Peter's Story

By Richard Dominico

It is a truism that life can change in significant ways when someone comes into unexpected wealth. Peter Zapoti is surprised, as is his half sister Virginia, by how much money and real estate their late father, John Zapoti, leaves to both of them in his will. While the windfall allows Peter the opportunity to pursue his dream of writing serious fiction, to give up his day job as a restaurant reviewer and write his first novel, he finds himself afraid to make the plunge. What if he fails? Will his desired identity be no longer available to him? Will he discover it's only been a fantasy, that he is no better than a hack writer? While he works out his destiny, his sister Virginia also makes a significant discovery, about how she really feels about this long lost half-brother of hers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Dominico
• Release date: Nov 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9780993997105

Richard Dominico

After completing a linotype apprenticeship in a daily newspaper, Richard Dominico returned to school to graduate with three university degrees and became a teacher of English. Since first teaching the Writer’s Craft course, he has been experimenting with the creation of his own stories.

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Peter's Story

Richard A. Dominico

Copyright 2014 by Richard A. Dominico

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 978-0-9939971-0-5

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is mostly coincidental but some attempts at authenticity have been made by including the names of local businesses and their proprietors.

Dedication

For Hazel Walsh, a gentle, kind man, much loved by all who know him. He is that best of friends to have on our journeys.

Table of Contents

Peter's Story

I. Peter's Return to San Miguel

II. Family time in San Miguel

III. Monica's Return to Puerto Vallarta

IV. Man at Work

V. Monica's Return to San Miguel

VI. Rolly's Problems

VII. At Work Again

VIII. Monica's Discovery

IX. Rolly and His Lawyer

X. Monica's Explanation

XI. Goodbye, Rolly

XII. Goodbye, Virginia

XIII. Monica's Change of Plan

XIV. The Wheel Goes Round

XV. More Goodbyes

XVI. Dinner with the Neighbours

XVII. Juan and Paulita

Virginia's Version

1. Virginia's Persuasion

2. Northern vs Southern Ontario

3. Paulita's Birthday

4. My Trip to San Miguel

5. It Happens Sometimes

About the Author

Synopsis of Peter's Story

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Peter's Story

I. Peter's Return to San Miguel

Peter always flew into Mexico City, rather than into the newly opened Aeropuerto Internacional de Queretaro. He preferred Mexico City. It was cheaper to fly there than into Queretaro. He had no fear of Mexico City. Besides, on this occasion he was going to be in and out. He just wanted to get home.

It had been a long day. When he got up in the darkness of Toronto, he had little time to make his flight to Houston. Rush. Rush. Rush. What else was new? Like so many travelers, he detested airlines; he hated airports. His consolation was his anticipation of reading the morning papers on the layover in Texas, which was exactly what he did when he got to Houston, relaxing with a second and even a third cup of coffee.

After a couple of hours Peter was in the air again, on his way to Mexico City. He’d had worse travelling days. Still, cramped airplane seats got smaller by the year. Leg room was in short supply. If the passenger in front reclined his seat, well, he had even less room to read, think, or sleep. He had little room for anything on both flights.

He marveled at how airlines got away with screwing their clients. Fares did not go down, although seats got smaller, and services became substandard. Passengers kept paying for their seats. Travelers accepted whatever the airlines were handing out.

Sleep came quickly, the usual dream. In this one, they’d been together seven years, a couple with the feel of longevity. How ironic dreams could be. Seven years! More like seven days.

In his dream Lupita had the waist of a very young woman. Peter teased her about it. If he encircled both hands just below her belly button they almost touched.

You used to say nice things about my breasts, you know.

What do you mean, used to? He put his lips around one of her nipples and sucked with his tongue, expecting her usual cooing noises. He came up for air. I still find them magical.

And what of your intention to get to your computer early this morning?

There’s always time for love, my Mexican beauty.

When they finished, her screams of delight absorbed by the walls, he got out of bed, and showered. During his ablutions he realized that the taste of her still lingered in his mouth.

Sometimes the memory of her hardened him even while he showered. He could be instantly aroused just by thinking of her nether regions and the wonder of those nipples, small but firm when he sucked them. This was all the woman he ever hoped for. Life was good.

