The girl’s black eyes shone, and two dimples twinkled in her olive-tinted cheeks at this praise.
After she had looked at the pottery a few minutes longer, Jo Ann asked haltingly, “Do you know when the men are coming for your ollas?”
“Sí,” the girl nodded, her long black braids swaying with the motion. “They tell my papa they come mañana.”
“Mañana,” Jo repeated to herself discouragedly. That was the most indefinite word in the Spanish language. It might mean tomorrow, and it might mean any time in months to come. “Do you mean Friday?” she asked.
“Sí, Friday.”
“What time?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe in the morning; maybe in the afternoon—I do not know.”
“What time did they come last time they bought your pottery?”
The child shook her head. “I do not remember.”
Just then the girl’s mother appeared in the doorway and smiled broadly on recognizing Jo Ann and Peggy.