The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (46 page)

“It won’t kill him to sleep on the floor for one night.” Their elderly Lab was far too spoiled as it was.

“You should’ve let her come,” he said with mild reproach.

Now it was Gerry’s turn to sigh. Mavis was still recovering from a bout of pneumonia that had left her with hardly a scrap of meat on her bones—though naturally she claimed to be fine, insisting she had the constitution of an ox. If she’d still had her car, she’d have driven here on her own. “It’s too cold,” she said. “We wouldn’t want her to get sick again.”

“She hates being left out even more.”

From the mouths of babes.
Maybe she
was
being overly protective. But somebody had to play the bad guy. She only wished it didn’t always have to be her. Mavis was peeved. Half the time Andie didn’t speak to her. And Justin … well, he’d only be a little boy for so long.

They were nearly at the crosswalk. On their right lay Muir Park, with its adobe walls over which a dark crown of treetops rose. Directly across the street a spotlight showcased the two-hundred-year-old mission with its fluted bell tower and rows of campanario bells ringing in the Yuletide. On the sloping lawn out front the procession had slowed before the life-size crèche. One woman was snapping pictures. Gerry recognized former classmate Gayle Warrington, no doubt gathering material for another of the brochures she was always putting together in her tireless effort to boost winter tourism in Carson Springs. Gayle, who’d been school spirit commissioner and now owned a successful travel agency. Gayle, happily married for more than thirty years, with an elderly mother she looked in on at least once a day and two perfect children—a son in premed at UCLA and a daughter at Columbia Law. Gayle, who even at twenty would have sold pencils on the corner of Old Mission and Juarez rather than give up her own child.

“Mom?” Justin was giving her that look: the one that reminded her he was too old for some things, and not nearly old enough for others. “It’d be okay if we made believe there’s a Santa Claus. Just, you know, in case Grandma forgets I know there isn’t.”

Her eyes prickled suddenly, and it was all she could do to keep from reaching for his hand. What would he say if he knew he had another sister? What would
Andie’s
reaction be? Her children would be confused, maybe even hurt. They’d want to know why she’d kept it a secret for so long. Mostly, they’d want to know why she’d given her baby away, her own flesh and blood. And what could she tell them? What viable excuse could she give?

I was a different person then. Scared out of my wits.
Nearly three years in a convent had left her hardly equipped to care for herself, much less a baby. But how could she expect them to understand?

At that moment she spotted Sam up ahead, hand in hand with Ian. Gerry caught her eye and waved, edging toward them. In her red jacket and knitted cap, Sam, six and a half months along, made her think of the pregnant young moms you saw in the playground, pushing their toddlers on swings. Never mind that she was forty-eight, the same age as Gerry, with two grown daughters old enough to have children of their own. Gerry noted, too, as she drew near that the candle Sam carried was in a decorative punched-tin holder. She smiled. Wasn’t that just like Sam. In high school, when their classmates were donning love beads and letting their hair grow to their waists, she’d worn hers short and taken up macramé.

Sam greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. “We missed you at the Tree House,” she said. Every year the procession was kicked off with gingerbread cookies and hot mulled cider at the Tree House Café.

“I had trouble finding a place to park,” Gerry told her. The truth was that by the time she’d rounded up Andie and Justin, they were too late. Sam would have understood, of course, but such explanations always left Gerry feeling slightly inadequate. She turned to Ian, who, perhaps in honor of the occasion, was sporting a tiny cross in one ear. “Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”

He flashed her the grin that had no doubt brought stronger women than Sam to their knees. He was nearly fifteen years Sam’s junior, and her eldest daughter’s stepson to boot. Gerry liked to tease Sam that she’d gone from
Family Circle
to the
National Enquirer
all in one leap. One thing was for sure: Nothing had been the same since Ian.

“Sam’s great,” he said. “I’m a nervous wreck.”

“I’ve had practice, remember.” Sam slipped an arm through his, and smiled up at him reassuringly. “It’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget.”

Gerry opened her mouth to remind her that it’d been more than a quarter of a century since she’d last ridden this particular bike, but just as quickly shut it. Except for the straining buttons on her jacket, Sam was as slender as ever with the energy to match. Women half her age would be begging to be put out of their misery while she was valiantly bearing down. All Gerry said was, “Just give her a leather strap to bite down on, and she’ll be fine.”

