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

marine layer had hung around longer than usual that morning, but by the time Lizzie threw on a skirt and sweater, picked out a beige scarf and set out down Wilshire the sky was a brilliant blue. Joe was at Culver Studios for the day, Robby away at boarding school, it was her day off and she was looking forward to lunch with her sister. They talked on the phone more than they saw each other, though they tried to get together with husbands every few weeks, usually in the bar at the Westport. Despite their differences, Terry and Joe were amiable men who enjoyed each other’s company. They spoke in a kind of male code that used little nods and frowns more than actual words. Joe was deeply political but kept his views in his writing. Terry was apolitical. Didn’t matter that one was a war ace and the other a pacifist. So they drank and smoked and kidded each other and talked about old times and basked in the good fortune of being married to talented and attractive sisters who were suddenly rich. Life could be worse.

Lizzie was waiting when Maggie handed the keys of her silver Porsche to an eager valet at Jack’s and started up the steps. Beneath them, waves sloshed against pylons sunk deep in the Ocean Park sand. Farther out on the pier, they heard the swoosh of the roller-coaster.

Lizzie watched her coming. “Silk, n’est-ce pas? You look gorgeous.”

She wore a jade silk blouse over cream slacks and a Hermès scarf in turquoise and beige showing a Paris bistro. She’d let her dark hair grow out into a medium updo. No jewelry, just a Rolex. To their mother’s chagrin, the sisters had never cared for jewelry. Maggie’s diamond ring from Arnaud stayed in its box. Lizzie felt almost disheveled next to her elegant sister.

“You tend to overdo things when you get out of a jumpsuit.”

With wrap-around windows looking out across Santa Monica Bay, Jack’s was as popular for lunch as for dinner and already nearly filled. Lizzie knew a little cove above Paradise Cove beyond Malibu and searched the horizon as they were led to a window table. Joe was not a beach guy, but enjoyed the isolation of the cove. They would park a mile or so back, trek across sand and ice plant and down a steep hill to the water. They’d never run into anyone. Joe would take out his notebook while Lizzie sunned and swam. The cove was her day off.

The waiter, whose platinum blond hair and Indian skin showed he was a surfer, offered menus and filled water glasses.

“What if we ordered a half bottle of some nice little white wine,” said Maggie. “I’m not flying today.”

“I recommend a Sonoma Sauvignon blanc, ’56, in half bottles,” he said, staring at Maggie. “Slightly chilled. Perfect with the abalone, which is fresh today.”

“I’ll have the abalone,” said Lizzie, closing the menu.

“Sautéed,” he said, “fresh from Catalina. Might have caught it myself. Comes with a light oyster-ginger sauce.”

“Since you caught it yourself, make it two,” said Maggie, smiling nicely for the young man. “And green salads.”

“And so how is everything?” Maggie asked when they were alone.

“You’ve heard we have a new boss.”

“On the front page, how could I miss it—the golden boy, the dauphin.”

“Otis has been well brought up. Extremely polite. Scared to death of his mother.”

“So Mother will be running the paper.”

“As if she hadn’t been.”

The waiter poured the wine. Maggie raised her glass. “Here’s to Otis.”

They clinked. Maggie smiled, happy she’d come, happy to be alone with her sister, happy to be out of overalls and jumpsuits and jeans and feeling elegant again. It didn’t happen often. “I gather we’re here to discuss business. So what’s on your mind?”

“Money. Do you know that except for Robby’s school, which the bank handles directly, we’ve not touched one cent of the estate. Joe thinks there’s something evil about it.”

Maggie smiled. “Does he know how Dad made it?”

“Do we know how Dad made it?”

“Oil and real estate.”

She laughed. “And . . . and . . .?”

“We don’t talk about the other stuff. We haven’t touched it either. I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Terry has no interest in money, just planes.”

“Anyway, here’s what I’ve been thinking. It’s silly to leave all this money sitting in the bank. We have husbands who don’t want it and children who don’t need it. So what if we set up a foundation?”

“What’s a foundation?”

“Like Rockefeller, Ford, Carnegie—foundations that give money for good causes.”

“Oh, come on . . . Dad was never in that league.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Together, we have about $40 million—and that’s before the Venice sale.”

“Do foundations even exist out here?”

“In San Francisco they do, where all the gold rush money settled. People in Los Angeles like to hold on to their money. Like Dad. We might be the first.”

“A foundation to do what?”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss.”

The waiter dropped off salads and French bread. Starting away, he spun back to Maggie. “Excuse me, I have to ask: Are you a stewardess?”

Lizzie smiled. Maggie fought an impulse to tousle his pretty blond hair. “Now what makes you think that?”

“I heard you say you weren’t flying today.”

They burst out laughing.

The waiter’s tan darkened a notch. “Did I say something funny?”

“Dear boy,” said Maggie, “did anyone ever tell you that you are darling? Now bring us that abalone before I do something I shouldn’t.”

“You’re such a flirt,” Lizzie said when he was gone.

“Stewardess? Might be fun, no? Maybe Howard can get me a job at TWA, which he owns. Cute red dresses and little hats with feathers. Paris with long layovers. Pilots who look like our waiter. Anyway, back to business. You’ve been thinking a while about this foundation thing, haven’t you?”

Lizzie was looking across the bay, letting her eyes run up into the Malibu hills. “I have a question for you: Have you ever heard of May Rindge?”

“I read your story.”

“It was