The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (53 page)

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she gasped.

His exquisitely timed thrusts became short and fierce. Then all at once he shuddered and reared back with a hoarse yell: that of someone with no kids down the hall, no nosy neighbors on the other side of paper-thin walls. She sank her teeth lightly into his shoulder. Even the texture of his skin thrilled her, like biting into a firm olive tasting faintly of exotic lands. She couldn’t seem to get enough of him, which scared her a little. For if, no
when,
this was over, she’d be climbing the walls.

They collapsed, utterly spent. She could feel him pulsing inside her, like a heartbeat, then he rolled off onto his back. She felt the mattress underneath her grow damp.
At least I don’t have to worry about getting knocked up,
she thought. Before the first time, they’d had a frank discussion. She’d told him she was on the Pill, and he’d told her she was the first woman he’d been with since his wife. They’d agreed to unprotected sex only after a clean bill of health from their respective doctors. Gerry had no intention of either getting a sexually transmitted disease or ending up like Sam, a middle-aged mom changing diapers and pacing the floor at two a.m.

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to get up off this bed.” She exhaled deeply, stretching her limbs and staring up at the unmoving shadow of a tree branch on the ceiling. “My legs feel like boiled spaghetti.”

“No rush. I’m not leaving until tomorrow,” he said, reminding her that he’d be in Philly most of next week. He traced the outline of a breast. “We can stay in bed all day if you like.”

“In that case, I hope it has wheels. How else am I going to get to the store?” Gerry reluctantly pulled herself upright. When he chuckled, she asked, “What’s so funny?”

“You,” he said. “You make me laugh.”

“And all this time I thought it was my smoldering sex appeal.”

“That, too.” He smoothed a hand up the inside of her thigh, sending a quiver through her like the aftershock of an earthquake. “You have marvelous legs, you know.”

“Good for running the fifty-yard dash. Did I ever tell you I won a medal in track?” For a fleeting moment she indulged in the memory—the feel of the track beneath her pounding feet, the finish line seeming to rush toward her as she raced to meet it.

“Really?” He looked as if nothing she told him would surprise him.

“Way back in high school. Needless to say, sports weren’t high on my list once I went into the convent.”

He cocked his head, smiling. “I still can’t quite picture you as a nun.”

“I was a lot less fun then. I thought nuns weren’t supposed to laugh.”

“I can see why it didn’t last.” He brushed her mouth with his fingertips. “Forgive me for sounding trite, but that’s like asking the sun not to shine.”

“That wasn’t the only reason.”

She could feel him waiting for her to say more and wondered if she should. But one of the reasons they got along so well was because they kept it light. He didn’t need her crying on his shoulder any more than she needed a shoulder to cry on. Which was why she almost never talked about her ex-husband and knew next to nothing about his wife. On the other hand, Claire would soon be part of her life.

Gerry studied him in the sunlight that poured in through the tall casement windows. Every small wrinkle and crease was illuminated, giving his face the world-weary look of a man who, for all his successes, knew something of the dark side, where few people ever walk. An unexpected tenderness washed over her, and she brought a hand to his face, absently rubbing her thumb over the silvery stubble along his jaw.

“What happened was I got pregnant.”

He eyed her curiously. “I’d have thought your opportunities would be somewhat limited.” His tone was dry, as if he were conscious of the judgment others had heaped on her. If she hadn’t loved him before, she almost did then.

“The father was our parish priest.”

Aubrey shook his head.
“Mon Dieu.
And the child?”

“A little girl. I gave her up for adoption.” Gerry was surprised by the power it still had over her, even after all these years. “I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, but …” Her voice caught, and she ducked her head.

Aubrey drew her gently against his chest, stroking her back and murmuring in French. It had the effect of a lullaby. Gradually, the knot in her throat eased.

“I hired a private investigator to track her down,” she went on. “We’ve talked on the phone. She’s flying down to meet me—this coming Friday, as a matter of fact.”

She lifted her head and in that unguarded moment saw the look of pain that flitted over his narrow, Gallic face. His wife, she recalled, had been seven months pregnant when she died. He would never know his child. But if he envied her the chance to know hers, he was far too much a gentleman to let it show. All he said was, “You must be anxious.”

