Cinderella in Overalls (8 page)

He turned to look at her. A glimmer of humor danced in her dark eyes. “It’s a well-known technique talking to cars,” he explained dryly. “They need encouragement just like people.”

“Well, that didn’t sound like encouragement to me”

“What this car needs is a kick in the tires,” he explained.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the breaks squealed and the truck pulled up in front of her house. He helped her load the baskets of raspberries into the long flatbed between bags of lettuce and mangoes. The farm women he had met yesterday welcomed him with shrieks of surprise, made room for him in the corner next to Catherine and erupted into a stream of gossip in their Indian language.

He gave Catherine an inquiring look. She smiled at him for the first time since yesterday when he arrived. And with the smile came the first streaks of light across the sky. A new day, filled with new possibilities. With Catherine Logan? Probably not. Probably he’d never see her again. A garage would send a tow truck or a man with the parts. He would never go to the Rodriguez Market again. He would buy his groceries at the supermarket in town. She didn’t want to see him. He didn’t want to see her. But there was that smile, and the eyes and that look she had that was half farmer’s daughter and half exotic gypsy.

“What are they talking about?” he asked.

There was a glint in her eyes. “You and me. They want to know what happened last night. They’re very curious, you know.”

“Did you tell them?”

“There’s nothing to tell. We had dinner, went to bed, got up and that’s it.” She twisted the fringe on her shawl and avoided his gaze.

“You forgot the astronomy lecture.” He slanted her a look, hoping for some reaction, anything. She didn’t disappoint him.

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you even hint that we slept together in the hammock. That’s the kind of thing that’s cause for a shotgun wedding. They don’t understand casual... informal...” She faltered. “They wouldn’t understand. Trust me.”

He reached for her hand and shook it firmly. “I’ll trust you if you’ll trust me. Now just let me explain the whole thing.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. “Give me a chance,” he said, and she pressed her lips together.

He turned to Doña Jacinda. “My car,” he began in halting Spanish, “has a problem.”

Jacinda threw back her head and laughed loudly. Unperturbed, he continued. “Catalina was kind enough to offer me shelter for the night.” At this the whole truckload of women shouted their approval. Catherine’s face turned red, and she pulled the brim of her bowler hat down over her eyes.

“What happened?” Josh asked. “I know my Spanish isn’t very good, but what did I say?”

She shook her head helplessly. “It doesn’t matter what you said. They think they know what happened. Anyway, you’ve made their day.”

 He looked around at their smiling faces, listened to their chatter without understanding one word, then leaned against a sack of peppers. “How often do you do this?”

She tilted her head back, feeling the heat recede from her cheeks at last, grateful for the change of subject. “Twice a week during harvest. We’re better off than most of the women you see in the market. We grow our own crops so we keep our own profits. Or we would if...” She paused and looked at the driver.

“If you didn’t have to pay the driver. If you had your own truck,” he finished for her.

“You said it, I didn’t.” She gave him a long look. “For every head of lettuce, every mango, every bunch of parsley we sell, he gets half the profits.” She tied her shawl in a knot under her chin, choking back her resentment.

“How much does he charge?” Josh asked with a troubled frown.

“It’s not what he charges. It’s the interest. We don’t have the cash to pay him in the morning, and by evening the interest has risen by fifty percent.”

His dark eyebrows drew together. “That sounds like usury.”

“Of course, but we have no choice. We just hope to break even. They think that’s the way it has to be, but I know better. I know you go to the bank in the spring for seed money and in the fall you pay it back.” The picture of stern old Mr. Grant floated before her eyes and she paused. “Theoretically,” she added.

“You do know what happens if you can’t make the payments,” he said soberly.

“Of course I know. I’ve seen farms sold and I’ve seen divorces and suicides. But we’re not talking about mortgaging the farm here. We’re talking about a truck, one truck, even one used truck in good shape.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t talk about it anymore.”

The wooden slats that held the produce rattled as the truck rounded a curve, and Catherine fell against Josh’s shoulder. She tried to move back to her place, but he put his arm around her waist under her shawl and held her tightly.

“It still hurts to think about your farm, doesn’t it?” he asked, his lips against her ear.

“Yes.” She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it, but sometimes it came back to her like a bad dream. Not as often as before, though. These past eighteen months had been good for her. As long as she stayed far away from Tranquility, California, and the States, she could keep the bad dreams at bay.

“Are you sure you want to take a chance again with a loan, with a bank and with a banker?”

She looked around the truck at the women, at their round, honest faces, weathered by the sun, lined with hard work. “Yes, it’s worth it. If you never take chances, you’re stuck in a rut. If they had a loan...” She bit her lip, determined never to mention it again. She leaned back and closed her eyes, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid to hear him say no again.

Josh stretched his arms along the top of the wooden slats. Taking chances was what bank loans were all about. He’d been a loan officer once. On his way to becoming a vice president. Minimizing risks was the name of the game, and this was a risk that had No written all over it. He reminded himself of the balance of payments, of rising inflation, and all he could think about was the woman next to him, the scent of her hair, the way her body felt pressed next to his and the swaying motion lulling her to sleep.

