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

with the view from Malibu to Catalina was the beautiful painting that no one ever saw.

The showdown with Summa was coming, coming even though nobody knew what Summa was, not even Howard. They, it, whatever it was, had taken over the building on Romaine Street and was writing letters to everyone signed by names she’d never seen before, always with the comment underneath: “(for Howard Hughes).”

It was nonsense. Summa was acting on its own to sell Hughes Aircraft and turn Playa del Rey into Karl-Marx-Allee because Howard wasn’t there to stop them and no one could find him and it wouldn’t matter if they could because Howard was crazy! Mel Cobb said Howard had become like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, Howard’s favorite movie: Remember me for what I was, not what I am. At first he’d thought Howard loved the movie because of Bill Holden, another old pal, but it wasn’t that at all. It was Norma Desmond, who was a wreck.

If all of that wasn’t enough, then guilt came and took up residence.

Why should she feel guilty about her mother and daughter? Maybe she hadn’t been the best daughter, but Nelly hardly noticed. As for Didi, she was unhappy so they sent her off to Bel Air and Westlake so she could be happy with bisque dolls and charge accounts and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. She, Maggie, did it. Terry didn’t know what to make of this sulky little thing but would have made it work. Why did life have to be so messy? Easy to blame the parents for everything, but that only works for so long. After a while, it’s on you.

But was guilt such a bad thing? Maybe guilt is like pain, a necessary warning that something is off and needs fixing. If it’s your body you seek medicine; if it’s your conscience, you make amends. Maybe guilt helps you back onto the right path: the oil wells destroy the coast, but lead to the Mull Foundation, which brings back the beaches. Los Angeles was even trying to make amends with Owens Valley for stealing its water. You defeat guilt by making it useful. It was too late to make it up to her mother, but maybe not too late for Didi.

There would be no guilt and no amends over Playa del Rey because Summa would not get away with it. They had not torn down the Mull oil derricks to replace them with Summa concrete. They had a letter from Howard stating his intentions, and Howard, not Summa, owned the land. Howard’s signature on the contract with the Mull Foundation was his real signature, not the forged signature of those who were drugging him to death so they could take over everything he’d created when he was gone.

When he was gone . . .

She wondered: Did he have a will?

Chapter 43

She was neither the most popular girl at Westlake nor the most popular Tri Delt at UCLA. She was too shy and self-absorbed to make friends easily. She had a circle of girls who were more or less like her, but it was a small circle. Didi’s strong suit, though not necessarily with females, was that she had become a striking young woman. Like her mother, she had dark hair and dark eyes and a perfect Garbo face. She was as tall as Maggie with a body that men liked to watch. She’d had small roles in school plays at Westlake and dreamt of playing Eliza in Shaw’s Pygmalion, but her drama teacher never would have taken the risk. She was fine in rehearsals, but could not act in front of an audience. He’d seen other girls like that. It was a pity, for Didi was a joy to look at, but the stage is no place for anyone with a fear of failure.

Her picture dancing with Kenny van Swerigen had been prominent in the Times society feature on the debutante ball at the Bel Air Country Club. Didi was radiant and Kenny handsome in his white dinner jacket. Finally, Nelly had a girl at the ball. She didn’t worry about Didi’s shyness. With all the things happening to their bodies, teenage girls are often like that. She’d been shy herself as a girl. She couldn’t have been prouder of her granddaughter, so hard to imagine this statuesque beauty as the fussy, stuffy, knobby-kneed little thing Maggie dropped off to live with her years before, whose feet didn’t quite reach the floor at the dining room table. She’d been such a careful little girl, so afraid of making a mistake, of saying something dumb or wrong. Westlake had been just the thing and Delta Delta Delta the perfect sorority at UCLA. Boys were attracted to the Tri Delt house like hummingbirds to honeysuckle.

For Didi’s UCLA graduation, Nelly planned a cocktail party. There was a dance at the club on graduation night, but the following Wednesday was perfect for something more intimate. Sixty invitations was not exactly intimate, but with Didi’s sorority friends and Nelly’s studio crowd it was the absolute minimum. Kenny van Swerigen had to be invited, though Nelly was not keen on him. He was polite and cute in his tuxedo and at least taller than Didi, but the boy was so very bland. Kind of Iowa bland, as she remembered back, people moving around silently in the sitting room with a dull look on their face like they were still out there with the cows. Kenny came from a good family, in the country club and Blue Book and the Junior League because Bruno van Swerigen was head of psychiatry at the UCLA School of Medicine. Didi had known Kenny forever, but Nelly saw no oomph in the boy.

She hired Lester Jones whenever she entertained. Eddie had found him years ago, God knows where. He had to be fetched each time for he lived in Watts and didn’t drive, but Ralph, the chauffeur, knew the way.