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Authors: Mary Alice Monroe
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her operation. Charlotte’s lawyer had suggested more, but Charlotte wasn’t greedy. In fact, she was so relieved by the amount that she had to stop herself from thanking Mr. McNally.
“I only want one assurance,” she said as they shook hands.
McNally raised his brow.
“I want assurance that Mr. Kopp won’t do this to someone else. He’s plagued the women in that office for years.”
“I think we can take care of that.”
That was enough; she was not out for blood. Although she did break out in a grin when, a few months later, she learned that Mr. Kopp had left the company for “personal” reasons.
Four
O n Christmas Eve, Michael Mondragon eased his rented Mustang convertible onto Interstate 5, stretched his arm over the car seat and began whistling along with the Christmas melodies playing on the radio. He had to admit, Christmas Eve was always best when spent with family. And he’d be home in time for Mama’s Christmas Eve dinner.
As he pushed beyond the gray tentacles of Los Angeles into the vertical green of the mountains and valleys that surrounded his home, he felt the long trip’s tension slide off his shoulders like rocky boulders. Chicago seemed a million miles away. An hour’s drive out, he turned off the main road to an obscure side road, barely fit for travelers. Those with money and sense kept to the main road that led to plush resorts and well maintained camping grounds. Only the adventurous few ventured along these roads that wound past small townships and farms and through forests of white fir, cedar and piñon, ponderosa and Jeffrey pines. He knew the names of all the trees and vegetation. It was, after all, the family business.
The road angled sharply, then dipped lower as he entered the familiar lushness of the valley he called home. It had rained recently; the road was slick and black sage lent a purple hue to a whole mountainside. The rain-scented wind stung his face and he could taste its sweetness. Michael drove steadily down the same road that, years ago, he’d driven trucks along from the Mondragon nursery to the yards of California suburbia.
Memories passed through his mind like mile markers as he drove by familiar landmarks of his youth. At a favorite lookout point, Michael slowed to a stop and turned off the engine. Dusk was setting in; the birds were calling. From his high vantage point, the valley lay spread before him as open and lush as a willing woman. He breathed in deeply, his chest expanding. Damn, but she smelled sweet, too.
Deep in the valley, the dark vegetation reached up to the sky, as though to grab the pale evening clouds that hovered low. “The hems of the angels,” he’d called them as a child. Michael had always felt that at this languid hour, at this mystical spot, he was within reach of heaven.
He sighed, running his hand through his thick hair. So many old memories stirred. It was here that he first found love in the cab of a Mondragon truck. Here that he’d made his decision to defy his family and take the Harvard scholarship. Here that he’d sworn that someday he’d leave these mountains and never return.
And he did leave. His life in Chicago was more than the few thousand miles away from his Mexican-American family. It was a world apart. Yet there lay the irony. Why was it, he wondered, that no matter how far he traveled or how much he changed, when he returned home he slipped back into old, familiar patterns? He knew that when he drove through the Mondragon gates, he would no longer be Mr. Michael Mondragon who’d graduated magna cum laude from Harvard, who’d earned a hard-fought-for position at a well connected architectural firm in Chicago, who’d billed more in one year than his father dreamed of billing in a decade. No, in a few moments more he would be poor little Miguel, the brooding outcast who’d dared to leave the family fold.
His large, manicured hands molded over the gearshift, tightening in resolve. He’d worked too hard,
“I only want one assurance,” she said as they shook hands.
McNally raised his brow.
“I want assurance that Mr. Kopp won’t do this to someone else. He’s plagued the women in that office for years.”
“I think we can take care of that.”
That was enough; she was not out for blood. Although she did break out in a grin when, a few months later, she learned that Mr. Kopp had left the company for “personal” reasons.
Four
O n Christmas Eve, Michael Mondragon eased his rented Mustang convertible onto Interstate 5, stretched his arm over the car seat and began whistling along with the Christmas melodies playing on the radio. He had to admit, Christmas Eve was always best when spent with family. And he’d be home in time for Mama’s Christmas Eve dinner.
As he pushed beyond the gray tentacles of Los Angeles into the vertical green of the mountains and valleys that surrounded his home, he felt the long trip’s tension slide off his shoulders like rocky boulders. Chicago seemed a million miles away. An hour’s drive out, he turned off the main road to an obscure side road, barely fit for travelers. Those with money and sense kept to the main road that led to plush resorts and well maintained camping grounds. Only the adventurous few ventured along these roads that wound past small townships and farms and through forests of white fir, cedar and piñon, ponderosa and Jeffrey pines. He knew the names of all the trees and vegetation. It was, after all, the family business.
The road angled sharply, then dipped lower as he entered the familiar lushness of the valley he called home. It had rained recently; the road was slick and black sage lent a purple hue to a whole mountainside. The rain-scented wind stung his face and he could taste its sweetness. Michael drove steadily down the same road that, years ago, he’d driven trucks along from the Mondragon nursery to the yards of California suburbia.
Memories passed through his mind like mile markers as he drove by familiar landmarks of his youth. At a favorite lookout point, Michael slowed to a stop and turned off the engine. Dusk was setting in; the birds were calling. From his high vantage point, the valley lay spread before him as open and lush as a willing woman. He breathed in deeply, his chest expanding. Damn, but she smelled sweet, too.
Deep in the valley, the dark vegetation reached up to the sky, as though to grab the pale evening clouds that hovered low. “The hems of the angels,” he’d called them as a child. Michael had always felt that at this languid hour, at this mystical spot, he was within reach of heaven.
He sighed, running his hand through his thick hair. So many old memories stirred. It was here that he first found love in the cab of a Mondragon truck. Here that he’d made his decision to defy his family and take the Harvard scholarship. Here that he’d sworn that someday he’d leave these mountains and never return.
And he did leave. His life in Chicago was more than the few thousand miles away from his Mexican-American family. It was a world apart. Yet there lay the irony. Why was it, he wondered, that no matter how far he traveled or how much he changed, when he returned home he slipped back into old, familiar patterns? He knew that when he drove through the Mondragon gates, he would no longer be Mr. Michael Mondragon who’d graduated magna cum laude from Harvard, who’d earned a hard-fought-for position at a well connected architectural firm in Chicago, who’d billed more in one year than his father dreamed of billing in a decade. No, in a few moments more he would be poor little Miguel, the brooding outcast who’d dared to leave the family fold.
His large, manicured hands molded over the gearshift, tightening in resolve. He’d worked too hard,
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