Free Fiesta Moon by Linda Windsor

assessing the damage done to the mural by falling plaster along the rise of the graceful, curving staircase. A tree limb had blown through the window on the upper level, causing water damage during the previous rainy season.
    â€œJuan Pablo, just the man we need to see,” she said in welcome. Not that she’d made it a secret that the orphanage was interested in hiring contractors to complete the renovation. “How are your brothers?”
    â€œBien, gracias.” He glanced past her through the dining room door where the paint had spilled.
    â€œDo you think Juan Miguel might be able to repair the mural?” she asked. Granted, the eldest brother was primarily a sculptor, but he had dabbled in some still lifes that sold well in Taxco. A dabbler was all they could afford.
    â€œPues, as the father projectates, all things are possible , no? And perhaps you need him for painting the walls también,” he observed, tucking his unlit cigar into one corner of his mouth.
    â€œI had a little accident,” she explained. “Thankfully, it will come up if—”
    A squeak loud enough to pierce the eardrum came from the utility room, followed by the sound of water—not the gentle fall of a shower, but the pounding of a tropical downpour.
    â€œMark.” Not only had the stubborn man not listened, but it sounded as if he were dancing a polka with the old wringer washing machine, and the tin linen cupboard had cut in.
    â€œMadre de Dios!” Soledad wailed in the background.
    Corinne banged on the door. “Mark, just turn it off.”
    â€œThat is not good sign,” Juan Pablo said, pointing to the water oozing out from under the door. “Where is the . . . como se dice? . . . poomp?”
    Poomp ? Corinne pondered the word. “Pump? The pump’s in the—” She beat on the door again. “Mark, can you turn off the—”
    â€œI’m try—”
    Suddenly the downpour of water ceased. Soledad came shuffling in from the main foyer, face flushed in triumph. “I quit the big switch.”
    Of course. The electric box was on the kitchen side of the wall. As for Mark . . .
    Corinne knocked again. “Mark?”
    â€œWhat , Corinne?” came the irritated reply from inside the makeshift bathroom.
    â€œI tell him that it will put to lose if he do not do this.” Soledad knocked three times with her fist on the wall to demonstrate the proper operating procedure. From within, loose plaster fell.
    â€œAre . . . you . . . all . . . right?” Corinne lost patience with each word. If he felt good enough to be annoyed, he could at least answer her question with a yes or no .
    â€œOh, I’m just dandy, Corinne.” His voice oozed with sarcasm. “After being blasted with ice water, I decided to wrap myself in bright pink plastic and sprawl against a rusting washtub. I didn’t even break my elbow when it jammed in the toilet during my fall.” He caught his breath and continued. “And I’ll never need Preparation H, thanks to quality bristles of your new toilet brush.”
    â€œOkay, I get the picture.” And it was not a pretty one. Funny, heaven help her, but not pretty. Suppressing a laugh, she pointed to her elbow and mouthed, “Eso en el lavobo,” to a bemused Soledad. “Soledad tried to tell you how to get the water—”
    â€œI know she did,” he barked back. The tin cupboard clanged like a gong as he evidently slammed its door.
    â€œI tol’ you so,” Soledad sang in reproach.
    â€œSoledad tol’ me so.” Mark mimicked her operatic reply. The cupboard door slammed again. The catch was tricky anyway.
    There would be no starting over this time, Corinne thought, exercising every effort not to laugh. But at least it wasn’t her fault. Frankly, it served him right for being such a know-it-all.
    â€œAnd by the way, we need a new faucet. The old one flew somewhere when