Ian pulled Sam close. The top of her head fit neatly under his chin, over which he smiled at Gerry. “I’m counting on you to be my understudy,” he told her. His blond ponytail curled rakishly from beneath the navy knitted cap he wore pulled down around his ears.

“He’s afraid he’ll pass out,” Sam said with a laugh. “I told him it only happens in movies.”

“What she actually said,” Ian corrected, “was that if I valued my life, I’d better not dare.”

“That sounds more like it,” Gerry said with a laugh. Sam tended to soft-pedal, but rarely hesitated to speak her mind.

“He’s been delegated to cut the cord,” she reported matter-of-factly. “Inez says it’s what fathers do these days.”

Gerry and Sam shared a look: It wasn’t like that in
their
day. Times had certainly changed. She remembered when Sam had had Alice; it had practically taken an act of Congress for Martin to be permitted in the delivery room, where, come to think of it,
he
had fainted.

“Gross.” Justin made a face.

Ian gave him a solemn look, man to man. “Just wait till it’s your turn, buddy. You’ll see. I’d fight a tattooed, beer-swilling biker before going up against a pregnant woman.”

“The voice of wisdom.” Sam poked him in the ribs with her elbow, and stepped away as the procession moved forward into the street, calling over her shoulder, “Why don’t you stop by the house on your way home? I made my marzipan coffee cake. If you guys don’t help me out, I’ll be big as a house by the time this baby is born.”

“Sounds good,” Gerry called back.

How did Sam do it? she wondered. Having a baby when most women their age were planning graduations and weddings. She recalled those bleary days of stumbling about in a sleep-deprived trance, a diaper over one shoulder that did more to cover old spit-up stains than prevent new ones, the nights of pacing the floor as she’d struggled in vain to quiet a shrieking baby. No, she wouldn’t have traded places with her friend in a million years.

Still … when she was around Sam, she felt it: regret beating like a tiny heart beneath the layers of old excuses and protective reasoning. She’d watch her friend bring a hand to her belly, wearing that secret little smile shared by expectant mothers the world over, and find herself steeped in the memory of her first pregnancy, the wonder of those stirrings. As Sam’s belly grew so had Gerry’s desire, long since put to rest—or so she’d believed—to be reunited with her eldest child.

Three weeks ago she’d hired a private investigator. She hadn’t expected to hear back so soon. In fact, she’d half expected no news at all, which in some ways would have been a relief. When it
had
come, the shock had had the effect of a tornado on a haystack. Underneath this calm exterior she was thousands of whirling bits. Which was why she hadn’t told anyone, not even Sam. First she had to get her head on straight, decide how to handle it.

The image rose once more: bright blue eyes peering from the folds of a blanket, a feathery tuft of hair. She felt a profound sense of sorrow sweep over her. That baby girl was gone forever. Gerry would never again hold or cuddle her; she could only hope to know the woman her baby had grown up to be. She slipped her hand into her pocket, once more fingering the envelope and seeing in her mind the address neatly typed at the bottom of the letter inside:
Claire Brewster, 457 Seacrest Drive, Miramonte.
That’s what had gotten to her the most, that all this time she’d been so close, just half a day’s drive up the coast. She recalled the weekend, six years ago, that she and Mike had spent in the quaint seaside town, strolling along the wharf, with its rows of tacky tourist shops, where they’d warmed themselves with bowls of thick chowder and peered through cloudy windows at saltwater taffy being made. To think she might have passed right by Claire and not have known it.

The caroling drifted to a close. They were mounting the steps that led up a steep slope to the mission, perched in theatrically lit splendor atop the grassy knoll overlooking the park. Another, smaller spotlight was trained on the creche, artfully banked in poinsettias—dozens and dozens, in every shade ranging from pale pink to blood red—that gave the illusion of a tropical island inhabited by Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the Three Kings. She was reminded of the Christmas Eve some years back when the manger had been found empty, the baby Jesus missing and a live infant left in its place: a tiny boy just hours old. The mystery hadn’t remained unsolved for long. Within hours his remorseful mother, a popular junior at Portola High, had shown up to claim him, and after much ado the authorities released him into her parents’ custody. The following morning, Christmas Day, the infant Jesus reappeared in the manger, none the worse for the wear. These days she often saw Penny Rogers around town with her little boy, who looked happy and well cared for. Gerry always made a point of being friendly.

