Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (latest books to read txt) 📗

family lived in a nineteenth century hôtel particulier on the rue las Cases just behind the church, where the reception was held. Cal could not have known, but the bridegroom’s family was as upset as the bride’s, though civilized enough not to show it. The Scitivaux were not provincials and would have been just as annoyed at Arnaud’s marriage to a French girl. It was not a good time for weddings. Not all the bridesmaids were as upset as the family, and Cal ended up on a couch in the library with one of them, entangled in the poor girl’s crepe chiffons.

Three times in three years Europe had dodged war with Hitler, though at the cost of considerable self-respect. The sentiment was that Hitler would continue advancing until someone stopped him, and that someone would have to be, as it always was, France, perhaps with help from England, though you never knew with the English. The French and British hoped Hitler’s next target after Czechoslovakia would be Soviet Russia, but he had other ideas. In a few months he would sign a peace treaty with Moscow.

Cal spent April Fool’s Day, 1939, on the Santa Fe Chief rolling west through Kansas and Colorado. In Albuquerque, he got off long enough to buy a newspaper. He sensed it would be a terrible year but could not have guessed how terrible. He’d stopped worrying about Maggie. When they said goodbye at the Gare St. Lazare she’d never looked so happy or so beautiful. His thoughts had rolled back over the years, back to Bel Air, back to the stables at Playa del Rey, to poor Billy Todd, to the night she walked away from Harold and never looked back. Maggie could take care of herself. He was proud to have her for a cousin.

As the train traversed the Mojave, his thoughts turned back to his own life, knowing he’d been changed as much as Maggie by Europe, knowing he could not go back to being an accountant, at least not for long. If a new cataclysm swept across Europe, would America be next? We’d tried to escape the first time, ultimately dragged in, suspecting it would have been better to be in from the beginning. Roosevelt had made clear he did not intend to stand by and let Hitler conquer Europe. Congress wasn’t with him, but where did the people stand?

Where did he himself stand? He was about to turn thirty. He sensed big changes coming.

Chapter 17

Hands on the sink, Angie gazed out over the ocean. Behind her the smell of coffee spread from the kitchen through the little sala toward the bedroom. It was the best way to awaken him. From where she stood she had a clear view as far as the jagged island on the horizon. “Cómo se llama?” she’d asked at the little store where they’d done some shopping. Isla San Martín, they said. Very good fishing at the isla just in case la señora and her marido wanted to rent a fishing boat. They had come for the fishing, verdad? Angie had turned a ring over to resemble a wedding band.

She spoke Spanish whenever she went to the store, spoke it with Willie, too, Memo, as she called him, short for Guillermo—and they took her for one of them, which she was, though her mother was from the other side of Mexico, near Vera Cruz. I could stay in this place forever, she thought. Well, maybe not forever. Too many years of a strict father, bossy brothers, nasty husband, men always telling her what to do. She needed someone gentle like Willie. During the day she wore a little shift, and her feet already were so hard and black she didn’t need shoes. Willie admired her feet because his pink ones couldn’t take two steps on the hot sand.

Hers was a loving family, but more than anything it loved Jesus. All that talk about sin must have worked because we turned out well enough, she thought. They hated me for running away with Gil but when they find out I’ve returned to the church all that will change. I’ll see them again. I know I will. You don’t just walk away from your family, not forever you don’t. Children run off all the time, but families come back together. Jesus brings them back.

She took off the percolator and poured a cup. Mexican coffee, from Chiapas, strong and black. She went back to look out at the island again. We’re not running away, she’d told him; we’re leaving until Gil is gone. What would be better, Willie, tell me, tell me. I saw he was scared, scared but listening, something at work, his lips moving, and I knew he was praying. He lets Jesus make up his mind for him. The whiskey helped. Where, where, he kept repeating? I said anywhere, up the coast, Carmel, San Francisco. Anywhere. Then I said Mexico.

Mexico! That’s what did it. He wanted to see where Abuela Isabel was born, “I never have, you know.” He said abuela, the Spanish word, and we started speaking Spanish and laughing. As children we spoke Spanish with Mamá at the rancho, he said. After a little more whiskey I knew he was ready. We talked about Mexico all the way down. I slept some and missed the border but he woke me coming into Rosarito. We saw horses on the sand and fishermen shoving off in their little boats. He’d been up all night and was starving. The sun was just up when we pulled into the Rosarito Beach Hotel, walking through the lobby hand in hand, Willie in rumpled clothes and me in a skirt and blouse. People might have wondered, but maybe not. They say that if you posted the names of all the Hollywood couples that have shacked up at the Rosarito over the years, the gossip columnists could fill books.

In Ensenada, I inquired at Propriedades Gomez while he went for