Angel Falling Softly - By Eugene Woodbury Page 0,14
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