It never occurred to him, when first he saw Lupita, that he could love a woman of such beauty. No, no, no. Peter had not been attractive to girls. No one chased him during high school years. He didn’t even have a girl friend in those days. He’d had a couple of dates. Neither of those evenings went anywhere. He chalked both of them up to mutual non-attraction. He filled none of his urgent adolescent needs. His hand did most of the hard pulling then.

Yes, life has its surprises, not all of them bad. Lupita came into his life.

She came into his life with a question: You writing a novel or something?

Just as quickly as she’d come into his life, she was as suddenly gone, like this recurring dream.

Her face, hair, smile, teeth, eyes, complexion, lips, legs, feet, dress—the whole goddess package—what chance did he have when first he saw her? No one tied him to a mast. No one blocked his ears. Nonetheless, the Siren had him from the first. His Circe. His Calypso. None of these were a match for Lupita, not for Peter Zapoti.

Then came awakening. The lady in uniform was no Lupita. The airline hostess asked him if he wanted a drink, or something else he didn’t hear. She did not ask him whether he was writing a novel. The abruptness of her question matched the suddenness of his loss like when Lupita disappeared with his money.

Sorry I woke you. I didn’t realize you were sleeping.

At first he didn’t respond. Peter stared at her, tried to replace the image of Lupita, tried to focus on this woman talking to him. He declined her offer. She moved on.

No more sleep on his way to Mexico City. It didn’t matter. Now used to the cramped quarters, he had some time to think. That was fine. He had a hell of a lot to worry about. Specifically, his finances preoccupied him, this time with a twist. He’d always worried about money, but this was different.

Nine hundred thousand dollars, newly acquired, can do that—this did not include the real estate. Since the afternoon in Brian Percy’s office, Peter Zapoti was no longer living from cheque to cheque.

Here was the question of the moment: would he continue his restaurant reviews? He thought he might.

He’d done a lot of thinking about that during this long day on airplanes. It was something Angie said when she and Virginia entertained him at their goodbye dinner party in Beach Bay, treating him to a delicious home-cooked meal. His half-sister was a talented chef. He and Angie were the beneficiaries.

Virg, too bad you’re wealthy now. Penury would have done a hungry public better service. I’m thinking about the restaurant you should have opened.

Yeah, that’s ALL I need. A restaurant. A business. No, no. My working days are over.

Ahhh, too bad. You’re one hell of a cook, Virg. I’ve been reviewing restaurants for a long time, sampling food that doesn’t come close to these manicotti. Your crepe shells just slide down; they don’t hit bottom with the usual thud. They’re so light. No wonder I ate seven of them. You’re Mom’s daughter, no doubt about it.

Peter looked to his other dinner companion for support.

What do you think, Angie? Isn’t this an awesome display of gastronomic wizardry?

Angie smiled her agreement, finishing the last few bites on her plate, just enjoying the three of them being together. I’m too busy stuffing my mouth. Virg knows how I feel about her cooking. It’s not the first time she’s seen me pig out here. Is it, Virg? She buys good scotch, too.

Virg waited for Angie to finish. She wanted to change the subject. Peter, I’m having trouble with your decision to go back so soon. We’re just getting to know each other again. I’m just growing fond of my older half-brother, when, without warning, you announce you're out of here. Why do you have to leave so damn soon? I won't mention how handsome Angie thinks you are. Even I see how much you add to the scenery around here.

Gotta get back. No choice. There’s two jobs I agreed to, have to be finished before the end of the month. I agreed to write these reviews before peak season. My job involves deadlines. I need both of these magazines. I owe them; they’ve kept the wolf from the door. I don’t want to lose these clients.

Angie ate silently—what could she say to what Peter had said? She knew he was telling the truth about his work commitments.

Peter’s mind drifted. He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, not even himself. He needed no more magazine employment. Not after the inheritances he and Virginia were getting used to. Neither he nor she had expected this kind of financial independence. They had no financial worries now. Money and real estate—they had enough to carry them comfortably to their graves.

For Peter especially, life could now be something more than survival. Goodbye subsistence. True, he hadn’t known hunger before his father died; no, life had never been that bad. But his circumstances had certainly changed since his father died and left him all this money. Indeed, he had always enjoyed good food, both growing up in his father’s house, and later in his working life, reviewing restaurants for a living. It was also the case that he always had a roof over his head in Mexico. But neither had there been much in the way of discretionary spending. Certainly no luxuries. He couldn’t, for example, buy clothes whenever he wished. He still didn’t own a car. His monthly budget was tight.

