Cinderella in Overalls (6 page)

The heat from the wood-burning stove had turned the small house into an oven, and Catherine suggested they carry the table outside to the shade. Hungry and hot and tired, they ate in silence, refilling their glass tumblers with the dark, cool wine and looking at each other warily between bites.

By the time the torta plate was empty, half a loaf of bread gone and the wine bottle drained, Josh was eyeing the hammock stretched between two willow trees. He yawned lazily. “I’ve been up since 5:00,” he explained.

“So have I,” she countered.

“No siesta for farmers?” he inquired.

She shook her head. The heat and the wine and the sun made her long to stretch out in her hammock, too, and swing in the breeze. But she couldn’t relax with Josh Bentley around. If she did, he would talk her out of the loan. If she let her defenses down for one minute, he could sweep away her reasons like dust on the road. Of course, she was worried about making the payments. She was stubborn, but not stubborn enough to keep this up much longer.

After clearing the table with brisk efficiency, Catherine led Josh on a thoroughly businesslike tour of the remaining sixty acres of farmland, from the root cellars to the orchard and chicken coop. She introduced him to all the women and children who paused in their work to look him over and smile broadly. As they passed, the people pressed gifts on Josh until he was loaded down with a sack of fresh vegetables, jars of honey and pounds of homemade cheese by the time they returned to Catherine’s small house.

Jacinda appeared on cue at the front porch as they jumped off her draft horse. Catherine assured her she would feed and water the horse and bring him back later. She was hot and tired and frustrated. She was going to ask him one more time, but she knew what he was going to say. She had sensed it all afternoon. She felt it from tie way he kept his eyes on the fields and from the questions he asked. From the cool brush of his hand when he helped her off the horse.

But Jacinda lingered, suggesting she bring over a fresh chicken for their dinner. Catherine gave her a look that said there would be no “their” dinner, but Jacinda only shrugged and said she’d be back a little later. Catherine looked pointedly at Josh’s car parked out at the road, and he followed her gaze.

“I’ve enjoyed the day,” he said slowly. “I’m just sorry...”

“Sorry you can’t lend us the money? Don’t worry. I understand. I understand that bankers will only bet on a sure thing. For a while I hoped you were different. I thought you were different, but I see you’re just like all the others. Cautious, even though we’re talking about one measly truck. Surely that’s only small change for a big bank like yours. Why can’t you take a chance for once in your life? What have you got to lose?”

“I told you...”

“If something happens and we can’t make the payments, the truck is yours. I’ll deliver it to you personally. Then I’ll help you resell it.”

“It’s not as simple as that.” Josh frowned. “I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t know you were counting so much on it.”

“I wasn’t,” she insisted. It was true. She hadn’t counted on it. She had only hoped. And once again her hopes had been dashed. Once again by a banker. She picked up his bags and packages and unceremoniously loaded them in his arms. His mouth set in a tight line, he said goodbye and walked to his car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A garage.”

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

“Well, then a tow truck.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Back to the city.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your dinner,” he said.

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

“That was nice of her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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