The Heiress Of Water_ A Novel Part 2

Monica looked up when her friend spoke and noticed that Paige's straight, auburn hair blazed in the sunlight streaming in through the picture window. Even her eyelashes trapped the sunlight, crowning her pale blue eyes with tiny arches of light. Paige tapped at the gla.s.s with her fingernail. "By allowing Kevin to make improvements to your house, you're indirectly agreeing to marry him." Paige raised her eyebrows authoritatively.

Monica stopped scooping the tuna out of the can and stared into the white porcelain sink and frowned. "What? By asking him to sc.r.a.pe some old paint?" As she spoke, Monica felt a sharp pain on her thumb. She looked down and saw a thick drop of blood plop into the sink, her thumb sliced by the edge of the tuna fish can. "Now look what you've done. I cut myself."

Paige shook her head and looked out toward the deck where the two men were working. "When a parent enjoys your boyfriend more than you do, things have the potential to get messy."

Monica nodded as she washed her wound. "No kidding. Kevin gets along with my dad way better than me."

Paige said, "Look at them. Even as they sc.r.a.pe paint, they're gabbing away like a pair of little girls with a new tea set." She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "It's time to s.h.i.+t or get off the pot, honey."

Monica wrapped a paper towel around her thumb without commenting. Paige came into the kitchen and helped herself to a gla.s.s of lemonade. "I was just thinking about that couple you told us about earlier, you know, the guy with the wife in the waking coma. Amazing how your life can be gone all of a sudden." She snapped her fingers. "In her case it's even sadder because she had a life. Unlike me."

Monica scowled at her. "How can you feel sorry for yourself and talk about Yvette Lucero in the same breath?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Paige said, fussily rearranging Monica's plastic sea-creatures refrigerator magnets with one hand, the gla.s.s of lemonade in the other. "It's just that finding love has been such a slow and painful process for me. This woman found the Holy Grail, then it was over. It makes me wonder if it's worth dragging myself through the endless charade of dating." Paige stared up at the popcorn ceiling for a moment, then seemed to catch herself drifting toward self-pity again, because she said, "It's just not fair that it was all taken away from her."

Monica nodded. "Indeed, she had a few of the blessings that have eluded us." She stopped, c.o.c.ked her head. "Has "Has, I guess, because she's alive. But not really. It's so strange."

Out of the corner of her eye, Monica saw Paige turn and look at her. "Speaking of elusive blessings ... you still think about your mom a lot, Monica?"

"Every day."

"Would she have approved of Kevin?"

Monica rolled her eyes and smiled ironically. "Did I ever tell you how my mother evaluated a man?"

"Noooo" Paige said, putting her hands on her hips. She had always had an insatiable appet.i.te for stories about Alma's life, and she needled Monica to retell the stories over and over in excruciating detail. Sometime around the ninth grade, Monica had begun to embellish, then ultimately to make them up completely. But she had never told this one, since it wasn't really a story, but rather a seemingly inconsequential incident that she now realized indeed had consequences. "Well, one day," she began, "while my mom and I were standing in a crowd outside the airport in El Salvador, I overheard her chatting with a toothless peasant woman-a Paige said, putting her hands on her hips. She had always had an insatiable appet.i.te for stories about Alma's life, and she needled Monica to retell the stories over and over in excruciating detail. Sometime around the ninth grade, Monica had begun to embellish, then ultimately to make them up completely. But she had never told this one, since it wasn't really a story, but rather a seemingly inconsequential incident that she now realized indeed had consequences. "Well, one day," she began, "while my mom and I were standing in a crowd outside the airport in El Salvador, I overheard her chatting with a toothless peasant woman-a campesina campesina with a big heavy basket of fruit on her head. Anyway, the woman was telling my mom that she was finally going to marry her man after nine years and eleven kids. At the time, my mom was so out of touch with simple people and, in her infinite wisdom, thought she'd give this woman some advice on how to determine the worthiness of a man. She said, 'Can he change the world? Deliver justice? Can he save what's precious? Can he bring exceptional beauty to the world, or at the very least, relief of pain? If the answer is no, then you should move on.' The poor peasant woman just looked away. She was depressed by those lofty standards." with a big heavy basket of fruit on her head. Anyway, the woman was telling my mom that she was finally going to marry her man after nine years and eleven kids. At the time, my mom was so out of touch with simple people and, in her infinite wisdom, thought she'd give this woman some advice on how to determine the worthiness of a man. She said, 'Can he change the world? Deliver justice? Can he save what's precious? Can he bring exceptional beauty to the world, or at the very least, relief of pain? If the answer is no, then you should move on.' The poor peasant woman just looked away. She was depressed by those lofty standards."

