Angel Falling Softly (6 page)

Two more were now arriving. Late thirties or early forties, she guessed. The man still preserved some of the athletic slenderness of his youth. His wife was attractively dressed in peach, a bright blue sash tied around her waist, tight enough to show her figure.

Milada observed them from her comfortable perch in the wicker chair, standing only when they climbed the steps to the porch. “Milada Daranyi?” said the man. He extended his hand. “I’m Bishop Forsythe. This is my wife, Rachel.”

Milada shook the woman’s hand as well. She said to the bishop, “You don’t wear a collar?”

It took him a second to parse the statement. He said pleasantly, “The Mormon church is run by a lay priesthood at the local level.” He thumbed the lapels of his jacket. “Everyday business attire.”

“Not every day.” His wife smiled.

“And when you are not being a bishop?”

He handed her a business card. Milada motioned to them, “Please.” They sat on the bench against the porch railing. She returned to the chair and examined the business card. “Zions Bank?” she said, a touch a surprise in her voice.
So you have a real job then?
the question meant. “You must be kept busy, running a church congregation at the same time.”

His wife laughed, “You can say that again. I’m counting the days.”

Milada decided at once that she liked her. She seemed determined not to be just another desperate housewife. If that was why he married her, then that made him a smart man as well. “Then it is a temporary position?”

“Five years on average.”

The bishop’s wife asked, “And what brings you to Salt Lake, Milada?”

“I run a capital management fund. We’re exploring investments in the area.”

They both nodded.

After a little more small talk, the bishop and his wife got to their feet. “Well, we’d better get going.”

“Oh,” the bishop’s wife said, remembering something at the last minute. “Milada, we’re having a few friends over tomorrow night. It’d be nice if you could join us. It’ll be an informal affair. How do you feel about barbecued chicken?”

“I feel fine about it.”

“If you’re not busy, why don’t you come by around seven? We’re up the street a block and around the corner, 445 Willow Way.”

Milada said, “I assume this will be a backyard affair. May I ask what direction your backyard faces?”

Rachel did not understand the relevance of the question. Then her husband said, “East. The backyard faces east.”

“Very well,” Milada said pleasantly. “I shall look forward to it.”

R
achel drained the marinade from the chicken breasts. The doorbell rang. “Laura!” she called out. “See who it is!”

A minute later her daughter walked into the kitchen with a curious look on her face. “There’s this
lady
at the door.”

“What? Oh, that must be Milada. Invite her in.” She shooed her daughter out of the kitchen with dripping hands.

She heard the front door close, footsteps in the hall, Milada saying, “So this is your family then?”

Milada must have noticed the genealogy of photographs on the wall.

“Yeah,” said Laura, with no great enthusiasm. “That’s Grandpa and Grandma, my mom’s parents. When we were in Maine last year. Mom and Dad. Me and Jennifer. She’s seven years younger than me.”

“And the dragon?”

Rachel smiled to herself. Nobody could miss the bright purple reptile crouched over the picture frame. “Barney Junior,” they called him.

“Oh, yeah. Jen’s in the hospital. It’s one of her guardian angels.”

“Her guardian angel? I hope she gets better. And what is your name?”

“I’m Laura.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Laura. My name is Milada.”

Laura said, “That’s a weird name.”

Her mother winced. Milada answered pleasantly, “It’s Czech.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“I’m from Romania, but a long time ago.”

They entered the kitchen. Rachel said, “Hello, Milada. I see you’ve met Laura. Sorry I couldn’t come to the door, but my hands are full.”

Milada was holding a broad-brimmed fedora reminiscent of Ingrid Bergman in
Casablanca.
She was wearing a gray jacket over a blouse and matching slacks. Sensible shoes, gloves, sunglasses. A parasol was tucked under her right arm.

She needed some place to put them.

