The Lemon Orchard (27 page)

The next morning, Julia made breakfast: eggs, bacon, lemon muffins, fresh orange juice, the best coffee Roberto had ever drunk. They sat on the ocean-side terrace, where sun poured down and warmed them, as if this were normal, as if they were a couple. He kissed her goodbye and went to work.

Now that the fire was out, Roberto and Serapio started cleaning up the orchard. They had to wash and sweep ash off all the plants and trees and grass. Firefighters had dragged their hoses over flower beds, knocked low branches off some of the lemon trees. The smell of smoke was gone, replaced by a terrible odor from the trees that had burned up the canyon. Today the wind blew off the ocean, clean and salty, pushing the fire smell eastward.

“So,” Serapio said, when they were on the far side of the orchard, the Casa blocked from view. “You and the lady.”

“Mande?”

“Come on—you slept in the big house last night. I got here early and you weren’t in your cabin.”

Roberto didn’t reply. He stood on a ladder, attacking a broken limb with a long saw, and he pretended it required more concentration than it actually did.

“Tell me, did you console her? She was upset about the fire?”

Guys talked, Roberto, too. He was so proud of being with Julia, bursting to tell Serapio—his friend and co-worker for three years now. But he honored Julia too much. Maybe she wouldn’t want people knowing.

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“Come on, you can tell me. Was she good?”

Roberto ignored him. Many Mexicans talked of what it would be like to be with a gringa. How different, how the same, so many questions. Roberto had only known Spanish girls before. He could tell Serapio that being with this gringa was totally different—but not because of the sex, or the startling difference between her white and his brown skin, or even what it was like to hold her close and look into her blue eyes. But because he was in love with her.

“Fine, be like that,” Serapio said. “But be careful, amigo.”

“Why?”

“You sleeping with the boss’s niece, you could lose your job. Screw it up for everyone. He’ll fire all the Mexicans.”

“He’s not like that.”

“So you did have sex with her!”

Roberto smiled, but only because Serapio was standing on the ground and could not see. He just kept working on the branch, and when it was about to fall he told Serapio to step away. The limb cracked and dropped hard to the ground.

On to the next tree, and the next. This was how Roberto managed to stay in his skin, and it always had been. He did his work, one small job after another, they all added up and filled the minutes and hours, and he kept himself as sane as a man who had fallen into an impossible love could be.

chapter sixteen

Lion

He felt like an old potentate returning to his homeland to survey the damage. Fortunately his house had been completely spared, but driving through nearby canyons, he was filled with horror. Only the most foolish people lived in Malibu. You had to be capable of denial, to imagine that after centuries of Santa Ana winds and the fires they fanned, your house would be spared. Time was on the side of the devil winds.

The ridge behind Casa Riley was now a blackened, smoldering wasteland. He held his breath taking the hill up to the driveway. In spite of what law enforcement had told him, he was certain there was no way the Casa could have survived intact. He approached it the way he would have an old friend who had been attacked by a shark, expecting to see scars, gaping wounds, and a leg missing.

But no—pulling into the turnaround, he surveyed the scene and saw it as sparkling as ever. The fine film of white ash looked like crystallized sugar, making the property remind him of a
Nutcracker
stage set. He half expected the tile fountain and flower gardens to be made of marzipan.

Julia and Bonnie came to the kitchen door and ran out to meet him. Julia hugged him as if he were her long-lost uncle returning from war, even though she’d been the one who’d battled the fire.

“Thank God,” he said. “That’s all I can say.”

“I know,” Julia said.

“You didn’t call me back. I left you a message, and I got worried.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry—I just got off the phone with John. Lion, I can’t believe what happened. We came so close, but then the wind just stopped.”

“Just like
that
?”

“Pretty much,” Julia said. “The sheriff said it was a miracle.”

“Well, obviously,” Lion said. “That smell, though.”

“I know,” she said.

“They say fire keeps the mountains healthy,” Lion said. “But it’s hard to believe when you see what the canyon looks like right now.”

“I haven’t left the property, so I haven’t seen,” Julia said.

“Shall we take a tour?”

“Well, I could use a trip to the grocery store,” she said.

