When the phone rang that particular evening, Lucy was curled up on the couch in what had once been, and what Lucy still considered to be, Aunt Gwens parlor.
Earlier she and Mike had eaten supper together off trays while watching the CBS Evening News and Jeopardy. Then, while Lucy clicked irritably through the channels looking for her favorite shows, which seemed to be all out of place since the start of the new TV season, Mike had returned to work on his weekly column for Newsweek magazine.
Hed moved his computer into the parlor after Gwens death the previous year, since it was cooler there than any of the spare bedrooms upstairs. In the summer it was a dim and peaceful working place, with dappled shade from the big old oaks that grew on that side of the house. In the fall, afternoon sunlight diffused through autumns leaves filled the room with a lovely golden warmth, and in winter, the last of each days meager ration of sunshine found its way between the filigree of bare branches. It had always been Lucys favorite room, with the upright piano and its collection of family photographs on top, the white-painted mantelpiece covered with still more photos, the shelves full of books. And of course, Gwens ancient recliner, empty now this past year, and yetsometimes Lucy swore she could still feel Gwen in that room, and hear the musical grace note of her laughter.
The telephones polite trill made Lucy jump; calls late in the evening werent all that common in rural Iowa, and seldom meant good news. As she reached for the cordless that had replaced the old kitchen wall phone a few years back, Mike stopped typing and peered at her expectantly, blind as a mole in his special computer glasses, the dark-rimmed ones that give him a distinctly Harry Potter look.
Mom?
Lucy came bolt upright on the couch. Ellie? Well, for goodness sake! Her mom-radar was lighting up like a Christmas tree. Across the room, Mike took off his Harry Potter glasses. Whats wrong?
Nothings wrong, Mom, just called to say hi.
Lucy was unconvinced. Your voice sounds funny.
Probably because Im eating chocolate. Plus, Im on a cell phone. Mom, Im fine, really.
A cell phone! Lucy was just getting used to cordless. Well, you sound like youre a million miles away.
Not quite-Im in Mexico. On a ship. Listen, Mom-
Oh Lord. Not that Save the Whales stuff again? I thought you were through with-
Its not that kind of ship. Mom, listen-I need some advice.
Advice! Once again Lucy jerked as if shed been poked. Across the room, Mikes eyebrows had shot up. As they both knew, Rose Ellen, being her mothers daughter, had never been one to take, much less seek, anyones advice. From me? Are you sure you wouldnt rather ask your dad? Hes right here.
Hey-give him a big hug and a kiss for me. Ellies voice sounded odd again-slightly muffled, which Lucy knew meant she probably had her mouth full of chocolate. Which made her radar light up even more; Ellie always turned to chocolate in times of stress.
Mom-I need to ask you something. I havent got a lot of time Theres something I need to do-at least, its something I believe I should do-I think other people would probably tell me I shouldnt do it-they might even tell me absolutely not to do it, and then Id have to do it anyway, and probably-
Ellie-slow down. Youre not making sense. What is this thing you think you have to do?
There was a pause, and then, I cant really tell you that, Mom.
I see. Is it dangerous? Lucys voice cracked on the last word. She cleared her throat while Mike pushed back his chair.
After an even longer pause, Ellie said, in the voice nearly everyone said was very like her mothers, I think maybeit could be, yes.
Lucy sat very still. Mike came to sit beside her, dipping the cushions so that she had to lean back against him. But she straightened herself and said very quietly, Rose Ellen, you have a good level head on your shoulders. I know you wouldnt do anything foolhardy.
No, Mama. Now she sounded like she had as a little girl, angelically, breathlessly protesting her innocence. Ellie never had been able to lie convincingly.
Lucy said, in what Mike always called her rusty-nail voice, But, I know how you are when you really believe in something. If theres something you think you have to do She felt Mikes arms come around her and hurriedly cleared her throat as she gripped the phone hard. As if she could somehow force her strength of will and passion through those nonexistent wires. Listenhoney-you just have to trust yourself. Weve taught you to use your head and think for yourself, so you use your own judgment-your own good judgment, no one elses. You do what you have to do, honey. But you keep a level head, now, you hear me? You keep your wits about you.
Yes, Mama. ThanksI love you. Ellie was laughingwasnt she? Mom-tell Dad I love him, too, okay? Hey, listen, Im sure itll be okay. So dont worry about me, okay? Ill call you later and tell you all about it.
Ellie, wait-
Bye Mom, bye, Dad. Dont worry.
Wait- But the line had gone dead. Lucy punched the disconnect button and swiped angrily at her cheeks. Damn, she rasped, I didnt even get to tell her the news about Ethan getting married. You know he was always her favorite cousin.
