The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (13 page)

Wes withdrew his hand and seized her by the waist, lowering her onto the carpet. Their second date, over too many martinis at Spago, when he’d asked what was she was looking for in a relationship, she’d joked tipsily, “Rug burns.” Another man might have looked at her oddly; Wes had merely raised his glass to her and replied, “My dear lady, I can’t promise you the moon, but I can promise you that.”

She unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down over his hips, frantic with desire. He was just as eager. She felt his belt buckle graze the inside of her knee as he pushed into her with a hard thrust. All at once, she was filled with a delirious sense of wonder. The perfect lover, and he was all hers. Sweet Lord in heaven, it didn’t get any better than this.

Wes wasn’t rushing it. He knew when to pause…and how to move in ways that brought her maximum pleasure. It wasn’t until she’d come several times, surprising herself—this morning hadn’t she had her fill?—that he drew back to look at her.

“Should I use something?” Wes kept a supply of condoms on hand just in case.

Alice felt a familiar flutter of…regret? No, nothing as strong as that. “My diaphragm’s in,” she murmured.

It was all he needed. A moment later he was rearing back with a hoarse yell. She felt the warm pulse of his seed, and suddenly she wanted…she wanted…what
did
she want?

He collapsed onto the carpet with a breathless laugh. “Woman, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Beats opening presents any day.” She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her elbow. “Unless, of course, you plan on exchanging one of those espresso makers for something a little more risque.”

He cast a meaningful glance at the panties crumpled at her feet. “Careful,” he growled. “That kind of talk could get you into trouble.”

Wes, she knew, was entirely capable of going a second round. He was the only man she’d ever been with who could match her appetite, bite for bite. At times like this it was easy to forget he was so much older, that he had a grown son…

…
who happens to be sleeping with my mother.

Alice sat up abruptly, hugging her knees. “It’s getting late.”

“Why don’t I warm up something from the fridge while you finish unpacking?” he offered.

“That’d be nice.” Their housekeeper, Rosa, was sure to have stocked it in their absence.

Alice unpacked while he showered, waiting until she could hear him banging about in the kitchen, whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world, before she collapsed onto the bed.

She stared up at the ceiling, more miserable than she had any right to be, more miserable than she’d have believed possible. All at once the prewedding jitters she’d been told to expect—of which she’d had none—descended with the force of an avalanche.

Wes’s reaction to the news about her mother had been one of surprise…even sympathy. But he hadn’t understood how she felt. He didn’t know what it was like to lose a father; if his dad was anything to go by, Wes would still be wearing her out in his eighties. And there was more, a great deal they would never share. Starting with the fact that he’d had his family, and she…

It was a mutual decision,
she told herself firmly.
No one’s preventing me from having children.

She pushed the thought from her mind and concentrated on the problem at hand. Wes wasn’t going to be much help; it was obvious he had no intention of speaking to his son. That left it to her to try and talk some sense into Sam. Tomorrow morning, first thing, she would drive over there.

Alice pulled herself upright, eyeing the heap of clothing on the floor beside the bed. Wes’s idea of unpacking was to leave his dirty laundry for Rosa to pick up, knowing full well that Alice wouldn’t be able to abide looking at it until then.

She groaned and flopped back onto the mattress. From the kitchen she could hear the faint rattling of dishes and the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. How could she be resentful of a man who would cheerfully make dinner after an eight-hour flight? Maybe the problem wasn’t Wes, but her. Maybe
she
was flawed in some deep, fundamental way.

The long, exhausting day and prospect of an even longer one ahead caught up with her in full. She promptly fell asleep.

The following morning Alice was showered and dressed before Wes was even up. Breakfast was a slice of buttered toast washed down with black coffee strong enough to jump-start a battery. Then she was out the door, leaving her husband to weed through three weeks’ worth of mail. She hadn’t driven more than a hundred yards when she fished her cell phone from her purse and punched in Laura’s number.

“It’s me. I’m on my way over.” The top was down on her Porsche Carrera, a gift from Wes, and she had to raise her voice to be heard.

“I’ll make another pot of coffee.” Laura sounded anything but glum. Alice heard the sound of running water and faint judder of old pipes. “You had breakfast yet?”