Still, because of the amenities he enjoyed while reviewing lavish restaurants, grand hotels, guided Mexican tours, he hadn’t felt deprived. His work provided some of the finer things in life. Nonetheless, it was true that ever since his personal declaration of independence, when he’d left his father’s home in 1966, and made his way to Mexico, to a career in restaurant reviewing. He’d shared a bed with Austerity. Over the years he got used to her, was comfortable with her.

His health had been very, very good, with the exception of that laparoscopic removal of an enflamed appendix in his 40s. Even this had not cost him personally since he had Mexican government health insurance—thank heavens for that green card he got years ago—still, he worried about his future. What had increasingly gnawed at the lining of his stomach was the awareness that he had no pension to look forward to. The seasons of his life seemed shorter as he aged. Peter knew anxiety’s face. He stared at her regularly.

He wondered at times whether he would stay in Mexico when he could no longer travel and write. Although Mexico had become his home, he could be sure of no retirement income. He kept telling himself that he could write reviews until he was ready to die. In his heart, however, he knew very well he had no control over how long he’d be able to work at writing for magazines and newspapers, and lately, for ezines. Yes, until recently, Peter Zapoti regularly fretted over his future.

True, he had no partner with which he could share expenses. That did not make retirement look any easier. Since he once lived with Lupita, yes, there had been other partners but none of these relationships lasted, even though he'd lived with a couple of them. Susan, another brunette, for example was one of these. Like the others, however, she eventually went her own way. Marlene, Sheila, Elizabetta. They all left, none of them staying very long. He did not suffer much when any one of them left. He enjoyed living alone.

There was no getting around the fact that Lupita had been special. What made her so? Was it her looks? Yes. Was it her sexiness? Yes. Was it her playfulness? Yes. Was it the way she held his attention when she talked? Yes. Was it the way she listened to him? Yes. Was it the way she made him laugh? Yes.

And did he mention her sexiness? Yes.

When Peter left Beach Bay in 1966, he took the directo bus to a bachelor’s life of poverty.

Things were different now since his father's death—no longer did he fear retirement.

Virginia interrupted his daydreaming. She’d been going on about something with Angie but he hadn’t been paying attention until Virginia challenged him. Give me a break, Peter. You don’t have to write any more articles if you don’t want to.

Virginia spoke her mind. She always had, even growing up at the dinner table when Peter’d been afraid to speak up to his father. Not Virginia. She said what was on her mind even then. She hadn’t changed much.

You’re right. It’s true: old habits die hard. I’m used to magazines calling the tune. They’ve kept me in groceries. I’ve gotten used to their saying when I would work, what I might expect in the way of income. But, yes, you’ve nailed it right on. I’m having trouble getting used to this financial independence. I suppose it’s not new to you, Virg.

What do you mean? Because I have a teacher’s pension?

Yeah.

Shit. Why’d he say that? He should have known she’d react. She didn’t disappoint him.

Yeah, I haven’t had to worry about money since I retired. But I paid for my teacher’s pension. All my working life. Eight per cent from every cheque. That’s what they took.

I know you earned it. I just meant you’ve had security. I made other choices. I take ownership. My decisions, such as they were, meant I couldn’t retire. He looked again to Angie for support.

I can relate to that, Peter. Angie smiled as she spoke. She could be counted on. The newspaper she worked for in Beach Bay offered little in the way of pension. Indeed, some of the locals believed it offered very little in the way of news.

Virginia’d noticed the synergy between Peter and Angie. They were on the same page. Although Virginia loved Angie, she knew Peter and Angie had a relationship that—it wasn’t deliberately excluding—still, it did not always include her. Virg could see it in the glances they shared. Theirs was simply a special friendship; it belonged only to the two of them. She would never feel a part of that, no matter how hard they tried to include her.