“You can leave your things on the piano in the living room. Laura—”

Laura showed Milada to the living room. When they returned, Milada had removed her sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of her jacket. Her high cheekbones gave her face a catlike appearance. Her eyes were the clear color of rain. Her shimmering white hair, cut short and brushed even with her ears, was white down to the roots, as were her eyebrows. The conclusion struck Rachel forcibly:
she’s practically albino.
Hence her concern about the light, the direction of the yard. The previous evening on the shaded porch of her house, it hadn’t been that obvious.

“Anything I can do to help?” Milada asked.

Rachel was afraid she’d been caught staring. “Why don’t you get that other plate of chicken.” She pointed with her elbow at a glass pan next to the stove. As Milada picked up the pan, Rachel was seized with a vision of marinated chicken spilling down her suit, which she didn’t think came off the rack at Dillard’s.

“Laura, get the back door.” She said to Milada, “Careful, it’s a step down.”

The bishop was holding court with Brent Millington and Tom Forbush at the GrillMaster 550. His apron was illustrated with a silkscreen of a Deer Crossing road sign bent across the hood of a pickup, with the words
The buck stops here
stenciled underneath. A Christmas present from Carl.

“Ah, the main course,” said David. He was cooking hot dogs for the Millington kids, who were already running low on blood sugar. He picked up the tongs and announced, “All right, who wants one?” A boy and a girl ran over. David plopped a hot dog into a bun for each of them.

Brent Millington said to the boy, “Go ask your brother if he wants a hot dog.”

The kid ran off, chewing the end of the bun. A few seconds later, a pudgy, round-headed kid came shambling over. The whole Millington family was large. Big boned, with big appetites to match. Rachel could not begin to contemplate the Millingtons’ grocery budget.

“Here you go, Andy,” said David, serving up another hot dog.

Rachel and Milada placed the chicken on the table next to the barbecue. David began laying the meat on the grill. “David,” said his wife, “why don’t you introduce our guest?”

“Yes, of course.” He rapped the tongs on the edge of the grill so as not to fling marinade at his audience. “Tom, Brent, this is Milada Daranyi. Milada, this is President Forbush.” He indicated the man on his right, a graying executive type in his late fifties. “And this,” he said, putting his hand on the shoulder of the ox-sized man to his left, “is Brent Millington. And his four kids.” He gestured at the yard.

“President,” she said to President Forbush. She shook his hand.

“Call me Tom.”

David said, “Tom’s the president of our stake.” He explained, “A Mormon stake is akin to a Catholic diocese.”

“Also a lay position?”

President Forbush nodded. “I work for FranklinCovey.”

“And Brent here’s a produce manager at Smith’s.”

Milada shook his hand as well. It enveloped her own.

“What brings you to Utah, Milada?”

“I represent Daranyi Capital Management. We are considering some investments in the area.”

“Daranyi . . . ” President Forbush thought about it for a moment. “That wouldn’t be a division of Daranyi Enterprises, would it? Covey did some work for DEI a few years back. Training and orientation for the Blackhaven buyout.”

Milada remembered as well. “Small world.”

Rachel broke in. “Enough shop talk. I’d like to introduce Milada to your better halves.”

That was when Troy Ellis arrived. Rachel had to stop and remind herself that she
had
invited the elders quorum president the week before. Reluctantly.

“He’s going to think we don’t like him,” the bishop pointed out.

I don’t,
his wife thought. She wasn’t sure why. He struck all the wrong chords with her. He was too—something.
Too Mormon.
Like Hugh Nibley’s quip about people who thought it was better to get up at six
A.M.
to write a bad book than at nine to write a good one. That’s how Troy struck her: the first one up in the morning with nothing to say.

“Because people like Troy
need
a calling,” David had explained. “Busy hands, and all that. Besides, he’s good at it. Zeal is preferred to knowledge in some cases. There’s a lot to be said for just getting a thing done on time. He turns in the best home teaching stats we’ve ever had.”

Rachel was glad she wasn’t a home teacher.