Inside, the church was packed, with standing room only. She quickly lost sight of Sam and Ian, and had to keep a close eye on her children lest she be separated from them as well. Andie cast one last longing glance at her friends before joining her and Justin. Together, they made their way up the narrow flight of stairs to the choir loft, where they were lucky to find three seats together.

Gerry preferred the loft. From her bird’s-eye view, she could see the whole sanctuary: the ancient hand-hewn timbers and paneled walls darkened with age, the niches displaying painted wooden statues of saints, and the alcove, accessed by a decorative wrought iron gate, where the stone baptismal font stood. A deep peace stole over her. It didn’t matter that she’d failed miserably as a nun and even now often railed against Catholic doctrine. Within the comforting embrace of these old walls, steeped in smoke and incense, the ancient rituals never failed to work their magic.

Her gaze fell on her old friend Father Dan Reardon, resplendent in his gold vestments at the altar: a priest with a ploughman’s build and the gentle heart of a child. In the golden glow cast by the candelabra at both ends of the tabernacle, he might have been the larger-than-life star of some biblical epic. Wasn’t it Fran O’Brien who’d once sighed that for a man as handsome as Dan to be off-limits was downright cruel? Gerry happened to agree, though she knew that the constant stream of female attentions he received were as lost on him as the
Mona Lisa
on a blind man.

Following a soaring rendition by the choir of “What Child Is This?” led by Lily Ann Beasley on the organ, they all stood for the opening prayer, the sounds of shuffling feet and riffling pages as soothing as the wind rustling through the trees outside.

The first reading was from Micah, prophesying the advent of the promised one in Bethlehem. The second, from Hebrews, told of the second covenant. But it was the gospel reading, from Luke, with its reference to the infant Jesus in Mary’s womb, that spoke to Gerry most.

Father Dan seemed to be looking straight up at her as he lifted his head from the prayer book that lay open on the pulpit before him. But she was imagining things. How could he possibly have singled her out? She shivered even so, glancing at Andie and Justin on each side of her. No, she wasn’t a complete failure. She’d raised two beautiful children, after all.

The thought did nothing to dispel the certain knowledge that she’d failed her firstborn. Why couldn’t she have done the same with Claire? Looked after her and loved her? Gerry bowed her head in prayer:
Dear Lord, if there’s a way to make this right, help me find it.

The sermon was short and to the point. Father Dan told the true story of a married couple who’d won several million in a lottery and given every penny of it to charity. More like a football coach rallying his team than a priest reminding them of their Christian duty, he urged everyone to do as the couple had and find room in their hearts for those in need.

Before long, she and her children were descending the stairs to join the congregants making their way to the altar. As she waited her turn to take Communion, it occurred to her that it’d been months since her last confession. What was the point if she was going to keep on committing the same sins over and over? Her extracurricular activities might be frowned on by the Church, but in her opinion—albeit hard-won—there was nothing wrong with two grown-ups enjoying a bit of companionship and mutual satisfying of appetites.

The thought of Aubrey’s supple fingers playing over her naked limbs rose unbidden to warm her cheeks. His breath that smelled faintly of the Gauloises he smoked. His—

A bolt of lightning shot down through her belly. Her Christmas present to herself, she thought, if she could steal away, would be an hour or two with Aubrey in the big oak bed at Isla Verde.

Then they were all shuffling to their feet for the final hymn: “Angels We Have Heard on High.” A lusty contralto soaring behind her caused Gerry to steal a glance over her shoulder. She was surprised to find the voice belonged to Vivienne Hicks, the mousy town librarian. Vivienne’s head was thrown back, the cords in her neck standing out. Where had this talent come from? Why hadn’t Gerry noticed it before? It was as if her world had been turned inside out like a pocket, revealing all sorts of things she’d never known were there.