Was he going to violate every principle of good business just because he was touched by her story? He studied the faces of the women. Or was he going to make a decision based on some cockeyed idea that one truck loan could bring them into the twentieth century?

Take a chance... if you never take chances... The words went around in his brain. His father took chances. His life was made up of one chance after another, and you couldn’t say that he was ever stuck in a rut. To him a rut was staying home.

It was taking a job and going to work every day and bringing home a paycheck.

By the time they reached the outskirts of town, Josh was still undecided and Catherine was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. The truck screeched to a halt, and she woke up, her gaze so open, so trusting that he knew he’d do whatever it took to earn that trust, to get them their loan. The driver twisted around in his seat and nodded at him, and the women moved aside so he could step over the produce and jump out.

With a belch of diesel smoke the truck pulled away. He stood on the corner with the small cars and buses rushing by and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Thanks for the ride,” he called, but his words were swallowed up in the cacophony of horns. He watched as the truck turned the corner. She hadn’t even said goodbye. He went home to shower and change. He had a big day ahead of him.

In the afternoon the market was filled with masses of people. The mountain air was cool, but the sun was hot, beating down on the corrugated plastic and turning the stall into a sauna. Catherine yawned for the third time and Jacinda beckoned to her.

“Come,” she said, removing her apron and settling her hat at a jaunty angle. “I’m going to see my friend Doña Margarita, the weaver. I promised her some of my peppers.”

Catherine put her hat on a wooden crate, wiped the perspiration from her forehead and gratefully followed Jacinda up the steeply inclining street. At the top of the hill she gazed in awe at
Teregape
, one of the most spectacular mountains in the Andes, its white peak visible in the clear afternoon air. The awesome sight lifted her spirits and made her forget for a moment her fatigue and her humiliation at being turned down—again.

Doña Margarita was too busy to admire the beauty of the mountain that towered above her shop. Briefly acknowledging the arrival of her friend Jacinda, she supervised her daughter at the loom and waited on customers. An alpaca sweater dyed a natural rose color hung on a hanger at the entrance to the stall. Rubbing the soft wool between her thumb and forefinger, Catherine caught Jacinda’s eye. Jacinda smiled and nodded emphatically.

“It was meant for you, chica,” she said. “Perhaps we can trade for eggs or—”

Catherine shook her head. She wouldn’t take their produce and use it for barter. It was too precious. She reached into her pocket. “I have money. A birthday present from my mother.” She examined the price written on a paper pinned to the hem of the sweater. “It’s not expensive.”

Jacinda held the sweater up to Catherine’s shoulders and nodded her approval. “Leave the bargaining to me,” she whispered.

When Margarita finally cleared the stall of customers and turned her attention to Catherine and Jacinda, she sent her daughter to the crate in back to fetch a bolt of hand-woven wool. The loosely woven fabric was a mixture of pink and rose and mauve and a perfect match for the pink sweater. Catherine stood still while they wrapped the material around her hips, then pinned and tucked and turned her around like a department store mannequin.

She didn’t remember saying yes, but she had no intention of saying no as the women chattered and beamed their approval. While she watched, Margarita’s daughter stitched up the side and sewed a waistband around the top. Jacinda and Margarita settled on a price, and Catherine paid and walked out with the first new clothes she’d bought since she’d arrived in Aruaca. The fact that she had no place to wear such a beautiful handmade outfit didn’t occur to her until she returned to their stall. Oh, well, she could always send it to her sister for Christmas.

The other women insisted she try on the new clothes, and behind the crates they spread their skirts to give her privacy. Pulling the sweater over her head, Catherine loosened her braid and let her dark hair fall over one shoulder in a mass of waves.

The skirt flared from her hips, then floated to midcalf, the rose-colored sweater caressing her skin above her pink lace bra. She held out her arms, and to the women’s delight, twirled around in front of the parsley and melons.

Giddy from lack of sleep, Catherine suddenly realized that shadows were falling over the marketplace. Without taking time to change her clothes she began packing up to go home. She didn’t look forward to being in the truck without someone to sleep on. Resolutely she banished the thought from her mind, the thought of strong, broad shoulders and a soothing voice, and picked up her old clothes to change for the ride home.

But out of the corner of her eye, as if she’d made him appear by thinking about him, Josh was approaching. Easily visible above the crowd, he was wearing his three-piece suit, the jacket slung over his shoulder just like the first time she’d seen him. She stood staring at him as the contrast of light and shadow played tricks on her eyes, afraid that if she took her eyes away for even a moment, he would disappear like a mirage.

Their eyes locked and held as he came closer and closer until he finally stood facing her, his eyes taking a tour of her new skirt and sweater. She felt her body respond as if he’d touched her. But he didn’t. He only looked. Her skin tingled, her heart pounded until he finally spoke.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.

“Yes, home.” She followed his gaze. “Oh, you mean because I’m wearing... These are my new clothes I bought from Jacinda’s friend the weaver.” She was babbling. She couldn’t stop.

Jacinda sidled up to Josh. “¿Le gusta?” she asked, nodding her head at Catherine.