The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (109 page)

“Watch out!” she cried.

The kid wheeled around, and Bluto took advantage of his being momentarily off guard, clipping him on the jaw. He staggered and nearly fell, but managed to stay on his feet. “Had enough, faggot?” Bluto sneered as he and his friend circled in for the kill.

Bullethead lashed out with a kick that would have caught the kid in the groin if he hadn’t caught hold of the foot, giving it a hard wrench that sent Bullethead flipping back onto the pavement with a high, girlish squeal. He began to thrash about, clutching his ankle and howling, “Oooooowwwwww. Fuck, man, I think it’s broken!”

Serves you right,
Finch would have said if she’d been able to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. But she stood rooted to the spot like the others, looking on in disbelief. It wasn’t until Courtney Russo pulled her cell phone away from her ear to cry petulantly, “Cut it
out,
you guys!”—they might have been disrupting her enjoyment of the latest episode of
Dawson’s Creek
—that Finch was jolted into action. She grabbed her backpack and hurled it at Bluto with all her might. It struck him square in the chest, halting him in midcharge and throwing him off balance just long enough for the kid to wrestle him to the ground.

“Leggo! That hurts!” Bluto’s arm was pinned behind his back, his contorted face the color of raw hamburger.

After a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, the kid released his grip. Bluto lurched to his feet, scuttling out of reach. “What the fuck, man. Can’t you take a joke?” he muttered in a desperate attempt to salvage what little dignity he could.

“Looks like the joke’s on you.” The kid eyed him with cool disdain.

Bluto, wearing the look of the injured party, stalked over to haul his howling buddy to his feet, snarling, “Shut the fuck up, you pussy.” He gave Bullethead a little shove that sent him hopping backward on one foot, then grabbed him roughly by the arm and steered him off toward the parking lot as fast as he could limp.

Finch walked over to the kid. “You’re bleeding.” She touched the hand cradled against his side.

“It’s nothing.” He slid his hand into his pocket.

He’d dropped his book in the scuffle. She saw it in the dirt a few feet away, and stooped to retrieve it. Handing it to him, she muttered, “Come on, let’s get out of here.” While Courtney and the others stood gaping as if at a circus act, Finch snatched up her backpack, motioning for him to follow her. They were halfway across the parking lot before she said, “By the way, I’m Finch.”

“Lucien Jeffers.” He started to put out his hand, then winced and slipped it back into his pocket.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

“How’d you guess?” He grinned.

Her gaze dropped to the front of his blazer, streaked with dirt now and missing a button.

“I transferred from Buckley,” he explained.

She’d heard of it, one of those rich kids’ schools. “Look, no offense, but if I were you, I wouldn’t advertise it.”

He cocked his head, regarding her with interest. “You’re not from around here either.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Anyone could see that.

They exchanged a smile.

Lucien cocked his head, tucking his hair behind his ear. “I wasn’t kicked out, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything.”

He eyed her curiously. “You weren’t scared back there. How come?”

She shrugged. “I’ve been up against worse.”

They’d reached the quad, where a scattering of students sat waiting for rides or just shooting the shit. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss the last bus. Yet all at once she wasn’t in any rush.

Finch ducked into the nearest bathroom, which happened to be a boys’, pulling Lucien in with her. Noting the surprised look he wore, she told him, “There’s nothing in here I haven’t seen.” Growing up in houses with doors that didn’t always lock and people who didn’t always knock, she’d had an early education.

“Coast is clear,” he said, scanning the rows of urinals and stalls.

She held his bleeding hand under a tap, gently removing the embedded bits of gravel. She was pushing his sleeve back to keep it from getting wet when he abruptly jerked away.

“Was I hurting you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nah. Listen, why don’t you run on ahead? You can probably still catch the bus.”

“I’m almost done.” She reached for his hand, but he folded his arms over his chest, leaning back against the sink.

“You’re from New York. I can tell from your accent,” he said in an obvious attempt to distract her.

“Brooklyn, actually,” she told him.

“That explains it.” He smiled, and she saw that he was actually pretty cute up close. “You’re the first person I’ve met so far who doesn’t look at me like I have two heads. What brought you here?”

