The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (129 page)

“Tell them I’m keeping my fingers crossed,” Gerry said.

The oven timer pinged. “My pie.” Claire hurried to get it,

Gerry clopping after her in chunky-heeled espadrilles, carrying the sack of lemons.

Finch heard a car pull into the driveway, and looked out the window to see a gaggle of thirteen-year-old girls in their Sunday best spilling from a black Subaru Outback, a harried-looking mom shepherding them up the path.

“Girls! Mind your manners!” she cried as they surged in through the door, squealing in delight. Finch recognized her as Mrs. Leahy, who owned the craft shop next door to Delarosa’s, a small aerobicized woman with short, fluffy blond hair and Sally Jessy Raphael glasses. She turned to Finch with a weary sigh. “They slept over at our house last night. They were up until all hours, so they’re a little wired.”

“I think we can handle it,” Finch said with a smile.

“In that case, they’re all yours.” She shot a warning look at a chubby redhead picking at one of the tarts as Andie rounded up the others, showing them where to put the presents. “I’ll be back at three to pick them up.”

She was almost out the door before Finch got up the courage to say, “Um, Mrs. Leahy? We’re collecting money for the Anna Vincenzi Defense Fund. I was wondering if you’d, uh, like to make a donation. Anything you can spare. Every dollar helps.”

Mrs. Leahy’s smile faded, and Finch thought,
Uh-oh.
She’d had pretty good luck so far, but there were those who’d written Anna off as guilty until proven innocent. Finch knew she was one even before she replied coolly, “I’d like to, but it might look as though I were taking sides.”

“But she’s innocent!” Finch blurted.

Mrs. Leahy shot her a sharply reproving look. Clearly she considered it an inappropriate topic to be discussing around the girls. “I think that’s up to a jury to decide,” she said in a pointedly hushed tone, taking a step back as if to distance herself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Finch felt blood rush up into her cheeks. How could anyone be so cold? She nearly gave the bitch a piece of her mind, but due to the occasion held her tongue. “I’m sure if you knew her …” Her voice trailed off. The look on Mrs. Leahy’s face would’ve stopped traffic.

“I’ll admit she doesn’t seem the type, but you know what they say—it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

Finch swallowed the angry retort she longed to hurl at the woman’s retreating back. She was almost glad for the distraction of the party; it kept her from her own murderous thoughts. She and Andie spent the next couple of hours pouring lemonade and hot chocolate and tea and replenishing the sandwiches and sweets that were gobbled up as fast as they could fill the plates. They smiled and cracked jokes and organized games, but all the while Finch felt a growing sense of dread. What chance would Anna have if the majority felt as Mrs. Leahy did?

Before long Claire was carrying out the cake, swirled with white chocolate frosting and decorated with sugar roses. The birthday girl’s eyes widened as it was placed before her. The other girls clapped and cheered, and it took Natalie two attempts to blow out all the candles. The poor girl was asthmatic, though you wouldn’t know it from her rosy cheeks and shining eyes.

Mrs. Griggs arrived promptly at three to pick up Natalie. After the brush off she’d gotten from Mrs. Leahy, Finch felt reluctant to approach her. But Mrs. Griggs had always been friendly, and Finch couldn’t afford to wimp out, not with so much at stake.

She waited until Natalie was racing off to the car, a shopping bag of opened presents in each hand, but before she could open her mouth the pastor’s wife gushed, “I can’t thank you girls enough. I don’t know when I’ve seen Nat so happy. I only wish I could’ve been there.” She looked wistful. Gone were the days of playing den mother; Natalie had made it clear she wasn’t to show her face.

“We took lots of pictures,” Andie assured her.

“I can’t wait to see them.” From the expression on her face, it seemed thirteen would be as hard on Mrs. Griggs as on her daughter.

Finch cleared her throat. “Um, by the way, we were wondering if …”

Picking up on her hesitation, Andie rushed in. “We’re collecting money for Anna Vincenzi’s defense fund.”

