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stopped when I realized I wasn't alone.
    She realized it at the same instant and turned to look at me. She was seated on one of the chaises, legs up, in profile to me, but she immediately stood, a tall striking woman who was all bronze and black; bronze skin, black one-piece bathing suit, large black sunglasses, thick black hair pulled back through a glittering bronze figured circlet. She spoke to me in firm aristocratic Spanish, telling me that whoever I was, this was not my proper place.
    I gaped at her, partly doing my Ernesto number and partly just gaping at her. I don't know if she was beautiful, but she was certainly dramatic, with a firm jawline and strong nose and full-lipped mouth and the tall lean body of a swimmer to go with that bathing suit. She was one of those women about whom it is impossible to guess the age; surely over thirty, most likely under fifty, but who could know?
    I had no idea who she could possibly be, but I thought I should get out of her way so, maintaining my blank expression, I began to nod my head and back toward the house door I'd just come out.
    But then she abruptly shook her head, and her expression changed. Her whole body language changed, from sternly authoritarian to casually dismissive. Bending one knee slightly as she turned a fraction away from me, she said, in English, "Oh, you're the one the cousin married."
    Who
was
she? Could Cousin Carlos possibly have a mistress who looked like this? (She certainly seemed as though she ought to be
somebody's
mistress, but the somebody should be a high-ranking government official, at the very least.) Was she another cousin, from a loftier realm of the family than I'd so far met? Or possibly an important local woman, waiting for Carlos, here to hit him up for a charitable contribution to something or other?
    In a bathing suit? And why the switch to English? And what did she mean when she said I was the one the cousin married? Did she mean Lola? Does she
know
what's going on?
    She frowned at me, and no doubt I was still wearing the stupid expression, honestly earned, because she shook her head and said, "Oh, come sit down out of the sun." Then, turning away to spread herself out again on the chaise, she said, "The mustache is a good idea."
    I moved forward until I was in the shade under the awning, but I didn't feel comfortable enough to sit. I said, "I take it I'm not Ernesto Lopez at the moment."
    "Is that the name?" Seated there, one long bronze leg stretched out on the white waterproof cushion of the chaise, the other knee lifted, she looked up at me appraisingly through the sunglasses. "Why not?" she decided. "Ernesto Lopez. And the clothing is good, that's what confused me. How are you, Ernesto? I'm Maria."
    Maria. I should have remembered having heard the name, but I was feeling a little flustered, not knowing if I had to worry that my secret was out, my security compromised, my cover blown. So I merely stepped forward closer to her, stuck out my hand, and said, "How do you do?"
    She took the hand, and hers was firm, maybe a bit too much so. Looking up at me, amused, she said, "You have no idea who I am, do you?"
    And then I did.
Maria.
Maria was Carlos's wife, up in Caracas to see her dealer and now home. "Oh, for God's sake," I said, as she gave me my hand back. "I'm sorry, I've been a little… distracted."
    She laughed, a musical sound, if throaty, and said,
"Do
sit down, Ernesto, you're giving me a crick in the neck."
    "Sorry." I was saying sorry a lot; I
must
be rattled. I pulled the foot of a nearby chaise closer to her, so we'd see one another at an angle, and sat. "This is a beautiful place," I said.
    "Thank you," she said. "We brought most of the furniture from Ecuador. You know Carlos used to manage the bottling plant there."
    "Is that where you're from?" She had almost as little accent as Lola.
    "No," she said. "Argentina."
    "Way south," I said, thinking,
We've gone directly into cocktail party chat.
    But then she said, "How did