The Lemon Orchard

by Luanne Rice

“I know that.”

  He couldn’t breathe or speak. Now it was Julia squeezing his hand, holding his gaze with hers, her blue eyes so bright and sad, he felt a lump in his chest, as if his heart had seized.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  “I followed some of the leads I told you about,” she said. “I went to La Jolla, to an organization called the Reunion Project.”

  “Bring people together?”

  “Yes, sort of. Juan and his team focus on border crossers. They have a database full of everyone who’s been detained and arrested, and every body that was ever found.”

  “Rosa’s?” he asked, his bones and blood burning.

  “No,” she said quickly. “He has no record of anyone like Rosa. But I tracked down Jack Leary—remember him?”

  “Claro,” Roberto said.

  “I went to see him.”

  “He remembered us?”

  “Absolutely. He’s retired now, in Yuma. He told me some cases stand out for him, and Rosa’s is one of them. We met with Latham Nez, a Shadow Wolf.”

  Shadow Wolf—what is that? he wondered but didn’t ask. He felt frozen.

  “They’re expert trackers. They work mostly on Tohono O’odham land, but they’re called out on special assignments. Jack Leary brought them in to look for Rosa.”

  “We crossed just west of the reservation.”

  Julia nodded.

  Roberto sat still as a stone, waiting.

  “They traced her beyond the boulder where you last saw her. Latham thinks another group of migrants came along and took her with them.”

  “Saved her?” Roberto asked, jumping up from the table.

  Julia stayed seated. Her expression remained the same, composed. Then she looked down, and when she glanced up he saw tears glitter in her eyes.

  “They don’t think so,” she said. “Apparently the group got lost, off track. They headed into foothills, rocky ground. Latham said four bodies were found—but not Rosa’s. It seems some of them made it to the road and their pickup spot. But, Roberto, they found her sneakers.”

  “En serio?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are sure they belonged to Rosa?”

  Julia nodded.

  “Then we have to go back and look! Get them to tell us where they found the shoes . . .”

  Julia held his hand very tightly. “They don’t think she survived.”

  “Mande?” he asked, his English deserting him.

  “Roberto, they think she died. Her sneakers were found far apart from each other, and there was blood on one of them.”

  “They weren’t Rosa’s,” he said. “They belonged to someone else!”

  “They were hers. They tested the blood, and they were able to match it to her because of your DNA. When they picked you up . . .”

  Roberto remembered. They had taken his fingerprints, then swabbed the inside of his mouth. He watched TV, cop shows, he knew they used DNA to catch criminals. But to determine that his daughter was dead? And the proof coming from him? It couldn’t be.

  “No,” he said.

  “That’s what I told them,” she said. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

  Deep down, all these years, he had assumed that Rosa was dead. He didn’t feel it in his cells, in his skin, but what choice did he have? If she was anywhere in this world, they would find the way to each other. She was his hija flesh and blood, and he closed his eyes and felt her presence with him, as if she were standing in the room.

  “What did they tell you that made you believe it?” he asked.

  “They searched for her very hard,” Julia said. “They wanted to find her. Latham Nez picked up the trail of a group, and he was sure one of the men had lifted Rosa up, to try to carry her to safety. But they got lost, Roberto.”

  He stared at Julia, but he was seeing the desert at night. How dark it was without the moon, how no trails were marked, and how the coyotes tried to keep everyone hidden, safe from La Migra. Maybe this Good Samaritan had walked through the night. Moonlight had led them through the desert, and darkness had sent them veering into the hills.

  “No one from that group survived?”

  “Some did,” she said. “But they have no way of knowing who. Your group was the only one picked up by the Border Patrol in that area that night.”

  If those other crossers had gone first, maybe Roberto and Rosa would have made it safely together. He thought back to Altar, tried to picture all the faces he saw in that town, hundreds of people waiting for their coyote to call them into the trucks and vans.

  He had dreamed of this, other travelers rescuing Rosa, wanting to bring her to his door. But those dreams ended in ways even worse than what the agents had told Julia. Rosa lost in the desert, walking with her saviors, being attacked by enormous black birds, Mexican jaguars, the most evil men on earth. Roberto would run or fly or jump to get to Rosa and rescue her before she was harmed, but she always disappeared before he arrived.

  “Maria,” he said out loud.

  “Her doll?” Julia said, and he was touched she remembered.

  “Did they find Maria?”

  “No,” she said. “Only her sneakers.”

  Silence fell between them. The window was open and he heard the sound of leaves rustling in the orchard.

  “Gracias, Julia,” he said after a minute.

  He wanted to hug her. But he was trembling, ashamed that she would feel that and judge him for his weakness. A really strong man would never have lost his daughter, or sent this woman off to make sense of his terrible crossing.

  She didn’t give him the chance to protest. She stepped forward, held him in her arms. He was shaking, or maybe that was her. His mind raced with crazy thoughts. He felt her breath on his neck, and he wanted to tilt her head back and kiss her. The bed was right there. He wanted to lie with her, bodies pressed together, and hold each other all night, till the sun came up, and even after it rose.

