Roddy had donned his normal casual attire, though tonight he wore a more upscale version, a silky white guayabera shirt and well-pressed dark blue slacks. Still, he felt a bit odd at sight of the more formally dressed servant who answered the door.
"Señor Rodman?" the stiffly precise man inquired with a virtually expressionless face. He was Tarascan, an Indian from Patzcuaro, noted for their cool, reserved nature.
"That's right," Roddy said. "I'm here to see the Señora."
"Please follow me."
He led Roddy into a large foyer illuminated by a cascading crystal chandelier that glistened like a waterfall reflecting the morning sun. Off to one side was a large sitting room tastefully furnished with comfortable sofas and chairs. Colorful pottery, bronze sculptures of racing charros and a large oil painting of a torreador added a distinct Mexican flavor to the room.
As he was admiring the artwork, Roddy heard a throaty voice behind him. "It was nice of you to come, Colonel Rodman."
He recognized the voice on the phone. She spoke almost flawless English, with just a hint of an accent. He was told it resulted from four years spent at Bryn Mawr College in Pennsylvania, plus many visits north of the border in subsequent years. While an undercurrent of anti-Americanism ran through the Mexican elite, and most educated their children in Europe, Elena Castillo Quintero's father had been involved closely with the U.S. in business and chose an American school for his daughter.
When he turned to greet the Señora, he was struck by the thought that General Wackenhut had, if anything, understated her attractiveness. Knowing the tendency of most Mexican women to dress in a manner that men would not take as an invitation to flirt, he was somewhat surprised at the colorful, revealing outfit. Not that he objected. He loved it. But it was certainly unexpected. He was intrigued by the flower in her long, black hair that matched the shade of her lipstick. Her eyes were a dark brown with a mirthful quality that matched the hint of a smile on her expressive lips.
One feature of his post-crash outlook was a predisposition for what might be called the politics of the attainable. He no longer had any interest in shooting for the stars or grasping at some slightly out-of-reach brass ring. He did what could be done comfortably and had no regrets. However, despite the divorce, he had clung doggedly to the hope that one day he might return north to straighten out the mess he had left behind and win back Karen's love. Remaining faithful to her had not been all that difficult since most of the temptation here had taken the form of an abundance of shapely young tapatío beauties he encountered about the city. They were nice to look at but untouchable. They stirred no real passion.
Elena Castillo Quintero was a rose of a different hue. He saw in her a stunning, sensual, fully matured beauty who was not much younger than himself. Thinking about it later, he was not sure whether it had been a reaction to all the exposure he'd had to Mexican machismo, or if it was simply a case of his repressed sexuality boiling to the surface, but at that point he turned on the old Rodman charm that had made him the life of the party in his Air Force heyday.
"It was nice of you to invite me," he replied with a smile of true admiration. "I'm really flattered. You have a fabulous place here, Señora."
"Thank you, Colonel Rodman. Please have a seat."
She sat on a floral print sofa and Roddy took a matching chair beside it.
"I'm sure the idea of my coming over was to give you an opportunity to check me out," he said lightly.
"Check you out?"
"You know, make sure I'm the kind of person you'd want to expose your ladies to. Frankly, I wasn't all that keen on the idea at first. But I've been thinking about it since we talked this morning. I'm really getting excited. I hope you don't change your mind."
"I'm delighted, Colonel. I have no intention of changing my mind. And you may be sure I did not invite you over to sit in judgment. I merely wanted to get to know you and to tell you something about the group, so you might feel more comfortable with us."
"Thanks. I appreciate that. Oh, and about the rank. Since leaving the Air Force, I've made a point of becoming just plain Roddy Rodman. You can drop the 'Colonel'."
She nodded and replied with a smile, "I, too, prefer informality. But with the ladies, I think it best to call you Colonel Rodman. Most of the group are somewhat older than we are. It will be quite impressive for a handsome American aviator colonel to speak to them. Could you wear your uniform? From what I hear, you must have a chest full of ribbons."
Roddy rumpled his brow. "Sorry. I left all my uniforms back in the States."
She shrugged. "It was just a thought."
It suddenly occurred to him that she probably was not aware of his tainted past. But what if someone else in the group were to recognize the name and raise some objection? It pained him to think that this lovely, congenial lady might become embarrassed because of him. As much as he hated the prospect, he knew he had to tell her.
Roddy rubbed his hands together and stared down at them for a moment, then looked squarely into Elena's eyes. "You've been very gracious in asking me to speak and in inviting me here tonight," he began, a troubled look on his face. "I have something to confess that may change your mind. I don't want to risk the possibility of your being humiliated because of it."
She frowned. "What are you talking about? What could humiliate me?"
"I was the pilot of the American helicopter that was shot down over in Iran back in 1991. You may recall the incident. The Air Force claimed I made a horrendous error that caused the disaster. I was court-martialed. That's why I took my retirement and came down here."
She was silent for a moment, a look of concern on her face. "Did you make the error?"
"No. I recently found out who did, but I can't prove it."
"Who was it?"
He would love to see Wing Patton's name spread across front pages from Maine to California, but he could not see that it would help matters now to tell the Señora. "Without the proof, I'd rather not say. One day I hope to be able to."
"This had nothing to do with the Persian Gulf War, did it?"
"No."
"Then I see no problem. If anyone should bring it up, I will simply say that it has no bearing on the experiences you will be discussing in your talk. You were not dismissed from the service or you could not have retired. Correct?"
He nodded.
"Then we shall forget it." She smiled again, dismissing the painful subject. "By the way, Roddy, I'm told your Spanish is excellent. Where did you learn it?"
He felt oddly flattered when she used his nickname. And with the court-martial unceremoniously swept aside, he relaxed and leaned back in the chair. "Hey, it's not all that good, I'm afraid. Hopefully I won't offend any of your friends. I guess I have a knack for languages, though. I studied Spanish in school, then took some extra courses later. I was stationed for awhile at Torrejon, Spain. Then I've had a brush-up course down here in Mexican Spanish. And, to broaden my background, I've done a bit of reading on Mexican culture."
Her smile brightened. "Then you must see some of the art my father collected." She got up from the sofa, then suddenly pressed two slender fingers against her chin in a gesture of contrition. "Where are my manners. Would you care for some coffee?"
"Yes, thanks. I never turn down coffee. It's one of my weaknesses."
"You will have to tell me about the others sometime," she said with a mischievous grin as she walked across to the foyer. "Manuel," she called. "Would you please bring us some coffee?"