Part 14 (2/2)

Monica stole a glance at Will for a second, then she quickly returned to the task of stirring her Cola Champan with a straw, as if cream soda needed to be stirred.

”Maybe tomorrow night,” he mumbled.

”It's a great idea, Sylvia,” Bruce said, suddenly recognizing the benefits of her plan. ”I don't know why we didn't think of it before.”

AFTER DINNER, Monica sat with her father in the hallway facing the courtyard. ”Leticia,” Monica said, ”was Maximiliano's wife. Did you pick up on that?” Monica sat with her father in the hallway facing the courtyard. ”Leticia,” Monica said, ”was Maximiliano's wife. Did you pick up on that?”

”No,” Bruce said, suddenly arresting the agitated rocking of his chair on the long corridor of the guesthouse. ”I never met Maximiliano's wife.”

Monica put her hand out. ”Weren't you listening? Dr. Mendez said her grandmother was the nanny-that's Francisca.”

”I didn't make the connection.”

Monica shook her head. ”You're an award-winning journalist. You're either lying or the old German's coming to get you.”

”What old German?”

”Alzheimer.”

Bruce eyed his daughter. ”Okay, Nancy Drew, then why do mother and soon-to-be-married daughter have different surnames?”

Monica shrugged. ”Dunno. Marriages. Lack of marriages. Divorces. Death. Take your pick.”

Bruce stopped rocking. ”Would you consider not going to find out about your mother?” He leaned over and crunched a beetle with his shoe, then kicked it away.

”Do you honestly think that's a fair thing to ask? Put yourself in my shoes.”

He took a deep breath, raised his fingers to his mouth, and began to pull gently on his lower lip. ”Then I guess there's something you should know.”

Finally, Monica thought. Cough it up Cough it up.

He took a deep breath and said, ”The day you told me about your mother and Max,” he said, looking out to the garden, ”I was angry and confused to say the least. ... So ... I did tell one person of Alma and Max's whereabouts that day.”

Monica turned, looked at his profile. ”Who?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled, ”Dona Magnolia.”

”You told Abuela,” Monica said flatly, sitting back. ”That pretty much explains the rest.”

”I always wondered if she got word out to her friends in the high military as to where Max could be found.”

”Of course she did, Dad,” Monica said. ”She was h.e.l.l-bent on breaking them up. She was furious at both of them.”

Bruce folded his hands on his lap. ”You were right about one thing out on the beach today, Monica. I was very jealous and very angry. So I lashed back by informing the most powerful person I knew.”

”Abuela.”

”Abuela,” he repeated softly. ”I figured she wouldn't do anything to hurt Alma, just punish her somehow, put an end to her disgusting behavior.”

”Francisca said several others died with Max,” Monica said. ”What really happened at El Trovador, Dad, what?”

”I don't know. I have a headache.” Bruce put his hand over his eyes. ”I don't even know what to think anymore.”

”Are you coming with me to meet her boat?” Monica asked. ”We'd have to stay a few more days.”

He let his hand drop to his lap. ”I don't want to go, but I don't want you to go alone. I'll think about it overnight.”

She nodded, then looked up to see Will coming down the hall. She waved without smiling. It was no surprise to either of them that he was defying Sylvia's earlier proclamation that they would swap quarters.

”You're getting a little too close to him,” Bruce said in a low voice. The words rolled into a forced smile as Will approached. He was freshly showered, but Monica could see sweat was already beading up along his upper lip and his forehead.

”What's your take on what happened today at the factory, Will?” Bruce said. The question surprised Monica, since Bruce normally avoided the subject of Alma at all costs. Perhaps her father was experiencing his own version of hot and cold when it came to Will.

Will shook his head, was about to say something, then paused and sat down next to Bruce. ”I have to admit, Bruce, I encouraged Monica to pursue her suspicions for my own selfish purposes. I hope you understand that I'm very, very worried about Yvette. If it's true that your wife knows something about the treatments at Caracol ...” He wrinkled his brow. ”Wife? Ex-wife?”

”Wife,” Monica said. ”Technically, they're still married.”

”I have a certificate that says she's missing and presumed dead.” Bruce shook his head. ”That makes her my ex.” He rubbed his razor stubble and pulled at an imaginary beard. ”As for Yvette and the treatment, I don't blame you for taking a hard look at the program. You two are one step ahead of my own research; I would have stumbled upon Alma's publications on the subject eventually. I just don't know how I would have handled it.”

