Blood and Oranges James Goldsborough (best romantic novels in english txt) 📖

to build new and better lives in the new and better place called Los Angeles.

Letters, many with offerings, pour in praising the Rev. Mull, praising the show and praising Angie l’Amoureux.

“A lesson for every girl in the country,” the letters say.

Willie shows Angie the letters.

“It won’t be long now,” he says.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day, at Oildale, outside Bakersfield, a roughneck named Johnny Perkins pauses while driving rivets into a derrick and shouts across the steel framework to a colleague:

“Hey Gil, I picked up this church broadcast last night. Girl in the cast’s got your same weird last name . . . any relation?”

Part Two

Chapter 12

Cal wasn’t supposed to be there. Sometimes when he was working late at the temple he would spend the night with his father at Sunset Tower, but he always let him know. This time, he hadn’t had the chance. Maggie called to borrow his apartment at the last minute, and when he couldn’t reach Willie he just headed for Sunset. He had his own key. Maggie was engaged to an Army Air Force pilot transferred to Honolulu, and Cal had no trouble vacating his apartment for a day or two when he came back unexpectedly. He didn’t like Harold, though it was nothing personal. Harold had encouraged Maggie to take up flying. She was dangerous enough on the ground, quite frankly, lucky to be alive.

He was lounging on the couch with a book and a beer when he heard a click in the lock, then voices, one of them female.

No . . .

From a distance, he’d seen her before. Sometimes he would walk from the second-floor business office into the upper tiers at the temple to munch a sandwich and watch the noon rehearsals. Full-dress rehearsals meant choir and organist and for a really big show the orchestra would come in. Even from the high tiers, Angie’s shapely, lithe body, even cloaked head-to-toe in immaculate white, stood out. They called her Sister Angie now, and she was doing some preaching. She was the new star. He was on his feet in a second, stupidly smiling, wishing he could instantly evanesce.

“Oh,” said Willie, flustered, “Cal, I had no idea. You didn’t call . . . “

As his father blathered away, Cal observed the young woman he’d seen only from on high. Pretty, petite, not much make-up, short brown hair fluffed, dressed in a red and blue checkered cotton blouse and swishy dark skirt. Bare legs. Nothing white to be seen. She was nubile and girlish and devilishly sexy, and Cal did not know what to make of it. His father’s flustering could not erase the hint of a smile on her lips. She is younger than I am, Cal thought. She held his gaze until he looked away. In all his years with his father, he’d never found himself in such a situation.

“Sorry, Dad,” he said. “Maggie called at the last minute, Harold came in. You’d already left so I figured I’d just come over and—well, I think I’ll be leaving.”

“Don’t even think of it,” Willie said, improvising. “We’ve got scripts to go over. The guest room is yours. Everything is fine.”

The guest room was his? Did the girl know that? Scripts? Everything was not fine. With Angie wearing not much in the way of clothes, they’d surely not come home to go over scripts. They could have done that at the temple and in any case, it was nearly eleven and they’d likely already been to dinner. His father’s color suggested wine, but maybe it was embarrassment. Or anticipation. He looked to Angie, who was still watching him. The image of her naked in his father’s bed passed his mind.

“You two excuse me a minute while I take off my coat and tie. Get to know each other.”

“Can I get you a beer?” Cal asked.

She shook her head, moved his book from the couch and sat down. She’d not yet said a word. Was she his father’s girlfriend? Was it possible? He’d had no idea. Chun hua, his Shanghai amah, passed his mind. He seemed to remember them in bed together, though how could he since he was a baby? He’d never thought of that aspect of his father before. He would gladly have sat down next to this fetching girl but couldn’t because she’d come home with his father. He had to get out of there.

“You sign the checks,” she said, finally breaking her silence, scrutinizing him. “How come we’ve never met?”

His brain was sending messages to leave, but his body was not reacting. He detected the smell of lilacs. Plumeria? Enchanting.

“I’m a bookkeeper. I rarely get off the second floor. Sometimes I sit up in the tiers to watch rehearsals. I’ve seen you.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” She was studying him, noticing the marks on his face. “You don’t look like Willie.”

He sat in a chair. “They say I look more like my mother. She was blonde, I’m told.”

“A sad story. You caught the fever.”

“He’s told you?”

“Of course.”

She’d kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up under her. She was completely composed, not a trace of embarrassment. “Of course,” she’d said. How much had Willie told her? How many times had they been here? Her skin was creamy, not olive like Willie’s, but not light like his own. He wrote Angie l’Amoureux on her checks, but she was Sister Angie in the glass cases outside. French Canadian, maybe. He doubted that she was much over twenty-one.

“Angie, what can I get you?” Willie said, on his way to the kitchen. In the bedroom he’d fallen to his knees, prayed to Augustine, who alone understood. He desperately wanted to make love to this woman, but why was Cal there? What did it mean?

“Dad—I’m off.”

“No, you don’t have . . .”

He caught himself, nodding, stopping in mid-sentence, as if to say, yes, we both know you have to leave. He’d changed into moccasins and cardigan, feeling better after his prayers.