"I'm depressed by those standards." depressed by those standards."

"I think that little speech got under my skin, Paige. It's what made me select physical therapy as a career. So the answer to your question is no. Kevin doesn't fit any of those measures. And here I am struggling with the idea of a future with him. Coincidence?"

" 'Relief of pain' ...," Paige repeated, her voice trailing off. "It's what she pursued. And Max was a doctor who was fighting for what he felt was justice for the poor of El Salvador. That's what she saw in him. She admired admired him." him."

"Admiration," Monica said, holding up a finger. "Maybe that's what's missing in my relations.h.i.+p. That feeling of looking up to him and saying, 'Wow.' "

After a moment during which neither spoke, Paige stepped behind Monica, who was still at the sink, and put her arm around her friend's shoulder. She must have been about to say something profound or sympathetic, but then she looked down and saw the enormous nest of paper towels that Monica had wadded around her thumb. "My G.o.d," Paige said, putting a hand over her throat. "I hope you saved the severed hand in a cooler. We'll have to reattach it after lunch."

"Oh, shut up," Monica said, smiling and placing her injured hand protectively under her armpit. "It was your fault. You ha.s.sled me about commitment."

Paige b.u.mped her at the hip bone. "Out of the way," she ordered, and took the spoon out of Monica's other hand. "No one wants b.l.o.o.d.y tuna fish."

Monica happily scooted aside.

"In a twisted kind of way, you're lucky you don't have a mother's constant pressure to get married." Paige slipped into a perfect imitation of her mother's voice. "When are you going to get married and have kids? Girls over thirty expire like milk."

Monica laughed. "She said that?"

"Swear to G.o.d."

"Well, you sounded a lot like her when you were standing over by the window, putting the pressure on me."

"With you it's different. You have a great guy just waiting for you. I say go for it, get it over with."

"When I was a little girl, I dreamed of the day when I would step into a big white dress, look into my beloved's eyes, and ... get it over with."

Paige wagged the wood spoon at Monica. "I know a dozen women who'd swallow up your sweet boy in a second."

Monica's thirtieth birthday was still three years away, but she was just beginning to understand that thirty meant she was supposed to partic.i.p.ate in an age-specific crisis, a developmentally useless milestone like cutting wisdom teeth. And although she was firmly Alma's daughter in this sense-she refused to buy into the idea that she had to marry at all-she was beginning to feel the tug of something, the feeling that time was pa.s.sing faster and faster, and she just wasn't running hard enough to keep up.

She heard the voices of the men, accompanied by the sound of the screen door opening and slamming shut. Kevin saw her and blew her a kiss. Monica looked at his paint-speckled boat shoes. How long would he wait? Monica wondered. She was stalling, and she had done a great job of convincing everyone, except Paige, apparently-that the decision to marry was hung up only on her solemn duty to do One Great Thing before settling into a cookie-cutter destiny of kids and retirement goals, minivans and dinner at the in-laws' every Sunday night. But what was that One Great Thing? She didn't know. Something life-defining, something unforgettable, something she would spend her old age telling and retelling to bored grandchildren. Something that could completely absorb her the way the sea had engrossed her as a little girl.

