Free The Sunflower: A Novel by Richard Paul Evans Page A

and a man, short and plump, with a red face and a pleasant smile.
    Jessica waved. “Over here.”
    Christine walked to the table.
    “Buenos días,” the woman said. “I’m Joan Morton.”
    “Hello, Joan.”
    The man extended his hand. “And I’m Mason,” he said with a southern accent. “Mason Affleck from Birmingham.”
    “My pleasure. I’m Christine.”
    “For the record,” Joan said, “I was betting on you last night.”
    “Thank you. I’m sure it’s more than Jessica could say.”
    Jessica grinned. “Sorry, honey, I know you too well.”
    “Thanks, babe.” Christine looked over their plates. “So what’s good?”
    “The French toast looks weird but it’s good,” Jessica said.
    “Try the prickly pear,” Joan said.
    “Is it good?”
    “No, but you’ll have something to talk about when you get home.”
    “What’s that you’re drinking?” Christine asked Jessica.
    “I don’t know. The sign said GUANABANA , whatever that means.”
    “And?”
    “It’s okay.”
    Christine walked over to the buffet tables. She picked through the entrées and came back with an apple, a banana and orange juice.
    “I see you’re not feeling adventurous,” Jessica said.
    “Not really.”
    “You feelin’ any better?” Mason asked. “Jessica said you had the altitude sickness.”
    “I did. But I feel a lot better now. I guess I just needed a good night’s rest.”
    “I still have kind of a buzz myself,” Joan said.
    “What time did you get back last night?” Christine asked Jessica.
    “Late. After midnight.”
    “What were you doing?”
    “Just talking. I think we were the last ones in the square.”
    “Speaking of which,” Christine said, looking around, “where is everybody?”
    “Probably boarding the bus,” Jessica said. She checked her watch and groaned. “We’re late. We’ve got to go.”
    Christine downed her juice, then put the fruit in her backpack. All three of them hurried out.
    Jim was standing outside the bus waiting. “Here you are. I thought you’d gone AWOL.”
    “No, someone kept me up too late,” Jessica said.
    “Who kept who up?” he rejoined.
    “Sorry we’re late,” Christine said.
    “We’re all right,” Jim said, climbing on behind them.
    The bus door shut as they found seats. Jim nodded to the driver, and they started off.
    As they left Cuzco, Jim said, “Let’s talk about today’s project. We’re headed to a town about thirty minutes south of here called Lucre. We’ll be working at an old hacienda converted to an orphanage. It’s called the Sunflower.
    “The orphanage was founded about six years ago by a Peruvian policeman by the name of Alcides Romero. Alcides had become frustrated with how the police handled Cuzco’s street children. Unable to arrest them, they basically ignored them, leaving them to starve in the streets.
    “Alcides decided to do something. He knew of this abandoned hacienda and with his comandante’s support he talked the state bureaucrats into donating it to the police. Then he took half his salary and paid for food to keep the children here. We learned about what he was doing a few years ago and have been helping ever since. For just a few dollars a month we can keep a child fed, clothed and educated.”
    The bus climbed a dusty road past plaster huts. As they came around a turn, the broad stone and adobe walls of the hacienda stretched out before them.
    Once the home of a wealthy eighteenth-century landowner, even in its decline it was clear that the building had been magnificent.
    The ground behind the hacienda sloped upward into shallow foothills covered in lush vegetation and large cacti that looked like overgrown aloe vera plants. As the Americans wound their way through the narrow dirt streets, the towns-people, crouched in doorways or walking, watched them pass while cats scurried up trees and dogs ran barking after them.
    The bus crept down a steep, gravel slope, stopping at the side of the hacienda, twenty yards