Angel Falling Softly - By Eugene Woodbury Page 0,15

of the deck chairs, reading her book. Her father said, “I guess we’re ready to begin. Laura, put down your book. President,” he said to President Forbush, “could you offer a blessing on the food?”

“Certainly,” said President Forbush. He folded his arms and bowed his head and blessed the food to their health and strength. Rachel silently added: We ask thee to keep the cholesterol from clogging our veins. We ask thee to keep the cellulite from collecting on our thighs. Lastly, he asked a blessing on Jennifer.

These days, if David asked somebody else to pray she could count on the person throwing in a heavenly petition on Jennifer’s behalf. Spiritual pandering, perhaps, but Rachel had long ago determined not to be above it.

They chorused an Amen and sat down and commenced to eat.

Troy positioned himself across from Milada. As he casually deboned a chicken breast, he asked, “So, Milada, what do you know about the Mormon church?”

“Very little, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” he said, “if you want to find out more, this is the place.”

Milada clearly didn’t get the pun.

“You know, Darin Pelton—he lives right around the corner—he’s the ward mission leader. We could round up a couple of the full-time missionaries. You got a free night this week, say Wednesday or Thursday?”

Milada surely had no idea what he was talking about.

“A new sister missionary got transferred into the ward last week. She’s from Finland. Amazing, don’t you think?”

Milada didn’t reply. Instead she did something that Rachel hadn’t expected at all. Troy’s left hand was resting on the table next to his plate. Milada reached over and lightly touched his hand with the tips of her fingers. “We shall talk about something else now. Sports, perhaps?”

Her voice was so low and direct that Rachel wouldn’t have caught it if she hadn’t been paying close attention. It wasn’t a suggestion. Troy didn’t mull it over. He stopped mid sentence—mid thought, even. He said to Brent Millington, “Hey, Brent, what do you think about the Y’s chances this year?

Rachel said to Milada, hoping to help push the conversation onto that track, “Brent was an offensive lineman at BYU.”

“Second string,” responded Brent. “Warmed a lot of bench.”

Milada politely acknowledged the honesty in the qualification and turned to Laura, perched on the end of the picnic table bench. Laura was eating a hot dog with one hand, holding the book with the other. Rachel was about to tell Laura to put the book down, but a passion for reading was something a parent shouldn’t mess with. After all, Laura dutifully read her Bible and Book of Mormon. That her taste in literature had grown more gothic over the past year should have surprised no one.

Milada asked, “What are you reading, Laura?”

“It’s this book by Annette Curtis Klause.” Laura showed her the cover. “It’s about a guy who’s a vampire. But he’s a good vampire, like Angel on Buffy. Except he has a little brother who got turned into a vampire when he was little and never grew up. So he’s evil.”

“It is nice to know that there are good vampires around,” Milada said. “Bram Stoker gave us Carpathians such a bad reputation. And they do grow up. It only takes forever and a day.”

When Laura was sure she wasn’t being made fun of, she grinned.

Rachel felt the tension oozing out of her neck and back. The chicken was edible—David was demonstrating some real skill at the barbecue. With Troy distracted and her daughter’s attitude on hold, things couldn’t have turned out much better than this. She excused herself and went into the house to get boxes of Popsicles and ice cream bars out of the freezer. Outside she distributed them to the Millingtons, making sure Andy didn’t get anything with milk or soy in it. She sat down and listened as her daughter and Milada talked.

“I was born in Romania,” Milada was saying, “but I grew up in a little town in Hungary called Szeged, on the Tisza River. It’s grown to the size of Salt Lake City by now, or so I am told. I haven’t been back in centuries.”

“You sound like you have a British accent,” Laura said.

“We resided in London for many years. I live in New York now. I’m what New Yorkers sound like when they’re trying to rise above their immigrant roots.”

“New York City, you mean? Wow, what’s New York like?”

“It’s a helluva town,” she said, half-singing the Leonard Bernstein melody from the Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra musical.

Laura asked,

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