She often acted as if she wanted to be closer to her half-brother. Indeed hadn't she seemed sometimes as if she had a crush on him when they were both at home? Or so Peter had often thought. He was mildly flattered but also a little put off by her seeking a closer relationship. He had had little time for her, but he wasn't proud now of the indifference he tried to show her in those days. He was downright cruel. Virginia behaved sometimes as if she wished they weren't siblings—there was that time in the basement she sat beside him on the couch while they watched a late movie. She tried to hold his hand. What the fuck? he thought at the time but was too embarrassed to say anything. He never understood how large a role an older brother could play in a younger sister's adolescent dreams.

He remembered that other time when their parents were away for the weekend and he woke up to find her in his bed beside him. What the hell are you doing?

I got cold, she laughed. Then she did something he never forgot. She rolled over and jumped on top of him. She actually tried to kiss him. He threw her off the bed. She ran away laughing down the hall. He thought she was just doing it to bug him because she knew he was afraid of girls. They never spoke about the incident but there were times he'd wondered after it happened what might have happened had he let her kiss him.

Angie interrupted his reverie. Peter, is there someone down there, in San Miguel I mean, someone you’ve been missing?

No, No. There’s no one. I’m a bachelor for life. You may have trouble with that. Most guys like me are gay, even if they never come out. I’m not gay. I've been involved with a few gals. But I’m not in any kind of serious relationship right now.

The mention of the word relationship brought the knife to his heart again, the Lupita knife. Her name stabbed him regularly. It wasn’t the memory of the 20,000 pesos that hurt so much. It was the scar she left. He never really got over her. Did she really make it impossible for him to fully commit to the other women he tried to love in his 60 year-old-life? Could she have had that kind of impact? He knew she’d conned him like any other mark. Yet he retained this belief that he meant something more to her than just another victim she used and discarded. He still believed she’d cared for him, even if she did steal his money and run. It was what he chose to believe. It lessened the pain, even after all these years.

Perhaps it had to do with how thoroughly he’d wed his dreams to hers, how quickly he’d moved from Lo de Marcos to San Miguel de Allende because of what she’d told him about the work there for writers like himself.

Of course, Peter had previously heard about San Miguel, the little colonial town in the Bajio mountains in the centre of Mexico, founded as San Miguel in 1542 by a San Franciscan monk named San Miguel El Grande, a city now known as a centre for the arts.

When he met Lupita he was predisposed to moving there anyway. San Miguel had culture, history, and a great climate. He was tired of Puerto Vallarta. From what he’d read and heard, writers felt so much more at home in San Miguel. He’d taken the time to read about it, pre-Lupita, as soon as he’d heard about its original artists’ colonies, going back to the 1950s.

Who hadn’t heard about the Instituto Allende, the place to learn Spanish, to learn to paint, even to take classes in writing? When first he visited San Miguel, again pre-Lupita, he was struck by the colored facades on the buildings, especially those close to the city centre, the jardine with its garden of repose where you could sit opposite the Parroquia de San Miguel Arcangel, the amazing granite church, standing tall as if made from pink ice, as he’d read somewhere. Visitors who saw the light show in front of the church never forgot it. In fact, tourists never forgot most of San Miguel de Allende. Peter read that many expats had come only for a visit but ended up staying, many of them buying homes within only a couple of weeks. This happened with regularity according to a friend in the real estate business.

By the time Peter moved to San Miguel the expats were no longer just the American soldiers returning from the Second World War, as had been the case in the 1950s, but new retirees who’d heard about San Miguel. They, too, had come and fallen in love with the place. So the American influence remained, but added to it were now the many Canadians who also came for a holiday and stayed, these and the Europeans, too. The mix of Norte Americanos and Europeans, along with both rich and poor Mexicans, created a magical place, marked by charm, hospitality, and a relaxed atmosphere. San Miguel de Allende was known all over the world as a preferred destination for those with the funds to travel.

It was because of Lupita that he made the move to this oasis. That did not paint over the pain she left him, however, for the con lady had robbed him of more than his money. Effectively, it made him an eunuch for life. Every one of his subsequent relationships ended not with a bang but a whimper—no commitment was possible on his part.

Maybe your life will change now? Angie preferred questions to opinions. She was diplomatic, sensitive, tentative. She rarely offended. I mean, now that you don’t really have to work so hard? I know you’ve told me that travelling in Mexico makes it convenient to live singly…maybe you won’t have to travel so much. Maybe you’ll have time to meet someone…settle into a longer term relationship…oh, it’s none of my business. It’s just…well, loneliness is a hell of a thing.

