to do.
“First time out of the country on the Fourth of July?” he asked.
“I was in Aruaca last year, but I didn’t come to the party. I don’t know why. Something about not wanting to hang out with Americans.” As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. Now he’d think she’d come to the party in order to see Americans, in order to see him. Nothing could be further from the truth. She’d intended to avoid him. But it hadn’t worked out that way.
“So what happens in Tranquility on the Fourth when it’s a hundred degrees?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and sipping his champagne. Time enough to resist it later, this feeling that his insides were turning to mush. There was something about this woman that made him forget all the problems he’d told her about—the international debt, the rising inflation; and the one he hadn’t—the gnawing fear that the stories of a lost silver mine had played too big a part in his decision to come here. If he’d gone to Panama or Colombia when they wanted him, he might be a VP by now.
Sometimes he thought he’d never adjust to this altitude or learn the language. But sitting here on this chair under this tree, he never felt so well adjusted in his life. What the hell, he told himself. It’s a holiday. Eat, drink and be merry and say anything that comes into your head. Tomorrow she’ll be gone, back to the country, and it’s back to reality.
She put her hot dog down on her paper plate and answered his question. “There’s a parade in the morning with the high school band.”
“Did you play?”
“Drum majorette.”
He smiled. A vision of her in a tightly buttoned jacket, short shorts and long legs in boots drifted in front of him. A mass of dark hair under a crisp white cap.
“Do you miss it?” he asked lazily.
“What, baton twirling?”
“No, Tranquility.”
“No,” she said so emphatically that he set his glass down and looked at her. “I like it here,” she explained. “I may never go back. What about you?”
“I think I’m going to like it. But I’m not used to the altitude, and I haven’t seen much except the bank and my apartment, which is two blocks away from the bank.”
She shook her head disapprovingly. But she had to admit that for someone who was wrapped up in banking and suffered from altitude sickness, he looked remarkably good. So good she was having trouble bringing the conversation back to the loan.
Instead she found herself watching his eyes change from sky to sea-blue, listening to the sound of his voice and noticing the muscles in his arms. She never knew bankers had muscles. She never knew bankers had feelings, either. It was disturbing. With an effort she brought herself back to the problem at hand. He hadn’t said he wouldn’t come to the valley. Maybe if she asked him again.
“Sounds like you need to see some more of the country,” she suggested pointedly.
“Such as Palomar?”
“Yes, if you’re really interested in the country and the people. Come and meet the women and see how hard they work.”
“The women? What about the men?”
“The men are off working in the mines. Farming is women’s work around here. If they had to depend on the money from the crops, they’d... Well, they wouldn’t starve, but they couldn’t buy shoes for the children or tools for the farm.’’
His eyes narrowed against the late afternoon sun. “Mines?” he asked. “Not silver mines.”
She shook her head. “The silver mines closed years ago. Only the old-timers remember them. They mine tin now, the men of the valley. It’s dangerous work, but when they come home they bring the wages. Otherwise...” Her voice trailed off. She’d done everything but get down on her knees and beg him to come. And all he did was change the subject. She wiped her hands on the paper napkin in her lap and decided to make a graceful exit while she still had a few ounces of pride left.
“I’d like to come,” he said. “But
R. C. Farrington, Jason Farrington