The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (16 page)

“Ever tried it?” he asked.

“What, marijuana? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not even in college?”

“I was busy changing diapers, remember?”

“It’s not too late.”

She glanced at him to see if he was joking. She hoped so; she didn’t need any more reasons to rethink this relationship. Wasn’t it bad enough she was so much older, more concerned about her SEP-IRA than about any fun she might have missed in college?

But Ian’s smile was so infectious she couldn’t help smiling back. The sun shone on his oak-colored hair, and his shadow bounced jauntily over the plaza’s uneven tiles. He paused to pluck a scarlet blossom from the bougainvillea that cascaded down the arch. Holding it to her cheek, he said playfully, “I was right. Red
is
your color.”

“I’ll remember that next time I’m picking out wallpaper.”

Would he miss her in New York? She pictured him on the plane, seated next to some pretty young woman. In the close quarters, he’d notice the softness of her skin, the absence of wrinkles, and remember when he’d taken such things for granted. They’d exchange numbers. The woman, of course, would live in the city and would be only too happy to show him around. And he—

“You mind grabbing a bite to eat here in town?”

Sam shook herself from her reverie. Was she up for it? People would stare. They’d be the main topic of conversation—for the first few minutes, at least. On the other hand, it wasn’t exactly news that she was seeing a younger man. Her sister had made sure of that.

“Why not?” she said, putting on a bright smile. “It’s early enough. We can probably snag a table at the Tree House.”
In for a penny, in for a pound.

The cafe was crowded when they arrived. As they made their way to a table dappled in shade, Sam glanced about apprehensively. No one seemed to be looking their way. Maybe it would be all right after all.

She sat down cautiously, her chair teetering on the uneven bricks. In the tree house overhead, two little boys were aiming pretend pistols at each other. At the table next to theirs Reverend Grigsby, pastor of the Presbyterian church, was tossing a scrap to his longhaired dachshund, Lily. Sam smiled. No one who’d ever seen her would forget the little dog, her paralyzed hind legs strapped to a pair of pint-sized wheels. Her portly owner caught Sam’s gaze and straightened.

“Shh, don’t tell.” He placed a finger to his lips, brown eyes twinkling behind thick bifocals. “Doc Henry’s been after me to stop. He says she’s fat enough as it is.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Sam silently blessed him for taking no notice of Ian.

She spotted Clem Woolley seated by the row of bookshelves marked R-T. The old man was smiling beatifically to no one in particular, his wispy white hair floating about his head like smoke. On the table in front of him was a stack of his own slim self-published volume,
My Life with Jesus,
available to anyone who might be interested. It was meant literally—as evidenced by the untouched burger on the plate across from his. For Clem, Jesus was as real as the man at the next table.

Sam waved to Gerry’s daughter, Andie, sitting with a group of friends. She was clerking at Rusk’s for the summer; she must be on her lunch break. Andie, the image of Gerry with her green eyes and curly black hair, playfully waggled her straw in return.

Moments later Sam glanced up from her menu to find two women in tennis whites eyeing her across the patio—both former classmates. Becky Spurlock, voted Most Likely to Succeed, now a plump housewife, and tightly packaged Gayle Warrington, owner of a travel agency. Gayle caught her eye and waved before leaning to whisper something to Becky.

Sam tried not to let it bother her. She wouldn’t have traded places with either of those women, their lives as predictable as the check they were now divvying up. She knew because, until Ian, hadn’t hers been just as predictable?

She watched a little girl in pigtails dart in and out between the tables, chasing her little brother while their frazzled mother attempted to round them up. A young couple in rubber flip-flops and raggedy jeans, with at least five hundred dollars’ worth of camera equipment slung about their necks, was busy snapping pictures of the tree, with its array of birdhouses donated by local artists.

Bleached-blond Melodie Wycoff sidled past them balancing a tray on which steaming bowls tilted precariously—never mind that it was the middle of July, the Tree House was famous for its cream of chili soup. “Be with you in a jiffy!” she called.

As Melodie was serving the middle-aged couple at the next table, Sam overheard her remark, “Awful, isn’t it?” She jerked her head toward the newspaper in the man’s hands. “Hasn’t been anything like it since—well, I don’t know when.” Sam remembered that Melodie was married to a cop. She must be referring to the murder.