Will sat forward, folded his hands together, elbows resting on his knees. ”And she just left one day,” Will said, as if Monica and Bruce were hearing the story for the first time. ”She divorced her own kid,” he whispered, shaking his head. ”An intelligent, beautiful woman from a powerful family, who could hire ten full-time nannies if she wanted ... and yet she walked away from everything. I don't get it.”

Monica looked down at her hands, at the fingers that were once small and pudgy and fragrant with innocence, hands that had become strong and competent with the skill of healing. She turned them over and looked at her narrow fingernail beds, painted pale pink like seash.e.l.ls. Her hands folded onto one another, tenderly and without being willed, as if they were comforting one another.

Monica wondered, what kind of woman could walk away from the same arms that reached out to her every morning from inside the crib? And how could she bear to see her twelve-year-old wave good-bye for the last time from a bedroom window? When she felt her eyes well up, Monica took a deep breath, then cleared her throat and straightened up. She gave Bruce and Will a fake smile and looked at her watch. ”It's nine o'clock. Anyone feel like taking a walk to the little store with me? I need a shot of something strong.”

”AGUARDIENTE,” Monica p.r.o.nounced, as she held up a capful of Tic Tack, El Salvador's national brand of moons.h.i.+ne, ”is made out of fermented sugarcane. The campesinos buy it because it packs a punch and is cheaper than dirt.” Monica p.r.o.nounced, as she held up a capful of Tic Tack, El Salvador's national brand of moons.h.i.+ne, ”is made out of fermented sugarcane. The campesinos buy it because it packs a punch and is cheaper than dirt.”

Bruce had accompanied Monica and Will to the store to buy the liquor, complaining all the way that decent people didn't drink moons.h.i.+ne. ”We're in the middle of nowhere,” Monica said. ”If you want me to drink something cla.s.sy, then show me a place within a hundred miles where I can buy a nice bottle of chardonnay. I need something to take the edge off.”

”Given the day's occurrences and the fact that there's nothing but moons.h.i.+ne in this little town, I'd say moons.h.i.+ne is perfect,” Will said. ”Now do we drink it straight up, on the rocks, or with c.o.ke?”

Bruce made a face but held out his plastic cup. ”On the rocks I suppose,” he said. By eleven, after several shots of Tic Tack, his face was in his hands. He had meant to stay up as long as Monica and Will wanted, mostly to prevent them from being alone together. But by eleven thirty he couldn't stand it and went to bed. He left them sitting at a small, round cement picnic table at the center of the courtyard, surrounded by moonlight and palm fronds and stinking of insect repellent and moons.h.i.+ne.

Will took another shot of aguardiente aguardiente, coughed, and said, ”It sure tastes horrible, but I feel like my grandma just wrapped me in a warm blanket.”

Monica traced a line from her neck to her belly. ”You can feel it burning its way down. ... Hand me that bottle, will you? I'll have another one.”

Will moved the bottle away, placed it behind him on the ground. ”I think a ma.s.sage is a far more healthy sleep aid,” he said, taking away the plastic tumbler in her hand and placing it on the table. He stood up, walked around the table, and sat on the bench next to her. ”Turn around,” he said, pointing at the foliage. Before she could move, he grabbed her shoulders and spun her around on the bench. He pushed his thumbs into her shoulder blades and began rubbing. Even with the shots of moons.h.i.+ne in her, she was still so tense he could barely get his fingers into the crook of her neck. ”Relax,” he said. ”Take your own advice and let it go.”

”Easy for you to say. Your mom is probably home baking cookies right now.”

He laughed, then got to work rubbing out the knots, noticing a long bar of tension running up along her spine. She pulled away when he pressed his thumbs along it. He worked in silence for a while, then, he dropped his hands onto his lap. His ears were buzzing with the pounding rush of blood as he explored the geography of the bones and muscles along her back. ”Monica,” he whispered, allowing his lips to graze the velvet of her earlobe. ”It's taking all my strength not to turn you around and kiss you.”

Monica twisted at the waist to look up at him. Will suspended his breathing, hoping that she was offering her mouth to him. But what he saw in her eyes was a tired melancholy. ”We couldn't do that to Yvette,” she said, and looked away.

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