Finch waited dry-mouthed. The Reverend Mr. and Mrs. Griggs had a lot of influence in the community. If they had their doubts about Anna …

But Mrs. Griggs, round and plump like her husband, with a heart-shaped face accentuated by a widow’s peak, put her out of her misery. “All I have on me at the moment is forty. Will that do?” She pulled out her wallet, taking out two twenties and pressing them into Finch’s hand. “Please tell Anna she’s in our prayers. As a matter of fact, my husband will be mentioning her in this Sunday’s sermon.” She confided in a hushed tone, “There are those who have a tendency to rush to judgment. They need reminding that it’s that very thinking Jesus preached against.” She tucked her wallet back into her purse with the smile of a woman hoping to make a difference in the world, however small. Finch could have kissed her.

There was a time she hadn’t believed in God. But right now, watching Mrs. Griggs bob down the path, it seemed anything was possible—even miracles.

“Almost there.” Lucien beeped his horn and a dog unfolded from the saffron cloud of dust hovering over the road.

Finch hadn’t realized he lived this far out in the boonies. Noting the row of mailboxes tilting at angles amid a tangle of weeds, she wondered if his father was as well off as she’d thought. Casually, she said, “You never told me what your dad does for a living.”

“He’s retired.” Lucien wore the tight look he always did when the subject of his father came up.

“From what?”

“Life.”

“I didn’t know you could retire from that.”

“You can if you’re rich.” From his cynical tone it was obvious that it wasn’t something he was proud of. “My grandfather made a shitload of money in real estate,” he explained. “Dad’s been living off it ever since. He’s sort of the black sheep of the family.”

Black sheep or no, he might still be a snob. “I wonder what he’ll think of me,” she said nervously.

“He’s in no position to judge, believe me.” He must have realized how it sounded, for he was quick to add, “But I’m sure he’ll like you. Why wouldn’t he?”

Finch could think of a few reasons, but kept her thoughts to herself.

At the end of a bumpy dirt lane that made the road to her house seem like a freeway, they turned down a graveled drive and Lucien’s house rose into view, a rambling split-level shaded by majestic live oaks. Higher up on the hill was a stable and corral. “I didn’t know you had horses,” she said.

“We used to—not anymore. They were all sold off.” He pulled to a stop behind a string of cars. The yard was nicely landscaped—there was even a koi pond with a miniature waterfall, but it looked unkempt.

“Too bad.” She thought of how devastated she’d be to lose Cheyenne.

Lucien shrugged. “They were mostly for show, anyway.”

Finch found it hard to imagine anyone owning a horse the way they would a sculpture, but refrained from saying anything as she followed Lucien into the house. The drapes were pulled, but even in the dim light she could see that it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. Everywhere she looked were overflowing ashtrays, empty beer cans, and coffee mugs. Bits of what felt like pretzels and potato chips crunched under her soles as she made her way across the carpeted living room.

Voices punctuated by hearty male laughter drifted from out back. Finch stepped through a sliding glass door onto a cabana-shaded patio, where a group of middle-aged men sat around a table drinking beer. One lifted a hand in greeting without taking his eyes from a bald guy in a Hawaiian shirt who was telling a joke. When the punch line came, all five men roared with laughter. Only then did the one she assumed was Lucien’s dad hoist himself out of his chair, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other, and amble over to greet them.

“Dad, this is Finch.” Lucien looked nervous as he introduced them.

“Hey there. Glad you could make it.” A fleshy hand engulfed hers, and she found herself looking up into a florid face vaguely resembling Lucien’s.

“Thanks for having me, Mr.—”

“Guy. We’re not sticklers for formality here.” He winked. “What can I get you to drink?”

“A Sprite, if you have one.” She had a feeling he’d have mixed her a martini if she’d asked.

“I’ll get it.” Lucien disappeared inside, leaving her alone with his father.

“I understand you’re a fellow New Yorker.” Guy dropped into a chair, gesturing toward the one beside it. “We had a duplex on Seventy-second and Madison. View of the park, the whole nine yards. Hell, I’m still paying for it,” he said, a reference to the alimony he paid his ex-wife, no doubt.

“I lived in Flatbush.” Finch felt a twinge of perverse pleasure seeing the look on his face. For people like Lucien’s dad, that part of Brooklyn might’ve been the moon.

He quickly recovered and said a touch too heartily, “Well, it’s not where you’re from, it’s where you end up that counts.” He peered blearily up at Lucien, who’d reappeared, drinks in hand. “In’ that right, son?”

“Right, Dad.” Lucien wore a small tight smile.