“I’m not coming over to eat.”

“Let me guess? You’re on your way to Mom’s.”

“Not me. Us.”

“Count me out.” Her sister groaned. “I’m up to my ears in…you don’t even want to know.”

“Hey, you’re the one who called
me,
remember?”

Laura sighed. “I know, but I’ve thought about it—I was up most of last night, as a matter of fact—and I’m not sure it’s our place to be telling her how to run her life.”

“We’re not
telling
her anything,” Alice said. “Just reminding her of what’s at stake here.”

There was a pause. In the background, she could hear a blend of voices, one deep and masculine—that would be Hector’s—the other soft and tentative. Then Laura said, “I’m sure Mom’s given it a lot of thought, too. She’s not exactly the impulsive type.”

“
Wasn’t.
We’re talking past tense here.”

“Okay, but suppose she isn’t interested in hearing what we have to say? What then?”

“She owes it to Dad to at least listen.”

“What’s Dad got to do with it?”

“How’s it going to look?” Alice went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Mom gallivanting around town with her lover to all the places Dad and she…” She bit down on her lower lip, feeling as if she was going to cry.

“Oh, Al. I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have made such a big deal of it.” Laura beating herself up again. Why did she always think everything was her fault? “Look, maybe it’ll all blow over in a week or two.”

There was a surge of static and Laura’s voice faded. “We’ll talk about it when I get there!” Alice yelled. She thumbed the End button, and flipped the phone shut.

The sky was a cloudless sprawl overhead, the warm wind rushing at her a reminder of Kapalua, with its frangipani-scented breeze and mimosa sunsets…and the certainty she’d felt about Wes. Her hands tightened about the wheel.
Was
she making too big a deal of this? In the world of television, people had affairs all the time. Older men with younger women; older women with younger men. No one had batted so much as an eyelash when Lainie Bacheler, widow of CBS mogul Marvin Bacheler, who admitted to being sixty—which meant she was older—showed up at last year’s Emmys on the arm of a man young enough to be her grandson.

But this wasn’t L.A., and her mother was anything but the usual fodder for wagging tongues. And oh, how they would wag!

The poor dear, I had no idea she was so desperate.

It’s obvious what this is about. What else could she want from a man young enough to be her son?

Martin will be rolling over in his grave.

Alice made the turn onto Grove, distracted at that moment by the tumbledown building on her right—the town’s original one-room schoolhouse, where both her great-grandfather and grandfather had gone to school. Its windows were boarded over and its paint coming away in curly strips; litter lay in a small drift against the padlocked door. In her day it had been a prime high school make-out spot. Her boyfriend, Bif Holloway, used to park under that tree over there, where they’d kiss until her mouth was raw. But it had another distinction as well; in the fifties a scene in
Stranger in Paradise,
referred to locally as The Movie, was filmed here.

Alice’s favorite story of her grandmother’s was of the time she’d sneaked off to visit the set one Sunday while the rest of the family was at church. The biggest surprise, she’d said, was that the stars who’d looked ten feet tall on screen were short—practically midgets. It wasn’t like watching a play, either. There’d been take after take, with a lumpy woman in a cardigan scurrying over with a hairbrush and hair spray between each one. Not very glamorous, to be sure, though her grandmother always grew misty-eyed when speaking of its director, Hank Montgomery. “Handsomest man I ever saw,” she’d sigh. “Oh, he was quite the ladies’ man!” It was Alice’s first peek—if only vicariously—behind the plush curtain, and the lure of show business had been with her ever since.

Her sister’s house was in full swing when she arrived, the kitchen a jumble of boots, jackets slung over the backs of chairs, dogs and cats nosing at bowls of kibble lined up along the baseboard. There was Hector, hunched over his plate at the table, and Maude at the sink washing up. Laura stood at the counter, a mug of coffee in one hand and a tattered recipe card in the other.

“I can’t remember if Grandma’s banana cake calls for one cup of flour or two. That part is smudged.” She peered at the card. “Or maybe I need reading glasses.”

“Don’t ask me. I wouldn’t have a clue.” Alice nodded hello to Hector. “Hey, Hec. Missed you at the wedding.”

