of the world’s most amazing emeralds, the horrors of the night before pale in importance. A riff of excitement plays through me. Just to think of how close I am to the emeralds makes me wonder if I might be just a night’s dream away from finding a treasure.
In spite of how tired I am, I begin to relax. “Thank you, Father.”
700
In the morning, I dress quickly and leave the relative privacy of my quarters in the bunkhouse-like dorm building. Fortunately for me, I was escorted to a small room with a narrow single bed and small chest of drawers when I arrived. I didn’t have to sleep in the large room with multiple beds. From everything I saw last night, I’m the only woman at the camp.
The scent of fresh-brewed coffee greets me when I open the door to the kitchen building. Rich, potent, heady, and oh so welcome. But by the time I reach the large pot, I get a whiff of a different undercurrent. There’s chocolate in one of them thar pots!
As I stand, sniff, and scout for food, the cook—a short, wiry man in a greasy apron—comes out, chatters in fiery Spanish, shoves a plate and mug at me, then smiles and returns to his fragrant domain.
In the center of my plate is a mound of fluffy golden scrambled eggs. To a side is a big, steamy arepa , butter dripping from between its sliced halves, a small mound of rice, and two oval, golden-brown potatoes. On the other side, forming a luscious food triangle, are slices of—I think, I hope—ripe, juicy mango. In my other hand, I clutch a massive mug of creamy hot cocoa.
I hurry over to the same table where I sat last night and glance out the window. A dark Jeep pulls to a stop fifty yards from the kitchen building. The same miners who greeted us when we got here hurry out from a multitude of directions to check on the newest arrivals at the camp. The misty neblina , as the men call the ever-present blanket of fog, is negligible already, and I hope what’s left will disappear as the sun heats up.
Right now my breakfast is calling my name. I sit, pray, and dig into the eggs. “Mmm . . .”
“I see you managed to stay out of trouble since last night,” Max says as I take a sip of cocoa.
Shock makes me spray it back out. I choke. Cough. Sputter.
The rat slaps my back in a—fake, I think—helpful gesture. “Wha . . . what are you doing here?” I stammer once I can breathe again.
Max leans a hip against the corner of the table, then sticks his hands in his pants pockets. “I told you I was coming.”
“But you couldn’t have bought a ticket, flown into Bogotá, then driven here after you talked to me.”
He shrugs. “Nobody says I did. I called you when I landed at the El Dorado airport.”
He’d stunned me by just showing up. Now? Well, now he’s just made me plain old mad. “So you’d already made up your mind. No matter what, you were going to discount everything I’d said to you and come do your Neanderthal thing.”
He crosses his arms. “No Neanderthal here. Just someone concerned for someone else’s well-being.”
“If I hear you say the word ‘concerned’ again, I’m going to . . . going to . . . oh, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll do something. And you won’t like it. I promise.”
Mr. Magnificent has the gall to laugh. “I think you need your coffee. No matter how delicious that cocoa might be, it’s not your fuel of choice.”
You can be sure Marcos Rivera would never treat me like a slightly stupid child. “Oh, go eat.”
Max strides off laughing, and I return to my now cold breakfast. As I watch him, I work overtime to convince myself I’m really and truly mad at him. But I fail.
Okay, sure. His lack of trust in me burns. But somewhere deep in my heart I’m glad Max is here. Not only does he have that hyper-awareness effect on me, but he also brings a sense of familiarity along with him. I find that bit of comfort dangerously welcome.
I plunk an elbow on the table, then drop my chin into the palm of my hand. I
In spite of how tired I am, I begin to relax. “Thank you, Father.”
700
In the morning, I dress quickly and leave the relative privacy of my quarters in the bunkhouse-like dorm building. Fortunately for me, I was escorted to a small room with a narrow single bed and small chest of drawers when I arrived. I didn’t have to sleep in the large room with multiple beds. From everything I saw last night, I’m the only woman at the camp.
The scent of fresh-brewed coffee greets me when I open the door to the kitchen building. Rich, potent, heady, and oh so welcome. But by the time I reach the large pot, I get a whiff of a different undercurrent. There’s chocolate in one of them thar pots!
As I stand, sniff, and scout for food, the cook—a short, wiry man in a greasy apron—comes out, chatters in fiery Spanish, shoves a plate and mug at me, then smiles and returns to his fragrant domain.
In the center of my plate is a mound of fluffy golden scrambled eggs. To a side is a big, steamy arepa , butter dripping from between its sliced halves, a small mound of rice, and two oval, golden-brown potatoes. On the other side, forming a luscious food triangle, are slices of—I think, I hope—ripe, juicy mango. In my other hand, I clutch a massive mug of creamy hot cocoa.
I hurry over to the same table where I sat last night and glance out the window. A dark Jeep pulls to a stop fifty yards from the kitchen building. The same miners who greeted us when we got here hurry out from a multitude of directions to check on the newest arrivals at the camp. The misty neblina , as the men call the ever-present blanket of fog, is negligible already, and I hope what’s left will disappear as the sun heats up.
Right now my breakfast is calling my name. I sit, pray, and dig into the eggs. “Mmm . . .”
“I see you managed to stay out of trouble since last night,” Max says as I take a sip of cocoa.
Shock makes me spray it back out. I choke. Cough. Sputter.
The rat slaps my back in a—fake, I think—helpful gesture. “Wha . . . what are you doing here?” I stammer once I can breathe again.
Max leans a hip against the corner of the table, then sticks his hands in his pants pockets. “I told you I was coming.”
“But you couldn’t have bought a ticket, flown into Bogotá, then driven here after you talked to me.”
He shrugs. “Nobody says I did. I called you when I landed at the El Dorado airport.”
He’d stunned me by just showing up. Now? Well, now he’s just made me plain old mad. “So you’d already made up your mind. No matter what, you were going to discount everything I’d said to you and come do your Neanderthal thing.”
He crosses his arms. “No Neanderthal here. Just someone concerned for someone else’s well-being.”
“If I hear you say the word ‘concerned’ again, I’m going to . . . going to . . . oh, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll do something. And you won’t like it. I promise.”
Mr. Magnificent has the gall to laugh. “I think you need your coffee. No matter how delicious that cocoa might be, it’s not your fuel of choice.”
You can be sure Marcos Rivera would never treat me like a slightly stupid child. “Oh, go eat.”
Max strides off laughing, and I return to my now cold breakfast. As I watch him, I work overtime to convince myself I’m really and truly mad at him. But I fail.
Okay, sure. His lack of trust in me burns. But somewhere deep in my heart I’m glad Max is here. Not only does he have that hyper-awareness effect on me, but he also brings a sense of familiarity along with him. I find that bit of comfort dangerously welcome.
I plunk an elbow on the table, then drop my chin into the palm of my hand. I
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