“Take me, for instance. I got sick of the old rat race and threw in the towel. Decided it was time to enjoy life.”

It looked to Finch as if he’d been enjoying it a bit too much, but all she said was, “You have a nice place.”

“Fifteen acres of heaven. Is this living, or what?” He threw his arm out in an expansive gesture that toppled the beer can on the table at his elbow. It bounced off the tiles at his feet with a hollow, tinny sound before rolling off into the shrubs. “Just look at that view.” He gazed out at the tawny hills rolling off into the distance. When he looked back to Finch, there was a beat in which he seemed to be wondering who she was and what she was doing there. Then he smiled and said, “But, hey, don’t let me keep you. Why don’t you two kids go for a swim?”

“I thought I’d show her around first.” Lucien looked as if he couldn’t wait to escape.

“Sure, take your time. I’ll give you a shout when the steaks are on.” He heaved himself from his chair with a creak of plastic webbing and headed back to his friends.

Lucien set their drinks down and steered her through a side gate onto a path that led up the grassy slope to the stable. After a moment Finch ventured cautiously, “Your dad seems nice.”

“Yeah, he’s a real barrel of laughs.” Lucien cast a dark look back at the house.

“Everyone always thinks their own parents are the worst.” She thought of Andie’s dad, who acted as if she and Justin were relics from his first marriage that he no longer had use for but didn’t have the heart to throw away. “Anyway, it can’t be too bad, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Let’s just say it’s the lesser of two evils.”

“Well, at least you
have
parents.”

“When they know I’m around.” He kicked at a rock, which spun off into the tall grass. Then with a crooked smile he said, “But you’re right, it could be worse. Besides, one more year and I’m outta here.”

She felt a little pang, thinking of college. Lucien would be applying to Harvard and Yale; she’d be lucky to get into a state college.

They continued on in silence, the grass swishing at their legs. Insects swirled in the shafts of sunlight slanting through the trees and fat clouds scudded overhead, brindling the surrounding hills with their shadows.

When they reached the stable, Lucien poked his head in to make sure no wild creatures had taken up residence. Finch could see that it’d been awhile since anyone had been up there, yet it had the feel of something abruptly abandoned, as if the horses had been taken out for a ride one day and just never returned. The stalls were strewn with moldering straw, and dusty tack hung from pegs on the wall. Several pairs of mud-caked boots were lined up by the door.

“Do you ride?” she asked, fingering a bridle thick with dust.

Lucien nodded. “My mom used to take me. There’s a stable in Central Park.” He looked wistful, as if remembering happier times. “We stopped going after a while. It got so she could hardly stay in the saddle, she was so drunk.”

She touched his arm, saying gently, “It won’t be like this forever. You know that, don’t you?”

He shrugged, looking unconvinced. “Yeah, I know. It just feels that way.” He held her gaze and she knew he was going to kiss her.

This time she gave in to it, letting his tongue play over hers. She didn’t start to tense up until he drew back, asking, “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Depends.” This was where he’d suggest that they take their clothes off, that it wouldn’t have to go any further than that, she could keep her bra and panties on if she liked.

He cocked his head, eyeing her with bemusement. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“What?”

“I feel like the luckiest guy on the planet just being with you.”

Finch didn’t know what to say. The idea that a guy would want her for herself, not just for what she could give him, was almost more than she could take in. “You do?” she croaked at last.

He nodded, his eyes searching her face. “Do you want to go back?”

She hesitated, then said softly, “No.”

They unearthed a pile of saddle blankets from a trunk in the tack room. Lucien spread them over what was left of the hay in the loft and they stretched out. In the warm, still air under the rafters, they kissed some more. After a while she sat up and peeled off her T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Lucien lazily traced the tan line from her bikini.

“You’re sure?” If she hadn’t loved him before, she did then. It was obvious he wanted her, but he wanted even more for it to be
her
decision.

She remembered when she used to hand over her body like a coat at the door. “It’s been awhile since—” She broke off.

He regarded her solemnly. “Did someone hurt you—is that it?”

She pulled her knees up to her chest, shivering in the warm air. “You know Suzy Wentworth?” He smiled, as if to say,
Who doesn’t? She’s the school slut.
“Well, that was me. They didn’t even have to get me drunk.” She felt a need to punish herself, to paint a picture so ugly Lucien would turn away in disgust.