The woman, sallow and nervous looking, murmured, “They’ll find whoever did it, I’m sure.”

“Oh, they been beatin’ the bushes all right,” Melodie volunteered blithely. “Trouble is, they got nothing to go on but a bloody knife with no fingerprints.” She shook her head. “Poor guy. I hear his guts was spread up one side of the hill and down the other.”

“Could you bring us some butter? We seem to have run out.” The woman looked as if she’d suddenly lost her appetite.

“Sure thing.” As she hurried off Sam caught a glimpse of leopard-print bra through Melodie’s clingy white T-shirt. She’d heard a rumor that Melodie was sleeping with her husband’s best friend—a fellow cop. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn it was true. Hadn’t there been some sort of a scandal back when Melodie was in Laura’s high school class? Something involving the driver’s-ed teacher?

I’m not the only one living in a glass house,
she thought.

She smiled at Ian. “I wish you weren’t going.”

His placed a hand over hers. “Come visit me.”

She met his clear gaze and felt a flutter of excitement. Then reality took hold, and she shook her head. “I can’t.”

“It’s the perfect opportunity,” he urged. “You’ve always wanted to see New York. Come for a long weekend.”

“It’s our busiest season.”

“Can’t Laura manage on her own for a few days?”

“I don’t think she’d be too keen on it right now.”

“Because of me, right?”

“That’s part of it.” Sam saw no reason to gild the lily.

He withdrew his hand and sat back, frowning as if he’d had something to say on that subject but had thought better of it. “I spoke with my dad. Apparently, Alice is still pretty upset.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“You talked to her since Sunday?”

“She won’t return my calls.” Sam felt her fledgling optimism slip away. “I think—
know
—it has something to do with Martin. They were very close.”

“I guess we all have our own shit to deal with.” Once again, she had the sense of Ian holding back. He brushed a leaf from the table, a silver ring glinting on his middle finger.

She traced the ring with her finger, its crude Celtic lettering making her think of rune stones. What would their future hold? “I’ll think about New York,” she said.

He smiled. “Don’t take long, okay?”

How long was too long? “I won’t.”

She glanced up to find a familiar face eyeing them across the patio. Marguerite Moore. Her heart sank as Marguerite, who appeared to be alone, pried her considerable bulk from her chair and set sail in their direction. For someone so heavy she carried herself with surprising grace: the perfect matron in her cream-colored linen suit and chunky gold jewelry, her champagne hair coiffed to withstand a tornado.

“Sam, what a nice surprise.” She turned to Ian. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Marguerite Moore.”

Ian rose to take her hand. “Ian Carpenter.”

“I’m on the music festival committee with your mother-in-law,” she said.

Sam felt the blood drain from her face. Marguerite knew perfectly well Ian wasn’t her son-in-law. She was nonetheless forced to reply, “Ian’s father is married to my daughter. You remember Alice, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, forgive me. A senior moment.” Marguerite tapped her temple, casting Sam a wry look that served only to remind her they were the same age. “I remember you mentioning it. Congratulations.” She smiled disingenuously, eyeing the empty seat at their table. “Mind if I join you?”

Marguerite was famous for her chutzpah—useful when recruiting musicians if deadly to fellow committee members. But Ian wasn’t the least bit thrown. “Actually, we were just leaving,” he said. There was nothing in his tone to suggest he was being anything but truthful.

As she rose, Sam was gratified to see Marguerite flush. She couldn’t have helped but notice that they’d only just arrived. “Well…it was nice meeting you,” she said stiffly.

Outside, Sam turned to grin at Ian. “You were wonderful,” she said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d had to sit through an entire meal with that woman.”

He shrugged. “It’s not as if she had a gun to our heads.”

“No, but I don’t have your guts,” she said. “I’d have stayed put and choked on every bite.”

He flashed her a teasing look. “At least we’d have gotten fed.”

“Poor Ian.” She laughed and slipped her arm through his. “We’ll pick up something along the way.”

On the outskirts of Santa Barbara, they stopped at a taco stand where they sat at a picnic table and ate off paper plates, ordering dish after dish, each spicier than the next. When Ian suggested a walk on the beach, Sam didn’t object. So what if she was wearing her good slacks? It hadn’t stopped J. Alfred Prufrock. She rolled up her cuffs and kicked off her shoes. They raced each other to the shore, laughing breathlessly all the way.

