He calls himself the “Artist,” and he has decided that the Baja Peninsula in Mexico will be his final stop. His masterpiece is nearly finished, but he needs at least three more donors. He walks over to his closet and starts rummaging through the piles of sketchpads containing likenesses of people he has known. Why is he keeping this rubbish? There is nothing here he can use for the project he has undertaken. His goal is quite different now. He is building a face rather than sketching it, a face that keeps niggling at the edge of his consciousness. Sometimes he dreams the face. Sometimes it flashes into his mind for only an instant, and then disappears. Not one of his sketches has ever come anywhere near it. But his need to identify it has become an obsession. He scoops up the sketchpads and dumps them all in the trash and immediately feels a weight lift. All that is left now is to identify the face.

His accomplishments give him a sense of satisfaction as he views his samples from Germany, Japan, Italy, and Australia. But now it’s time to move on to Mexico. He removes the mosaic portrait from the wall and puts it into a flat case with a handle. It pleases him that the face he’s creating is representative of different countries and races of the world. "I am the Artist," he whispers to himself.

As usual, the line at the electric company was way too long, and she was asking herself why she had decided to pay bills on Monday at a Mexican utility office. Annie Scott sighed in resignation and waited for her turn. She scanned the line ahead, and, in this country of short people, especially those her age, one man caught her eye. He was the stuff fantasy was made of—tall, well-built, graceful, and his hair looked soft and springy. He was not only Mexican, but a member of the police force—his uniform fit him beautifully—and she knew better than to give him more than a passing glance. He was undoubtedly married, had been married since he was a teenager, with at least two or three grown children and several grandchildren. Just because he seemed to be her age didn’t make him eligible. Besides, he probably had been cheating on his wife their whole married life. She watched him complete his transaction and walk past her, but turned away quickly when it was evident he was looking straight at her. She was left with a lingering pleasant citrus scent as he walked by.

Oh, well, enough of that. As soon as she had handed over her pesos and received a receipt, Annie left the building, and relished the cool breeze that caressed her skin. She headed straight for her car, not looking right or left just in case her fantasy dreamboat was still around. Ha! Fantasy dreamboat. What was she? A teenager? She shook herself and drove the 15 minutes to her home.

As a freelance writer, Annie spent mornings at her computer, writing and doing research on the Internet, her afternoons at the pool. Her latest project was an international study of children's books. It bothered Annie that American children knew so little about other countries and other cultures. Here she was in Mexico, and it never ceased to amaze her how little her friends back in Massachusetts knew about the Mexican people down here on the Baja. Even she learned new things every day. Most people, in fact, didn't even know that Baja California was a peninsula in Mexico, not part of California at all.

She looked out the window of her trailer at the cloudless blue sky and rugged mountains. Another day in Paradise. She scanned the text she had been working on and decided she'd done enough for the day. After pouring a fragrant cup of coffee, she took it outside to the patio. Two hummingbirds were having a confrontation, with each claiming the hummingbird feeder Annie had hung on the ocotillo bush in her front yard.

"There's enough sugar water for both of you," she admonished. She carried a gallon jug of water over to the shallow dish she had set into a depression in the sand and refilled it for the rest of her wildlife visitors. She leaned back in her chaise longue to enjoy the late morning, breathing in the faint scent of creosote from the bushes beside the trailer. Her dog, Rocky, lifted his head to greet her and then settled back down. He was an unusual dog because he allowed the wildlife free rein.

Annie caught her breath as a family of quails skittered through the yard and across the road. Rocky didn't even blink. Unfortunately, whatever direction they took, they would run into people. A year earlier, she had been able to look out over a desert unscathed by human habitation, but the El Dorado community was expanding so quickly that in what was supposed to remain an undefiled area, 14 houses had already been built. Several more houses were under construction in the blocks of land to the north. The saving factor was the rigid set of rules and regulations that builders must follow in order to stay within ecological boundaries. Desert flora and fauna were under the protective umbrella of the Mexican government.

Annie had been spending time on the Baja for the last ten years. She still missed Joel terribly—he had died suddenly two years earlier from a massive heart attack—but the network of friends the two of them had made at El Dorado Ranch consisted of both couples and singles, and the support they offered was all encompassing. Annie had always been independent, a trait that Joel had accepted with patience throughout the years of their marriage. The decision to finally stay year round and just fly to Massachusetts for a short visit to see the kids and grandchildren was inevitable. Annie was in her fifties, but looked younger. The ever-present sun had bronzed her, and her short curly hair was almost the color of her skin. She had always tanned easily, and her father said it was because her great-great grandmother had been a full-blood Cherokee. She went into the trailer to change into her bathing suit. A refreshing dip in the Ranch pool would be just the thing. The sudden ringing of the phone made her jump. She picked up the receiver.

"Hello."

"Hi, Annie, this is Joanie Bonds. You okay? You sound out of breath."

"I'm fine. I wasn't expecting the phone to ring, and I almost tripped over my shoe. How is the house coming along?"

"Believe it or not, it's a done deal. We're having a housewarming tonight. Finally finished the interior. Can you bring a dish to pass?"

“Certainly. What time?"

"Oh, about 5, I think. Will you be at the pool today? Mexican train, you know."

"Right, dominoes. I'll see you there."

"Great. Adiós."

Luis Martinez García was convinced the tires on the police car he was driving would be completely destroyed by the unfinished, rock-riddled road that led to the police station. He wasn’t thinking about roads. He was thinking about the unpredictable side of the human condition, especially when drink took over and too many shots of tequila destroyed common sense. He knew the man who had been shot and killed the night before, and he knew the man who had shot him. They were both Americans.

Things like that never used to happen in San Felipe. The village some years back had been a peaceful Mexican community, mainly occupied by fishermen and their close-knit families. But with the fast-growing American community seven miles north, the economy of the village was becoming more and more stable. Along with a better economy came new businesses, new restaurants, new bars, and more jobs. The fishermen still went out for shrimp and fresh fish, but their cost of living had increased along with the economy. He suddenly thought about the attractive woman he had noticed at the electric company. She was obviously American, which made her “hands-off,” but there was something about her that touched off a spark in him. She smelled good. Forget it, hombre, he chastised himself, well aware of how it would go over with his boss if he became involved with an American.

"¡Hola!, Pedro," Luis said to the officer seated at the desk. "If you want to go out for tacos, I have paperwork to finish."

"Gracias, I'll take you up on that."

Luis settled at his desk, discouraged by the forms to be filled out. His parents had left San Felipe when he was 10, and he had attended schools in California. When he was offered a position in the San Felipe Police Department, he decided to return to the Baja. He liked the village, liked the easy lifestyle, and his fellow workers appreciated his ability to speak English as the area became more and more a tourist town.

He bent over the desk and began the tedious job of reporting the details of this recent crime. His supervisor, Capt. Ramón Castillo, insisted on complete reports, and at least once a month called each officer in to his office so he could give a lecture on the importance of detail. The sooner Luis finished his reports, the more time he would have to change from his uniform to more casual clothes and drive out to El Dorado. The Bonds had finally finished the interior of their house and had invited him to their housewarming. His California upbringing allowed him to use his bilingual talents with the growing number of American residents at El Dorado. And he had established strong friendships with some of them, regardless of warnings by his superiors to avoid fraternizations with the gringos.