Lourdes Holtzhauer

) Story Statement A terminally ill woman seeks redemption from the past love she betrayed. 2) Antagonist: Outside the boundary of La Tembaldora, a valley nestled in the high elevations of Mexico’s La Sierra Madre Mountains, the poppy is cultivated. Carlota Nieblas is seventeen when the Mexican military, known as the soldados, on a mission to destroy the illegal crop, cruelly torture the local farmers and murder Carlota’s older brother Narcisio. Her fiancée, Sarapio Viscara, avenges Narcisio’s death by killing his murderers. Knowing the soldados will hang him, he escapes to Texas. Before Sarapio departs, he promises Carlota that he will return as soon as it is safe, and they will marry. She vows to wait for him. Without the protection of her brother or Sarapio, Carlota is kidnapped by a local admirer. Although she is an innocent victim, the mountain people shun her as a woman without honor. With the help of her sister Pascuala, Carlota flees from La Tembladora, swearing never to return. Two years apart, filled with hardship, tragedy, and deception force Carlota and Sarapio down different roads, shadowed by regret. Fifty years later, Carlota is a widow when she is diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer. Weeks after, she discovers that Sarapio is still alive. Carlota returns to La Tembladora on a final quest to seek forgiveness from Sarapio. The lovers reunite and pursue a second chance at love. But nothing has changed in La Tembladora. The soldados are still torturing and murdering the local poppy farmers and have become even more hostile as they hunt to capture Sarapio, who is now Mexico’s most notorious drug lord. 3) Breakout Title Current Title - LA TEMBLADORA Carlota’s Final Quest Where the Poppy Blooms After the Poppy Blooms 4) Genre Comparable: HOTEL ON THE CORNER OF BITTER AND SWEET by Jamie Ford. Lovers forced apart by uncontrollable circumstances meet again in their golden years. THE LOST WIFE by Alyson Richman. Separated by war a husband and wife go separate paths. Each believing the other is dead. Sixty years later they reunite. 5) Hook Line: After discovering the fiancée she abandoned fifty years ago is still alive, a terminally ill woman journeys back to her childhood home, a remote valley in the Mexican Sierra Madre, to seek forgiveness from the man who is now Mexico's most notorious drug lord. 6) Matter of Inner Conflict: Carlota is frail from lung cancer, but she is determined to meet with Sarapio and explain why she betrayed their love even if it means returning to La Tembladora and facing the horrific memories that forced to run. She convinces her daughter, Lorena, to accompany her on the trip. As she journeys back to her childhood home in the Mexican La Sierra Madre Mountains, the violence and humiliation she suffered resurfaces. Example from novel: At the mention of the local military soldiers, the soldados, Carlota and her sister’s voices would intensify, swear words were muffled by sobs, followed by a searing silence. Through misty eyes, Carlota would catch the silhouette of her eavesdropping daughter, and her small feet quietly retreating into her bedroom. Whenever Lorena questioned her about what she overheard, Carlota replied that “tragedies were best left buried”. But now, Lorena was old enough and should know everything about La Tembladora. The place Carlota swore she would never again set foot. From the first moment she had set her tiny feet on that cold valley floor, there had been a terrifying supernatural aura surrounding the mountain. An aura that she knew now, after living for sixty-nine years, had been a warning. Secondary Conflict: Sarapio Viscara leads a life of crime, but he tries to make amends by helping the poor. After reuniting with Carlota, Sarapio wants to marry her. But does love give second chances to a man whose hands are stained with so much blood? He agonizes about bringing the only woman he has ever loved into his violent world. He is on the run not only from the soldados, but an adversary cartel also wants him dead. Gun shots in the middle of the night at his hacienda warn him that his enemies are near, and he and Carlota must escape out of Mexico before they kill him and harm her. Example from novel: He returned the cup to the table as the stillness returned to the room. The warm liquid seemed to have stopped her hacking. Carlota pulled out a rosary from her pants pocket and began to pray. Had he been a fool to think he could bring good law-abiding people into his life? Could he keep Carlota safe if they married even in Argentina? Not completely. There would always be a price on his head. No man can erase the sins of his past. But surely, he and Carlota deserved a few years of happiness. 7) Setting La Tembladora, Mexico, is a valley nestled in the high elevations of La Sierra Madre Mountains. On the surface, its majestic natural beauty filled with flowing streams and colorful spring flowers conceals a threatening aura that Carlota has always sensed. After her father’s death in the winter of 1935, four-year-old Carlota moves with her impoverished mother and sister to this lawless community where the women are guided by a strict moral code, and the locals are quick to condemn. Outside the boundaries of La Tembladora, the pretty but illegal poppy grows, bringing prosperity to the poor and constant vigilance from the corrupt Mexican military known as the soldados. Carlota’s uncle, Teodolo Chaidez, ventures in the illegal drug trade and thrives. Knowing of the repercussions the potent flower will bring to the mountain, Carlota’s brother Narcisio adamantly opposes his uncle. But it is too late. As the poppy blooms, so does the violence.

