Angel Falling Softly (9 page)

“Garrick promised the rest of the WMI statements will reach you by tomorrow.”

“Good work, Jane. I’ll ring you tomorrow after the meeting.”

Jane hung up. The phone intercom buzzed. Cindy at the front desk said, “I’ve got a call for Ms. Daranyi.”

“Who is it from?”

“A Mr. Troy Ellis.”

“Ellis?” Milada glanced at Karen. Karen shook her head. “Ah,” said Milada, remembering. “
That
Troy Ellis. Well—” She thought it over for a minute. The pious had always proved adept at her game. It was the historical perspective that religion provided, the willingness to believe in devils and angels. The greater the challenge, the greater the reward. “I’ll take the call.”

“Line four.”

Milada hit line four. “Good morning, Troy.”

“Milada! How are you?”

“I’m doing fine, Troy. And yourself?”

“Better that ever.” Milada could hear the sound of printing presses running in the background. He said, “I was wondering if you might be free Friday night?”

“I might well be.”

“The Utah Symphony Orchestra is playing at Abravanel Hall. They’re performing Scheherazade.”

“I have always enjoyed Rimsky-Korsakov. When does the concert begin?”

“Eight o’clock. I was thinking dinner first. How does Japanese sound? There’s a little place in Sugarhouse that has great sushi. The Bamboo Grove.”

“Japanese sounds fine. Why don’t we meet there around—”

“—around six-thirty?”

“My driver will drop me off at the restaurant, and we shall take it from there.”

“Great. I’ll see you Friday.”

“Good-bye, Troy.” Milada took off the headset.

Karen said, “You’ve got a date! Who is it? Who asked you out?” She made it sound like an accomplishment more profound than taking over a publicly traded company.

“Some of my neighbors invited me to a barbecue yesterday. Mr. Ellis was one of their guests.”

“That’s nice.”

“The curious thing is, he’s a bishop. Or maybe that’s not so odd.”

“Mr. Ellis?”

“No, my neighbor. I wonder how he got my number.”

“Your bishop?”

My bishop?
Did one have a Mormon bishop whether one wanted one or not? Milada shook her head. “Mr. Ellis.”

“Oh. Well, a good bishop can find out just about anything.”

Thursday afternoon, following a pleasant if unproductive meeting with Richard Brickey at WMI headquarters—he steadfastly refused to promise her a face-to-face with Mr. Wylde—Steven picked up Milada at the Wylde headquarters in Murray. Milada had Jane on the phone by the time the car door closed. It was six o’clock in New York, but Jane had hung around for the call.

“How’d it go?” Jane asked.

“Give Bob a holler. He’s got himself a new client. They don’t know about it yet, but lay the groundwork.”

“Are you sure you want Prince Machiavelli consorting with those nice Mormons?”

“Bob knows when to put on his family values cap. The man has that Dobson fellow on speed-dial. Or is it the other way around? He’ll know what to do.”

“He’s a son of a bitch—” Jane began.

“Yes, but he’s
our
son of a bitch.”

“About the tender offer, how soon do you want to start getting proffers from Garrick?”

“Not until I can talk to Mr. Wylde himself and hopefully prevent a hostile takeover and the predictable poison pills. But tell Garrick to get his team together and start chipping away.”

Steven exited Highland Drive and drove into the north Sandy suburbs.

A girl was walking by herself along the sidewalk, carrying a clarinet case and a backpack slung over her right shoulder. “Steven,” said Milada, “pull over. The girl we passed, her name is Laura Forsythe. Ask her if she would like a ride home.”

As Steven pulled over and stepped out, Milada watched through the tinted side window. For a brief, unbearable moment, her mind flashed back to the wet, reeking alleys winding off the Borough High Street. She remembered wending her way through the stews of Southwark, through the theater crowds at Bankside, past the brothels and bear-baiting arenas—trolling the dens and warrens for that impressionable, lost girl to bring home to Rakosi and her sisters.