“It’s a long story.” She didn’t like talking about those days. “You?”

“My parents got divorced. Then last year my dad decided to move out west …” He shrugged. “And here I am.”

“You live with your dad?”

“It’s a long story.” He grinned.

“Fair enough. Here—” She reached once more for his hand.

He hesitated before relinquishing it, and when his sleeve fell back to reveal the angry purple scar on his wrist, she understood. So that’s what he hadn’t wanted her to see. She felt an odd tingling deep inside. Almost as if they’d kissed.

Their eyes met in the mirror over the sinks (which, she made a mental note to tell Andie, was every bit as big as the one in the girls’). He had a beautiful, slow-breaking smile, the kind that sneaked up on you rather than hitting you over the head. She’d have to watch out for this guy.

Lucien was the first to break the silence. “Listen, do you, uh, want to get together sometime?”

She shrugged noncommittally.

“Do you like to swim? There’s a pool at my house.” He tried again.

“So it’s, like, one of those fancy houses on the hill?” She’d meant to sound flip, but it came out sarcastic. Blood rushed up into her cheeks. God. Why did she have to act this way?

“Would it make a difference?” He didn’t seem offended.

“You tell me.” She’d been down this road before. If she wasn’t good enough for his dad and his rich friends, she’d rather know now and save herself the grief.

But what she saw in Lucien’s depthless blue-black eyes sent a delicious shudder through her. What mattered most, she could see, was what she thought of
him.

“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked softly.

She wanted desperately to tell him she had no special plans. But something made her hold back. She wasn’t ready to trust him. “I don’t know yet. Can I get back to you?”

“More potatoes, anyone?”

The bowl Laura was passing to Hector collided with Maude’s elbow as she was reaching for the salt shaker. Knocked from her grasp, the shaker rolled off the table onto the floor, which brought Rocky scampering over to investigate, ears pricked, while Pearl only lifted her gray muzzle from her box by the stove to delicately sniff the air. Laura and Maude bent in unison to retrieve it, bumping heads. They straightened, laughing.

Dinner as usual in our house,
Finch thought, smiling to herself. If they weren’t reaching over one another, they were all talking at once. But though chaotic at times, it was different from the kind she’d known in her other life, which had been about everyone scrambling to get their share. At this table, no one ever went hungry—Maude made sure of that—and the mood was one of happy confusion rather than frantic jockeying, all of them eager to share tidbits of their day.

“That shipment from Mexico finally came in,” Laura was saying. “I had some trouble getting it through Customs. Apparently, Santa Maria is near an airstrip used by drug smugglers.” She helped herself to some broccoli. “They wouldn’t sign off on it until they’d inspected every pot.”

“I hope nothing got broken,” Maude said. Though Laura had once described her as a walking flea market, today she was more conservatively dressed than usual in a striped cotton dress and Adidas running shoes.

“Not so much as a crack. The patron saint of shopkeepers must be watching out for me.” Laura made the sign of the cross.

Remembering Lucien, Finch cleared her throat. “Um, I was wondering. Will you be needing me this weekend?” She only worked on weekends when there was a big shipment to uncrate.

“You and Andie have something planned?” Hector smiled at her across the table. He was the most easygoing of the three. Where Maude tended to be flighty and Laura to fuss like a mother hen, Hector was a rock: always there in an unobtrusive way.

“Uh, no. Me and another friend.” Finch ducked her head, sawing at her chicken breast with new vigor. She hadn’t made up her mind to go, but just in case …

“Anyone we know?”

She looked up to find Maude regarding her with bright anticipation, blue eyes shining in her scrunched little pillow of a face, the bundle of snowy hair atop her head listing to one side. She felt a surge of affection, remembering when she’d first arrived, how Maude had welcomed her with open arms, even offering to share her room. If she occasionally got the salt and pepper mixed up, or forgot to put water in the kettle before setting it on to boil, her heart was in the right place.

“A kid from school,” Finch answered as casually as she could. “He’s new, so I’m sort of showing him around.”

Laura glanced at Hector, then at Maude. The only sounds were the clinking forks and Rocky rooting around under the table. Finch felt herself grow warm.