Prologue Tijuana Mexico, 1951 Our Lady of Guadalupe Cathedral’s tower bell tolled once, twice. On a wooden park bench across the street, Sarapio Viscara’s heart skipped at the sound of each toll. He raised his eyes to the vibrant mural of the Virgin Mary standing with her hands folded in prayer above the faded red-brick cathedral’s front entrance, then stared down at the scars on his fingers suffered while he slaved in the Texas cotton fields. He clasped his hands. “Por favor, Virgencita, bring Carlota to me,” he whispered. His fate—his life—depended on the divine power of Mexico’s patron saint and the message he had left for Carlota the night before. From where he sat, Sarapio had a perfect view of the giant clock below the church bell. A black iron fence and gated entrance surrounded the park grounds. A family of five sprawled on the green grass eating their lunch. Young lovers strolled holding hands, gazing upon the pink orchids and purple irises. A couple sat on a bench holding hands, laughing as a little boy bounced on the man’s lap. Now and then, they kissed. The woman raised her hand and stroked her boy’s hair. From her finger gleamed a shiny gold wedding band. Sarapio smiled as he slipped his hand into his pants pocket and felt his and Carlota’s wedding rings. He knew the size of Carlota’s finger. Many times, he had made her a band from blades of grass twined together and placed it on her ring finger. He had fitted the wedding band on the first knuckle of his little finger just as he had with the replicas back then. It would be a perfect fit. The sun glided between patches of white clouds. He stood and felt a throbbing in his right leg. His knee had not completely healed. Two and a half days of riding on the bus had allowed for little sleep. He tugged at his hair nervously. He must be patient. In a short while, she’d be next to him. She had promised. A vast dark shadow crossed over the park, and he looked up. Murky gray clouds drifted towards him. Soon it would rain. People collected their belongings and left the park. The wind gathered speed and dark grey clouds dimmed the skyline. As the hour approached four, the time of Carlota’s rumored wedding, the ground appeared to circle beneath him. He grabbed the back of the park bench to stabilize himself. The church bell tolled four times. Carlota’s promise to wait had been her last words to him. Her sweet voice echoed in the wind, Jamás te dejaré. I’ll never leave you. The sky broke open and it began to rain. A downpour drenched his new clothes, water mingled with the tears dripping down his face. She was the only woman he had ever loved. For two years he had worked to earn enough money so they could marry. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes closed. The rain drops stung as misery infiltrated his body with an intense heat. When no footsteps approached, he glanced at the clock. It was quarter after four. He jolted. Had he been deceived? Had the message from his cousin been correct? Could Carlota be marrying another man at San Marco’s church? He hurried down the busy streets, running on the concrete sidewalks across the city, ignoring the pain in his leg as he pushed his way through the strong breeze and the large wet drops, dodging pedestrians holding umbrellas while others bolted inside the stores. The street numbers decreased; he had run twenty blocks. Sarapio’s heart banged against his chest as he gasped for air. Four more blocks. It was on the next street that he heard the celebratory sound of wedding bells and what felt like the cold steel of a knife pierced through his heart. “Virgencita—am I too late?” Chapter 1 Redondo Beach, CA. Saturday, April 28, 2001 The red roses in Carlota’s small garden sagged, their petals stunted. Next to them, the daisies begged for sustenance. Her beautiful flowers were starving from the California drought that was well into its third month. Carlota leaned on her cane, steadying her feeble legs for a few seconds. It was not wise to be walking on the cement driveway without one of her sons nearby, but the silence in the house had become intolerable. Once the strength in her legs