Blood and Oranges, James Goldsborough [spicy books to read txt] 📗

restaurant. If you get lost, just ask. Everyone knows La Golondrina. It’s been there forever. I’ll meet you in half an hour.”

“I’ll be there.”

She was as gorgeous as he remembered, though not quite so blooming. Her dark eyes fixed on you with a startling openness. An alluring girl, not joyful but easy to like, probably easy to love, serious, fragile, not someone to be frivolous with. She wore a gray worsted suit, of all things, well-tailored, far too proper for lunch on Olvera Street. Travel clothes. White blouse with a simple gold chain around her neck. No rings. Carried a small black purse. Feminine though not stylish. Dark hair pulled up in back. People watched her as she stood alone outside the restaurant. She looked exhausted but put on a pretty smile for him. They shook hands. He was moved by her without knowing why. Something in her of Angie, the young Angie, courage and vulnerability. What was this fragile flower doing with the brute who called himself Ram?

The waiter led them to a table. He thought briefly of margaritas, but they ordered iced tea and a fajitas plate for two. The waiter put down salsa and a basket of chips. Still quiet, no mariachis in sight, thank heaven. She’d thanked him outside for coming, but hadn’t said much else. He smiled. He didn’t know what else to do. Despite seeing Robby professionally, he knew nothing of his private life. Robby was a mystery. So was Dominique.

“Union Station?” he said. Again the shy, silent smile. “Checked your bags?”

“Bag.” The iced tea came. She took a long sip, glancing at him over the rim. For some reason he was starving. They took their time at Golondrina, thus the chips and salsa. “The train’s not until two-thirty.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

How could she know when the train was leaving if she didn’t know where she was going? Something strange going on, but not coming out. Maybe the fajitas would help. He ate some chips and salsa, wondered again about margaritas. He didn’t want the iced tea. She was eating, too. Good sign, he thought. Hot salsa to burn out the truth.

“I wonder if I should be doing this,” she said, hesitantly. “I was staring at the departure board, asking myself what train to take, and it struck me how silly it was to come to Union Station and not know where you’re going. I looked around at people dashing in every direction, everyone with a destination—north, south, east.” She tried a little smile. “Obviously you can’t go far west. I needed someone to talk to. I thought of you. Just looked up the Sierra Club in the book and here we are.”

Lovely smile, but so sad. Odder and odder, he thought. Why couldn’t she talk to Robby? Or friends or relatives? How long had they been together? And no one to call but me who she’s met once in her life and that time at a party years ago. He decided not to bother her with questions. Let her tell it her own way. There was something moving in her sad manner.

“Why you, you’re wondering, but who else? I couldn’t call Ram’s mother, not on something like this.”

Like what, he wondered.

“They don’t talk anyway. In fact . . .”

She started a thought and abandoned it, taking a sip of iced tea instead. He waited.

“Then I remembered how nice you were to me at Didi’s party. So sad about her, isn’t it? And then there’s the fact that you and Ram have been in contact, that you have influence with him. He doesn’t talk to his mother or dad anymore, but still talks to you.”

He didn’t bother to say that the only reason Robby still talked to him was that they were antagonists in a long and difficult legal proceeding. As for influence, not a chance. She probably knew that anyway. Or did she? Did they talk to each other? He had no idea of her relationship to Robby. Apparently, they were still together. How long had it been? Surely someone would have heard if Robby had married. And there would be a ring, wouldn’t there?

The fajitas came, a big plate of carne asada with vegetables and frijoles and side dishes of peppers and cheese and a smaller plate of tortillas covered in a linen napkin.

“You first,” he said and watched her start filling and wrapping the tortilla. He could see she was hungry. When she’d finished, he started on his own plate.

“It’s hard, Mr. Mull, hard for me to do this.”

The eyes were brimmed, but tears were not yet falling.

“It might be easier if you’d call me Cal.”

She nodded. “You’re Ram’s kin, but also a stranger to me. It’s just that I had to tell someone. I couldn’t just get onto a train to nowhere without at least trying to talk to someone in the family.”

Train to nowhere?

“You were absolutely right, Dominique.”

“You’ve probably guessed by now that I’m pregnant.”

He looked quickly up. No, he hadn’t guessed, not at all, the thought never having crossed his mind. A woman might have guessed. He hadn’t. Pregnancy would explain the suit and jacket, but so would the train. It certainly didn’t show. The changes he’d noticed were in her face and demeanor, not her figure.

She took a bite. He did the same. Golondrina supplied knives and forks but you don’t eat fajitas with knives and forks.

“I guess that’s why I’m so hungry.”

Silence fell as they ate. He had no idea what to say, the things coming to mind all ringing false. He obviously couldn’t tell her that everyone in the family was sick about Robby, that no one trusted him, not even his father, who’d made excuses for him until running out of excuses. She clearly had a reason for calling him beyond commiseration. Hungry or not, she ate delicately, carefully taking little bites, dabbing at her mouth. He remembered how Robby ate, ravenously, sloppily. What did she see in him? She looked up