Jay’s letter lay open on the night stand, where she had left it. She reread the sentence: "Montenegro may not be as clean and innocent as he claims, but he may not be as bad as POCI claims, either." Had Jay lied to her? Did he think she was too stupid to see through it? Or did he really believe his family friend was a misunderstood, benevolent dictator. POCI's files bulged with documented human rights violations in Santo Sangre, a catalog of horrors perpetrated against anyone--men, women, even children--who caused temblors in the solid rock of the national status quo.

Leah didn't know what influences had affected Jay's thinking and political judgment during the intervening years. I'd love to interrogate him now, she thought, imagining a one-on-one confrontation in which she asked tough questions and demanded straight answers.

Interrogate? That's pretty strong, Leah. Well, so what? There was a great deal she wanted to learn about the situation in Santo Sangre. She expected Jay, as Montenegro's personal representative, to fill in the blanks. If he doesn't have convincing answers, I'll send him packing in one big hurry. Her facial muscles tensed with anger and disappointment at the thought that her former friend could have switched over to the enemy's camp. Still, when Leah recalled the luminous clarity of his gaze, the integrity--sometimes bullheaded and maddening--of that inner spirit, she doubted he had knowingly entangled himself in Montenegro's web.

Part of her, the professional, looked forward to Jay's arrival. Perhaps she could rescue him from his involvement with the old de Córdova patron. Leah the woman dreaded his coming. Her life had a nice, gentle rhythm to it. Between her children and her work, she had plenty to occupy and challenge every waking moment. When she needed an occasional break from parenting and "saving the world," as Teddy called her work, and wanted male companionship, a handful of good friends delighted in taking her to dinner and a night at the theater.

With Walt now dead, Jay was the only man she knew, with the ability to shake the foundations of her neatly ordered world. He had done it once before, with disastrous results narrowly averted. She acknowledged the possibility it might happen again. Unless he's sold out to Montenegro. Then, there's no way we'll ever find a common ground of friendship again.

Friendship. The word didn't seem adequate to encompass what she and Jay had experienced. Her search for a better word sped her thoughts racing back in time. We started out as coworkers. Then, we became friends. She recalled how she had struggled to hold their relationship on that safe plateau . . . .

* * *

The months of what Santo Sangríans called autumn (the temperature rarely dipped below eighty) that year of 1973 found Leah immersed in the life of the villagers of Santa Teresita. She shopped in the open marketplace at the center of town and visited people's homes, where she felt the sincerity of their "Bienvenidos."

What Leah enjoyed most was working alongside and getting to know the curate of Santa Teresita Parish. One afternoon, she took a shortcut through the church yard and heard Father Javier call her name. For a moment, his voice defied location.

"Up here!" He was high on a ladder in jeans and a T-shirt, caulking a window in the side wall of the church.

"Oh, hi!" Leah waved back and continued on her way to the staff residence.

"Wait! I'm coming down." He descended the ladder, two rungs at a time. In seconds, he stood at her side, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a red bandanna pulled from his back pocket. "I need a break. Join me for a soft drink?"

Leah followed him through the back door of the rectory and into the kitchen. Having never visited the priests' residence, she felt uneasy. To her, it was an extension of the church sanctuary. Both were unfamiliar territory.

"Regular Coke or Tab?" he called from the pantry.

"Tab, please."

He nodded toward the table by the window. Leah sat, her back rigid against the chair's wooden slats. Father Javier dropped ice cubes into two glasses and poured. Only the few wealthier families in Santa Teresita could afford refrigerators. Although her own residence had one, it surprised her to find a fridge in this house.

Reading her thoughts, Father Javier said, "One of the little luxuries of the priesthood." He sat opposite Leah and slid a frosty glass across the table. "The people say we deserve it, because we've given up so much. What do you think?"

It was hard to tell whether he believed it himself or found the notion as ludicrous as she did. She engaged his Anglo-Latin eyes. "It's your life. How you feel about it?"

The priest turned away to stare out the window. In that fleeting instant, with the window of his soul flung open, Leah discovered a shocking truth. Shock soon melted into sadness. In addition to the obvious appeal of his dark good looks and shy charm, she found in him a kindred spirit that transcended differences of upbringing, religion, and culture. For all his devotion to his people and dedication to his ministry, she recognized in this man the villagers called "Father" a displaced person, like herself.

This revealed truth had nothing to do with refrigerators or priestly privilege. Father Javier himself seemed unaware he had left the vault of his secret inner self unlocked. Both she and this good and honorable man, this spiritual leader of his people, this thoughtful pacifist and preacher of nonviolence were waifs. Separately, they wandered the earth in search of a permanent home--a place where they belonged. This recognition more than anything else drew Leah into the mystery that was Javier de Córdova. She reached across the table and laid her hand on his bare forearm. "I know," she whispered.