resurfaced, Carlota picked up the water pail and soaked the ground beneath the roses and the daisies. Around the yellow center, white petals reached out in the cool Redondo Beach air. She recalled how the wild daisies laced the border where the green meadow met the stream in the La Sierra Madre. High and secluded in the massive Mexican mountain range that exhaled an air so pure it healed a human’s lungs. It had been a place Sarapio had called heaven. Such a contrast to the city that had been her home for the last fifty years. Only one large oak tree at the entrance of the driveway graced her property. The smog-contaminated air thickened with slight humidity from the much sought-after rain that was finally arriving. Her mind glided once more to a time when love had burned through her heart. They had stood in a green meadow beside the stream. Sarapio held her hands. His beautiful green eyes gleamed at Carlota. The revving of a neighbor’s car engine broke the memory. The water pail lay on its side by her feet. Her shoulders caved in as her hands gripped the cane. A half-century later and she still mourned the loss of Sarapio’s loving gaze, his touch. There had not been a day that Carlota did not think of Sarapio, but after receiving the news of stage three cancer destroying her lungs, Sarapio’s face haunted her even more. It seemed, as the time erased before her, regrets weighed heavier. But he was dead, and nothing more could be done to rectify the past. She felt the intense burden on her shoulders restrain her from standing upright. The sun slipped behind the dark clouds. The dim grey skyline, along with the humidity, promised that rain would finally come. At the end of the driveway, the large oak tree’s branches waved in the wind. It was time to go back inside. Her two sons would arrive from work in few hours. David was a confirmed bachelor, George was divorced. Both were well into their thirties and still lived with her. She was grateful for the company. Carlota rested her head on the soft cushion of her leather recliner and closed her eyes. The rain tapped on the roof in a soothing melodic rhythm. Half-awake, she floated into the past. Her name wove through the sharp whistling of an angry gust of wind. The warmth in his voice blanketed her body as she stood vulnerable in her thin cotton dress. From the midst of the forest, he called out to her once more. His quick footsteps crumpled the dead autumn leaves. “Aquí estoy,” she shouted. The sound of her voice jolted her back to the present. “A little longer,” she pleaded, “let me feel his presence.” Her eyelids, heavy from fatigue, resisted gazing directly into the rays of sunlight sifting through her living room window. The rain was gone. How long had she dozed off? She grasped the arms of the leather recliner and centered her mind to the present. Lately, it seemed she could not get enough sleep. It was the only time the aches in her tired body stopped tormenting her. After adjusting her eyeglasses back on the ridge of her nose, she turned to the clock—almost four. She watched the minute hand make a full circle. In her youth, the fading shades of daylight had been her time reference. Since coming to the United States, an electrical device was the reminder of how much time had passed. And now, how little time she had left. Six months ago, the Guillain-Barré symptoms had brought Carlota to her knees. With time the movement and the strength in her legs and arms returned. Although the pain still lingered, she had been on the road to recovery. Then as the winter ended, a persistent cough arrived and stayed far too long. In the spring, the coughing turned into fits of tiny explosions inside her bruised chest. Two weeks ago, the doctor had whispered the results over the phone. Carlota asked Dr. Serrano to repeat the diagnosis before swallowing what felt like a giant glass marble. Carlota had not told any of her children. No use in upsetting them. The daily newspaper landed like a granite stone on her cement doorstep. Pressing against the arms on the leather recliner, she slowly pushed herself to her feet. The aches in her calves surged through her