Demon Lover by Kathleen Creighton Page A

action.
    She had no trouble locating Geraldo’s hut, where she had suffered such a humiliating defeat the night before. The child was playing in the dust before the doorway, pushing a small wooden truck over highways only he could see and making the uninhibited engine noises only a child can make. At Julie’s approach he hopped up, converting the truck instantaneously into an airplane, and ran down to the beach to the accompaniment of a truly amazing jet–engine roar. After watching him for a moment Julie reached into the hut’s dim interior to rap on the open door and call hesitantly,
"Hola, Rita. Con permiso…"
    "
Buenos dias, Señorita
," a soft voice replied, then added in laborious English, "Please come in." Looking as pretty and normal as she had the night before, Rita came forward, wiping her hands on her blue–jeaned thighs and smiling shyly.
    Julie smiled back and held out her hand. "
Yo hablo español
," she said, and was rewarded by a broad smile of relief.
    "That’s good—my English is terrible. But you speak Spanish very well for a Norteamericana. How did you learn such good Spanish?"
    Julie murmured evasively, "I need it in my job," and turned to the table. So Rita, at least, had not been told who or what she was.
    "Of course," Rita went on with a shrug, bustling ahead of Julie to pull out a chair, "Señor Chayne speaks Spanish like a native." She threw Julie a swift look full of the curiosity she was too reserved to voice.
    "I hope it isn’t too late for some breakfast," Julie said apologetically, changing the subject. "I went exploring this morning and lost track of the time. Anything will be fine— some tortillas, coffee…"
    Rita made a clicking noise with her tongue and sternly pushed Julie into the chair. "No, no, no. I will fix you a real Norteamericano breakfast. I have eggs—fresh eggs from Sebastien."
    "Sebastien?"
    "Sí, the old one, you know, with the beard?" Rita made a gesture as if to stroke invisible whiskers on her own chin. "You haven’t met him yet? He and his wife, Juanita, live here all year. They have some chickens, goats—"
    Julie interrupted cautiously. "You don’t live here?"
    "Oh, no. Geraldo and Carlos and I—"
    "Carlos? Your little boy?"
    Rita nodded, smiling. "Yes, my little rascal, you mean. We live in Guadalajara. We are only here for the summer. But here—" She clapped her hands together "—I stand here talking, and you must be very hungry, Señorita. Please, I do not even know your name."
    Julie told her her name, and Rita repeated it, making an effort to give the J the English pronunciation rather than the Spanish H. The result was a soft sound somewhere in between.
    "Please," Julie said as Rita stood repeating her name in an experimental way, "I don’t want you to go to any trouble for me. I know it’s late."
    "No, no, it is no trouble! I cook breakfast for Señor Chayne all the time, and I have gotten good at it. For a friend of Señor Chayne," she said with earnest sincerity, "it is no trouble!"
    "Then at least let me help you."
    "No, no, no. Sit down. I will bring you some coffee."
    Rita hurried to suit her action to her words, placing a thick mug of fragrantly steaming liquid before Julie, who inhaled, sipped and murmured a heartfelt "Gracias." As she watched the dark–haired woman through the rising steam, she was more than ever sure that this was the person she had to thank for the gift of the belt. Rita seemed a little nervous, but it was the nervousness of a shy but lonely person attempting to make friends.
    "I really do want to help while I’m staying here," Julie said when Rita seemed at a loss for conversation. "You must tell me what I can do."
    Rita threw her a smile as she lit the gas flame under a large cast–iron frying pan. "When the men return from fishing, there will be work to do. We will be glad for your help."
    "What kind of fish will they bring back?" Julie asked, visualizing a noxious afternoon cleaning the catch.
    Rita shrugged.