Gerry gave a shaky little laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“I can imagine.”

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

“How could she not?” He reached up to tuck a stray wisp behind her ear.

“You should hear my kids. Last night Justin told me he hated me.”

“I thought it was your daughter we were discussing.”

“She probably hates me, too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I gave her away, didn’t I?” Gerry felt a familiar tightening in her gut.

“You had your reasons, I’m sure.” He didn’t ask what they were, and she loved him for that, too.

“Children don’t care about reasons.”

“She’s not a child anymore.”

“You’re right.” Claire was twenty-eight.

“How did she sound over the phone?”

“Nice,” she said. “A little reserved, but who wouldn’t be?”

“Well, then, you see? You have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m Catholic. Worry is my middle name.” She swung her legs off the mattress, nudging with her big toe at the clothes heaped on the floor. “Besides, there’s more to it than you think. As far as my kids know, I was pure as the driven snow when I married their dad.” She pulled on her black silk panties.

“Mon Dieu.”
He shook his head again.

As she reached for the black lace bra hooked over a knob of the armoire, she caught a glimpse of herself in its mirror, her tumble of silver-and-black hair and the color standing out along her cheekbones. “I didn’t see any reason to tell them,” she said. “Until now.”

Aubrey remained silent, an odd look on his face—as if they’d only just met and he was trying to figure out what to make of her.

She went on, “I mean, one minute they’re babies and the next thing you know they’re wanting the keys to the car.” She reached around to hook her bra. “Where did the time go? Why didn’t I see this coming?”

“I’m the wrong person to ask,” he said.

Noting the strained smile he wore, she immediately regretted having dumped all this on him. He had his own problems. She paused in the midst of pulling on her jeans. “I’m probably boring you to death.”

“Quite the contrary. I’m glad you feel you can confide in me.”

He sounded sincere enough, but his gaze was on the framed photo of his wife atop the dresser, a swan-necked woman in a low-cut blue dress, her flaxen hair coiled in a bun, her pearly shoulders gleaming. In her bright blue eyes, fixed somewhere beyond the camera’s range, she might have been catching a glimpse of her destiny: a death that had reverberated throughout the music world, for Isabelle Hubert had been an accomplished musician in her own right. Gerry had one of her last recordings, a Franck violin concerto so exquisite she couldn’t listen to it without tears coming to her eyes.

She tugged her sweater over her head and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks. You’re sweet.”

“I’ll call you from Philly,” he said.

She felt a small flutter of apprehension. They only talked on the phone when arranging a time to get together. Was this his way of saying he wanted more or was he merely being polite?

“You know where to find me.” She struck a breezy tone, letting him know that while she’d appreciate a call she didn’t see it as anything to get overly excited about.

On her way into town, her thoughts turned once more to her kids. How would they take the news about Claire? Andie could at least relate. Several girls in her class had had to drop out this past semester, all but one of whom were planning to give their babies up for adoption. On the other hand …

She’ll probably see this as one more reason to blame me for everything that’s wrong with her life.

Gerry pushed the thought from her mind. The day was simply too beautiful to waste, the sun shining and the valley spread out before her like a gift waiting to be opened. Descending into the Flats, where the steep, winding road grew level and straight, she passed row upon row of orange trees bordered by fieldstone walls, many patrolled by geese—more effective than watchdogs, she’d heard—that strutted amid the dappled shade like pompous little generals. Alongside the road, wild-flowers climbed from ditches—curly dock and creeping jennie, dog fennel and Dutchman’s-pipe, with the occasional beavertail cactus or Joshua tree thrusting up like a spiny fist—while in the distance grassy hills gave way to the snowcapped mountains whose fanciful names—Sleeping Indian Chief, Moon’s Nest, Two Sisters’ Peak— had so captivated her imagination as a child. How could Claire
not
fall in love with this place?

She swerved to avoid a scruffy-looking mutt that had wandered into the road. Old Dick Truesdale’s—he really ought to keep his dog chained up. But repeated complaints by concerned neighbors had fallen on deaf ears; the poor guy hadn’t been the same since his wife’s death. And from the looks of his overgrown yard, littered with the shriveled brown fists of fallen oranges, and ramshackle house beyond—an older frame structure missing a good deal of its shingles whose walls seemed to lean inward like old drunks holding up each other—he wasn’t doing a very good job of looking after himself, either.