Two hours later, they were pulling into the terminal at LAX.

She parked at the curb and got out to hug him. “Don’t paint the whole town red.” She smiled, blinking back tears. Why was she crying? It was only for a few weeks.

He pulled her against him, holding her tight. “I’ll miss you.” He smelled of the ocean, and maybe a tad too much Clorox in the wash. “Promise you’ll do more than think about coming out to see me.”

“I promise.” She clung to him for a moment, then let go.

The people around them dissolved into a blur. Sam watched him disappear into the terminal, a silvery flash on the revolving door as it wheeled inward. She felt a sharp thrust of longing, a sudden wish to be unencumbered—by her past, by her children, by everything that held her anchored. Then she wouldn’t have hesitated to run after him.

An hour and a half later she was winding her way through familiar dun-colored hills toward home. The sun was low in the sky, and stray clouds drifted overhead like errant sheep. She found herself slowing as she approached the dirt road to the convent. She’d put off speaking to the mother superior about Sister Agnes. Wasn’t now as good a time as any?

Before she knew it, she was making the turn. The un-paved road was as bumpy as it was steep, and the rattling of the Honda’s undercarriage ominous. She hoped this wasn’t a mistake in more ways than one. The last thing she needed was another sky-high repair bill.

Luckily, she made it to the top of the hill, where she pulled to a stop and climbed out. A graveled path lined with rosebushes led to a wrought-iron gate set in an ivy-covered wall. She pressed the buzzer on the intercom—the only visible sign of present-day life in a setting that might have been from another era.

Several minutes passed before she heard the crunch of gravel on the other side and caught sight of one of the novices hurrying toward her down a shrub-lined path. A round, pink face framed in a starched white veil peered through the gate.

“I’m here to see Mother Ignatius,” Sam told her.

“Do you have an appointment?” The girl sounded apprehensive.

“No, but I’m an old friend. Tell her it’s Mrs. Kiley.” Sam hoped it wasn’t too late in the day. Evening prayers were at six, followed immediately by supper. The routine never varied.

The novice broke into a shy smile, unlocking the gate to let Sam in. “Sorry. The intercom’s broken—I only heard you buzz. I thought you were from the magazine.”

“What magazine?”

“
People.
Reverend Mother agreed to an interview, then had second thoughts,” she explained. “The woman has been calling and calling. Either she won’t take no for an answer, or”—her smile widened—“she doesn’t know Reverend Mother.”

“A little of both, I suspect.”

“I’m Sister Catherine, by the way.” She put out a small hand surprisingly callused in one so young. “Come with me. I’ll tell Reverend Mother you’re here.”

Sam followed her down the path into a walled sanctum out of a book of hours. At the center was a medieval knot garden over which a statue of Saint John presided. Paths wound through grassy areas lined with flower beds and fruit trees, disappearing under bowers and around tall hedges where secluded nooks provided areas for meditation and prayer. Roses were everywhere: in neatly tended beds, climbing up trellises and walls, draped over pergolas. All of it lovingly tended by the nuns. She passed one of the sisters, kneeling in the grass by a flower bed, her sleeves rolled up and her skirt tucked up into her belt. Farther down the path another sister was vigorously attacking an overgrown hibiscus with a pair of clippers.

Sam remembered her first visit years ago when she was little. Her mother had brought her along on a visit to the then mother superior, a kindly older woman named Mother Hortense, who’d instructed one of the novices to take her on a tour of the grounds while she and Mami spoke in private. It wasn’t until the ride home, when Sam noticed her mother’s red-rimmed eyes, that she realized Mami had come to ask for the sisters’ prayers. Poppi, ill with pneumonia, had just that morning been hospitalized. The prayers must have worked, for that night her father’s fever broke. A week later he was well enough to go home.

Sam followed Sister Catherine along a sheltered walkway lined with bas reliefs representing the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Moments later she was stepping through an arched doorway into the main building.

Sunlight sifted through mullioned windows, casting pale diamonds over the tiled floor of the starkly furnished reception hall. She caught the smell of beeswax and lemon oil, just like all those years ago. From down the hall came the unexpected sound of a Chopin waltz being played on the piano.