thighs. She arched her back straight before opening the door and slowly bent down to pick up the paper. She had learned to read English by following the daily news. Although there were still words that drew a blank, Carlota could comprehend the gist of the articles. She flattened the paper on the oblong kitchen table and eased into a tan vinyl-covered chair. Her eyes fixated on the face above the headline in the middle of the page. Carlota clenched her jaw tight, but deep rapid breathing forced her mouth open. A hard knot formed in her throat as her age-spotted hands crumpled the edges of the Los Angeles Times. She felt her heartbeat slow to almost a stop. Imposible. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Vive,” she whispered. Chapter 2 Redondo Beach, CA. Saturday, April 28, 2001 “Mamá, who lives?” Her eldest daughter, Lorena, stood at the door. Her expensive blue dress looked out of place in the cluttered yellow kitchen. Carlota’s face flushed. “Mija, I did not hear you come in.” As she tried to raise herself from the table, Carlota’s hand jerked sideways, tipping over the glass of water by her pills. “Don’t get up. I’ll get it.” Lorena grabbed several paper towels from the plastic holder. She placed two of them underneath her grey and black python-embossed leather handbag before setting it on the cracked, yellowed linoleum counter. “Mamá, you need a smaller table. This one is too big for such a tiny kitchen.” Tearing off another towel, Lorena wiped the water from the table before it dripped further onto Carlota’s worn wool pants. Carlota followed Lorena’s black three-inch heels clicking on the tile floor. Her daughter’s sparkling bracelets matched the diamond and sapphire rings on her fingers. Large dark caramel-colored eyes peeped through Lorena’s thick dark lashes, the same dazzling eyes as Carlota’s beloved sister Maria. Neither Lorena nor Maria had benefited from their beauty, she thought. If anything, their beauty had been a curse. Carlota extended her arm to meet her daughter’s gentle embrace and raised her head for a peck on the cheek. “Mamá, you’re shaking.” Lorena stepped back into the living room, grabbed a shawl laying on the sofa and wrapped it around Carlota’s shoulders. “You’re still weak. Remember what the doctor said.” “I’m better, gracias a Dios. Mira.” Showing off, Carlota flexed her fingers. “And now, I walk without a cane inside the house.” She coughed. She studied the photo of the gray-haired man on the cover of the newspaper and leaned back. In one long exhale said, “Sarapio.” Frowning, Lorena sat down on the kitchen chair to Carlota’s left and cocked her head to one side. “Sarapio?” “He lives.” Her finger slowly circled the face in the photo. “Who is he?” “A man I once knew…,” Carlota’s voice weakened, her lips quivering from the weight of the memory, “and loved.” Lorena took the newspaper and scanned the article below the picture. “Mamá, are you sure?” Carlota nodded. “I could never mistake those eyes.” Lorena read aloud, “Sarapio Viscara has returned to Mexico to assume leadership over the La Montaña Cartel after the death of his cousin Flaco Viscara. The once-powerful drug lord is not dead, as originally believed.” Lorena wrinkled her brows and gaped at Carlota. “Seriously?” Carlota pressed her lips together and met her daughter’s gaze, wondering what she could say. There were so many things Lorena did not know about Carlota’s youth. Her voice was barely a whisper, “Poverty can force you to do many things.” Carlota knew that Lorena’s childhood had been poor by American standards, but at least her children had never suffered the burning pit of an empty stomach from days of starvation, nor the pain of frostbite from walking barefoot on a frigid winter’s day, and the impossible task of keeping your toes from touching the snow. She knew how it felt to be so utterly cold that even weeping provided no solace, and that poverty tainted your blood, defining your worth as a human being, no matter how much God had graced you with physical beauty. Most bittersweet of all, she knew that with hope, later to be blistered by unfulfilled dreams, the poor suffered even more.