But there was the mortgage on a waterfront property to pay and there were college loans to repay, plus her indecision over which of a dozen ideas to pursue in the first place. Of course, there were some couples, she had heard, who actually went out into the world and did the Big Thing together. But Kevin Mitch.e.l.l didn't see the point of leaving U.S. soil, ever. In fact, Kevin, like his parents, believed the world began and ended on the Connecticut sh.o.r.e. When Monica had brought up the idea of traveling to Europe or even back to El Salvador, his response had been "Why? So we can get sick on the water and have our traveler's checks stolen by a pack of kids who haven't showered in a year?"

And there stood the impa.s.se. He wasn't the least bit interested in any of Alma's measures of a well-lived life, he just wanted to be safe and comfortable and unchanged. That att.i.tude had become more and more infuriating to Monica as her own desire for adventure grew. But Kevin was attentive, kind, and good-looking in a tousled, all-American kind of way. And here he was, all hot and sweaty, sacrificing a perfectly good golf day to sc.r.a.pe paint. Was she ungrateful to want a more adventurous, ambitious man?

Kevin headed for the bathroom while Bruce washed up in the kitchen sink. He looked at his daughter's hand. "Did you cut your whole hand off? I've seen turbans smaller than that."

Behind her, Paige chortled. Monica cupped her injured hand and shot back, "Did you finish sc.r.a.ping my porch or are you just here to get fed, old man?"

"I think we can finish up in about an hour," he said, peering over imaginary bifocals and examining her thumb. "Then we can start to stain. You'll be having your first Fourth of July party on that deck this year."

Paige brought out a stack of plates and set them on the farmhouse table. "If you have a party, you should invite that Will Lucero guy. I'd love to meet him," she said.

"I hardly know him," Monica said, opening a bag of potato chips. "Besides, the last thing I want is to get friendly with him. He might want me to ma.s.sage his wife again."

"Well, I figure he's going to have to start dating sometime. That wife is never going to find all her marbles," she said, pointing to her temple.

"Paige, that's sick," Kevin yelled from the bathroom.

Bruce scrunched up his face at Paige. "You're scavenging the scene of an accident for a husband a husband?"

Paige put her hands on her hips. "You have no idea how hard it is to find a nice guy. Most attractive, quality men tend to hang around other men that fit the same description. He might have a friend for me. It's just good networking on my part."

Kevin sat down next to Bruce and elbowed him. "She's right about quality bachelors sticking together," he said, pointing his thumb at himself and then at Bruce. "Look at us." Bruce nodded and opened his eyes wide, looking at Paige as if that indeed proved her point.

"What about you, Bruce?" Paige turned her wooden spoon upon him. "Why haven't you remarried? You're not getting any younger," she said, aiming the spoon at his thinning hairline. "You're approaching your expiration date."

Bruce looked at her as if he had no idea what she was talking about. "I'm not a bachelor. I'm a widower."

Paige frowned. "That's a p.i.s.s-poor excuse. When are you going to marry that poor Marcy?"

Kevin fetched two beers and handed one to Bruce. "Paige, has anyone ever told you you're nosy?"

Paige slapped a scoop of tuna onto a slice of white bread and handed it to him. "Has anyone ever told you you're boring?"

"Has anyone-" Kevin began, but Bruce put a hand up to shush them.

"I'm not a fan of marriage. Once was enough for me, thank you."

"That's not very complimentary to Mom," Monica said from the kitchen. "Or to Marcy."

"Who said Marcy even wants to marry me?" Bruce nodded in agreement with himself and took a bite of his sandwich.

Monica, Kevin, and Paige all laughed. "Dad, she already picked out her dress and the invitations. I'd say she's open to the idea." Monica heard a car pull up into the driveway. "Speak of the devil ..."

Bruce lowered his head, looked right, then left, collecting each of their gazes before saying, in a low voice, "Edgar Degas said, 'There is work, and there is love, and we have but one heart.'" He put a hand over his heart as if to pledge allegiance.