Angie was no longer looking at him. The vacant look in her eyes suggested she’d fallen into the vortex of her own isolation. She missed her companion, Peter’s late father, but she was embarrassed to reveal this.

Peter and Virginia knew how much Angie missed their father, John Zapoti.

Angie rallied. Maybe you’re just happier being single and independent. I should keep my mouth shut. Angie could always laugh at herself. The quality endeared her to Peter.

Angie. I think you’re wonderful. If I could meet someone like you, maybe I would settle into a relationship.

Peter noticed how Virginia, hearing their banter, had this angry look on her face but damned if Peter understood why she'd be upset by his flirting with Angie.

Peter loved the grins Angie gave him when he teased her. He wanted to have this woman love him like he felt his mother used to love him. Angie was an important link to his father, although certainly not to his mother.

You’re such a flirt, Peter. Don’t ever change. I can’t believe no gal’s ever snagged you.

Hey you two. It’s dessert time. You better eat this tiramisu. The mascarpone almost cost me my inheritance.

Ahhh, I’ve enjoyed it before. I don’t need coaxing. You’re going to love it, Peter. It’s divine.

Angie, you rave about everything I cook. I don’t know whether I can believe your compliments.

Ahhh, Virg, you can trust me. I think Peter makes a good point. For sure, you could have opened a restaurant. Mind you, you might go broke spending as much time as you do preparing everything you cook, everything so perfect.

Never mind, Angie. Virginia’s not going to believe either one of us. She’s just like our mother. Mom waved off every single compliment we gave her at the dinner table. I read somewhere that the way you react to a compliment says a great deal about how you feel about yourself. When you can’t accept praise it means you feel badly about yourself. You see yourself as junk.

There he goes again. My brother, the shrink.

Well, it’s interesting, though, what you’re saying, Peter. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, if I’m down on any given day and someone pays me a compliment, I do tend to shrug it off. Lottsa times, I wonder if the person has an ulterior motive. I wonder what her game plan is.

That’s exactly what I’m saying, Angie.

Virginia jumped back in: Isn’t that what they call self projection? I mean, projecting onto someone your own motivation for saying something in a given context? Virg threw this out there as if she too had given serious thought to this.

Ahhh, would you listen to this? And she accuses me of playing the shrink! Seems as if my little sister is just as capable of a little psychologizing.

Yeah, I confess, I’m a closet shrink myself. I’m not above this shit. But look here, this psychology jargon is a total digression. I still don’t see why you have to go home right away. Magazines don't have to control your life. You could tell them to get another restaurant reviewer. Stay longer. Why not stay for Christmas? Heck, when are we going to see you again? Mexico’s so damn far away.

Well, why don’t you fly down and spend some time with me in San Miguel? Do you know the city at all?

I’ve read about this Mecca of yours. Founded by a monk. What was his name?

Fray Juan, the Franciscan.

Yeah, that’s the guy.

He is much beloved.

Anyway, I’ve done my homework about your precious city. I wanted to know where you live in Mexico. I remember you’ve got this wonderful climate because you live about 6000 feet above sea level, cool nights and warmer days, right?

"I’m impressed, Virg. Go On.’ He saw the smile on his sister's face. She was enjoying herself.

Lemme see…a population of about 140,000 people but that included a lot of Americans and Canadians, and Europeans, if I remember correctly. But no where near the ocean. I guess that wouldn’t bother me. I can see the ocean on any other trip. Besides, I live on the water. I hear enough waves. She laughed.

But, Virginia, the lake here is no ocean? Surely, there’s a difference?

Yeah, I know. I know, but still, I wouldn’t mind an inner colonial city for one trip. I’ve read it’s the colonial cities with their central squares and their architecture that are so attractive down there.

Virg, you HAVE done your homework. I can see you were a teacher. Your memory is phenomenal. Virginia was up from the table now, getting something from her cupboard. He thought she was reaching for coffee.

Well…I don’t know about that. I can’t remember a lotta shit these days.

Tell me about it, said Angie, who was gathering plates now.

Anyway… back to what I read about your beloved San Miguel… Virginia was really going to show her brother how much she cared about where he lived. It was also like a test, to see how much she’d retained of what she’d read. Wasn’t San Miguel declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site but I don’t remember when.