At least I have my kids …

Minutes later she was turning onto Old Mission, with its quaint Spanish-style shops trimmed in colorful tiles. The tile-roofed arcade that stretched along one side of the street was bustling with shoppers, and she remembered that the January white sale was still on at Rusk’s. In the park across the street, white-haired Clem Woolley, toting a bundle of his self-published tome,
My Life with Jesus,
was holding forth to the Vietnamese head gardener, Mr. Nuyen, a solitary little man as silent and ageless as the grounds he tended. She knew only that he’d come here just after the war, and was said to be so enamored of his new home he hadn’t spent a single night away from it since.

Gerry, lost in her thoughts, nearly missed the entrance to Del Rey Plaza, then had to circle the lot several times before she found a spot. Now where was that grocery list? She searched her purse before moving on to her pockets. It must have fallen out at Aubrey’s.

The reminder of how she’d spent the afternoon brought a flush of remembered pleasure. What would these people pushing their grocery carts think if they knew? She spotted Marguerite Moore climbing out of her light blue Le Sabre in front of Safeway. Last summer when Marguerite had gotten wind of Sam and Ian’s affair, she’d been like a bloodhound on the trail, no doubt secretly wishing a man, any man—never mind one as young and attractive as Ian—would give
her
a reason to change her sheets in the middle of the week.

She caught the narrow glance Marguerite shot her. Marguerite and her ilk had been looking down their noses at Gerry for years. For one thing, she didn’t conform to their standards for how a middle-aged woman should behave. Nor did she dress in the secular equivalent of a habit and veil, as befitting a former nun. Today’s outfit, formfitting jeans that left nothing to the imagination and a stretchy top showing more than an inch of cleavage, had Marguerite eyeing her with open contempt. Gerry waved cheerily as she passed.
I wonder what the old cow would think if she knew what I have on underneath.

Inside she cruised down the aisles, tossing boxes and cans and jars into her cart with scarcely a glance at their labels. She was too preoccupied with thoughts of Claire. Had the Tree House been the best choice of venue? Should she have chosen somewhere less crowded, where they wouldn’t draw unwanted attention from the likes of Marguerite?

Gerry didn’t see Fran O’Reilly until they’d nearly collided. She glanced up to find fiery-haired Fran hastily stuffing a box into her cart with a faintly abashed look. It was a moment before Gerry realized that the owner of Francoise’s was embarrassed to be seen buying Pop Tarts.

“Yeah, I know,” Fran said with a self-conscious laugh. “Me with my culinary degree.”

Gerry laughed. “I’m not one to judge, believe me. In my house I’m known as the Lean Cuisine Queen.”

“You don’t have a reputation to uphold.” Fran cast a mock furtive glance at Marguerite, trundling up the aisle.

You got that right,
Gerry thought. Whatever reputation she’d once had, it had long since been trashed. “Your secret is safe with me,” she said, placing a finger over her lips. “Speaking of which, how’s business?”

She recalled when Fran had first moved here, a single mom from Brooklyn who’d traded her secretary’s salary for a shot at a lifetime dream. That’d been—what? Eight, nine years ago. Since then wiry little Fran, who made her think of a red squirrel always darting about, had made a real go of it. Her hole-in-the-wall creperie was so popular there was always a line spilling onto the sidewalk.

Fran brightened. “Actually, I’m looking to expand. If you hear of anything, let me know. It has to be at least double the square feet, where the rent won’t eat me alive.”

“What about the Dalrymple place? I heard it was on the market.” In her mind, Gerry saw the older shingled cottage with roses climbing up the front and shards of terra-cotta roof tiles scattered about the yard. “I don’t imagine they’ll get top dollar. It’s pretty run-down.”

“Yeah, I know. It was the first thing I looked at. It’d be perfect—zoned for commercial use, too. Except it’s a little too far off the main drag. I’d lose the lunch trade.” Fran looked thoughtful, as if she hadn’t completely ruled it out.