Cinderella in Overalls - By Carol Grace Page 0,59

The touch of her lips made him want to wrap her in his arms and disappear behind the reeds to the soft grass by the shore. The thought of Catherine and him lying in the warm afternoon sun made the heat rise up the back of his neck.

Above the whisper of the wind in the reeds came the sound of a man wielding a machete in the clearing beyond, reminding Josh of his obligations to the fishermen of the village, to Duran and to the bank. This was a business trip. There were decisions to be made and people to see. The uncle, for one. Without speaking Josh took Catherine’s hand and they walked toward the house of the boat builder. The uncle was there, his machete on the ground. His sun-browned face broke into a smile at the sight of the visitors. Proudly he showed them how he formed the sides and then the heart of the boat with the materials at hand.

Then he turned his attention to the small toy boat his nephew had brought and they all walked down to the water to try it out. Catherine knelt on the wooden pier to watch the boat float in the clear, shallow water. It was as carefully made as the ones they had ridden in that morning.

She caught Josh’s eye and she wondered if he feared what she did. That if the village had motorboats, this craft might be lost. Not just this craft, but a whole way of life. Slowly they made their way back to Miguel’s house where his wife was spinning wool from their llama into yarn.

“My mother spun her own yarn,” Catherine said. “I never had a store-bought sweater until I grew up. She taught me to spin, too.” She nodded to Miguel’s wife, and she and Josh wandered down to the shore where the boats were drying in the sun.

“How can you say they left you nothing?” Josh asked, sitting on the beach, looking at her thoughtfully. “Besides your memories, they gave you skills, like weaving and cooking and plowing.”

She squinted at the choppy waves with the sun dancing on than. “Everything but bargaining,” she acknowledged with a half smile. “What are we going to report back to the bank?” She sat next to him and hugged her knees to her chest.

“That the coming of the cannery will bring the motorboats to this lake whether we like it or not.”

“It’s called progress,” she mused, “and I guess it’s inevitable.”

“If this village doesn’t have them, they won’t be able to compete,” he said. “We can’t let that happen.”

She shook her head, relieved that they didn’t have to disappoint these people she had come to admire and respect. He helped her to her feet, and silently they walked back to the schoolhouse.

On the path he imagined how the stillness of the lake would one day be broken by the roar of the boats, and it wasn’t a pleasant thought. So for now he relished the silence and the sight of Catherine just ahead of him, her dark hair caressing her shoulders. Even more than the silence he relished this time alone with her. A time when they reached a decision that satisfied them both. A time of unexpected harmony.

Inside the schoolhouse the desks were closed for the day and the windows shuttered. They changed clothes for the farewell party the villagers were giving for them.

“This has been an experience for me,” Catherine said, smoothing the skirt of her pale blue cotton dress, “standing in a banker’s shoes for a few days. It’s given me a new appreciation of your profession.”

“My profession? What about me?” he asked, crossing the room and laying the back of his hand against her wind burned cheek.

She looked up to catch a flash of desire burning in his eyes. “I’ve always appreciated you,” she said quickly, feeling her heartbeat quicken. Appreciate. It was a good safe word. Now if only he’d leave it at that. But he didn’t. He tilted her chin with his hand, and she closed her eyes and struggled with the feelings she’d tried to suppress. When had appreciation turned to admiration and admiration turned to something else? Something dangerously close to love.

Was it the night he’d slept on her shoulder in the taxi? Or was it the day he told her about the silver mine? Maybe it was the night she’d cooked dinner for him and he’d shared his dreams with her. If only he’d let her