squinted against the glare of the late-morning sun, as well as the trickle of smoke that curled lazily skyward from a dangling cigarette, he considered the grouping of three parrots—one in each of the primary colors—pleasingly arranged amidst a riot of green foliage and orange hibiscus blossoms. Yep, he thought, he’d been right to stick to just the three; throwing in that cockatoo would have been a bit much. Even for a McCall.
Alerted by the baritone bellow of a boat’s whistle, he glanced at the cheap watch nestled amongst the sun-bleached hairs on his left wrist. Praises be, in spite of the sinister presence of Tropical Storm Paulette, still lurking somewhere out there in the Caribbean, the launch from the weekly cruise ship was right on time. At this very moment, in fact, it was opening its gates to disgorge the latest wave of tourists eager to fork over their money on “authentic” local souvenirs. And he, Quinn McCall, was ready and waiting to take it from them. As, of course, were the hordes of street vendors, con artists, beggars and pickpockets that regularly plied their trades in the main plaza and adjoining market streets of Puerta Marialena.
McCall had staked out his favorite spot, near the main traffic flow from the harbor but commanding a view of the entire plaza, so that his was very nearly the first and the last shopping opportunity a tourist would encounter on his way to and from the pier. And, with the island of tropical landscaping, including some picturesque palm trees, behind him, he’d have shade before midday, not to mention banks of bougainvillea to provide an appropriately gaudy backdrop against which to display his wares. Yes, it was a good spot; he usually did well here.
He always did well, actually. Well enough. It seemed the only thing more popular with the tourists than the genuine native stuff was an honest-to-God exiled gringo wasting away in Margaritaville. There was an element of envy in their stares, he’d always thought, especially the men’s. A touch of there but for a wife, a mortgage and a lack of cojones go I.
And from the women…well, call it a sort of subdued nervous excitement, as if they felt they might be in the presence of some wild, exotic and possibly dangerous creature. Someone not quite civilized, more Hemingway than Jimmy Buffet.
And he took pains to look the part, in his standard uniform of cutoff jeans, sandals and a tropical print shirt—worn hanging open if the day was particularly hot, which it almost always was on the Caribbean shores of the Yucatan—accessorized with the dangling cigarette and several days’ growth of beard. No sunglasses: that would make him look too much like one of “them.” He preferred a Panama hat to keep the sun out of his eyes, but only when absolutely necessary. Actually, he rather liked the crow’s feet the Mexican sun had etched at their corners. More important, so did his female customers.
Of which there were bunches heading his way at that very moment. Mentally rubbing his hands in anticipation, McCall turned the just-finished painting ever so slightly on the easel and made a show of adding a tiny daub of paint to the blue parrot’s feathers. Out of the corner of his eye he monitored the progress of the latest wave—the usual assortment of pasty middle-aged norteamericanos, in pairs, mostly—anniversary couples or the odd honeymooners—or noisy, boisterous groups of women from places like Dallas, Atlanta and Hoboken. Young, single women were a rarer commodity, which he thought was maybe why he noticed that particular lady right away. Then again, the fact that she was cute as a pup might have had something to do with it.
Either way, once he’d spotted her, it was hard to pull his eyes or his attention away from her. Not that she was such a knockout—cute really was the best word to describe her—but there was something about the way she moved, with a seemingly contradictory blend of self-confidence and a beguiling naïveté. Pert, he thought, mildly surprised to realize he even knew a word like pert. She was short, petite without appearing fragile, with the kind of trim and tidy little body that had always appealed to him. Hair the color of cinnamon, worn short and with a bit of curl that looked natural. Too far away to tell about her eyes.
He could feel his awareness of her creep along the back of his neck as the wave of newcomers swept into the plaza. Would she stop? Or, as anyone with a lick of artistic taste ought to do, wrinkle her nose fastidiously and move on.
“Good grief.”
The exclamation was muttered, barely audible, but McCall heard it, felt it almost, like warm breath across his skin. He glanced around and there she was right beside him, her head barely topping his shoulder.
He turned toward her, eyebrows raised in pretended surprise, teeth bared in a wolfish but welcoming smile around the stump of his cigarette. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, expansive, inviting. “How’s about a nice little souvenir of old Mexico—every single one hand-painted and hand-signed.”
She jerked her fascinated gaze from the painting to throw him a startled glance. “You’re American.” Her voice was husky with what he thought was probably embarrassment, realizing he’d have understood that little comment of hers.
Still smiling, McCall plucked the cigarette from his teeth with a sweeping gesture. “Guilty.” He pointed the butt at the three parrots. “You like that one? Sorry, can’t let you have it, it’s still wet. But hey, I can ship it to you later, if you—”
She shook her head, and he saw her turn slightly pink. “No! I mean, it’s…uh, they’re very…colorful.” He could see honesty arm-wrestling with politeness. Honesty won. Impatience gave her voice an edge as she added, “It’s just…way too big.” The edge wasn’t unpleasant, he decided, just sort of like an itch between his shoulder blades he couldn’t reach to scratch.
“You think so?” McCall considered his work in progress, frowning. “I try to make ’em small enough so people can take ’em home in a shopping bag. I’ll ship if I have to, but I’d rather not.”
“No, I mean the conyer—the yellow one,” she earnestly explained, seeing his blank look. “It should be only half the size of the two macaws.”
Oh brother. Everybody was an art critic. Mentally rolling his eyes, McCall snatched the remnants of the cigarette from his mouth in mock amazement. “No. Is that right?”
“I own a pet shop,” she explained, and her flush deepened slightly as she shrugged. He wondered why.
“Hmm.” McCall’s fingers rasped on his beard-stubbled chin as he thoughtfully regarded the painting. He looked sideways at his critic. “You ever hear of perspective?”
She shook her head. “The conyer’s behind the macaws—that would make it even smaller.” She gazed steadily at him, not giving an inch.
He could see now that her eyes were hazel, almost golden in this light. And that the sprinkle of freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks exactly matched her hair. And that she was wearing a gold wedding band on the appropriate finger of her left hand.
“Damn,” he muttered for more than one reason, snapping his fingers, and was rewarded with the sudden and unexpected brilliance of her smile.
To his regret, before he’d even had time to absorb the wonder of that smile she’d moved away from him to stroll among the rest of his stock—a riotous mix of tropical flora and fauna, hung without regard for color compatibility on their racks against the garish backdrop of bougainvillea—with lips slightly parted, as if in awe. Having reached the end of the display, she gave her head a little shake and turned it toward him to inquire in a tone of disbelief, “You actually sell these?”
He was amused rather than insulted—even, in some remote part of himself, pleased to discover that she seemed to possess both taste and intelligence. But he hid it from her, instead scowling around his cupped hands as he lit a new cigarette. “Like hotcakes, sister.”