In 2008, actually. The designation has made the city even more popular. Peter was proud of his city.

Yeah, and, of course, I remember reading about this guy Ignacio Allende y Unzaga. He was a Mexican soldier wasn’t he, who had something to do with Mexico’s independence. Wasn’t he born and raised in San Miguel?

"Yep, and there’s a big statue of him at the Plaza Civica. You gotta see this. There’s a whole group of things I’m gonna show the both of you when you two fly down. But I’m warning you now, bring comfortable walking shoes. The streets are all cobblestone. And we walk almost everywhere. Everything’s so close. But even taxis are cheap, maybe 25 or 30 pesos. Two to three dollars. I wanna take you to Teatro Angelo Peralta. We gotta see the Parroquia when it’s lit up at night. You must have read about that church?"

Virginia smiled and nodded yes. She was quite taken with the enthusiasm on Peter’s face.

Am I invited too?

Angie turned red after asking. She’d embarrassed herself again. Oh, I’m just kidding. Well, no, that’s not honest. I wasn’t kidding but I was out of turn. You two need some time together, just the two of you, getting reacquainted as brother and sister.

Or as half-brother and half-sister. Virg had a look of surprise on her face, as if she was still getting the hang of what she’d just said.

Well, having Virg come down would be pretty special, that’s for sure. But I’d love to see both of you. I’m sure whatever time Virg and I need to spend together over the next few years would always be better for having you with us part of that time. That’s how I feel.

Yes, Angie. If I go to Mexico, you’re coming, too.

Well, we’ll see about that.

"Hey, you two! I’m not prepared to let this go. I mean it. Would you both come down to visit me? It would make going back tomorrow so much easier for me, knowing I could expect to see the two of you soon. How I would love to show you the Mexico I love, especially San Miguel de Allende. Wait till we walk through Benito Juarez park. I’ll show you flowers like you’ve never seen. Wait till you taste the hot chocolate at San Augustin Restaurant—you’ll be buying some of that to bring home. And the churros there: no wonder I can put on weight in that city. Speaking of putting on weight, when you eat at two of my favs, Tacos Don Felix and Mare Nostrum, you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. And when we’re not eating, we’ll drive out to Guanajuato, our capital, maybe take in a concert there, or we’ll go the 10 kilometers to Atotonilco and see the Sistine Chapel of the West. Atotonilco is also the place, by the way, where Ignacio Allende met up with Father Hidalgo so they could begin their struggle for the independence of Mexico. Or have you read about that, too?"

Virginia smiled at her brother. Could you fall in love with your own brother?

"On the days when you’re crying uncle, because it doesn’t feel any longer like a holiday, because of my excitement, my wanting to show you everything, we’ll rest. We’ll just hang out in San Miguel and begin our day slowly with my friend Adriana at her café, Frijoles Organicos, where you’ll taste the best cappuccino in San Miguel, although the patrons of Buen Dia on Pueblito would give me an argument there. So would the folks who go to Juan’s every day, across from the library. Oh, Virg, there’s so much I want to share with you. We’ve been away from each other for way too many years. You, too, Angie, I want to show you everything I love down there."

Virginia looked at Peter but she didn’t have to confirm the sincerity of his invitation. No one could miss the glee on his face, the authenticity in his eyes. She felt welcome. She looked at Angie to check her eyes. Angie presented her usual smile, intrigued herself by this warm invitation.

What the heck? Why not? We can both afford it now, Virginia. Don’t you want to see Mexico on your brother’s arm? I can’t imagine a better tour guide. She obviously enjoyed flirting with Peter as much as he did with her.

I guess it’s possible. I do like getting out of Canada in February. Would that be a good time for you? And hey, we don’t have to crowd you out. We can both afford a hotel close to you. Right, Angie?

Of course. Besides, I snore. I’d like my own hotel room, if that doesn’t offend you, Peter. I mean, you can show us around every night. But, would you mind it if I, if we…stayed in a hotel? I’m more comfortable that way. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, if I can’t sleep, I just get up and read. But I prefer doing that when I’m not keeping someone else awake. I do like my own space, my privacy at nights.

I understand Angie. I’ve been alone for a long time. I've tried roommates. I had no trouble going back to being alone.

What about the timing, Peter? Does February work for you?