  “Julia,” he whispered, “I would do anything for you.”

  Had she heard him? She stood so still, pressed against his body as if she wanted to become a part of it.

  “You’re my friend, aren’t you?” she whispered. “My true friend?”

  “Sí,” he said. “Forever.”

  She kissed his neck, and his collarbone, and his shoulder. Then she stood on tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips. Now he wanted to lift her up, carry her to bed, feel life on a night of death, but she lowered herself down, put one hand on his chest, and backed away.

  He watched her cross the property, through the trees and around the pool, and he saw her run up the front steps and into the big house. His nerves were screaming. Julia had given him more of Rosa’s story than he’d known before, but it still led to the same place: her death in the desert.

  chapter nine

  Lion

  He picked Julia up in the late morning and took her for a ride along the coast. The top was down, and they wore sunglasses against the brilliant sun. Her hair tossed in the wind, reminding him of rides with Graciela.

  The day sparkled; the Pacific broke on Zuma Beach with waves full of diamonds. He zigzagged off the PCH to drive through Point Dume. The houses here were spectacular and private, hidden behind gates and hedges. Many were owned by movie stars, and Lion pointed out each one and recounted the parties he’d enjoyed there.

  Julia turned away from the mansions and focused on what he called “the Hobbit cottage”—a house mostly hidden by archways and bowers of lush red and dark pink bougainvillea cascading over everything.

  “I want to live there,” she said.

  “Oh, really?” he asked. “What about the Casa?”

  “I mean after John and Graciela get back.”

  Lion glanced over. “Yo
u mean move to Malibu?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, still staring at the flower-covered house. “Maybe.”

  They drove to the Point Dume overlook, where surfers generally snagged all six of the legal parking spots, and as usual there was no place to park. Lion contented himself with letting Julia enjoy the view across the fields of tall grass and wildflowers, to the ocean beyond.

  “This is the best place to see migrating gray whales,” she said. “I remember from when I was young, and John would take me here. We’d see mothers and babies hugging the coast, heading up to the Bering Sea. Wrong time of year now, though . . .”

  “Speaking of John, we have so much to discuss over lunch,” Lion said. “His letter, your mysterious trip . . . Did he mention Graciela?”

  “Just to say she sent her love.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  They left Point Dume and headed down to Cross Creek and the Malibu Country Mart. The parking lot was full of Porsches and Bentleys, but Lion’s vintage Jag always got a second look. He remembered when this shopping center had been comfortably downtrodden and local, and it was a point of contention that the stores on both sides of the street were now occupied by expensive boutiques—Ralph Lauren, Oliver Peoples, John Varvatos, Lanvin.

  Malibu, for all its natural beauty and insular celebrity, loved to fight. No one ever agreed about anything, and the local papers were full of angry letters to the editor and scathing editorials on everything from these fancy stores to whether the high school football field should have lights. Lion was strongly in the no-light camp: he believed that light pollution was ruining America and that young people were better served by stargazing than Friday night football.

  The hostess at Tra di Noi had his regular table ready—on the patio under an umbrella. Lion angled his chair to get into the full sun. He wore chinos and a faded red lisle shirt, a bit frayed around the collar. He’d bought it in Ravello on a long-ago visit to Gore Vidal’s Villa La Rondinaia—Swallow’s Nest. He’d been starring in a film with Sophia Loren, shot in Positano, and Gore had invited the cast to visit for the weekend. Now Gore was dead. Lion’s friends were dropping like flies.

  “Campari and soda,” he ordered, and Julia did, too.

  “The three woman just behind you are staring and pointing,” Julia said.

  “What can one expect?” he asked.

  He loved coming here. People recognized him. Even if they didn’t remember his name, they knew they’d seen him in “something.” He was one of the Los Angeles film-world fixtures who gave visitors that little thrill they so loved, when they had a “sighting” and were able to return home and say they’d seen stars.

  The waitress brought their Camparis and took their order: they would share a sliced-artichoke-and-parmesan salad and each have the tonnarelli al filetto di pomodoro—basically spaghetti marinara with the freshest tomatoes in California.

  “You know, when I come here with Graciela, it’s like magic,” he said. “We’re just a couple of old-timers, but people light up to see her. Or to see us together—they remember the film and . . .”

  “Why do you keep doing it?” Julia asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “Chasing after her.”

  “That’s not what I do! We’re old friends. I admire her, of course, but . . .”

  “You’re in love with her,” Julia said. “You’ve never been able to hide it.”

  “I don’t even try.”

  “Lion,” she said gently, “she’s married to John, and she’s not leaving him.”

  Lion took a large slug of his drink. It was most unbecoming to be lectured this way by Julia.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” he asked. “It’s quite obvious.”

  “I just keep thinking about what you said the other day. John dedicating his books to her. He has another one in the works.”

  “Lovely. And all I can give her is memories of film shoots and my old horses. How she used to love them. And me.” He stared at Julia as if daring her. “She did, you know. And neither one of us thought it wrong.”

  “John might have disagreed.”