“My God, you’re so practical. Must be the New Englander in you. I was thinking more about brunch at Shutters.”

“Lion, I just had a big breakfast.”

“You little blink of a thing? Well, come with me anyway. You can have a mimosa while I have lemon ricotta pancakes.”

She hesitated. He saw her gaze off in the direction of the sound of a chain saw. The workers were hidden by glistening white foliage, but Lion knew who she was looking for.

“He’s a big boy,” he said. “He’s done a fine job of running this property for some time now.”

“I’m not doubting his abilities,” she said.

“Oh. Sits the wind in
that
quarter,” he said. “We’re at the point where you can’t bear to be apart for an hour?”

“Stop,” she said. “Let me tell him I’m going out.”

Lion watched her run through the lemon grove, just as she had a thousand times when she was a girl. She had that aspect again—carefree and lighthearted. He would have breathed deeply with profound happiness if it weren’t for the chokingly dreadful burning smell.

She returned, smiling. After leading Bonnie back into the house, she emerged with her purse, wearing sunglasses. Lion regarded her carefully. Although she came from John’s blood, not Graciela’s, she had elegance and grace that reminded him of her aunt. She didn’t have Graciela’s glamour—even with the dark glasses—but who did?

Roberto had brought her back to life. Under Malibu’s magical spell, in this enchanted orchard, Julia’s feelings for him had caused her to bloom.

But Lion was old. He had seen so much, had experienced even more, when it came to star-crossed love. Over time he had discovered there was a formula to what worked and what didn’t. Passion was one thing, but a lasting relationship required so much more. It bored him, and he wished more than anything that unconventional loves could last—they would make this world a better and more interesting place. But they always ended.

He dreaded the heartbreak that he knew lay ahead for Julia. She wasn’t a woman who would give her heart lightly—she had had it under lock and key these last five years, and even before that, when her marriage to Peter had been falling to pieces.

Lion wanted Julia and Roberto to be happy in their Casa love nest, but unions between educated women and the help never lasted. He knew their love had an expiration date.

She did seem to love Malibu. Perhaps she would do what she’d said on their last car ride, and buy a little house nearby. If that happened, Lion knew she would gravitate to the academics and intellectuals. People always thought Los Angeles was a mere playground where people cared only about looking good on the outside—and they were absolutely right. But there was also a healthy enclave of writers, professors, and philosophical types, at UCLA, USC, and Pepperdine. He was sure there were anthropologists somewhere in the Los Angeles basin.

They drove along the ocean into Santa Monica, to the very end of Pico Boulevard and Lion’s favorite hotel in the world: Shutters on the Beach.

Built of pale gray shingles with white trim and shutters, directly on the sand, it was a Nantucket fantasy beach hotel. The circular drive was full of valets, all of whom knew Lion by name.

“Hello, Mr. Cushing,” Arturo said, taking the Jaguar.

“Hello, Arturo.”

Lion squired Julia inside and enjoyed her pleasure at seeing the lobby again—she’d been here before with John and Graciela. It was a favorite spot for family dinners and celebrations. The room was long—a perfect ocean view at one end, but dim coziness throughout, fires blazing in two fireplaces, chic sofas facing each other for intimate conversations, original art and lithographs on the walls.

Jonathan, the concierge, greeted them and said their table was waiting. They went downstairs to Coast Restaurant, sat in the corner banquette with its striped cushions and windows directly on the beach. The waiters wore sorbet-colored shirts and Vineyard Vines ties patterned with tiny bicycles, surfboards, starfish. Luis brought coffee and fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice right away.

“We love it here, don’t we?” Lion asked.

“We do,” Julia said.

True to her word, she stuck to coffee and juice while Lion gobbled down the lemon ricotta pancakes he’d been craving. It pleased him greatly when she asked for a bite—he fixed her one with a bit of pancake, a raspberry, and real maple syrup and butter. He felt like a doting uncle, with an entire day to devote to his favorite nonbiological niece. They read the
Los Angeles Times
and
New York Times,
drank more coffee, and spent a leisurely hour.