Mike cleared his throat as he pulled her back against him. Probably not a good idea, if she was on a wireless phone.
Lucy sniffed. You think?
Not unless you want to read all about it in tomorrows headlines: Presidents Son to Wed Notorious Rock Star!
Lucy laughedand sniffed again. Mikes arms tightened and he kissed the top of her head. Hey, love, whyre you crying? Elliell be fine-like you said, shes got a good head on her shoulders.
Lucy burrowed her face against the chest of the only person in the world who was allowed to see her cry. Our children are so far away, Mike. Rose Ellen off on some ship, and Lord only knows where Eric is-its been months since hes called.
A little delayed empty-nest syndrome, love? Mike said softly, holding her close. Its been quite a few years since our kids flew the coop.
Yes, Lucy gulped, but I think it just hit me that theyre not coming back.
Chapter 3
McCall was packing it in early. Business had been slow all morning, which was more or less normal for the day after a cruise ship dropped anchor. Today was everybodys day to be off in the jungle swatting mosquitos and climbing pyramids or bird-watching in the biosphere reserves, or, for the younger and more athletically inclined, diving the wrecks and reefs offshore. Tomorrow thered be another big flurry of shopping just before the ship set sail, everybody stocking up on trinkets and souvenirs to take home, put away in a drawer somewhere and eventually forget all about. But right now the heat and tropical-storm humidity were settling in and siesta time was coming on. He figured hed just as well call it a day.
He was working up a sweat in the late October heat, trying to wedge the last of his canvasses into his ancient faded blue Volkswagen when he heard a sound that made his blood run cold.
Taxi? Excuse me, señorpor favor, is this, uh¿esteesta un taxi?
There was no mistaking that raggedy voice.
Sure enough, across the street at the taxi stand near the entrance to the plaza, the cinnamon girl was attempting to rouse the driver of the lone cab parked there from his noonday siesta.
Oh Lord, McCall thought, whats she up to now?
But as much as he tried, he couldnt keep himself from stopping what he was doing to watch her. It didnt help that she was wearing a bright yellow tank top with one of those wraparound things that cant decide whether to be shorts or a skirt, this one in a loud Hawaiian print-hibiscus blossoms and palm fronds in clear shades of red, green and yellow-something like his own paintings, in fact, only a lot prettier. It would probably have hit her a couple inches above the knee if shed been standing up straight, but since she was bending over to talk to the cab driver through his open window, McCalls view of her legs was extended considerably, and most pleasingly. All in all, she looked like a walking ad for some kind of tropical suntan lotion, and yummy enough to make a mans mouth water.
Except for the big clunky running shoes and the dorky-looking hot-pink sunshade on her head, anyway. McCall couldnt understand why so many tourists wore those sun visor things; hed never seen a woman yet who looked good in one. Though Cinnamon Girl came close.
Those thoughts were distracting enough that it took him a moment to realize that she was having some trouble making the taxi driver understand where she wanted to go. It looked like shed given him a piece of paper with the address written on it, but in spite of that the driver kept shaking his head and gesturing in a decidedly negative fashion. Even from where he stood McCall was getting his message loud and clear: Lady, you are loco!
In her exasperation, Cinnamon Girl snatched back the paper and read what was on it in a loud voice, the way people do, for some reason, when they try to communicate in a foreign language-as if they think deafness is the root of the problem. When she did that, her words carried clearly to McCalls ears, and what he heard made him swear out loud.
What was the woman trying to do, get herself killed?
There had to be some mistake. Either that or she was crazy. That was obviously the taxi drivers opinion, and McCall was beginning to think he might have the right idea. No one of sound mind, certainly not a foreigner-definitely not a woman-would be caught dead in the area she was asking to be taken to. Well, maybe dead was the operative word, all right. What it was, was probably the meanest slum in the whole Yucatan, brush and tin shacks on baked-dirt streets, the principal inhabitants of which seemed to be drug dealers and their customers, and roving bands of mean, scrawny dogs and even meaner and scrawnier children. The few legitimate places of business made Josés Cantina look like the Ritz; next to their clientele, the two rowdies whod accosted Cinnamon last night were the Hardy Boys.
The taxi driver was dead on. Clearly this woman was loco.
None of my business. Live and let live.
McCall told himself that, standing there in the street beside his jam-packed VW Bug and shaking his head, for about as long as it took the cab driver to give a classic Latino shrug of surrender as he accepted a handful of dollar bills; for Cinnamon to climb into the taxis back seat and for it to pull away from the stand with a clashing of gears that clearly expressed its drivers opinion of the whole enterprise.