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

V.A. She’d given the pastor a few pages of notes, and he had a kindly, preacherly way about him when they met that made her feel better and think maybe a little more church would do her good. She’d talk to Nelly and Didi about that. It couldn’t hurt them either.

Arriving early, she walked the chapel, grateful for the solitude. The casket was closed. She knew how little was in it. She’d been with them when they reached the plane. The flowers were at least half from Hughes, who was not coming, to her great relief. Hymnals and prayer books in place, the organ ready, nothing to do, she went outside to wait. The sweet fragrance of flowers, mostly gardenias, came out the door to mix with the fresh smell of grass and touch of sea air drifting in from the bay. Cal, coming up the steps, gave her a big hug, and they stood alone for a minute, each one alone with memories. She was crying again. How many tears for how many warriors from how many battles had been shed on these chapel steps?

“Thanks for coming,” she said, stupidly.

“There’s Lizzie and Joe crossing the grass,” he said, waving.

Surrounded by family, she felt better. “I thought you might not come alone.”

“Angie?”

“You’re seeing her.”

“I’m staying with her for a while.”

Up the hill, men were coming out of the vet’s home and starting down toward the chapel. A few nurses pushing wheelchairs were the only women in view. If the men had women they wouldn’t be in the home, would they?

“Staying with her?”

“Her ex is out of prison.”

Maggie stared. “And . . . ?”

“It’s better this way.”

“I thought they turned down his parole.”

“They did. Twice. He served his full sentence.”

Her mind went to Willie. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Till it blows over.”

She’d asked Nelly and Didi to come early, but saw no sign of them. Lizzie had invited her to stay with them in Brentwood, stay as long as she liked in Robby’s empty room. She declined. Better at home, get over it sooner, go riding mornings, walk on the beach. She needed to be alone. Anyway, Lizzie was returning to Chicago the next day.

The chapel was filling when the long black sedan started slowly up the incline from Wilshire. She was annoyed. She’d specifically asked that the hearse not arrive until after the service began. She wanted a celebratory service, not a morbid one. She’d asked the pastor for uplifting passages. But it wasn’t the hearse, it was Nelly’s black Buick with Ralph at the wheel. She watched as the car stopped and Ralph dashed around to open the door, first for her mother, then her daughter.

They came up the path, Didi nearly as tall as her grandmother. Nelly was dressed suitably for a Santa Monica funeral, which is to say you knew they were mourning clothes but someplace else they might pass for something else, the chiffon dress not quite black enough and maybe a little too airy, a little too short. Her mother always had nice legs. Didi wore subdued gray, a clingy wool dress Maggie had not seen before. She was a pretty girl already with signs of a figure. They looked like mother and daughter, and Maggie felt a surge of affection for them both. They kissed, Maggie holding her daughter close for a moment, feeling the sprouting body before Didi pulled away. She had an odd look on her face, not so much mournful as sullen. Maggie had seen the dismay on her face when she’d told her. She’d called Nelly on the phone from Tucson, but told her not to say anything, that she’d come over to tell Didi in person. Come at teatime, said Nelly, and I’ll have Iris bake a cake.

They’d sat in the living room with Didi still in her navy Westlake skirt and white polo. Tea and cake were set out on the low table by the sofa. Nelly served. Didi sensed that her mother did not have good news. It was hard. Maggie saw shock when she told her. The girl’s head sagged. Was it anger? No tears, just a little choking sound, and she got up and went to her room, Lizzie’s room. “Keeps things in,” Nelly said. “Good student, her teachers say, but shy. Not popular, but then you weren’t either, were you? Not with girls, you weren’t. I don’t know where it comes from, certainly not my side of the family. Dr. Lambert says she’s acrophobic.” Dr. Lambert went back with the family a long way, all the way to Santa Monica Hospital.

“Acrophobic—with two pilots as parents. Is that possible?”

“Well, where did your daredevil side come from? Certainly not from me or your father. Or Lizzie’s literary side for that matter.”

Maybe it hadn’t been anger on Didi’s face, but blame: blaming them for flying, blaming them for leaving her alone, for sending her away.

But she’d wanted to go to Bel Air!

“Front pew right,” she whispered to Nelly and turned to watch them disappear inside, walking slowly, erect, looking straight ahead. The pastor had already gone in. Lizzie, Joe, and Cal followed. She greeted one more guest, and that was it. She stood alone, looking out toward Westwood, back toward Wilshire.

How many times had they passed this place on their way to the beach? She felt the rush of life swirling past. Already past forty and yet still the girl screaming into the wind from the back seat of the Chrysler as Nelly made the turn down toward Rustic Canyon, always too slowly, always too cautiously. How can life slip away so fast while things like the chapel remain constant? As a girl she’d wondered about this building, the pretty white-clapboard chapel with steeples and cornices and balustrades, none of which fit with the rest of the grounds, like dropped into Westwood from New England by accident. So many years, so many deaths.

Lizzie was still with her, thank God, dear Lizzie, so