“Is there really a Transylvania? Isn’t it in Hungary?”
“Hungary and Romania have been fighting over it for the past five hundred years. Since World War II it’s been a province of Romania.” She quipped, “Our loss. Or theirs.”
Rachel asked, “Do you have family in New York, Milada?”
“My father—stepfather—and my two sisters, Kamilla and Zoë. Kammy’s a doctor.” The pride was evident in her voice. “She’s a fellow at Saint Jude Children’s Research Hospital. She’s currently a visiting professor at the University of Utah.” Milada paused, and a distant, fleeting look came to her eyes. Rachel knew that look. Milada hadn’t mentioned her mother or her natural father. She hadn’t said what Zoë did. They do grow up. It only takes forever and a day.
And Rachel said to herself: I could understand this woman.
Everybody was pretty much done eating. They munched on potato chips, sipped lemonade, digested. The men argued sports. BYU versus the University of Utah. Jazz basketball. The long-term viability of the major league soccer franchise. Charlene, her littlest one on her shoulder, chatted with Doris, casting an occasional glance at the three older Millingtons gallivanting across the yard.
“Do you wish the plates left in a certain place?” asked Milada, picking up hers.
Rachel said, “Oh, no, we’ll get that later.”
Laura said, “Meaning she’ll make me do it.”
“We’ll do it together, okay, Laura? Why don’t we sit over here?” Rachel indicated the pair of faux-redwood deck chairs. Rachel took the one on the left, the one with the right arm missing. Laura sat down on her chair sideways, her legs swung over the side, her back against her mother’s shoulder.
Milada settled into the deck chair, her countenance white and ghostly in the falling light. “Forgive my ignorance, but do you deify dragons as guardian angels?”
It took Rachel a moment to realize what she was referring to. She laughed. “It’s got nothing to do with Mormon theology. When Jennifer was diagnosed with cancer, she took to the idea of having a guardian angel, like on the television show. But she felt that her guardian angel should be as strong and terrible as the thing she was fighting. She’s got quite a collection of them.”
Laura said to Milada, “What do you do in New York?”
“I buy things. Companies, mostly.”
“You buy companies? Wow. Like Wal-Mart?”
“Not Wal-Mart. Small-cap, high-tech companies.”
“Is it fun?”
Milada smiled. “For the most part, yes, I do enjoy my work.”
Almost absentmindedly, Rachel drew back her daughter’s hair and began to braid it. Laura didn’t duck or shake her head the way she was wont to do. Perhaps, her mother thought, they should have Milada over more often.
Laura said, “Is your hair like that naturally?”
“It does run in the family.” Another small smile. She was not a woman easily offended by personal questions. Or perhaps not easily offended by children. She had taken to Laura—or was it the other way around?
Just then, Brother Millington bellowed—and the man could bellow like a water buffalo—“Andy!” He stood at the edge of the patio and stared out at the yard and field beyond.
Laura jumped up, the braids falling out of her hair. Her mother stood behind her. Charlene hurried up to them, her eyes full of fear. Rachel said, “Charlene, what’s going on?”
She gasped, “We can’t find Andy.”
Chapter 14
Every cloud has a silver lining
The men coalesced in a phalanx around them. President Forbush asked, “Where did you last see him?”
“Maybe he wandered down to the creek bed,” the bishop suggested.
Brother Millington shook his head, but not in disagreement. “I’ll just bet that’s what he did. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times—”
Troy said, “He probably followed the trail the Cub Scouts use.”
Milada joined Rachel. Laura said under her breath, “The Pillsbury Dough Boy bounced away.” Her mother didn’t bother admonishing her. Laura had much experience babysitting the Millington children.
Rachel agreed with her husband about the creek bed of the arroyo. “It’s like a magnet for kids around here. A boy drowned there last summer in a flash flood.” She grimaced to herself as she spoke. Why in the world did I say that? Perhaps it was to state the worst-case scenario so anything else would be an improvement.
The men fanned out across the field and snaked down the crumbling, sandy slopes, Brent Millington’s voice blaring like a foghorn.
With a dispassionate expression on her face, Milada watched the men move off. Then she kicked off her shoes and stepped up on the picnic table bench, her gaze moving slowly like a predator