She tried not to sound offended. It wasn’t personal, she knew. As long as she’d known him Hector had been this way: a genial loner. With one exception—he’d always taken his meals with the family. Her mother had insisted on it, and from the start he’d put up little resistance. Not until years later, after a number of his brothers and sisters had migrated north as well, did she realize how hard it had to have been leaving his own family behind. Proof lay in the fact that Hector remembered each and every one of his twenty-two nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays, even the ones he’d never met. His room in back of the barn was a gallery of family photos tilting from pushpins.

He flashed her a disarming smile, revealing the tooth chipped in a fist fight back in his rowdier days. “Heard all about it from your sister.” There wasn’t a hint of apology in his voice. “Me? I’m holding out for the pictures.”

“Such a beautiful wedding.” Maude turned from the sink, beaming at Alice as she wiped her soapy hands on her apron. “And such a beautiful bride.”

“You were quite the belle of the ball yourself.” Alice recalled Maude’s unusual, but oddly fashionable getup. “By the way, Maude, thanks for the…um…” What
had
she given them? “The letter organizer. I’m sure it’ll come in handy.”

The old woman smiled sweetly. “Actually, dear, it’s a toast caddy.”

Alice winced at her blunder. On the other hand, who in this century, on this side of the Atlantic, would give someone a silver-plated toast caddy? “Well,” she said brightly, “since we usually eat breakfast on the run, we’ll get more use out of it this way.”

“That’s how she stays so thin,” Laura groused good-naturedly. With a sigh she tucked the recipe card back into its box. “I give up. I’ll make devil’s food instead.”

“What’s the occasion?” Alice asked.

“Finch,” she said. “It’s her birthday. Would you believe she’s never had a birthday cake, not even the store-bought kind? What kind of parents would—” The thump of boots on the porch caused her to break off. Pearl and Rocky dashed to the door, barking excitedly.

It was the girl. “I cleaned out the stalls like you asked, and—” She caught sight of Alice, halting abruptly. “Hi.” Her eyes were dark glints behind the screen door’s buckled mesh. Then with a look of resolve she pushed it open and stepped inside.

Alice hardly recognized her. In just three weeks she’d filled out; in an old pair of jeans and clean white T-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked like any teenager. “Happy birthday, Finch.” Alice struck a casual tone. “I hope you plan to celebrate by doing something a little more exciting than mucking out stalls.”

The girl’s cheeks reddened, and she dropped her gaze.

Laura stepped in quickly. “I thought we’d take a ride later on,” she said. “You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen the view from the hill.”

Finch shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”

“All the wildflowers are in bloom. You won’t believe how beautiful it is.” She turned to Alice brightly, as if she hadn’t noticed how Finch had withdrawn. “I’ve been giving her lessons. Wait till you see her—she’s a natural.”

Some of the stiffness went out of the girl’s shoulders. She flashed Laura a look that seemed to say,
I know you mean well, but I’m not ready to open up just yet.
“I’d better take a shower,” she muttered, sidling past them.

Alice waited until she heard the thud of the door down the hall. “Any word on her parents?”

“Not a peep.” Maude sighed, tucking a stray wisp into her bun. She might have been Auntie Em fretting over Dorothy. “Poor child. To think what she must have gone through…”

“I’m not pushing it for now.” Laura spoke with unaccustomed firmness. “She’ll come around when she’s ready. Meanwhile, she’s welcome to stay as long as she likes.”

Alice wondered if her sister was getting in over her head. “Don’t let it drag out too long. She has a home…somewhere. I’m sure her parents will want to know where she is.”

Hector rose, and carried his plate over to the sink. “Excuse me, ladies, but I have work to do.” The abruptness of his tone spoke louder than any words; he might just as well have told Alice to mind her own business.

She tried not to feel hurt. Hector, though polite and friendly to everyone, had always been closest to Laura—maybe because he thought she needed someone to stick up for her. It was a special bond that went both ways. Even now, Alice couldn’t help noticing the way her sister’s gaze followed Hector onto the porch, where he retrieved his hat from a rusty nail and slapped it against his thigh. For several long seconds after he stepped down into the yard, Laura’s eyes remained fixed on the motes of dust swirling lazily in the shaft of sunlight where he’d stood.