  “Oh, come on. He knew. He was buried in his research, married to the most passionate woman on earth. Did he really think we were just horseback riding? To quote Irene in that wonderful remake of The Forsyte Saga, ‘I believe that misconduct can happen only where there’s no love.’”

  “You remember the line.”

  “I live by the line,” he said. “So, speaking of love, how is yours? And what made you disappear?”

  “My love?”

  “Roberto. Let’s not argue about it. Tell me about the trip—what were you up to?”

  “He lost his daughter when he crossed the border. Five years ago, just like Jenny. I was trying to find out about her. But oh, Lion . . . there was nothing good.”

  “Good Lord,” Lion said.

  Lion sipped his Campari, filled with mixed feelings. Compassion for Roberto, of course; but was Julia serious about him? Lion had been thinking this was a fling—romance at the Casa. Julia had always been so caring, but did she know what she was getting into? Lion gazed at her with the affection of a man who’d adored her since her childhood. She had been through hell these last years.

  “Not long ago you told me you were happy,” he said. “Are you still?”

  “I think I am,” she said.

  He laughed. The waitress delivered their salad and split it between two plates. “You’re not sure?”

  “I’m not used to it,” she said. “Not like this.”

  “You like him?”

  She nodded, picking at her salad. One of the three ladies at the next table approached and asked if Lion would mind having his picture taken with her. Lion obliged, and that made Julia smile. Then the friends wanted photos. It took a few minutes, and by the time he sat down the pasta had arrived.

  “Is Roberto the reason you want to move to Malibu?”

  “No!” she said too quickly.

  “Part of the reason?”

  “I just liked that little house, that’s all.”

  “Hm,” Lion said. But he could see it in her face. Her spirit had been resurrected since she’d arrived at the Casa, and her eyes looked alive again. She had something to look forward to, and how could he begrudge her that? The fact that Graciela was in Ireland, leaving no opportunity for a chance or planned meeting, weighed heavy on his heart. She’d sent him two postcards and had promised a love letter. But when he came right down to it, he had to admit the truth: she was with John. And that was her choice.

  “I’ve always hated coming in second,” he said. “I’m a terrible loser. When friends of mine were nominated for Academy Awards, I loathed them. I’d pretend to be happy, send them telegrams and air-kiss them all over the place, but deep inside my chest was a wizened-up tar ball of resentment.”

  “But you won!”

  “Only once.”

  She laughed. “You’re saying you feel that way about John?” she asked.

  “How could I?” Lion asked, sighing. “He’s practically my dearest friend and one of the best men on earth. So, what did his letter say?”

  “He offered me a chance to help him on his book about our ancestor.”

  “The Irishman who fell in love with Mexico.”

  “Yes.”

  “Clearly you relate,” Lion said.

  “Clearly,” she said softly.

  They turned their attention to their meals. Julia pretended to be absorbed in swirling the strands of spaghetti. But Lion saw the worry lines in her forehead and knew, with all of his actor’s instinct, that she was thinking about Roberto and his little girl and whatever she had learned on her trip that had taken away hope.

  Jack

  He went out to Louella’s
grave as he did every Wednesday morning, to clean off her headstone and her parents’, and to tend the flowers he’d planted there. One thing this part of the country had was dust. The slightest wind would stir it up. He used a rag to wipe down her name and dates and the words the stone carver had chiseled: Most beloved wife on earth and in heaven. He’d written that himself because it was true.

  Sometimes he brought Sugar along, but not today. He watered the flowers with a gallon jug and stayed crouched there, as if he could talk straight through the granite slab to Louella. He felt haunted by his visit with Julia Hughes. She was searching for a little girl she didn’t even know.

  He understood how loss, more terrible than you could believe possible, could come over you like a fever, turn you into a person you barely recognized. The day he learned Louella’s lymphoma had come back and spread, he’d wanted to die himself. During the last week of her life, he had felt like a desert animal full of desperation and thirst, and one night he’d howled into his pillow like no coyote he’d ever heard.

  Louella would have known what to say to Julia. The best Jack had been able to do was call in Lathan Nez, and a big help he’d been. Sure, he’d had a few more details to add, but nothing conclusive that would tell Julia what she wanted to know. Julia wanted to tell the father whether he could bury his daughter or not. People needed that. Even if there wasn’t a grave to visit, they had to find a place in their minds to say goodbye.

  That was the hell of the desert. So much uncertainty. When the border fence was built around the urban areas of California and Arizona, politicians thought it would stop illegal immigration by funneling migrants into “inhospitable”—deadly—terrain. Hell no, it didn’t stop them—and if the muckety-mucks had spent any time on the border before building the wall, they’d have known. They’d have realized that the migrants who make this trip feel they have no choice. They know it is their last trip—either they’re going to make it or die trying. They come to the States to provide for their families because their kids are starving.

  Louella had always understood that. Married to a border agent, she’d volunteered with a group called Salvation who helped the migrants by placing water stations in the desert. They marked them with blue flags on tall masts so they could be seen from far away. It wasn’t a church group, but she had been a religious woman, and she’d put her faith to work.