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

from time to time with her little smile, sad maybe, but there was determination in there, too. He liked that. After a while she stopped eating, wiped her hands gently and took a long drink of iced tea.

“Ram offered me money for an abortion,” she said, staring hard, unblinking, “but I wouldn’t take it. I don’t want an abortion. As crazy as that sounds for a single girl like me, I don’t want an abortion. I don’t know how I could possibly earn a living with a child, but I don’t want an abortion. It’s nothing religious or anything like that, just instinctive. Ram threw me out, said how could he be sure the child was his—which is absolutely untrue and unfair.” This time the tears fell. “Who else’s could it be?”

He took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and passed it to her, holding her hand briefly. Warm hand. She tried smiling again, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“I thought of you because you could talk to Ram’s mother. I thought—she’s lost her son, but might like to have a grandchild. She seemed like such a nice person, though we only met that one time at Didi’s party, the same time I met you. Actually, I saw her once after that, which put the thought in my mind.” She handed the damp hanky back to him. “Stupid of me, isn’t it, giving a baby away that isn’t even born, but I wouldn’t be giving it away, would I? Not really. I could still be there. It might work out for everyone. Just like Didi’s baby.”

She’d packed a lot into those sentences.

“You know about Didi’s baby?” he said, at length.

“I do know. I know that Eric—that’s his name, isn’t it?—is being raised by his grandparents after Didi’s death; that he apparently shows no signs of being a drug baby. How very, very hard it must be for Didi’s mother. I can’t imagine something like that. I don’t think Ram liked Didi, but she was so beautiful. I met her just that once at her grandmother’s party, and I did like her. Ram didn’t want to go to the funeral.”

He’d stopped eating, unable to take his eyes off her, so gentle, so vulnerable. “The arrangement with the van Swerigens has worked out well.” he said. “Kenny sees Eric when he can. Kenny’s at UCLA Medical School, you know. Didi’s grandma would have approved of the arrangement. Do you remember Nelly Mull from the party?”

“I do remember her.”

“A lovely woman, like a mother to me. She was very fond of Kenny. Nelly passed away you might know. Another funeral Robby missed.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Didi was clean when she married Kenny. We don’t know what happened, why she went back to using.”

“Ram said the baby wasn’t Kenny’s.”

Cal froze, his eyes boring into the girl. “He is lying.”

She dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He struggled not to say more, not to say everything he knew about the man she was living with. Maybe she knew already.

She fixed him in the eyes but did not dispute him. They sat in silence, picking at their plates. He was mad. Rarely did he lose his temper, but he could not let pass such calumny. He needed to calm down.

“You know, Dominique, in this state a woman has rights. You have lived with Robby and become pregnant by him. Any court will see that you obtain a decent settlement. Perhaps you could afford to keep the child. Robby is a wealthy man.”

“No,” she said. “No, I couldn’t accept money from him now. That’s why I thought of Ram’s mother. If Kenny’s parents are raising Eric, Ram’s parents might want to raise my baby.”

He wondered about her own parents. From the Midwest somewhere, wasn’t she? If she was breaking up with Robby why wouldn’t she think of her own parents instead of Robby’s? Why didn’t she know what train she was catching? And to where? The Super Chief to Chicago? Leaves every day at four.

“And your own parents?”

Slowly, she shook her head. She said nothing, but it was not hard to imagine: One more pretty girl breaking with her family, coming to Hollywood and getting lost. She went back to eating, her body demanding nourishment. He wondered how far along she was. Maybe it did show under the jacket. How different it was to be a woman! A woman obsesses about it, and a man doesn’t even notice. He thought of Angie, the young Angie in the swishy skirt and tight sweater. Angie always knew what she was doing. He was not so sure about Dominique.

“I’m going to order a margarita,” he said. “Would you like one?”

She shook her head. He ordered just as the mariachis came in from Olvera Street, strumming their way across the floor toward them in their gaudy charro outfits. A few other inside tables were occupied, but why wouldn’t musicians head for the table with the pretty girl? The lead guitar said something and they began singing “La Llorona.” Had they seen her tears? He wondered if she understood the song of the woman crying over her lost lover.

She caught his eye, trying to be brave, trying to let the music comfort her. Even when sad, mariachis never depress, always manage to convey something infinitely human in their laments. What kind of man abandons a woman like this; any woman in such a situation? He would not think about that; he would throw himself into his work in hopes of making a better world for the little ones hiding in the wombs of girls like Dominique. He wished she’d called Lizzie rather than him, but understood. He didn’t know how Lizzie would react to raising a grandchild, to skipping steps, as Nelly called it. No, of course she would agree. Joe, now in his eighties, would become a new daddy.

He had his own situation to think about. One way or another Robby would hear of this meeting, and how would