Free Miranda's Revenge by Ruth Wind Page A

between us. Dead center of town. Go in and sit there in the cool and I’ll find you.”
    â€œThe church? I don’t—”
    â€œYou’ll like it, Miranda. Trust me.”
    She sighed. “Whatever. I’ll see you there.”

    The day had grown hot. Miranda put on her sunglasses, and strolled down the upscale village streets of Mariposa feeling mysterious and beautiful, like Jackie O. The thought made her smile—and she felt her walk change, her spine grow straighter. Imagination was a powerful thing. Feeling like Jackie O, she became Jackie O on some level.
    Imagination. Maybe that was what had been so appealing about her whirlwind love affair with Max. It had all been staged against the dashing backdrops of Nice and Austria, Paris and Zurich.
    Just like her parents.
    The thought startled her. Unpleasantly. Had she really imitated her narcissistic, annoying parents to that degree?
    But hadn’t they done exactly that—spun a fantasy of two worldly people who traveled and studied and cleverly hosted the wealthy, the brilliant, the talented?
    With a sick sense of recognition, she yanked off her sunglasses, afraid to be anything like them at all. High altitude sunlight blasted her irises, and she winced and put the glasses back on. Jackie O, after all, had adopted the glasses in Greece, hadn’t she?
    Oh, what was wrong with wanting to be worldly? She’d dreamed of the faraway and exotic from the time she was a small girl and Desi read to her from the Arabian Nights. Everywhere seemed intriguing. All names exotic.
    But—to return to the original thought—that slice of the exotic probably had contributed to her feelings for Max.
    What was real? she thought. What was a fantasy spun out of some need?
    And how could you tell the difference?
    The church stood on a corner facing the San Juans, built of reddish sandstone at the turn of the century. A bell tower rose from one corner, and heavy steps led to arched wooden doors. To one side was a deep nicho sheltering a statue of Our Lady of Butterflies, a classic dark-skinned Madonna with black robes edged in blue, and butterflies lighting around her shoulders. A real butterfly rested on the statue’s nose, and Miranda chuckled, pulling out her camera. Easing close, she focused on the shimmering wings and snapped the photo. Then again.
    A low, softly accented voice said, “What are the chances, hmm?”
    Miranda lowered the camera as if his voice did not disturb her in the slightest. “That a butterfly would land on a statue of Our Lady of Butterflies?”
    â€œNo,” he said, and took a step to stand beside her, admiring the statue and the church. He smelled of herbal shampoo and clean skin, and she had a swift vision of that place in the middle of his chest, the shallow dent where ribs met. Dark, soft hair…her mouth—
    She bent her head. “Then what?”
    â€œThat I would twice in one day find you while you were photographing butterflies.” He smiled down at her, his eyes a dark chocolate, his lips full-cut and red and imminently kissable.
    She shrugged, against him, against the lure of the visions. “I take photos all the time.”
    Unaccountably, he smiled. It was, she thought darkly, an awfully knowing smile for a man who was once almost a priest. “Let’s go in, shall we? It’s quite extraordinary,” he gestured with one hand, “particularly given your interest in altars.”
    He stepped aside and Miranda climbed the steps, her feet tracing the worn spots where thousands of feet had gone before. It would be slippery in the rain or the snow. She pulled open the doors, and startled as something brushed by her face on its way into the church. A butterfly, then another.
    The interior of the church was cool and smelled of dust and candles and rose incense. After the vivid brightness outside, Miranda couldn’t see much at all, and pulled off her