Laura walked over to the limo.
God, she was trusting.
It jarred Milada. Some things, like the inherent trust of children, never changed. Steven opened the door. Laura peered in, her hair haloed in sunlight. Her face brightened with recognition. Milada said, “Good afternoon, Laura.”

“Hey, hi!” She climbed into the car. Steven shut the door behind her. Laura confided, “I’ve never had a chauffeur before.”

“Steven is a very good one.”

Laura said, “What are you doing here?”

“We are returning from a trip to Murray. Do you go to school nearby?”

“Alta High. Over there.” She pointed over her shoulder.

“I see you play the clarinet.”

“Yeah. I’m in marching band.”

“I saw Benny Goodman in his Carnegie Hall concert. That was when Harry James and Teddy Wilson were still with the orchestra. Do you have any of his CDs?”

Laura shook her head, and Milada suspected she had no idea who Benny Goodman was. Just some dead jazz guy. Still, it was fun to match wits with children, even more so than with priests. The church ladies at the Forsythes’ backyard barbecue politely had refused to take a thing she said literally, but children always believed her. She would pick out a child and stroll beside her and smile and say,
Come with me, and I will show you things, things you have never seen before and never will see again.

The child would hear her strange accent and hesitate—

Come,
she would insist,
and you shall see. My Master lives in a fine merchant’s house. He shall treat you as he has always treated me.

She did not lie. That was
exactly
how he would treat them. And so she won them over with her lilting voice and with her poisonous, compelling touch. With the promise of money or food. She would promise them the whole world, if that was what was required.
It’s a game, don’t you see?

They sang and giggled as they skipped along:
Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies—

Milada shook the melody out of her head. Her mouth tasted dry as ash. She’d left that life behind her so long ago. But the memories could still gain a powerful momentum, screaming at her out of the past. The oldest habits were the hardest to break.

The limo wove slowly through the sculpted suburban streets. Milada said, “It’s not easy being the big sister in the family, is it?”

“You have a sister? Oh, yeah, two.”

“And when one of them gets into trouble, who does your father pay his attention to?”

“Yeah,” said Laura with wry empathy.

Steven announced, “Cottonwood Estates.” He glanced over his shoulder at the back seat. “Where do you need to go, Miss?”

Laura giggled at the formalities. “It’s 445 Willow Way.”

Steven stopped in front of the Forsythes’ driveway, got out, and opened the car door for Laura. Laura said, “Thank you, Mr. Day.”

Steven answered with a polite bow and a tip of his hat.

R
achel was in the kitchen when Laura arrived home. “You’re later than I expected.”

Laura answered with a teenager’s shrug. “I was going to ride home with Heidi, but she had an orthodontist appointment. So I walked.”

“I could have picked you up.”

“That’s okay. Milada gave me a ride.”

“Milada?
Milada
gave you a ride?”

“Yeah. She was driving by—I mean, she has this chauffeur who drives for her. He has this cute little hat and everything.”

“A cute little hat—”

“Yeah. You know, Milada, she’s not quite human.”

Rachel froze. “What did you say?”

“I said she’s a nice woman.”

“Yes. Yes, she is.” Rachel shook her head, listening for the clunk and rattle of loose parts.

Laura said, “What are we having for dinner?”

“What? Oh, dinner. Spaghetti.”

“That’s okay, I guess.” Having signed off on the menu, Laura headed upstairs. “I’ve got homework to do,” she announced.

Her mother stood there, wondering why she had heard what she thought she had heard.
She’s not quite human.
She was sure that’s what her daughter had said.

The next morning, the phone rang. It was her brother Carl.

“Hello, Carl,” said Rachel. She checked the time and began making a series of mental calculations, scheduling the rest of the morning—what had to be done, what could be put off. Because once Carl got on the phone, it was hard getting him off, especially when he called during the day. That meant he was bored at work and had run out of more constructive ways to waste time.