She managed to make it to the picnic table with Milada and say hello to Doris Forbush and Charlene Millington before Troy strode up and introduced himself. He couldn’t have helped but notice Milada. Even in the shadowed backyard, she looked like she was standing center stage under a spotlight.

“Hi. I’m Troy Ellis.”

“Milada Daranyi.”

“You new in the ward?”

Milada gave him a bemused look. Rachel said, “She’s renting the Lindstroms’ place.”

“That’s right! Are you moved in okay? That’s great. What brings you to Salt Lake, Milada?”

She didn’t have to answer. The bishop called out, “Troy! Priesthood powwow.”

Troy’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry, I’m being paged. Hey, don’t you go anywhere.” He ambled over to the barbecue pit.

Briefly, across the patio, David caught his wife’s eye and winked. Rachel was sure Milada saw it too. She found herself blushing with chagrin at the obviousness of the maneuver. The four women resumed setting the table. Plastic knife, spoon, and fork, paper plate, paper napkin, paper cup.

Doris said, in as offhand a manner as she could muster, “Forgive me for asking, Milada, but I’m intrigued by your name. It certainly isn’t common around these parts.”

Rachel winced again. She didn’t think uncommon things in New York City provoked such a constant need to be commented on. She said by way of apology, “Doris is the ward genealogy specialist.”

Unperturbed, Milada replied, “I was named after the daughter of a gentleman by the name of Boleslaw the Cruel, a pagan who murdered his Christian brother on the steps of the cathedral.” She went on setting places as she talked. “No little irony that Boleslaw’s son went on to establish the Bishopric of Prague. His daughter became abbess of the Benedictine order of Saint George.” Milada paused. Then she said impassively, as if reciting a lesson learned long ago at her mother’s knee, “And thus do the children atone for the sins of the father.”

Doris obviously hadn’t expected this level of detail. “Well,” she said, “that’s certainly an interesting story! Your parents must have been quite the historians.”

Milada smiled a small, knowing smile. “No, but in their time it was like it had happened only yesterday.”

There certainly wasn’t much more they could add to the subject. Charlene asked Rachel, “So—are you going to teach school this year?”

Milada said, “You teach school?”

“Substitute teach. But not this year.” Not while her daughter was in the hospital, she meant. She called out, “How are things looking over there, guys?”

“Almost done.” David waved.

She said to Milada, “Why don’t you help me get the rest of the food?”

In the house, Laura was sitting on the couch in the family room reading a paperback. Her mother said, “Laura, put down your book. We’re ready to eat. You can take out the punch.”

Laura responded with a groan, but she set aside the book and slouched up the steps to the kitchen. Her mother opened the refrigerator and took out two pitchers of pink lemonade and set them on the counter. She handed one to Laura. “Here you go. Don’t spill it.”

Laura sighed. “I won’t spill it, Mom.”

Rachel glanced at Milada and was relieved to see that she was amused by her daughter’s angst-ridden attitude. After Laura left the kitchen, Milada said, “I have the feeling you wish to keep some distance between Troy and myself.”

“I’m just afraid he’ll try to convert you before the night is through. He can be awfully persistent.”

Milada smiled. “That’s about the least of my worries when it comes to men. Usually all they’re interested in is my phone number.”

“He might want that too.” Rachel handed Milada a green Tupperware bowl, Charlene’s tossed salad. She got the potato salad, tucked it against her hip, and grabbed a bag of potato chips off the top of the fridge.

David rationed out the first round of chicken and threw on a few more hot dogs for the kids. Sister Millington herded her flock to the picnic table. Laura was curled up in one of the deck chairs, reading her book. Her father said, “I guess we’re ready to begin. Laura, put down your book. President,” he said to President Forbush, “could you offer a blessing on the food?”

“Certainly,” said President Forbush. He folded his arms and bowed his head and blessed the food to their health and strength. Rachel silently added:
We ask thee to keep the cholesterol from clogging our veins. We ask thee to keep the cellulite from collecting on our thighs.
Lastly, he asked a blessing on Jennifer.