Free Fiesta Moon by Linda Windsor Page A

I tried to turn off the ice water.”
    Corinne’s humor evaporated. She’d forgotten to turn on the hot water heater. An antique itself, they only used it as needed—not for scrubbing or painting.
    â€œSo what can you expect—” Soledad started.
    Corinne cut her off. “Well, there’s good news,” she announced, painting her pang of guilt with brightness. “You’ll never guess who is here.”
    â€œI’m not in the mood for guessing games, Coreena .” The cabinet clanged again, followed by a muffled word that Corinne didn’t care to make out.
    Ouch, he is in a foul humor.
    â€œIt’s Juan the plumber,” she said as Soledad retreated down the hall, clucking to herself. “Now, isn’t that a God thing?”
    â€œI hope a heavenly hand was not involved in this.” The familiar sound of the rust-locked casters on the washtub scraping across the floor underscored Mark’s raw demeanor. “Tell him I’ll talk to him another day. I’m not in the mood to receive company.”
    Actually, he sounded more in the mood to burn down the hacienda and take the first plane for the States.
    Not that Corinne blamed him. She’d tangled with the shower trying to get water to fill a bucket, and wound up soaked. Soaked and cold, but not sprawled on the floor in the buff.
    Wait, she didn’t want to go there.
    And not with her elbow jammed in the john and a toilet brush scraping her backside. And not after being doused in paint. The poor guy, she thought, wrestling with the incompatible mix of sympathy and humor.
    â€œI’m sorry, Juan,” she told Juan Pablo, who had heard the whole bizarre thing. Given his sober-as-the-proverbial-judge demeanor, she wondered if the plumber’s English allowed him to grasp the entire situation.
    â€œOkay!” she shouted through the door to Mark. “I’ll tell him to come back, but I should warn you that Juan has some time open now to work on the plumbing, and his brother is sober.”
    Yes, it was absurd, she thought, but absurd was often the order of the day in this place. Mark would have to get used to it.
    â€œSeñor, are you certain that you do not need help?” Juan offered. He swiveled his cigar from one side of the thick strip of mustache to the other, waiting for an answer.
    â€œNo, Juan, I do not need help,” came the razor-edged reply. “What I need is a real shower, good soap, and the first ticket out of this place I can lay my hands on. Can you arrange that?”
    â€œLo siento, señor , but no.” The Mexican shook his head in regret. “But the plumbing gains on you, and you must put yourself with reason, no? You cannot build on I being able to directate the building for you in the future. There is much work for us in the ordinary.”
    The door flew open, and Corinne took a step back as Mark came through. His water-heavy jeans hung low on his waist, and a floral-print towel was wrapped in a turban around his head. His face and upper body still had a yellow tint.
    Grinning, or at least showing his clenched teeth, he nailed Juan Pablo with his gaze. “How long will it take to replace the utility bath and kitchen plumbing, Juan, and how much?”
    The plumber peeked around the jamb. “Hmm.” Water stood on the floor, while the shower ring that had once held the curtain in a pink circle at a right angle now drooped parallel to the wall. Across from it, the toilet held on to its seat with one hinge.
    â€œPues,” he said, drawing on the cigar, “I must quit myself to home to projectate the cost . . . but it will be, I think, to your satisfaction.”
    â€œ Projectate it on paper then,” Mark insisted, “and get back to me tomorrow . . . mañana, entiende?”
    â€œSí, entiendo, but you will be needing a new key for the shower. I will have to go to Cuernavaca for—”
    â€œKey?”
    â€œSí,