They heard a sound outside and were silent for a moment as they waited for Marcy to make her way in, all of them crunching potato chips at the same time. Suddenly Kevin looked at Monica and smiled. "I don't agree with Degas. Work is what you do to support love."

Monica reached over and squeezed his hand. She was struggling to find a response that wouldn't make him bolt out the door and return with an engagement ring when the front door squeaked open and Marcy stepped in, a canvas bag in each hand, with flowers from her garden sticking out of the tops.

"Yoo-hoo. It's me ..." She looked at Bruce. "h.e.l.lo, darling."

Bruce leaned toward Monica and, as if to stubbornly emphasize work's priority over love, whispered, "Would you give me that fellow's phone number, you know, the one with the wife who was in the accident." He pointed at his temple. "While I was sc.r.a.ping paint, I had an idea for an article on the subject of brain-injury recovery that I might want to pitch to an editor." Then he stood up and held his arms open to Marcy.

EVERY MAJOR EVENT of Bruce Winters's personal life was instigated-or inspired-by his career choices, especially the bad ones. A prize-winning article he penned in his college newspaper won him a job as a junior reporter at the of Bruce Winters's personal life was instigated-or inspired-by his career choices, especially the bad ones. A prize-winning article he penned in his college newspaper won him a job as a junior reporter at the New Haven Register New Haven Register. His work at the Register Register won him a job as a bottom-feeder at the won him a job as a bottom-feeder at the New York Times New York Times at age twenty-seven. A year later, his editor, who also happened to be his girlfriend, convinced him to go with her to work in press relations for the U.S. State Department at the emba.s.sy of the tiny, virtually unheard of Republic of El Salvador, a career choice he bitterly regretted from the minute he accepted and even more so when they broke up six months later. at age twenty-seven. A year later, his editor, who also happened to be his girlfriend, convinced him to go with her to work in press relations for the U.S. State Department at the emba.s.sy of the tiny, virtually unheard of Republic of El Salvador, a career choice he bitterly regretted from the minute he accepted and even more so when they broke up six months later.

A week after the split, he was nursing his wounded ego and pondering the course of his derailed career when the U.S. amba.s.sador hosted a party for the country's most powerful families. Uncomfortable in any situation that smacked of social networking, Bruce preferred to process raw facts into news copy. But his presence was required, and so he stood in the corner of the room, itchy in a s.h.i.+rt and tie and feeling sorry for himself indeed. He was trying to avoid eye contact with his ex-girlfriend and hopefully soon-to-be-ex boss, who was chatting up a Salvadoran military chief across the room. His ex was trying to get his attention so he could take over and she could float to the next VIP, but he was ignoring her, standing next to a large gla.s.s punch bowl, watching the crowd of beautifully dressed people smelling of expensive cologne. The men all nursed heavy-bottomed highb.a.l.l.s of the finest Scotch whisky, some of them with a cigarette in the other hand, gesturing wildly and swapping political jokes. The women in the crowd lacked the h.o.m.ogeneity of those Salvadorans on the street whose stout stature and high cheekbones marked them as descendants of the indigenous Mayan races of Central America.

It was obvious that these women were either imported or of European origin. Bruce watched a set of redheaded twins, several lithe brunettes; and a blonde who kept smiling at him from behind the rim of a big, floppy hat. With fas.h.i.+onable platform shoes and slices of bright blue eye shadow, one could easily transpose her, or any of the guests, to a c.o.c.ktail party in New York City or Chicago. Bruce was fancying himself the observant but detached amateur sociologist when he felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned and looked down at a beautiful girl whom he had not seen before, with slick, black hair pulled tight behind her ears, and eyes so dark he could clearly see himself reflected in their distorting, convex mirrors. She couldn't be a day older than seventeen. She smiled at him and boldly asked if he would like to dance.

