Now as she lay sleeping beside him, he could not deny how happy she made him. His ridiculous fantasies over the last several months were proving to have merit. He hadn't kidded himself. And he hoped he hadn't gotten her hopes up in vain. And maybe, he admitted to himself, he really did need her. A man had all kinds of needs and some of his more complex needs hadn't been realized in more years than he cared to count. When he slipped out of bed, he left another kiss on her cheek and walked out with greater reluctance than he'd expected.
The next morning, Monica awoke feeling like it was a dream, the night before. She indulgently touched her lips and let the memory play over and over again in her mind. She was fully awake now, more from hormones than anything else. Three years, since she left Brad, she'd remained abstinent, mainly through sheer willpower. Of course, devoting herself to her career, being the oddball in New Orleans and consequently having few friends to go out with, and certainly never doing anything so foolish as to go and look for anyone had all proven very helpful in her strange desire to save herself for John. Would she have been able to continue on that path if he'd left on his own? She couldn't say. It was of no consequence now. Soon enough he would be willing to go down that road.
She crawled out of bed and sat on one of the rugs in the room to do some morning yoga and meditation, two things that usually helped to calm her down and focus her mind. When she felt appropriately balanced again, she peeked in to see John and Gibson still very much asleep in her old room, and then she headed downstairs.
Her mother was already there, sipping on a cup of weak black coffee. "Did you sleep well?" she asked.
"Mmhm."
"And John? Did he sleep well too?" she asked, her question heavy with meddling and disapproval.
Monica narrowed her eyes at her mother. "Mama, I slept in the guest room. John stayed in my old room. Besides, I would never… not in your house."
Her mother wasn't exactly a staunch Catholic, but she held fast to some of the basics of her religion.
"But you are… sleeping with him?"
"No, Mama. We're not. We haven't."
"Good. I know you see the world differently than I do, but I hope you understand the importance of not rushing into such things. I would have preferred to see you in white on your wedding day, of course, but I suppose if I can just see you getting married, that will have to appease me. Still, I would prefer that you at least do what you can to make up for past misdeeds."
Monica sighed. Oh, right, she thought, There is a reason I do not talk to my mother too often.
Her mother reached across the breakfast table and squeezed Monica's hand in her own. "Mi ija. I love you. No matter what. And if he's half the man you've claimed he is, then no mother could possibly be disappointed. Just promise me one thing, wedding first, kids second."
Monica closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She gave her mother a half-hearted smile. "Mama, I think we've got more to worry about than marriage and children."
"Ah yes, yes you do. This is an interesting predicament you've gotten yourself into. The boy…?"
"He knows things. And there are people who would kill him to prevent others from knowing about him."
"He knows secrets? Government secrets? Military secrets?"
"He knows… everything. I can't really explain. I shouldn't. The more you know, the more dangerous it is for you."
Gibson did not awaken until nearly noon, proving to be somewhat of a real teenager after all. He and John headed downstairs, finding Monica and her mother chatting away in Spanish. Monica fixed them huevos rancheros, wanting them to have traditional Mexican fare.
"What will you do today?" asked her mother, in English.
John looked up at Monica and she could tell he wanted her to intervene and explain that they had to leave. But she wasn't ready. Not yet. She wanted one more day, hopeful that fate would bring her father's home a few days early. So she threw a look back at John that said No.
"I think we should relax today. We cannot stay much longer, but for now, we're safe. So, why don't we go for a swim?"
"A swim? You have a pool here too?" asked John, a little surprised.
"I guess first I will have to give you a real tour, now that the sun is out."
John continued to be astounded by the home. Perhaps it really wasn't that big to some, and when he compared it to his own recently abandoned home, it wasn't all that much larger. But it stretched out in ways he did not expect a home in a huge city to stretch out.
"All the houses in this neighborhood are like this," explained Monica as they stood in the backyard looking at the pool, which was a comfortable size. All around them stretched a tall, imposing rock wall, with tall trees hanging down on both sides. The ground was mainly dirt, with a few patches of brown grass and still fewer patches of green. Shrubby trees dotted the landscape and in the back corner was a small stone building with a peaked roof and a thin white cross on top.
"A chapel?"
"Mmhm. My mother had it built when they bought the house. It gives her comfort." She took him to see it. Two small pews sat in front of an altar of an antique cross and a traditional Mexican painting of Jesus on one side and the Virgin Mary on the other. She seemed uneasy in there. "Let's go for that swim," she said, moving them out the door.
"I didn't bring a swimsuit. Gibson doesn't have one either."
"You came to Mexico, during the summer no less, and didn't bring a swimsuit? I don't think you thought this all the way through. No worries, I will go see what Papa has in his closet."
She disappeared for a while, leaving them by the side of the pool. Gibson looked up at John doubtfully.
John shrugged. "Might as well. It's nearly a hundred degrees out here, or at least that's what it feels like. You got any premonitions or anything? 'Cause the moment you say we should go, we'll go. Our bags are packed. We'll be out of here in two minutes."
Gibson looked back at the massive enclosure of water. "I can't swim."
John laughed. "We're not going to toss you in the deep end and sit here and watch. You can just go into the shallow end and cool off in the water."
Gibson didn't respond, just continued to stare at the water with large eyes.
