Read Online Cry in the Night by Carolyn G. Hart - Free Book Online Page B

City, I could easily plead surprise. I would manage to shake free. Surely I could find someplace inexpensive to stay. Perhaps Jerry would help me.
    It all seemed easily arranged as I stood in the lovely room, making up the script in my mind, directing the players one way, then another.
    I picked out my prettiest dress and slipped it on. I stood for a moment in front of the mirror, admiring its pale lemon shade and the way the skirt swirled when I turned. I was almost ready to go when there was a soft knock on my door and in came the little maid who had brought me hot chocolate the night before. With a good many giggles and much gesturing, she managed to make it clear that Don Tony awaited me at breakfast.
    That was luck, I decided. I could return the manuscript to Tony and perhaps have the good fortune not to have to face my hostess again. Yes, everything was working out. Soon I would see Jerry.
    I grabbed up the Styrofoam box and followed the maid downstairs. The patio had been beautiful last night beneath pale pastel lights. This morning it was breathtaking. Bougainvillea blossomed pale pink and soft white and bright red. Carnations swept in a circle around the central pool. The sweet scent of honeysuckle mingled with the musky smell of roses. A waterfall trickled languorously over a hump of lava near the round wicker table that was set for breakfast.
    Tony rose from the table and came to greet me. I held out the Styrofoam box and Tony, a little surprised, took it.
    I smiled at him. “This is my reason for coming to Mexico, to return this manuscript that your family very graciously loaned to the museum.”
    “Which manuscript is it?”
    It was my turn to be surprised. “The Sanchez manuscript.”
    “Oh yes, of course,” he replied. “Well, it is certainly good of the museum to send it by hand, very thoughtful.” As he spoke, he was turning away from me.
    I frowned, puzzled. Hadn’t the family insisted that the manuscript be hand delivered? I almost asked, but Tony was speaking to the housekeeper and handing her the boxed manuscript to be put away. There was a clatter and scuffle and two little girls skidded from behind a willow tree to fetch up, panting and laughing, at the table. Tony introduced me to his ten-year-old twin sisters, Rita and Francesca.
    Breakfast was a buffet. I tried papaya and mango, fruits I’d only read about before. There were sweet rolls and eggs fried and placed on tortillas, hot chocolate, and a sweet dark coffee.
    The twins, after an initial shyness, were friendly and charming and told me about their school and the club where they played tennis and their piano lessons. They spoke fluent English. Tony watched them indulgently.
    We were halfway through breakfast, and I was wondering just how to most gracefully ask for someone to call me a taxi, when Tony pushed back his chair and rose.
    “Good morning, Father.” There was great respect and affection in his voice.
    I pushed back my chair and started to rise, too, but Señor Ortega hurried to my side. “Don’t get up, my dear. I understand we owe you great thanks for burdening yourself with an old book of ours.”
    I liked Tony’s father immediately, liked the firm clasp of his hand and the way he made an unimportant guest feel welcome. I was surprised, though, at how little resemblance there was between father and son. Where Tony was tall and broad, his father was not much taller than I and slightly built. They both did have the beautiful olive skin and crisp curling black hair, but Tony’s face was blunt, his father’s narrow.
    It was a cheerful, happy half hour, that breakfast, and I was regretting my decision to leave the Ortega house and go to a hotel because they were all so friendly and kind, and then, as suddenly as a cloud passing over the sun and chilling the land below, the atmosphere changed on that beautiful terrace.
    The twins, like two little dark barometers, gave the first warning. Their loud chatter fell away abruptly