. Her eyes were warm. "Erin, I wanted to accompany you."

"It seems an awfully high price to pay just to get an article written."

"You’re not listening to me. I said I wanted to be there. You didn’t force me. I knew there were hazards . . . it’s risky just being in this country right now."

"Well, no matter how you cut it, it was still foolish of me not to anticipate . . ."

Jessie looked away. Obviously, she was saying something Jessie didn’t want to hear. Offending her companion wasn’t what Erin intended, so she gathered back up and reformulated what she had really wanted to say. "That aside, I’m just mean that it is all right to be disturbed by what you’ve experienced."

Jessie sighed. "I suppose, it wasn’t business-as-usual . . . at least not for me." She was willing to admit at least that much. But given the coddling manner in which Erin was responding to her, Jessie certainly wasn’t willing to confess anything more revealing. She certainly wasn’t willing to tell Erin about the raging headache that she had due to her violent encounter with the jail cell bars.

"No." Erin smiled wanly, and then went back to staring out of the passenger car window.

Jessie pressed two fingers to the center of her forehead and closed her eyes, trying to control the pain in her head. "What will happen now?"

Erin glanced at Jessie again. "I told him to take us to the Palaveras’ home."

Jessie, perplexed, squeezed her brows together.

"Oh, you mean here . . . with the election?"

Jessie nodded.

Erin breathed out. "Well, obviously, the assassination of the president-elect means he can’t take office in December. Technically, what should happen is that the current President will hold office until another President is appointed. . . . The problem is that it appears that the burden of blame for the assassination has been placed on the current President, so he may be on trial . . ." she trailed off.

"It was all conjecture."

Erin faced Jessie. "Pardon?"

"The men that rode up to the Palace—they were just speculating as to who shot President-Elect Obregón."

It was Erin’s turn to look puzzled. "How do you know this?"

"Before we were placed into the jail cells, a fight broke out between Elias-Calles and Obregón supporters. I couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, but I did understand that there was no certainty about who was the perpetrator of the assassination. Each were flinging insults and accusations at the other."

Erin leaned against the back of the seat again. She shook her head. "Here it is again."

Jessie lifted a brow inquiringly.

"Another political figure assassinated and no one knows who did it." Erin threw her arms into the air. "It’s nothing new here. They are always exposing the dirty underbelly of politics."

Jessie grinned. She was glad to see some animation return to Erin’s face. "At least here it is exposed for everyone to see. It’s not hidden away so that it becomes insidious as a plague."

"True . . ." Deep in thought, Erin turned back to the window.

Jessie exhaled slowly. Her statement hadn’t had the impact of drawing Erin further into the conversation, but what could she expect? There was very little wisdom or perspective she could lend the experienced photojournalist in this situation.

Glancing over at Jessie’s profile, Erin felt slightly better about the situation. Jessie didn’t really seem to be terribly upset, just tired. She couldn’t fault the woman when she was exhausted herself.

Settling herself against the cushion of the seat, Erin made herself more comfortable. In fact, she was feeling so much better that she began to contemplate the possibility of telling Jessie how much she enjoyed having her along on the assignment . . . how she hoped getting caught in the crowd hadn’t been too horrifying . . . how worried she was when she couldn’t find Jessie and how . . . She rolled her eyes in disgust. Maybe she could simply let her know she was glad she was all right. Yes, she could do that.

Erin mustered her courage, and just as she started to speak, something caught her eye. She stared at the dark brown blotches and spatters. The color drained from her face. ". . . You weren’t hurt, were you?"

Jessie looked at Erin. "What?"

She pointed at the splotches. "There’s blood on your dress."

Jessie noticed the slight quiver in Erin’s hand. "There was a man next to me in the crowd. He was shot. I was not hurt."

Erin’s shoulders went rigid as she folded her hands in her lap. "Oh."

Jessie, sensing Erin’s discomfort, hoped to find something to make light of the situation. Inspecting Erin from the periphery of her vision, she said, "You’re missing your cap."

Erin shook her head and gazed out the front window. "I don’t know what happened to it. At some point, it was just gone." She turned and looked at Jessie. "I’m sorry about today. I meant to tell you to bring your passport, but I—"

"It’s not your fault. You didn’t have any way of knowing that something like that would happen."

"It shouldn’t have been a surprise to me, though. Almost anything can happen during times like these. I should have been more cautious."

"You put yourself in danger all the time . . . oh, you mean with me."

Erin snorted. "Yes, I should have— at the very least—made sure you had your passport. At the most, you shouldn’t have been there."

Jessie stiffened. "Why not?"

Erin glanced at her. "It’s not the kind of place I would take . . . I wouldn’t want," she let off with a sigh. "I just shouldn’t have taken anyone with me. Kindling only needs one little match to turn into a roaring blaze."

Jessie leaned in. "Erin, I’m going to say it one more time. I wanted to be there."

Erin pinched the bridge of her nose and relaxed her shoulders against the cushion of the seat. "Your job shouldn’t be something you risk your life for."

"Yours is."

Erin met her eyes. "That’s why you should take my advice."

They stayed staring at one another until the taxicab pulled up in front of the Palaveras’ home. The house lit up the night and two silhouettes watched the street from the kitchen window.

Jessie pulled a few bills from a pocket hidden in the seam of her dress. She began to hand them to the taxicab driver. Erin grasped her hand. "I’ll take care of it."

"But—"

"No, please, at least let me see you home safely."

Jessie stared into her eyes and vicariously experienced all the guilt and responsibility Erin felt regarding what had happened. Jessie sighed. "Really, Erin, it’s not your fault. But if it will make you feel better—"

"Please?"

"Fine." Jessie stuffed the bills back into her pocket as she exited the cab. Before closing the door, she leaned back in. "We never did finish the interview."

"I think you have all the material you need."

Jessie inhaled and glanced at the ground before meeting Erin’s eyes. "I don’t think I do." Without letting Erin respond, she closed the door and moved towards the light in the house.

End of Chapters One - Six

printer-friendly version

send link to friend