of American civilization and culture; he’d been the embodiment of the phonied-up glamour of the Wild West, heir to a great ranch, a wartime hero, already a man in her inexperienced eyes. Their great romance had been nothing more than a better-dressed, richer version of the Cowboy and the Lady.
It had been one woeful big bitch of a mistake, but Valerie was born eleven months after their elopement. Then, before the last year of college started, his father had had a fatal stroke. Overnight, prepared only by what he had learned before he’d gone into the Army, he, the last male Kilkullen, had become the big boss of the ranch. Emilio Hermosa, an old man, had been the Cow Boss at the time, and he’d attached himself to Emilio to absorb every detail of the operation of the ranch. During those early days they’d driven a pickup truck, for the area he needed to learn about was too great to cover on horseback. Liddy had found herself in charge of the running of the big hacienda, supervising the servants and the gardeners as well as caring for Valerie. Both of them had been too busy to face their misery with each other. Fernanda had been borntwo years later, and the girls had managed to hold them together for a few years longer.
“Dad, what are you doing standing back here?” Jazz said, appearing at his side.
“Remembering,” he said, startled into honesty.
“What?”
“Anaheim red wine. All that champagne and vodka and white wine that everybody’s drinking tonight—do you know that once the only stuff anybody ever drank here was a plain red wine from the vineyards in Anaheim?”
“Disneyland rouge?”
“Disney wasn’t born. And ladies didn’t drink except maybe once a year or so.”
“You’re having an attack of ancient racial memories.”
“Probably. It was something your great-grandfather told me.”
“How about a dance?” Jazz asked.
“Nothing I’d like more,” he said, and led her out of the shadows onto the dance floor.
I fancy myself madly tonight, Jazz thought euphorically, as she moved through the crowd after dancing with her father, stopping to greet everybody, for not one guest was unknown to her.
She had decided to wear a precious and seemingly simple dress that she’d bought at a fiercely contended auction of great old clothes, bidding with a reckless determination to win. It was from Madame Grès and dated from the early 1960s, a long dress made of white silk chiffon, classically Grecian in style, with one shoulder draped and the other bare. This understated triumph of the most elite house in all of haute couture was so finely worked that dozens of yards of pleated chiffon fell into a slim column that moved around her gently as she walked or danced. Even standing still, Jazz seemed to be touched by a lyric breeze. Yet to the uninitiated it was just another evening gown, appropriate for any big party.
The night air had dampness in it, as it always didso close to the ocean, and over her shoulders Jazz had thrown a magnificently embroidered black Spanish silk shawl that her great-grandmother, Amilia Moncada y Rivera, had worn a hundred years ago as she presided over special occasions at the Hacienda Valencia. It was a coveted family heirloom; none of the three sisters owned it, but her father had let her borrow it for tonight.
She had piled all of her hair high on her head, experimenting until she found a look that somehow suggested Spain, with the help of a few invisible tortoiseshell combs. All I need is a rose in my teeth and three feverish bullfighters throwing themselves at my feet, Jazz mocked herself, but she was thrilled by the romance of the effect she had achieved, for it seemed to be in perfect harmony with the benign spirit of the evening, a spirit that hung over the golden, firelit bowl of the Fiesta and sang of another century, a spirit rarely captured in Orange County, where only a few social traditions dated back before 1950.
Jazz moved almost to the edge of the bowl,
It had been one woeful big bitch of a mistake, but Valerie was born eleven months after their elopement. Then, before the last year of college started, his father had had a fatal stroke. Overnight, prepared only by what he had learned before he’d gone into the Army, he, the last male Kilkullen, had become the big boss of the ranch. Emilio Hermosa, an old man, had been the Cow Boss at the time, and he’d attached himself to Emilio to absorb every detail of the operation of the ranch. During those early days they’d driven a pickup truck, for the area he needed to learn about was too great to cover on horseback. Liddy had found herself in charge of the running of the big hacienda, supervising the servants and the gardeners as well as caring for Valerie. Both of them had been too busy to face their misery with each other. Fernanda had been borntwo years later, and the girls had managed to hold them together for a few years longer.
“Dad, what are you doing standing back here?” Jazz said, appearing at his side.
“Remembering,” he said, startled into honesty.
“What?”
“Anaheim red wine. All that champagne and vodka and white wine that everybody’s drinking tonight—do you know that once the only stuff anybody ever drank here was a plain red wine from the vineyards in Anaheim?”
“Disneyland rouge?”
“Disney wasn’t born. And ladies didn’t drink except maybe once a year or so.”
“You’re having an attack of ancient racial memories.”
“Probably. It was something your great-grandfather told me.”
“How about a dance?” Jazz asked.
“Nothing I’d like more,” he said, and led her out of the shadows onto the dance floor.
I fancy myself madly tonight, Jazz thought euphorically, as she moved through the crowd after dancing with her father, stopping to greet everybody, for not one guest was unknown to her.
She had decided to wear a precious and seemingly simple dress that she’d bought at a fiercely contended auction of great old clothes, bidding with a reckless determination to win. It was from Madame Grès and dated from the early 1960s, a long dress made of white silk chiffon, classically Grecian in style, with one shoulder draped and the other bare. This understated triumph of the most elite house in all of haute couture was so finely worked that dozens of yards of pleated chiffon fell into a slim column that moved around her gently as she walked or danced. Even standing still, Jazz seemed to be touched by a lyric breeze. Yet to the uninitiated it was just another evening gown, appropriate for any big party.
The night air had dampness in it, as it always didso close to the ocean, and over her shoulders Jazz had thrown a magnificently embroidered black Spanish silk shawl that her great-grandmother, Amilia Moncada y Rivera, had worn a hundred years ago as she presided over special occasions at the Hacienda Valencia. It was a coveted family heirloom; none of the three sisters owned it, but her father had let her borrow it for tonight.
She had piled all of her hair high on her head, experimenting until she found a look that somehow suggested Spain, with the help of a few invisible tortoiseshell combs. All I need is a rose in my teeth and three feverish bullfighters throwing themselves at my feet, Jazz mocked herself, but she was thrilled by the romance of the effect she had achieved, for it seemed to be in perfect harmony with the benign spirit of the evening, a spirit that hung over the golden, firelit bowl of the Fiesta and sang of another century, a spirit rarely captured in Orange County, where only a few social traditions dated back before 1950.
Jazz moved almost to the edge of the bowl,
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