the sounds of it, he was driving the car when it crashed. She couldn’t remember if he said anything about why the car crashed. Maybe he’d been drinking? He certainly didn’t drink much now. She’d never seen anyone make a drink last as long as he did. Poor Paulo! He must have suffered a lot of guilt over that accident. However, it was ten years ago and he should certainly try to move on, even if it was with someone who looked a lot like his dead girlfriend.
But how much did Mary look like the dead fiancé? Paulo said that they were completely different and Mary could begin to see that when she studied the painting. She’d examined the picture again while Paulo was getting his men ready to go to the fiesta and she noticed that although they shared similar features they didn’t seem to share the same temperaments. The woman in the painting looked down at the floor as if she was too shy to meet the painter’s gaze and her shoulders were hunched slightly forward in an attempt to make herself appear smaller and less obtrusive. In contrast, Mary thrust her shoulders back and looked people straight in the eye. She might be short and slender, but there was an awful lot of her to contend with.
She had been stupid enough to let Nick mess her about, but she’d learnt from that disaster. From now on, no one was ever going to treat her that way again. She would be strong, confident and believe in herself. She looked over at Paulo in the driver’s seat at they made their way to the fiesta. He didn’t seem like a man who would mistreat her. There was a sincerity about him that made her feel that she could trust him. He’d been wounded himself by both his mother’s and then Clara’s early deaths; he wasn’t the kind of man who would harm others in return. In addition, he was incredibly sexy. She couldn’t wait to start kissing him again. Maybe they could go to the fiesta, quickly find some other men that would be willing to stand guard at the hacienda and drive back, then she could find out what it was like to taste more of him.
However, when they arrived at the fiesta, she was thrilled that they had come. If the town square looked beautiful in the afternoon, it looked absolutely electric at night. Thousands of coloured lights hung from every exterior surface and huge candles burned at the top of the church steps, sheltered by large glass covers. Opposite the church a simple stage had been erected in front of the courthouse and on it a band was playing loud, fast music. Below the musicians, dozens of people were dancing and singing along. Mary could make out the figure of the hotel waitress, her face lit up with laughter as she danced with a handsome young man. Both of them held plastic cups of wine in their hands which sloshed about as they twirled around each other.
On the other side of the square, stood the lanky Señor Marcos, his hair more heavily greased back than usual. He was presiding over a make-shift, outdoor bar, one of several dotted around the edges of the square. At another of these bars, Mary could see Isabella wearing a bright blue dress, trimmed with wide, white ruffles. Surrounding her were a group of children of varying ages that Mary guessed were her nieces and nephews. As soon as Isabella saw her and Paulo, she rushed over and kissed both of them warmly on each cheek. All of the children ran over as well and hugged Paulo, but they were not sure how to approach Mary. Isabella introduced her to them in Spanish and one by one they came and politely shook her hand. Paulo reached down and lifted up one of the younger boys into his arms.
“This is Juan, or Juanito as his mother likes to call him. One day Juan is going to be a doctor, aren’t you Juan? You’re going to cure people who are sick.” He tousled the boy’s thick, short hair.
“No entiendo nada,” the little boy complained.
Paulo said it again in Spanish so the boy could understand. The child responded by raising his head and trying to
But how much did Mary look like the dead fiancé? Paulo said that they were completely different and Mary could begin to see that when she studied the painting. She’d examined the picture again while Paulo was getting his men ready to go to the fiesta and she noticed that although they shared similar features they didn’t seem to share the same temperaments. The woman in the painting looked down at the floor as if she was too shy to meet the painter’s gaze and her shoulders were hunched slightly forward in an attempt to make herself appear smaller and less obtrusive. In contrast, Mary thrust her shoulders back and looked people straight in the eye. She might be short and slender, but there was an awful lot of her to contend with.
She had been stupid enough to let Nick mess her about, but she’d learnt from that disaster. From now on, no one was ever going to treat her that way again. She would be strong, confident and believe in herself. She looked over at Paulo in the driver’s seat at they made their way to the fiesta. He didn’t seem like a man who would mistreat her. There was a sincerity about him that made her feel that she could trust him. He’d been wounded himself by both his mother’s and then Clara’s early deaths; he wasn’t the kind of man who would harm others in return. In addition, he was incredibly sexy. She couldn’t wait to start kissing him again. Maybe they could go to the fiesta, quickly find some other men that would be willing to stand guard at the hacienda and drive back, then she could find out what it was like to taste more of him.
However, when they arrived at the fiesta, she was thrilled that they had come. If the town square looked beautiful in the afternoon, it looked absolutely electric at night. Thousands of coloured lights hung from every exterior surface and huge candles burned at the top of the church steps, sheltered by large glass covers. Opposite the church a simple stage had been erected in front of the courthouse and on it a band was playing loud, fast music. Below the musicians, dozens of people were dancing and singing along. Mary could make out the figure of the hotel waitress, her face lit up with laughter as she danced with a handsome young man. Both of them held plastic cups of wine in their hands which sloshed about as they twirled around each other.
On the other side of the square, stood the lanky Señor Marcos, his hair more heavily greased back than usual. He was presiding over a make-shift, outdoor bar, one of several dotted around the edges of the square. At another of these bars, Mary could see Isabella wearing a bright blue dress, trimmed with wide, white ruffles. Surrounding her were a group of children of varying ages that Mary guessed were her nieces and nephews. As soon as Isabella saw her and Paulo, she rushed over and kissed both of them warmly on each cheek. All of the children ran over as well and hugged Paulo, but they were not sure how to approach Mary. Isabella introduced her to them in Spanish and one by one they came and politely shook her hand. Paulo reached down and lifted up one of the younger boys into his arms.
“This is Juan, or Juanito as his mother likes to call him. One day Juan is going to be a doctor, aren’t you Juan? You’re going to cure people who are sick.” He tousled the boy’s thick, short hair.
“No entiendo nada,” the little boy complained.
Paulo said it again in Spanish so the boy could understand. The child responded by raising his head and trying to
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