Monica returned with two swimsuits and directed them to a small door attached to the garage. "Changing room," she explained. She was already sporting the suit she kept there for her rare summer trips home and John wondered if it was really such a good thing to be spending time in the water with her looking like that and him wearing very little. He hoped the water was very cold. When he looked at Gibson, he found the boy fighting a smile, and then hightailing it to the changing room.
She did look truly amazing, however. Despite having a more modest one piece, she chose a two piece, proving that she wasn't above a little visual manipulation. Gibson wasn't entirely blind himself, and seeing him blush and turn away made her understand that having a 14-year-old boy might put a crimp into her seduction plans for John. For now, though, he seemed content to sit on the steps and dunk his head underwater every once in a while.
"You look good," said John, feeling that it was the response she was going for.
"Ignoring the fact that you are in my father's swim trunks, so you do." She was struck by how good he looked without a shirt, water dripping off of his body. "I've never seen your tattoo. That was what you used to find your way back to us the last time you were in Mexico." She touched it gently, tracing the outline, well aware of the muscular arm on which it was imprinted.
"You mind if I swim some laps?" he asked, eager to get away and try to get his blood flowing in less dangerous places.
She swam over to Gibson who was sitting on the steps staring off into the distance. He wore a t-shirt and didn't seem to want to look at her. "John told me you didn't know how to swim."
Gibson shrugged.
"Did you want to learn? Might be useful. We could go somewhere with a beach later. You'd enjoy it."
He still seemed distant. She nudged him with her elbow. "Come on, I'll help you."
He shook his head. "I don't want to learn to swim."
"You just don't know what you're missing."
"I don't think I can."
"It's easier to move in water, if that's what your concerned about."
"I'm not concerned about anything except listening."
"Ah, you are a serious kid, huh? You take after John."
"You want this to be a vacation, but it can't be. They won't stop coming after me."
"You know very well that I am aware of that. And you also know I'm not going to spend our time hiding in fear every moment. All we can do is make the best of our situation. And right now, I think the best we can do is enjoy this sunny day and this pool. And you should take advantage of the swimming lesson that is being offered."
He relented, but he would try only for five minutes, he said. He felt stupid, being held aloft by Monica, being told how to kick and how to move his arms. He really should have learned this. Other kids were taught how to swim.
Within half an hour he was doggy paddling it back and forth across the pool, only stopping for a few desperate seconds, clinging to the edge and trying to catch his breath. John ruffled his hair and congratulated him on his progress. He managed a shy half-smile.
At dinner that night, John found himself full of curiosity. "May I ask, Mrs. Reyes," he said as he cut up the steak Monica had cooked (he was pleasantly surprised to find that she was a decent and reliable chef), "what your husband did for a living before retiring?"
"Just my husband? Well, Esteban worked for the government for many years. He worked in the agricultural department and handled many trade deals with the US."
"Must be a good business to be in."
"Yes, it treated us well."
"Mama worked too, until I came along. Tell him Mama."
"I didn't do anything special."
"Mama's father, my grandfather Manuel, was a diplomat to France and later to Portugal. Mama grew up overseas. Before me, she worked at the French consulate here in Mexico City. She was the only woman there who wasn't busy serving tea."
"I didn't do much, just helped as a translator and guide."
"To visiting dignitaries and French government officials."
Senora Reyes waved it off as if it were nothing. "I was only biding time until Monica entered our lives. I wanted a child far more than I wanted to tell the president of Franch where the best restaurants were. But it took a long time for her to find her way to us. I was old. Older than you are now, dear," she said to Monica, which made her daughter give her a look. "She was perfect. The most beautiful baby I ever saw. Monica, go get your baby album."
"This was her first picture. She was three days old. Esteban had called me from Texas where he was in the middle of trade negotiations. He told me there was an abandoned baby there without a mother or a father to take care of her. He asked me if I might want to adopt. I said yes without even having met her.
"We'd never discussed adoption. I prayed and I prayed to Saint Anthony, begging for a miracle, and he gave me one. I flew to Austin immediately. Her little hands were so perfect," she said, taking her daughter's hand as she spoke, examining it as thoroughly as she might have done some 34 years earlier. The ring that her daughter still stubbornly wore caught her attention. She would need to do something about that later.
They continued to look through the pages, watching the progression of the infant Monica to the toddler to a young girl with pigtails, like the picture in the hallway. John was captivated and kept flashing her his trademark smile.
"You look tired, Mama," said Monica looking up from the last page. "We should let you sleep."
"I'm fine, fine. But if you don't mind, I would like to borrow John."
Slipping immediately into Spanish, Monica questioned her. "What are you planning to say to him? I don't want you to tell him anything."
"Mi ija, you worry too much. If you are set on making him my son-in-law one day, then surely you can give me some time alone with him to get to know him."
"You are going to question him, aren't you? I don't want you to hassle him or guilt him or anything of the sort."
"Monica," broke in John. "I'm ok if your mother wants to talk to me."
She bit her lip trying not to respond.
John stood up and took her mother by her arm. They walked down the tiled hallway with it's intricate carved wooden walls and into the master bedroom. She directed him to a sitting area and sat opposite him, her hands poised in her lap.
"What are your intentions with my daughter?" she asked, not wasting any time.