The Lemon Orchard (12 page)

First he had washed his truck, vacuumed the inside, then gone into his cabin to shower and scrub his nails clean. He dressed in clean dark jeans and a black T-shirt. His belt was black leather with a silver buckle, and he wore his best shoes, a pair of black work boots he hadn’t scuffed up yet.

Julia came down the driveway in a blue dress and soft white shawl. He watched her walk and could barely breathe. His father would kill him for this, crossing the line and asking the boss’s niece to dinner, but even if he died tonight, Roberto would never forget this moment: the way Julia glowed, beaming as if she’d never been happier to see anyone.

He held open the truck door for her. “You look beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you. You look very handsome,” she said, kissing his cheek as she climbed in.

Driving down the steep road, he still felt her lips on his skin and thought the top of his head might explode. He forced himself to pay attention to driving, and not keep glancing across the seat toward her.

The restaurant he’d chosen was a long way off. He didn’t want to take her to any of the gringo places in Malibu or Santa Monica, but instead to a real, authentic spot that served the kind of food he remembered from home.

They drove south along the ocean, and then onto the 10 freeway heading east. His radio was tuned to a Spanish station. When he realized that she might prefer her own kind of music, he reached for the dial, but she put her hand on his wrist.

“Don’t change it. I like it,” she said.

“It’s different for you?” he asked.

“I grew up with Latin music,” she said. “My family loves it and so do I.”

Roberto nodded. That made sense—he’d often heard Juan Gabriel’s voice coming from speakers in the Casa.

The night was warm, so they kept the truck windows open. The breeze tossed her hair, and he smelled her perfume, and it made him think of a field of fresh grass and wildflowers. His truck key was in the ignition but all the rest dangled from a long chain. Julia leaned over, touched the chain, and her fingers found one small plastic key ring with a faded pink heart attached.

“I like this,” she said.

“So do I,” he said.

“Someone special gave it to you?”

He nodded. “Rosa,” he said. He remembered the day—his birthday the year before they left Mexico. His grandmother had taken her to the market, and she’d bought the little key ring. Beneath the heart it said
Te Amo Papá
.

Julia seemed preoccupied, looking through her purse. After a minute she pulled something out, pressed it into Roberto’s hand. He looked: a silver key ring engraved with the words
World’s Best Mom.

“From Jenny,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

Did she think the way he did, that these objects had been touched by their daughters, given with love? He told himself every day that love was alive, a living and breathing force. This little plastic heart was only a reminder—what made it precious was the fact that Rosa’s hands had held it.

The lights of downtown Los Angeles glittered, and the tall buildings glowed with color. It was a romantic sight, and Roberto wanted Julia to see it. When he glanced over, he saw her looking at him instead, and he put his eyes back on the road.

La Casita de las Flores was on North Evergreen Avenue, not far from Roberto’s family’s house. He parked at the curb, completely aware of the possibility his father could drive by and stop in to see what Roberto was doing here—his father and Esperanza were not shy about letting him know they wanted him to meet a woman. They wouldn’t approve of Julia, but Roberto found himself wishing they would show up just so he could introduce her to them.

They walked past the garden overflowing with flowers, into the restaurant—one small room with about ten tables. The walls were painted rose red, the tables were turquoise, and the chairs were yellow.

“Hola, Roberto,” said Isabel, the owner’s wife. She gazed at Julia with friendly curiosity.

“Julia, this is Isabel. Isabel, my friend Julia.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Isabel said. “I hope you will enjoy our food.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” Julia said.

The minute they were seated, a waitress put a basket of warm chips and two dishes of hot sauce on the table. Isabel wheeled a cart over and made fresh guacamole with avocados, red onion, tomato, and a handful of cilantro.

“That smells great!” Julia said.

“Wait till you taste it,” Roberto said. He scooped some guacamole onto a chip and handed it across the table.

“Wow,” she said.

When she took another for herself, she dipped it in the hotter of the two sauces, and he waited for her eyes to water.

“I should have warned you,” he said.

But she took another. “I love spicy food,” she said.

They looked at the menus—all the dishes were in Spanish. “Can I help you translate?” he asked.

“Why don’t you order me your favorite dish?” she asked.

“
Ropa vieja
is very good,” he said. “Slow-cooked beef, nice and tender. We always had it at home.”

“Sounds like pot roast,” she said. “Perfect for a November night.”

So Roberto ordered
ropa vieja
for both of them. The dishes came out quickly, the meat spicy and fragrant with herbs and chili, piled high beside yellow rice and black beans. He watched Julia’s reaction as she took a bite, and felt pleased to see her close her eyes and smile.

“Delicious,” she said. After another few tastes she followed his lead and added spoonfuls of hot sauce.

“You really like it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Everything . . .”

“Even the beans?” he asked skeptically.

“Yes, you don’t?”

“They’re not special,” he said. “We ate them every day when I was a kid. I thought maybe you wouldn’t like them.”

“I like it all,” she said, The way she looked at him made him feel electric, as if a current ran though his body. He didn’t trust himself to believe what he was seeing or feeling. Her blue dress brought out the color of her eyes.

“I never thought . . . ,” he began.

“What?” she asked.

He just shook his head, because he couldn’t answer the question. His feelings were too big to put into words—or at least words he could understand. Together they ate their food, and when they’d finished dinner, Isabel brought coffee and flan, and Julia spooned a bit of custard and held it toward him, and he tasted the sweet soft caramel in his mouth.

Julia

November passed in a dream. It became normal to stop by Roberto’s work site, whatever he was doing in the orchard, and bring him water or invite him to take a break for coffee. She loved having his friendship, even feeling somewhat deliciously confused by what it really was. The French had a phrase for what she was feeling:
amitié amoureuse
. It translated roughly to a “romantic friendship.”