“Now what shall we do?” Lion asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Something different,” he said. “Not the same old thing.”

She thought for a minute, and the light in her eyes changed. “I wanted Roberto to show it to me, but maybe we could go first—Mariachi Square,” she said.

“What a fascinating idea,” he said. “East Los Angeles—I must admit I don’t know it well, but they just renovated the old Boyle Hotel, where all the mariachis live, and who wouldn’t want to see that?”

When they got into his car, he pulled up to Ocean Drive and looked at Julia. “Let’s take the long way, shall we? It helps me digest.”

Although it was out of the way, he took a winding route to leafy, twisty, hilly Sunset—his favorite way into town. He loved the great stands of eucalyptus trees shading the road, tall and straight with fragrant silver green leaves. Nearly every street he passed contained bits of his history: locations where he’d filmed, houses where he’d played.

“Look!” she said, watching a hawk take off from its perch in a sycamore, lift into the blue sky to disappear over the treetops.

“Nature everywhere,” he said. “Aren’t you tired of it after fighting the fire?”

“No,” she said, laughing as if he’d made a joke.

“The thing about Malibu, darling,” he said, “is balance. Nature kicks our asses out there, so we need to go into town now and then. This is a great idea of yours.”

“Thank you.”

The Rolling Stones played from his speakers. Lion had known Mick and, particularly, Keith from Topanga Canyon. The music made him nostalgic, reminded him of the days of working with Vanessa Redgrave, Catherine Deneuve, and Jane Fonda. The most beautiful, intelligent actresses on earth. He glanced at Julia.

He passed the main gate to Bel Air, then the Pink Palace—the Beverly Hills Hotel—where for two years the studio had kept a bungalow just for him. Graciela had loved it so. On to the Sunset Strip with all the towering billboards advertising movies and movie stars, past the building where his manager had offices and atop which sat Soho House, a club to which he belonged but never used.

They passed the Chateau Marmont, another hotel he knew far too well, and Laurel Canyon, and drove through Hollywood. As they approached the Los Angeles River, he knew they were close to East L.A.

“So,” he said. “You want to see where Roberto comes from?”

“Yes,” she said.

“You’re good together, you know.”

“Thank you.”

“Has marriage been mentioned?” he asked.

“God, Lion! Give us a chance,” she said, laughing.

“Darling, he’s illegal! Marriage to you would get him a green card. Has he brought that up?”

“No, and he wouldn’t,” Julia said.

“I’m sorry, don’t be offended. I’m sure that’s not what he’s after.”

“I know that, too,” she said. “I’ve been alone for years now; so has he. He’s amazing, but I don’t know what will happen. We’d have to know it was real . . .”

“Isn’t it real?”

“Lion, why are you pushing me?”

Why was he? He knew why he was asking her these questions—they had more to do with him than with her.

“You know, a marriage of convenience is not unheard of.”

“It is for me.”

“Not really,” Lion said. He struggled to keep his voice steady. He rarely spoke about it. “One took place in your own family.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Graciela married John so she wouldn’t be deported after the picture finished shooting.”

“I’ve never heard that before,” she said.

“She needed an American citizen, and he was it.”

“But aren’t you an American citizen, Lion?” she asked gently.

“Well, yes,” he said.

Under the circumstances it was very kind of her not to ask the next question:
Then why didn’t she marry you?
He had never been able to answer in any way that didn’t crush his heart into pieces.

“She loves you,” Julia said.

“How do you know?”

“I grew up seeing it,” she said. “Maybe she needed John because he’s so steady, and he’s not an actor.”

“Actors can’t be reliable?” Lion asked, knowing that “steady” was never a word that would be applied to him.

“I’m sure they—you—can. But your profession is so incredible. You’re both stars, and maybe she was afraid you’d compete with each other. Or maybe she thought if one won an award, the other would be jealous. And weren’t there romances on the set when you were shooting different movies?”

Lion pondered her question. Yes, there had been many romances. As much as he loved Graciela, he hadn’t been faithful to her. He’d excused that by telling himself she was married to another man. But in truth, he doubted that he would have resisted all those leading ladies, makeup artists, that Australian director and her irresistible accent.