“Fine. I should have known better than to think you and Antioch would know when you were beaten. Bring your clients over to our offices Friday morning. Make it around ten o'clock. I'll have a few representatives from our side on hand. You can make your pitch for a settlement. Again." seem

Two days later, Josh Sunderman arrived home in a drizzling rain. He pulled into the long driveway, careful to keep the trailer hitched to the back of his truck from straying off the black asphalt and onto the grass of the Lawn.

He turned off the engine and sat for a Long moment in the cab, frowning at the rusty Toyota which shared the driveway with his Ford. He had deep misgivings about this trip. Rachel had hurt him too badly in the past for him to think that everything was going to be unicorns and rainbows when he returned. His former wife had a deep conservative streak which made her reactions to his work problematic. Despite her respect for how he earned a living, she simply did not understand what drove an artist. The need to push boundaries. To help people see the truth of their inner selves.

Well, you're here, he sighed to himself. Unless you want to turn around and drive back down to Peru, you're stuck here, at least until after

Memorial Day. Best get to work.

He opened the front door and hung his leather jacket on the rack in the foyer.

“Hello?" he called.

“Anyone home?" Rachel, he knew from a conversation earlier in the morning, would be downtown at the firm most of the day. But he had thought at Least one of the kids would be home.

“Hello?" came an unfamiliar voice from the living room. He heard someone walking towards him, the tap of shoes on the hardwood floor coming rapidly closer.

When the figure came into view, his eyebrows rose, startled. Before him was a Hispanic woman of startling beauty, holding a can of furniture polish in one hand. Perhaps twenty-five years old, she was dressed in a faded pair of hip-hugging blue jeans and a cut-off shirt which showed a generous amount of her flat brown stomach. Large, firm breasts pressed into the cloth of her shirt, and her eyes were dark and Lustrous.

Coarse black hair was woven into a thick braid which reached nearly to her waist.

“Who are you?" he asked, then paused, startled by how rude the words sounded. He continued, somewhat more politely.

“And what are you doing here?"

“Iam Maria," she said in a lovely, lilting accent.

“I clean for Senora Wainwright." Her eyes narrowed at him suspiciously.

“Who are you?"

"Oh," he said.

“I'm sorry. Rachel told me she had a maid helping her out these days. I just didn't expect you to look like...well, like you do," he finished lamely, gesturing at her outfit. He cleared his throat and offered his hand. "I'm Joshua Sunderman. Rachel and I used to be married. I'm here for the weekend to visit and see the kids."

“Ah, Senor Sunderman! I should have remembered," she said, taking his hand firmly.

“The mistress said you would be here today. But I forgot.