Bruce hadn't even been aware that there was music, so engrossed was he in his thoughts and observations. He stood paralyzed, with a crystal mug of punch in one hand. He didn't understand how an upper-cla.s.s girl in this country would dare ask a man-a stranger-to stranger-to dance. It was unheard of, simply impossible, and there was a stack of cultural briefings on his desk to prove it. Yet there she stood, totally unself-conscious, as if she had merely asked him for the time. Of course it would be ungentlemanly not to accept, and so he felt put on the spot, vaguely angry, his ears burning with embarra.s.sment. All the while his more primitive alarms were beginning to go off-louder, louder, as they detected that this was easily the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life. dance. It was unheard of, simply impossible, and there was a stack of cultural briefings on his desk to prove it. Yet there she stood, totally unself-conscious, as if she had merely asked him for the time. Of course it would be ungentlemanly not to accept, and so he felt put on the spot, vaguely angry, his ears burning with embarra.s.sment. All the while his more primitive alarms were beginning to go off-louder, louder, as they detected that this was easily the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life.

Before he gave her an answer, she took the cup from his hands, turned just in time to place it on a waiter's tray, grabbed him by the s.h.i.+rtsleeve, and led him across the room. He could feel the blood whoosh to his face as he followed in sheer terror. He had had a few dance lessons, but he was far from confident and prepared, and he had always a.s.sumed that the choice of timing would be his. Stumbling stupidly across the room toward the dance floor, he wondered if his ex was watching, which offered him a slight triumph, although not nearly enough to make up for his fright.

As he followed the audacious girl, he was again shocked by her boldness when she turned and looked back at him, flas.h.i.+ng the seductive smile of a mature woman. He wondered if this dance was going to get him thrown out the window by a jealous boyfriend or a protective father. But he followed her onto the dance floor, helpless as if he were on skates. He tried to relax, to focus on the beautiful music played by a trio of guitarists crooning old-world boleros. He was about to engage his cardboard arms with hers when she pivoted and parked him squarely into the arms of a plump girl who beamed at him as if she had been waiting for him her entire life. She giggled excitedly and said, "Ay, gringuito chulo." "Ay, gringuito chulo." Cute little white boy. She then squeezed him tight, so tight that when he looked down, he saw a tear of sweat roll down her doughy neck, which was freckled with a rash of skin tags that clung to her like fleas. Cute little white boy. She then squeezed him tight, so tight that when he looked down, he saw a tear of sweat roll down her doughy neck, which was freckled with a rash of skin tags that clung to her like fleas.

It was 1967, and the beautiful girl wore a floor-length "maxidress," which swept the white marble tiles and trailed behind her. Dragged along with her skirt, like the tail on a comet, were the glances of those powerful men upon whose laps she had probably squirmed and giggled just a few years back. She turned and gave Bruce a wink of grat.i.tude as she disappeared into a cloud of cigar smoke.

Alma Marina Borrero made an auspicious entrance into Bruce Winters's life, leaving him with an early dose of the mystery she would surround herself with years later. And yet this awkward moment with the chubby girl would later prove to be serendipitous. Her name was Claudia, and she would become a great friend and ally, securing rare interviews for him with the military upper echelon, which would result in several journalistic awards. And with this awkward waltz he began a new chapter of his life-the brief chapter in which he liked El Salvador, even dared love it, as he entertained himself with his shameless courts.h.i.+p of a girl who had just turned eighteen.

At first, it was like a joke. Sure, he was an educated, professional, good-looking guy. And it was true that being a gringo with green eyes held some charm and novelty in Salvadoran society. But still, he was a n.o.body to the upper cla.s.s, and the Borreros were about as somebody as anybody could be in those parts. Adolfo and Magnolia Borrero weren't about to squander their only child on a man whose family they had never heard of, and who could contribute nothing more than exotic facial features. "We don't even know your family," Magnolia Borrero had told him through the speakerphone outside the gated wall of their home. "Go away."

