Angel Falling Softly - By Eugene Woodbury Page 0,13

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