Laura was dying to know more—it was written all over her face—but all she said was “That’s nice of you. Sure, go ahead.”

“You can borrow the truck. I won’t be needing it,” Hector said.

“I could pack you a picnic lunch,” Maude offered hopefully.

Finch set down her knife and fork, eyeing them sternly. “Why don’t we put out a bulletin? Let the whole town know I’m not gay or frigid or—” She broke off with a laugh. “Don’t take it the wrong way, guys. I know you mean well, but back off, okay?”

Seeing the startled looks around the table, Finch immediately regretted her outburst. She was grateful when Laura piped, “Do I smell something burning?”

All eyes went to Maude, who clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I
knew
there was something I forgot.” She excused herself and hurried over to pull a pan of smoking biscuits from the oven.

Finch looked about the big old-fashioned kitchen with its walk-in pantry and hutch filled with mismatched crockery from at least three different sets. The old pipes shuddered when you turned on the tap and the floor sagged in spots. The scuffed linoleum by the back door was a collage of muddy paw and boot prints. But no other place on earth, she was sure, could better embody the words of the cross-stitched sampler on the wall: NO MATTER WHERE I PUT MY GUESTS, THEY ALWAYS LIKE MY KITCHEN BEST.

By the time the biscuits had been doused in the sink and Maude once more settled in her chair, the subject of Finch’s mystery date had given way to the latest gossip.

“Anna tells me that Monica’s in rehab,” Laura remarked.

“The poor dear,” Maude clucked, quick to add, “Anna, I mean. When I think of what she’s been through.” She shook her head. “Is there anything we can do?”

“She said to include them in our prayers. Though, if you ask me, it’s Monica who should be praying—for forgiveness.”

Finch was surprised by the unaccustomed sharpness of Laura’s voice. She usually bent over backward to give people the benefit of the doubt. Alice was always saying that if her sister had a fault, it was that she had a hard time finding it in others.

“I’ll be feeding Boots while she’s away,” Finch told them.

Maude perked up. “Is Anna going somewhere?”

“Family week,” Finch explained.

Maude looked confused, and it occurred to Finch that to someone who hadn’t grown up on the likes of
Oprah
and
Sally Jessy Raphael,
family week meant Christmas on Walton’s Mountain, or a
Brady Bunch
reunion.

“It’s something they do in rehab.” Laura sounded a little vague herself.

“Oh, yes … my friend Lillian went through that with her son.” Maude helped herself to more potatoes. “Which reminds me, did I tell you what we decided at our last meeting?” She was referring to her sewing circle, which met every Thursday. “It was Lillian’s idea, actually. She’d heard about this ladies’ club in England that raised money for cancer research by putting out a nude calendar.”

“I read about it in
People
,” Laura said, nodding. “All very tasteful, of course.”

“Lillian said she didn’t see why we couldn’t do the same,” Maude went on. “Well, you could’ve heard a pin drop, but once we got used to the idea …” She smiled her sweet smile. “I mean, at our age it’s not as if we’d be putting
Playboy
out of business.”

When it sank in that Maude would be posing
nude,
everyone froze with their forks in midair. Even the normally unflappable Hector suddenly had trouble keeping his mouth closed. Laura was the first to break the silence. “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Maude brought her hands together in a soundless little clap. “Dorothy’s daughter is going to photograph us. She’s a professional, you know.”

“A professional what?” Hector teased.

Finch grinned. “Maude, you rock.”

“Thank you, dear.” She looked uncertain as to whether or not it was a compliment, but smiled anyway and sat up straighten “You’re looking at Miss January of 2003.”

Laura gaped at her in speechless wonderment, then began to laugh. Soon they were all joining in, dabbing with their napkins at the tears rolling down their cheeks. Even old Pearl waddled over to see what the commotion was about.

What, Finch wondered, would this family dream up next?

“I
HAVEN’T DREADED ANYTHING
this much since Dad’s funeral,” Anna said.

“Monica’s the one who should be scared,” Liz said darkly. Her gaze was fixed on the road ahead, her eyes hidden by sunglasses that didn’t mask her grim expression. She was gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles stood out like bleached knots on a rope.