"Not a problem," Bruce had said. He returned with a color photograph of his parents and two sisters huddled next to a waist-high bank of dirty snow. "There you go, Dona Magnolia," he spoke into the speaker as he shoved the picture under the electrified iron gate. "That's my family. May I come in and see your daughter now?"

Girls like Alma came with an unnamed price. As the old adage went, if you have to ask, you can't afford it. Bruce decided that his only currency was patience and persistence, and so he decided to stick it out at the emba.s.sy in El Salvador for the four years that Alma was in college in New York. During this time, he saw her only when she returned home for semester breaks and holidays. Bruce became a speck in Alma's overwhelmingly complex social life, but he figured a speck was better than nothing. Besides, he was no monk during that time-there were endless weekends at the beaches and excursions to Roatan, Antigua Guatemala, and Belize with his own widening circle of Salvadoran and expatriate friends. There were days that he didn't even think about Alma at all, and he was starting to think that maybe his decision to stay in El Salvador had nothing to do with her. He was used to the place, had made more friends in the first nine months than he had made in his whole life in the United States.

He became fond of his self-image-an expatriate writer, but unlike his friends who corresponded for newspapers from the outside, he had a certain amount of control over how long he might get to stay.

And Magnolia Marmol de Borrero-La Dona-was starting to come around. She insisted that they only communicate in English, so that she could practice, because her English wasn't good. Bruce was impressed that a woman of her age and rank found no shame in her language errors. She told long-winded stories in broken English about her girlhood that Bruce didn't always understand, but he was smart enough to laugh when she laughed. She began to invite him and his friends to the house, playing the role of grande dame to the young Americans and local journalists he brought with him. Alma was gone so long that Bruce actually started to note some improvement in the Dona's English skills.

In the years that followed, Bruce's career as a journalist began to pick up again, with requests from Was.h.i.+ngton for briefings on the civil unrest bubbling up all around Central America, especially in Nicaragua and El Salvador. The communist ideology was gaining strength in the countryside, with its intellectual nucleus at the universities and, some said, in certain Catholic pulpits. Rumors were confirmed that money and arms were being smuggled in from the USSR, China, and Cuba in rickety boats that pulled up to the remotest Salvadoran beaches, or through the jungles of Honduras and Guatemala.

During one of his rare dates with Alma, Bruce asked Alma and Magnolia what they thought about the political climate in their country. Serving as chaperone from the tiny backseat of Bruce's beat-up orange VW Bug, Magnolia had been fanning herself with a magazine. As they pa.s.sed a rash of shantytowns, she ignored his question. "Bruce, when are you going to get an air-conditioned car? I'm going to faint in this heat."

Alma was sitting in the pa.s.senger seat. She shrugged and said, "I've never paid attention to politics. But I suppose if a civil war breaks out, then I'll have to start."

"Do you think we'll have a civil war in El Salvador, Dona Magnolia?"

Magnolia had slammed the magazine against the roof of the car, apparently to kill an insect. Then, she rolled the magazine into a funnel and tipped its contents out the window. "Civil war? No," she said dismissively, and Bruce could see in his rear-view mirror that she had turned her gaze toward the rash of tinplate and cardboard shacks. She narrowed her eyes and said, "We're going to put an end to that communist nonsense. If things get rough, we have friends who can help."

"You mean the U.S.?"

But Dona Magnolia closed that door as quickly as she had opened it. With her comment, she had allowed him a tiny glimpse into the very private world of the country's ruling cla.s.s. Bruce wondered if she was indeed referring to the United States-or to a secret paramilitary society whose mission was to eliminate suspected communists in a harsher and more efficient way than the government could manage.

That particular date had ended in the same fas.h.i.+on as the ten other "dates" before it: with a kiss on the hand for Magnolia and a peck on the cheek for Alma. Four years after he had met her, Bruce still hadn't kissed Alma on the lips. Whenever he called to ask for a date, Alma would accept with a caveat: "As long as you know that we're just friends, Bruce. Nothing more."

But Bruce wasn't discouraged. He figured the seduction would begin when she came home for good.