She felt his attention anytime they were near each other. He watched her whenever she went near the cliff path, as if ready to bolt and catch her if she fell. She thought of him while at her desk, continuing to write to the people Chris had suggested.

“Do I seem crazy to you?” she asked Lion the last Monday in November, when he stopped by with a basket of apples.

“Of course! Crazy as a loon, darling. I wouldn’t love you as much or know how to be around you if you weren’t. It’s the non-crazy people I worry about.”

“I’m serious.”

Lion wore a crisp yellow shirt, navy cashmere double-breasted blazer, and his favorite Hermès long white silk-fringed aviator scarf wrapped around his neck. His wave of white hair gave him an air of fading majesty that he cultivated in subtle ways. Squinting, he regarded Julia.

“If I were to choose one word to describe you, it would be ‘happy.’ Happier than I’ve seen you in ages. Does that sound right?”

She nodded, knowing it was true. But if she explained to him how this feeling had come about—her strong attraction to Roberto, her impossible search for Rosa, and how the mystical alchemy of it had all was bringing Jenny back to her—he would know just how crazy she was.

“Well, I’m glad,” he said. “Now, Thanksgiving.”

Julia had dreaded holidays these last five years, and this one was no exception.

“I’m having the usual gang up to the manse,” he said. “Not John and Graciela, unfortunately; as you know, they’ve decided to stay in Connemara. But a few decrepit actors like me, some young fluff to cheer the place up, some wayward surfers, a dissolute rocker or two, a smattering of Malibu hoi polloi, and far too many Brits. They flock to me for some unknown reason. I could probably manage to scare up some intellectuals so you’ll feel more at home.”

“I’m at home with you,” she said. “I don’t care who else is there. But I don’t know, Lion. I might have a quiet Thanksgiving here.”

He snorted. “What—you, Bonnie, and the wildlife? Even your orchard manager will be going home that day, I’m sure. John always gives everyone the long weekend off.”

“Really?” Julia asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” she said. “Could I bring someone?”

“Julia, a date?”

“I guess you could call it that,” she said.

“What, you’ve met someone and dared to keep it a secret from Uncle Lion?”

She laughed. “No—it’s Roberto.”

“The orchard manager?”

“Yes.”

“You’re dating him?”

“We’re just friends,” she said.

“Of course,” Lion said. “We’d love to have him.”

“Thank you. I’ll see if he can make it,” she said.

After Lion left, Julia brought some apples to the barn. Roberto stood next to the workbench, taking apart the tractor. His hands were covered with grease, but he wiped them on a cloth at the sight of her.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Replacing parts,” he said. “So we don’t have to buy a new tractor.”

“I’m sure John appreciates that,” she said. Clear light slanted through windows; she saw dust and bits of hay drifting in air currents. “Thanksgiving is Thursday,” she said.

“Sí,” he said.

“I’m sure you have plans with your family,” she said. “But I was wondering—would you like to come with me to Lion’s house for dinner? We wouldn’t have to stay long, and you could still be with your family.”

“Señor Cushing?” he asked, frowning. “Does he know?”

“Yes. He invited us.”

Roberto hesitated so long Julia began to feel embarrassed. What was the problem? He had taken her to dinner, she had thought they were getting close, but maybe she’d crossed an invisible line. Thanksgiving was an American holiday—maybe he didn’t celebrate it at all.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“I can tell something is. Would you rather not go?”

“No, Julia—I would love to go with you.”

“Great,” Julia said. She stepped toward him, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and his direct gaze melted the bones in her legs. He touched his forehead to hers, barely brushed her lips.

“Hey, el pinche inspector es—” Serapio began, bursting in. “Ai, lo siento.”

Roberto and Julia moved apart.

“I’m so sorry,” Roberto said to Julia. “But the inspector is here. We made changes to the pumping and irrigation system, and he has to sign off.”

“I understand,” Julia said.

“But Thursday,” Roberto said.

“Yes,” Julia said. “Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving morning was sunny and warm, as far from New England weather as possible. Julia felt glad for that. Holidays without Jenny had been excruciating. Everything—the weather, the quality of Black Hall’s November light, the silken darkness of Long Island Sound—had reminded her of the sixteen Thanksgivings she’d spent with her daughter.

In the Casa Riley kitchen, she sliced the rest of the apples Lion had brought. She made piecrust and saved a few scraps to make maple leaves to press on top, just as Jenny used to do. Roberto always left a bowl of lemons at her door, so she used one of her grandmother’s recipe books to make two loaves of lemon bread.

By the time Roberto arrived to pick her up at three o’clock, she was ready to go. Not sure of what he would wear, she wore black pants and a white silk shirt.

He looked great in black jeans, a white shirt, and a well-worn and rugged leather jacket. They hugged and walked toward his vehicle—an old but obviously recently waxed gray Honda Civic.

“Where’s your truck?” she asked.

“I borrowed Serapio’s wife’s car,” he said. “To drive you to Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said, getting in.

The trip was short—down one canyon, along the coast highway, up Topanga Canyon and along the steep, twisting road that led to Lion’s house. People were arriving all at once. Roberto started to park on the roadside, but a man in a black uniform waved him ahead.

“Looks like valet parking,” Julia said. “That’s very Lion.”

“Mande?” Roberto asked, not understanding.

“Extravagant,” Julia said.

One parking attendant opened Julia’s door while the other opened Roberto’s, speaking to him in Spanish. They seemed friendly, had a short conversation, and Roberto caught up with Julia, smiling.