Read Online Diamonds and Cole by Micheal Maxwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Micheal Maxwell
Ads: Link
interest.”
Cole returned to the Palmwood and looked up Allen Christopher in the phone book he found in the desk drawer, scribbling the number and address on a notepad. Tomorrow, he would make a call on Mr. Christopher. As he lay back across the bed, Cole replayed the day’s events in his head. He had covered a lot of ground since he left Chicago, and he was starting to feel the effects. His sadness about Ellie had been masked by their talk and laughter for a while. The best thing to do was get busy finding Erin. He wouldn’t let himself dwell on Ellie’s condition. She was just sick , he told himself, but he knew it was more than that. He had a chance to do something for her, something her husband wouldn’t. He would not let her down.
SIX
Cole woke late. Dressed in jeans, a Chicago Blues Festival T-shirt and a Cubs baseball cap, he made his way to the street and walked to the McDonalds on the corner. Two Egg McMuffins later, coffee in hand, he walked back to his car in the Palmwood lot. Cole pulled the address for Allen Christopher from his pocket. To his embarrassment, he realized he had no clue where the location was. He went to the motel office and got a city map from the desk clerk. He followed the map toward 1438 Peppertree Lane.
As he drove north, he was amazed at the landscape. Where peach trees and grapevines had once lined the road, now were rows and rows of houses. New building was apparent all over the city, but nowhere as dramatic as in the north end. In the few short miles he had driven, the houses he saw had taken over a dozen family-owned farms. He thought of the kids he had known and rode the school bus with, farm kids who always got on the bus wearing the newest styles. They always had the coolest bikes and wore the coolest shoes. In high school, they proudly wore the royal blue corduroy FFA jackets and took Ag classes. It was assumed they would inherit the farms, grow the peaches, and tend the vineyards. Now the farms were gone. Cole wondered what kind of family history the owners of the earth-toned two-story Tudors and fake ‘40s retro homes presented to the world.
He stopped at the corner of Tulare and Emmett Roads and marveled at the small shopping center that filled the northeast corner. A small market, video store, take-and-bake pizza, dry cleaner, and a Mexican restaurant sat on the land where his friend Steve had once lived with his aunt and uncle. Old Leo would be spinning in his grave to see what became of his prized orchard of Rio Oso Gem peaches.
Cole thought back to summers in high school and evenings spent with the Padullas. Uncle Leo would bring fresh peaches from the orchard. He grew an experimental variety that were developed at the University of California at Davis. Designed to be frozen, they were sweet, fleshy fruit with, as Cole remembered, an exaggerated peach taste. The thing he would never forget, though, was the size. Aunt Rosa once ran to the copper-toned refrigerator, took out a cantaloupe, and laid it on the table next to a peach. They were the same size. Every night during peach season, the family would gather after dinner and cut a giant peach in half, peel it, and put a single scoop of vanilla ice cream in the cavernous hole left by the pit. Cole’s mouth actually watered at the memory.
He also recalled how Rosa was always reading a book when he’d come in. Cole’s strongest image of Rosa was the day they came in as she was reading The Godfather. He could see the slightly bent Italian lady, arms waving, dentures slipping, spit flying, telling how the Mafia in Sicily had threatened her father’s brother and somebody-or-other, and that’s why they had come to America. “La Cosa Nostra, La Cosa Nostra,” she repeated over and over throughout the story. She was absolutely convinced that the story of the Corleone family was a thinly disguised account of a real Mafia family in New York that was still looking for her descendants who had escaped
Cole returned to the Palmwood and looked up Allen Christopher in the phone book he found in the desk drawer, scribbling the number and address on a notepad. Tomorrow, he would make a call on Mr. Christopher. As he lay back across the bed, Cole replayed the day’s events in his head. He had covered a lot of ground since he left Chicago, and he was starting to feel the effects. His sadness about Ellie had been masked by their talk and laughter for a while. The best thing to do was get busy finding Erin. He wouldn’t let himself dwell on Ellie’s condition. She was just sick , he told himself, but he knew it was more than that. He had a chance to do something for her, something her husband wouldn’t. He would not let her down.
SIX
Cole woke late. Dressed in jeans, a Chicago Blues Festival T-shirt and a Cubs baseball cap, he made his way to the street and walked to the McDonalds on the corner. Two Egg McMuffins later, coffee in hand, he walked back to his car in the Palmwood lot. Cole pulled the address for Allen Christopher from his pocket. To his embarrassment, he realized he had no clue where the location was. He went to the motel office and got a city map from the desk clerk. He followed the map toward 1438 Peppertree Lane.
As he drove north, he was amazed at the landscape. Where peach trees and grapevines had once lined the road, now were rows and rows of houses. New building was apparent all over the city, but nowhere as dramatic as in the north end. In the few short miles he had driven, the houses he saw had taken over a dozen family-owned farms. He thought of the kids he had known and rode the school bus with, farm kids who always got on the bus wearing the newest styles. They always had the coolest bikes and wore the coolest shoes. In high school, they proudly wore the royal blue corduroy FFA jackets and took Ag classes. It was assumed they would inherit the farms, grow the peaches, and tend the vineyards. Now the farms were gone. Cole wondered what kind of family history the owners of the earth-toned two-story Tudors and fake ‘40s retro homes presented to the world.
He stopped at the corner of Tulare and Emmett Roads and marveled at the small shopping center that filled the northeast corner. A small market, video store, take-and-bake pizza, dry cleaner, and a Mexican restaurant sat on the land where his friend Steve had once lived with his aunt and uncle. Old Leo would be spinning in his grave to see what became of his prized orchard of Rio Oso Gem peaches.
Cole thought back to summers in high school and evenings spent with the Padullas. Uncle Leo would bring fresh peaches from the orchard. He grew an experimental variety that were developed at the University of California at Davis. Designed to be frozen, they were sweet, fleshy fruit with, as Cole remembered, an exaggerated peach taste. The thing he would never forget, though, was the size. Aunt Rosa once ran to the copper-toned refrigerator, took out a cantaloupe, and laid it on the table next to a peach. They were the same size. Every night during peach season, the family would gather after dinner and cut a giant peach in half, peel it, and put a single scoop of vanilla ice cream in the cavernous hole left by the pit. Cole’s mouth actually watered at the memory.
He also recalled how Rosa was always reading a book when he’d come in. Cole’s strongest image of Rosa was the day they came in as she was reading The Godfather. He could see the slightly bent Italian lady, arms waving, dentures slipping, spit flying, telling how the Mafia in Sicily had threatened her father’s brother and somebody-or-other, and that’s why they had come to America. “La Cosa Nostra, La Cosa Nostra,” she repeated over and over throughout the story. She was absolutely convinced that the story of the Corleone family was a thinly disguised account of a real Mafia family in New York that was still looking for her descendants who had escaped
Similar Books
