Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

anchor at Playa Vista, to be the industrial hub of our new community? You’ve heard of Wonderworld? Trevor Bonfeld, founder of Wonderworld, the boy genius of Hollywood, has joined us. We’re planning a press conference in a few days. Imagine that. Wonderworld will be the centerpiece of our new city. Just like Hollywood was the centerpiece of old Los Angeles. Get out of the way, Cal, before you are run over.”

Chapter 47

It wasn’t easy to find him. He’d vacated the house in Brentwood without a word and without a forwarding address. Lizzie had come home from work one evening, and Joe announced, “he’s gone, packed his suitcase and decamped.” They assumed he’d moved in with Dominique, and if they didn’t know a thing about Dominique, including her last name, it wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d been as mysterious about her as about the job he’d taken. They’d seen Dominique exactly once, at Didi’s graduation party, and Cal was the only one who’d had a chance to talk to her. The only communication they’d had from Robby since his departure was the letter from Summa, purportedly written by Howard Hughes.

Lizzie hadn’t worked at the Times for three decades without knowing her way around the city. She wouldn’t go through Summa, so she went through the post office. Robby had filed a forwarding address from Brentwood, and after a few calls she had it. Curiously, his house was not only close to Uncle Willie’s second church on Beverly, it was also just off San Vicente—the Los Angeles San Vicente, not the Brentwood one—the house itself on a street called Dorrington, a name not that different from Brentwood’s Barrington. Funny coincidences that she was sure didn’t mean a thing. Aside from his curiosity about Eddie Mull and his estate, Robby had never shown the slightest interest in family history.

Unannounced, she arrived early on a Wednesday evening. Robby was a creature of routine, and there was a good chance of finding him home. It was a pretty little street of Spanish stuccos not that far off the Strip but quiet and neighborly under spreading Ficus trees. She parked in front, walked up and rang. She’d hoped that Dominique would be out, but it was Dominique who opened the door. Surprised, she stood a moment speechless, then smiled and welcomed her. “Mrs. Morton, it’s been so long.”

Lizzie put her hand out. “Hello, Dominique. And please call me Lizzie. I was hoping Robby might be home.”

A screen door at the rear opened, and she saw him looking in. He stood at the door a moment, advanced, blinking behind his horn-rims. “Mother, anything wrong?”

They stood there like adversaries, across the room at ten paces, Dominique looking on. In the brief moment Lizzie had with her before the screen door opened, she’d looked closely, remembering back to the one time she’d seen the girl at Bel Air, just before being called away for the horrible week in Watts. Even in simple skirt and sweater, she was stunning, with long dark hair put up in back and a figure that reminded her of Maggie. She had a reserve about her, a vulnerability that Lizzie suspected appealed to Robby as much as her appearance.

“Nothing wrong, Robby. I was hoping we might find a few moments to talk.”

He hesitated, then said, “Sure, come out into the yard.”

“Would you like something to drink Mrs. Morton”

Lizzie touched the girl’s arm. “I’m fine, honey, thank you.”

She crossed to the screen door, which Robby held open, and they went into the garden. Dominique did not follow.

She’d been into dozens of houses like this over the years, houses she’d come to think of as old Los Angeles, though few went back further than the twenties. They lined both sides of streets like Dorrington with their white stucco facades and red tile roofs, all one-story, usually with two windows onto the street. There’d be a postage-stamp lawn and sometimes a hedge or picket fence in front for those who liked privacy. The back yards were never much, big enough to toss a ball around and hang the laundry. Rear hedges or wooden fences separated one row of houses from houses the next street over. Robby’s backyard consisted of untended grass and a fruitless apricot tree that needed trimming. A redwood table and chairs where he’d been working sat in the mottled shade of the tree. The house was clearly rented.

“Have a seat, Mother. What’s this all about?”

The Mulls were never big on outward displays of affection. Maggie had come back from France kissing people on both cheeks, but it hadn’t lasted. Lizzie always assumed it was the Presbyterian way, something careful about it, unsure, never demonstrative, even in church. Even Uncle Willie, despite his preacherly gifts, had not been a kisser. An occasional hug, yes, when they were children, but that was it.

“It’s about us,” she said.

She waited a moment, watching him shift in his chair, obviously uncomfortable. Late twenties, hair receding slightly, Joe’s myopic look behind horn-rims, physically unexceptional, socially difficult but mentally at the top of every class. She wondered why she felt so awkward in his company. The grass underfoot wasn’t all that different from the grass in Brentwood where she’d crawled around with him when he was a toddler. Those were good times. She remembered him sitting under the bitter orange tree, sucking on that sour sap. He would make faces but go right on eating, unphased. She didn’t see enough of him then, she understood that now, but had loved him as much as if she had. It went by so fast. And they sent him off to school as parents have been doing forever. What was so wrong with any of that?

“Dominique is lovely,” she said, drifting. “I’d forgotten.”

He took off his glasses, and she recognized Joe’s myopic look. “You didn’t come here to talk about Dominique. How did you find me, anyway?”

She ignored the question. “Robby, we don’t want this quarrel to end up in court.