When in Rio Read Free Page B

week and a half of working closely to prepare for this trip, and during those portions of the twelve-hour flight when we were both awake. None of those stories, however, suggested fluent Portuguese would figure into his background. Granted, I had never specifically asked whether he spoke it, because it had never occurred to me that he might. But I was still a little surprised that he hadn’t told me.
    Jack just chuckled and had the grace to look a little sheepish. “My college roommate for about three years was Brazilian. We’re still friends actually. He’s from São Paulo.”
    “Does he still live there? Could he bring us our luggage?”
    “What, aren’t you having fun shopping? On the company dime?” He ducked under the awning of a little sidewalk café and snagged a table for us out of the sun, raising a hand to get the attention of the waiter inside. “I ended up spending quite a bit of time here in the summers, and after we both finished undergrad I stayed with Mario’s family for a while and we just sort of hung out, really. Bumming around the country. Gave me a chance to network with some people Mario’s dad knew, then there was an internship and eventually I started doing some field research down here. Actually, I did all the work for my thesis in the Amazon. I picked up a few things.”
    “A few things? Just a mineral water, please,” I said to the waiter, who seemed to have no trouble with my English. Jack ordered a beer, to my surprise, and then looked back at me with a cocky, smug smile. He even raised one eyebrow, which he often did. It always drove me slightly nuts.
    “So aren’t you having fun shopping?”
    “What? Oh, of course I am. I mean it’s Rio, on the Copacabana, a company credit card. What’s not to write home about?”
    “Hmm. You’re planning to write home?”
    “No. I prefer to keep that air of mystery.” For a split second I carried it off with a straight face, but then a giggle broke through. “I take digital pictures of everything , everywhere I go in the field—or whatever this counts as—and then I do a big photo essay, a scrapbook sort of thing, and e-mail it to all my family and friends. Just the first time I visit a place or if something unusual happens. Usually it’s plants and animals, but this time I don’t have much wildlife to show yet.”
    I pulled out my digital camera and showed an amused Jack the shots I’d already managed to get in the limited time we’d had. There was the view of the beach as we drove up to the hotel, Sugar Loaf in the distance. The one really good, unobstructed view we’d had so far of the Christ the Redeemer statue in the distance. A lone pigeon pecking at some sort of wrapper on the sidewalk near the base of a streetlight pole and a few shots of Jack’s amazing hotel suite. Oops. I tried to flick past the shot of Jack, whom I’d snapped from the back as he leaned out over the balcony admiring the ocean view while I had been inside, also admiring the view.
    “Hey, go back, go back. What’s this?”
    “Do you want me to send you a copy?” I tried to dissemble, as he took the camera from me and clicked around to find the shot again.
    And then I realized he was looking at me with those eyes, with that smile creeping around the corners of his mouth. “You can make a special edition of your photo essay just for me,” he finally said and advanced to the next shot, which was a broad view of the avenida we were sitting next to, featuring the sidewalks with their geometric-patterned tiles. The last photo in the series, I thought, taking the camera back…until I clicked the arrow one more time, thinking it would return me to the main menu, and saw a photo of myself trying on the red dress. In the picture, I had just come out of the dressing room and was turning and looking over my shoulder to find the mirror.
    “We need to get moving. We still have some things to get done if we’re going to finish in time for a nap before the thing