In 1972 Alma returned to El Salvador with dual bachelor's degrees in biology and philosophy. Her English was flawless, and she thought she might want to return to the States to earn a Ph.D. in marine biology. Alma said that unlike other women of her culture, she didn't "buy into" the rush toward marriage, and that she felt the need to do something significant before settling down.

But a month later, Adolfo Borrero, whose input had been dormant until this time, eyed his gold watch and declared that it was time for his daughter to get married. He made the announcement at dinner, during the soup course. Claudia and Bruce, who were the only guests that night, lifted their eyes from gold-rimmed bowls of crab bisque and turned to look at Alma. Alma held her soup spoon suspended midway between her bowl and her mouth for what seemed like an eternity. They waited, but she appeared to be stunned into immobility.

Adolfo turned to the guests. "I've decided that Alma should marry Augusto Prieto, the son of one of my business partners. Augusto is the heir to agricultural and textile interests throughout Mexico and Central America. The union of the two families would be ..." His sentence trailed off and he nodded approvingly.

Magnolia said, "Adolfo, I thought we were going to talk to Alma in private about this."

Adolfo pointed his spoon in the direction of the guests. "Claudia is a friend of the family, so is Bruce. Alma trusts their opinions, that's why I'm telling them."

"But we should have talked to Alma first." Her voice had an edge of anger.

"Ladies," Adolfo bellowed, "I know what's best."

They were still waiting for Alma's reaction, but now she was looking past them, wide-eyed, out the window and into the yard. Then, she pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut as if she were going to sneeze. She made a sound that Bruce thought was a sob, then a gasp that rose and exploded into peals of shoulder-shaking laughter.

Her parents sat stone-faced and waited for her to calm down. "What's so funny, Alma Marina?"

Alma pointed toward the window, and they all turned to look. It took a moment for all of them to recognize what Alma found so amusing. On the lawn, the gardener's dog-a mutt covered with horrid molten brown spots-was happily humping away at Magnolia's prize-winning standard poodle.

The Borreros jumped to their feet and ran out the door, screaming for the dogs to stop and calling to the servants for help. Alma clapped her hands and shouted, "Go, Fluffy, go!"

A few moments later, they watched as Magnolia's beloved Fluffy bared her teeth and snarled at her owners, which sent Alma into another round of stomach-holding laughter. It took three servants, ten minutes, and a bucket of cold water to separate the copulating canines. "They've been trying to breed Fluffy for two two years," Alma gasped. "They bring these fancy-blooded males and Fluffy hates them all. She actually bit the last one." Alma wiped tears from her cheeks. "His name was Claude Arpege." Claudia let out a snort and the two of them giggled themselves silly. years," Alma gasped. "They bring these fancy-blooded males and Fluffy hates them all. She actually bit the last one." Alma wiped tears from her cheeks. "His name was Claude Arpege." Claudia let out a snort and the two of them giggled themselves silly.

When they finally calmed down, the two friends draped themselves like laundry across the dining room chairs. After a moment, Claudia's expression grew serious and she said, "Alma, your dad sounded serious about Augusto."

Alma rolled her eyes and looked at Bruce. "Can you imagine me married to Augusto Prieto? I've seen that boy get seasick on a pool raft, for G.o.d's sake."

"So what are you going to tell your parents?" Bruce asked. "Now that they've lost all hope for Fluffy and Claude Arpege."

There were more guffaws and knee slapping before Alma answered the question. "I've managed to dodge a lifetime of that," she said, gesturing toward the empty table. "I'll dodge this bullet too. Trust me, I'm not marrying Augusto Augusto." She intoned the name with barely concealed contempt.

"I'll marry you if you need an escape," Bruce offered, trying to sound as if he were joking. "Did you know that I never, ever get seasick?"

Alma sat up. "Well, you should have told me that a long time ago," she said, patting his hand. "Level one is a man's seaworthiness."

Claudia asked, "What's level two?"