Not that she minded talking to Carl. The world was chock full of people who could fill the spaces between any two points of time with words. Churn them out nonstop. LaDawn, for example. Every other church high councilman. She didn’t quite know how they did it. That’s why she didn’t carry a cell phone. Why invite the bother?

But Carl always had something to say that was worth listening to. Offensive, but interesting.

“What’s up, Rache?”

“Same old, same old, Carl.” She paused. Carl wasn’t in his office. Instead of a low electronic hum in the background, the telephone transmitted the echoing hustle and bustle of crowds moving through large, open spaces. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the Salt Palace.”

“You’re in Salt Lake? What are you doing in Salt Lake? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Hey, so I’m telling you. I flew in this morning.” Carl said it like it was something he’d done at the last minute and just for the heck of it, which he probably had. For Rachel, even flying to San Jose was a chore not to be undertaken without thorough planning and preparation.

Carl said, “How about lunch? I’ll buy. Mullboon’s on Sixth South, is it still there? How about twelve-thirty? Just a second.” He turned away from the phone. “Just start without me,” she heard him say. “Five minutes.” Then to her, “Gotta go.”

“Bye, Carl.”

Rachel hung up the phone and smiled to herself. A one-and-a-half-minute phone call from Carl and the promise of compelling company for lunch. There were worse ways to begin the day.

She left early and checked in at the hospital. Her daughter was no better, no worse. The glass was half empty or half full. But leave a half-full glass sitting around in Utah and it would evaporate soon enough. The expanse of the Bonneville Salt Flats stretching out beyond the lake proved that fact well enough.

Rachel didn’t intend to stay long, but she hated leaving so soon. So she rearranged the dragons. The nurses didn’t always put them back in the right places after rounds. The blue dragon guarded the heart monitor, the red dragon stood watch on the head rails of the bed, a pair of golden wyverns hung by their tails from the IV stand—things that went into her veins, Jennifer well knew, needed particular looking after.

On the wall opposite the bed—the first thing Jennifer would see when she woke up—was a full-color poster of the magical world of James Christensen’s
Voyage of the Basset.
A land of dragons and elves and mermaids and endless possibilities.

She touched Jennifer’s quiet, composed face, kissed her cheek, and prayed a silent prayer for her to wake up and be well.

At the restaurant, the maitre d’ escorted her to the table. Carl was tapping away at his laptop. He stood to greet her, grinning broadly as he always did. He was wearing a tweed blazer over a faded T-shirt with a metallic-blue Digital Moviola logo emblazoned across the chest. He’d been wearing that T-shirt for years, filling out more of it every time she saw him. A Popsicle stick all through high school, Carl was Laurel slowly turning into Hardy.

They hugged. Rachel said, “Nice jacket.”

“Mom gave it to me for Christmas. She still acts like I can’t afford clothes.”

“You dress like you can’t afford clothes.”

The maitre d’ seated her and handed her a menu. She scanned the lunch entrees. Salmon, she’d have the salmon. Spending Carl’s money bothered her not at all. “What brings you to Salt Lake, Carl?”

“ViFEE-West.” Carl closed the laptop cover. “Video and Film Editors Exposition. I was going to give it a pass. But the sales guys picked up some big new account, and Bruce wanted me to come out and brownnose the clients. Make them feel so good about not going with AVID or EDIUS.”

Rachel thumbed through her mental Rolodex: Bruce, the CEO of Carl’s company.

“And how is work these days?”

Carl shook his head. “I’m surrounded by idiots, Rache. You wouldn’t believe what a pain in the ass it is to hire competent coders these days. I’m telling you, we get this next rev out the door and I’m gone.”

Rachel smirked good-naturedly. Carl had been threatening to quit every time the subject came up over the past five years.

“So why don’t you, already?”

“Every time I try, Bruce has the board throw more options at me.” He made it sound like an injustice of World Court proportions. “And then it’s another eighteen months to get vested again.”

“Yes, wealth can be such a heavy burden.”