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“Don’t worry, mamás y papás , no alcohol is served from eight till midnight,” he assured the parents. “So you will have time to check in and have a look around, exchange currency, if you wish, and get ready to dance the night away . . . at least until the late karaoke show. Then all the Seen-der-eh-yas and handsome princes from seventeen years down turns into squash.”
    â€œSquash?” Christie’s expression mirrored the skepticism in her voice. “You mean pumpkins, right?”
    â€œSquash, pumpkin, whatever you are, don’t miss your ride,”
    Hector advised. “Or you will be squashed. Entiende? Adults only after midnight.”
    â€œSí.”
    â€œWe entiende.”
    â€œGot it.”
    By midnight I’ll feel like squash, Caroline thought.
    â€œThe palms you see lining the highway surrounding our Alameda Park,” Hector continued, “are royal palms. The museum to the right houses the mural of the Alameda painted by famous Diego Rivera. It was nearly destroyed by the 1985 earthquake—”
    â€œLooks kind of run-down to me,” Kurt observed from a nearby seat.
    The way she felt. At the moment, the entertaining tour talk stimulated sleep more than cultural interest.
    â€œBut alas, it was saved and put into that museum over there.”
    Hector pointed through the tinted windows.
    â€œWho’s Diego Rivera?” Annie asked.
    Hector looked as if she’d asked who Santa Claus was. “You don’t know Diego Rivera?”
    Unaffected by his dramatic censure, Annie shook her head.
    The guide broke into a wide grin and shrugged. “Neither do I, but we’ll find out on our tour tomorrow.”
    Grinning, Annie shifted next to Caroline and moved to put her backpack under the seat in front of them.
    â€œJust hold it in your lap, honey,” Caroline suggested. “Señora Marron said it’s only twenty or so minutes to the hotel. With luck, we can get a nap before dinner.” “But why?” her daughter complained. “I thought you and Mr.
    â€œBut you heard Hector. We need to get some Mexican money and look around,” Annie protested. “Besides, you already had a nap.” With the finesse of a magician, she brandished a Polaroid shot from the knapsack and waved it in Caroline’s face. “See? I have proof.”
    Caroline cringed. There she was, wrapped in Blaine Madison’s jacket, her head pillowed against his shoulder, his head resting on her crown of curly hair. Both were lost in a dream world of their own . . . until someone saw the photo op and grabbed it. She had been awakened by the sudden flash of light to see Kurt fairly glowing with mischief.
    â€œThat will look great in the September school newsletter!” he crowed.
    â€œAs who?” Caroline couldn’t help her yawn, nor the first thing that popped into her mind. “Mr. and Mrs. Van Winkle?”
    â€œAs if.” Annie and Karen giggled in unison.
    Mr. and Mrs. Caroline didn’t try to retrieve the words. Chewing them once was enough. Better to fade away in a meltdown of embarrassment.
    Which was why, when she corralled Annie away from Karen in the terminal, Caroline had made it clear that the two of them should ride together on the bus.
    Madison were getting along great.”
    And they had been, despite Caroline’s adolescent appearance, her fear of flying, the hiccups, and her verbal faux pas. But when she flung her arm out in a motherly instinct as the plane braked after a bumpy touchdown, she surely must have cracked his rib cage. Blaine had been startled, but gracious.
    As for Caroline, she hoped to avoid the man until at least the next millennium.
    Karen’s stricken voice drew Caroline back to the present. “You can’t work tonight, Daddy. This is our vacation.”
    â€œKaren, you know I cut my trip short to make this work,” Blaine answered, apology in his tone. “I