Cinderella in Overalls by Carol Grace Page A

had begun before that. On the day he had walked up to her with mangoes in his hand and refused to bargain.
    He was watching her face. “What’s wrong? Is it too casual?”
    She shook her head. She couldn’t trust her voice. It was the warmth of the shop, the rich smell of leather, not the overwhelming desire to touch the jacket, to slide her hands inside and run her palms over the soft cotton of his button-down shirt across the flat planes of his chest, she told herself. He was waiting for her to answer.
    “No, it’s fine, but...” She pulled him aside. “You can’t bargain here. The prices are fixed,” she whispered.
    “I know,” he whispered back, his lips brushing her ear. While the clerk wrapped up his suit coat and vest he noticed a rack of leather belts, and examined the workmanship. “Do you think Old Pedro would like one of these?” he asked Catherine.
    She ran her fingers over the thick cowhide and looked up inquiringly.
    “I saw he carried his tools in his pockets,” Josh said. “There’s a pouch for his tape measure and loops for his tin snips.”
    Touched by his thoughtfulness, she nodded. “Yes, I think he’d like it.”
    He told the clerk to add the belt to his bill. After he paid, they left the shop and headed toward the Peña Murilla .
    “Is it just a thank-you present?” Catherine asked, her hair loosened by the wind, curling in tendrils around her face. “Or were you thinking of asking him again to take you to the mine?”
    He took her arm unconsciously and gripped it tightly. “I know there’s nothing there. But maybe I should try to go, anyway. Does that make sense?”
    She nodded and her heart lifted. She didn’t say anything, but maybe the man was coming to grips with his heritage, after all.
    Heads turned as they walked, for a second look at the tall man in the brown leather jacket and the beautiful hatless Mamara Indian woman at his side who walked with such easy confidence. Her braid was tossed to one side, her skirts were blown to show her ankles, and the wind had whipped color into her cheeks.
    At the end of the street they opened a gate to the Peña Murillo. Under an arbor they sat next to each other at a long table lined with people where the food was served family style. Catherine passed platter after platter of stuffed pastries to the end of the table. She noticed that Josh ate everything that came his way. So far the peña was a success.
    He set his fork down. “Did you notice that the people across from us are staring, wondering why someone who looks like you is with someone who looks like me?”
    “You’re imagining things. People are here to eat and listen to the music. Besides you look fine.”
    He grinned. “You look fine, too. Very fine.”
    His blue eyes met her dark, long-lashed eyes, and from somewhere far away the faint sound of a wooden Indian flute came floating through the air. She wanted to turn to watch the musicians approach, but she was trapped in a trance, bound by Josh on one side and the haunting melody on the other.
    She had heard this music before, but never had it touched her so deeply with its melancholy sweetness. When the flutist stopped, the spell was broken. Josh put his hand on the back of her neck and drew her close to him.
    “I’ve never heard anything like it,” he whispered.
    His breath was warm on her lips. The lights were dim. “There’s more,” she promised.
    There was a many-stringed cousin to the guitar that sounded more mellow and softer than anything she’d ever heard, and after that a carved-out gourd sent out primitive vibrations through the air, filling her with a sweet sadness. Her fingers gripped Josh’s tightly, and from the pressure she knew he felt as she did.
    When it was over, they sat without clapping, still holding hands. In a daze they moved to the exit and stood on the street again, gazing at the moon casting its silver glow on snowcapped Teregape. It took a few minutes for Catherine to return to