Found at Sea - By Anne Marie Duquette Page 0,33
wait to get into the water, and I’m slowing you down. You can’t stand it.”
“You’re wrong. My main interest is keeping us alive. What I’m—”
Jordan stopped abruptly, interrupted by a border guard tapping on his window. He rolled it down for the usual questions.
“Anything to declare? Mexican purchases? Agricultural products? May I see your paperwork?”
One guard checked the vehicle registration, plates and driver’s license, while another officer walked around the truck with a drug-sniffing German shepherd. The dog seemed bored, the guards even more so, and soon Jordan and Aurora were free to reenter the United States.
Jordan drove onto Interstate 5, the San Diego Freeway, and headed north. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he kept quiet. Aurora finally broke the silence.
“Sorry about that remark earlier,” she said. “Of course you don’t have gold fever—and if you do, that’s your business, not mine. It’s been a long day, and I’m a first-class jerk. Forgive me?”
Jordan nodded.
“Was that yes, I accept your apology, or yes, I’m a jerk?” Aurora asked.
“That was a yes, it’s been a long day and I sometimes shoot off my mouth, too.”
“You’re a nice guy,” she said. “I can’t understand why you aren’t married.”
“Who says I’m not?”
“Donna. She checked with some...friends of hers. You didn’t file a joint tax return last year.”
“Why is she interested? Is she looking for a husband? Or are you?” Jordan watched Aurora’s face carefully.
“As always, you get right to the point,” she said.
“Your answer?”
Aurora collected her thoughts before answering. “Okay, I’ll be honest. I’m attracted to you, but I’m not interested in marriage. Especially not to another captain. We’re both used to being in charge. A relationship between us—anything more than partners and maybe friends—would never work.”
Jordan tried not to appear too eager. “It might, if we remember to allow the other enough room—and if we remain honest.”
“That’s easier said than done,” Aurora said slowly. “I’m a desperate woman, Jordan. Desperate people do desperate things.”
His chest tightened with disappointment. “Sorry to hear that. I’m not a fan of desperate measures.”
“Neither am I, ordinarily. But if we could get my family home, then maybe...” Her voice trailed off.
“Business first. I understand,” Jordan said almost too briskly. “We’ve done all we can in Mexico for now. We need any paperwork on the San Rafael. Next stop, Mission San Diego.”
Mission San Diego de Alcala
Next morning
AT AURORA’S DIRECTION, Jordan took the Mission Gorge exit off Interstate 8 and made the short drive to Twain Street, where Mission San Diego was located. Jordan easily followed the brown historical-site signs to the Mission and drove up the narrow, winding driveway. The Mission’s whitewashed adobe reflected the summer sunshine. Even this early, the air was heavy with the fragrances of flowers, and parrots and hummingbirds feasted off the citrus blossoms.
“Look at the size of those bells,” Aurora said. Jordan caught a quick glimpse of the set of five in an open belfry or campanario to the left just before he drove through the wrought-iron gates. “You’ll get to see them up close. There’s a small courtyard—the campanario courtyard—on the other side of the chapel. We have to walk through it to get to the museum and archives.”
Aurora went on to explain that six days a week, excluding Sundays, Mission San Diego opened its doors to the public, who toured the simple adobe chapel, the old sleeping quarters of the founding Franciscan friars and the ancient courtyards. The museum and site attracted people who wished to view the artifacts of the Spanish missionary Father Juniper Sera.
As the first and oldest of California’s twenty-one missions that lined the coast, Mission San Diego was a popular destination; it also remained an active parish.
“Let’s park here,” Aurora suggested, then led the way through the main courtyard with its centrally located tiled fountain. Water splashed down tiered layers onto small blue tiles and thrown coins visible at the bottom.
“The library and archives aren’t open to the public. We have to cut through the church—that large building on the west side—and go around back to get there.”
When they entered the church, Aurora quietly took a seat in an ancient wooden pew while Jordan approached the altar.
Aurora quietly watched him. She didn’t really feel comfortable with the ornate, Spanish-style statues of Christ and the Madonna. She couldn’t deny the holy atmosphere of the place; still, the gold on the altar and icon frames, even the old-fashioned cloth-canopied pulpit with its painted access stairs seemed almost overdone to her. Jordan appeared to have none of those