Any month works for me. It’s in the nature of my work that I can usually juggle my assignments. I said the same thing to Dad when he offered to visit me. I get enough lead time to do reviews on my own schedule. When I’m trying to show people around, my work’s not in the way. February works for me but most importantly, it ought to work for you, too, given the weather. I don’t know if you’d enjoy Mexico in May, June or July. It’s too darn hot for most of us down there, including the Mexicans. At least in July, and even in August, it’s a bit cooler with the afternoon rain. But in May and June, the heat, the humidity can be oppressive, although I must say that one of the great attractions of San Miguel is that rarely is the weather too uncomfortable. The humidity never keeps me inside. One of the things I love about San Miguel is the weather. That said, weather wise, February and March are the best months to be there.

So, February it is, then. Agreed, Angie?

Agreed. If I’m still here. Don’t forget, I’m not as young as you two. Every day is a bonus now. She laughed.

Neither Peter nor Virginia thought a whole lot about Angie being 85 years of age. She seemed immortal, forever young at heart. Born in 1922, she was the same age as her cousin and lover, John Zapoti. She’d always been well preserved. Even at this stage of her life, Angie was attractive in her own way. She had the kind of face and figure that made people take note. Now here’s an older woman who still looks good, amazingly good, was the kind of reaction she created in the people she met. It wasn’t so much that folks didn’t realize Angie was elderly; it was more that they were stunned by how attractive she was, despite her age.

As Peter neared his Mexico City destination, he thought of Virginia and Angie coming to see him in February. He began cataloguing the places he wanted to show them, like the theatre in Guanajuato. It would be the wrong time of the year for the Day of the Dead celebrations in Patzcuaro. They’d have to come in early November to enjoy that highlight. But there was always Mexico City itself—the sheer size and cultural richness of Mexico City was a possibility. Besides, there was no end to the attractions running through his mind.

Suddenly, he was being advised to make sure his seat belt was attached. They would be landing in 10 minutes. He had but to land, retrieve his luggage, buy a bus ticket, and he would be four hours from home. It had been a while. From Terminal Norte, he would take a first class bus, probably ETN. He didn’t really care which one he took, as long as it was the fastest way home. If he couldn’t get a directo, he’d catch a bus to Queretaro and then get another bus to San Miguel. It wasn’t his first time from Mexico City to his apartment.

As it turned out, he got a direct bus and opened the door to his apartment on Loreto just as his landlady came screaming hysterically down the stairs toward him. She and Juan never used these stairs to their upper quarters. They always used the other entrance which was outside on Palmar. Something was up, for sure. Pedro. Pedro.

He was standing in his courtyard when he turned to see a look of fear on the face of Paulita.

"What’s the matter, my friend? You look like you’ve been frightened?’’

"Jes. Jes, I worried. So excited. A man. Jes, a man broke into your apartment last week but I watching him do it. He outside trying to get through your window. I let him do it. Then I call my husband. I knew you not home. But this man, he heard me call my Juan. I maybe too loud. This man, he already in your place when I yell for Juan. The man, he hear me yelling for Juan, he climb back out the window, run away, toward Calzada de la Luz. I not know him, Senor Pedro. I think he take nothing. He not long enough in your place. I see him running up the street. Nothing in his hands. Running bery, bery fast. Scared of my husband, I think. Juan right behind him. But Juan not catch him."

It’s okay, Paulita. Come, sit down. You’re excited. I can see that. It sounds as if you scared him off before he could take anything. You saved my things. My heroine, Paulita.

Jes, jes. I yelling bery loud. Too loud my Juan say me. He say is why he no catch this guy. Too bad we not know who is this guy. Maybe he come back?

If he does, I’m not afraid. We’ll deal with him. Thieves are nothing new. He will be sorry to break into a home owned by Paulita and Juan Rodriguez. That’s for sure. I wouldn’t do it. I’m glad they’re my friends.

Finally, Peter got a smile from her. He opened his back pack and took out the gifts he had for her. Two sets of bed linen from Wal-Mart, a fitted sheet, a top sheet, and four pillow cases in each set, 500 thread count. Two such packages, one in light blue, one in a soft yellow. He got a huge hug and loud peals of delighted laughter. He was relieved to get rid of the weight he’d been carrying.

"Senor