The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (59 page)

“Why the sudden interest in Monica’s love life?”

“I didn’t mean just Monica. I meant in general. If someone happened to get it on with her boyfriend, say.”

“What are you implying?” Andie narrowed her eyes at Finch.

“Nothing.” Finch plucked at the grass, wearing an innocent expression. “It’s just that I ran into Simon after first period, and when I mentioned you he turned beet red. Is something going on with you guys that I don’t know about?” Andie hesitated just long enough for Finch to get the message. She let out a little squeal. “You
did
it. God, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

“And spoil the fun of letting you figure it out yourself?” Andie’s cheeks felt as if they were on fire, and she glanced about to see if anyone had noticed.

“Okay, give it up.” Finch made a beckoning motion.

Andie shrugged. It was no use—Finch would get it out of her one way or another. “Yesterday after we got back from Monica’s we kind of hung out in my room … and, well, you know …” She let the sentence trail off.

Finch, her dark eyes gleaming, leaned close to ask in a hushed voice, “How was it?”

“Okay, I guess.” It had been better than okay, but she didn’t want to rub it in. Finch was no virgin herself—far from it—but that period in her life, before she moved here, wasn’t something she looked back on fondly.

“I hope he was wearing something.”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean? Either he was or he wasn’t.”

“He pulled out in time.”

Finch groaned. “That old line. God, I can’t believe you fell for it.”

“I didn’t really think it through at the time.”

“Let’s hope you don’t get pregnant.”

It occurred to Andie then that it wasn’t a case of
getting
pregnant—if Simon hadn’t pulled out in time she would already
be
pregnant. A shiver went through her, and she was suddenly conscious of the damp ground beneath her, filled with all sorts of live, squirming things.

The bell shrilled just then and they crumpled up their paper bags, brushing crumbs from their laps. They were making their way to third-period gym, the only class they shared, when Andie turned to her and asked, “Am I making too big a deal of this?”

“What—Simon?”

“No,
her.
” The two were suddenly tied up together in her mind, for if she were pregnant wouldn’t it be history repeating itself? She’d be in the same boat her mom had been in.

“You won’t know until you meet her,” Finch said with the air of someone well versed in such matters.

Andie felt a hole open up inside her chest. She used to believe in wishes coming true, but now knew that was as silly as believing in the Easter bunny. But suppose she could have one wish right now—what would it be? A year or so ago it would have been for her dad to come home, which, as much as she hated to admit it, would have been a disaster. Now it was more of a feeling than a wish … of being part of a jagged half that she’d give anything to have whole again. A feeling, she thought darkly, that would only get worse when her mother’s bastard arrived on the scene.

F
RIDAY, THE DAY
of Claire’s visit, dawned cool and cloudy. At breakfast the children were more subdued than usual, especially Andie, who bolted her cereal and dashed off to catch the bus without a word. Gerry scarcely noticed; she was far too preoccupied. Though anyone watching her go about her business would have mistaken it for an air of supreme tranquility. At work she floated through the morning. From her office in the chapter house, down the hall from the mother superior’s, she answered e-mail, tracked orders, and fielded inquiries from several stores interested in carrying Blessed Bee’s wares, her mind racing all the while.

What if she doesn’t like me? What if the kids don’t like her?

She glanced at the digital clock on her desk. Ten to eleven. In a little more than an hour she’d be face-to-face with Claire. Her stomach did a slow cartwheel. No one here knew; she hadn’t even told Mother Ignatius. It was enough that a few of the older nuns, the reverend mother included (a number of the others had since passed away), remembered why she’d left the convent all those years ago. They didn’t need their noses rubbed in the fact that she had an illegitimate daughter.

When the phone rang, she jumped a little, then snatched it up. “Blessed Bee. Gerry Fitzgerald speaking.”

“Will you hold for Marian Abrams?” a female voice inquired.

Gerry searched her mental database. Marian Abrams, yes—the editor from
West
magazine looking to do a feature on Blessed Bee. Gerry had told her she’d get back to her.

Another voice came on the line, deeper and more assured. “Gerry, I’m glad I caught you. Listen, I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to look over that stuff I faxed you?”

Gerry racked her brain as she pawed through the reams of faxes on her desk. “We’re still a little backed up from the holidays,” she said. “Why don’t you refresh my memory?”

“The samples from the freelance writer I’d like to use for the piece,” Marian said. “She’s done quite a bit of work for us in the past, and I think she’d be sensitive in handling, ah, certain issues.”

“Such as?” Gerry smiled. Most people assumed that nuns were either one card shy of a deck—or once removed from celestial beings.

“Well, for one thing, how this whole moneymaking operation fits with a life of prayer and contemplation.”

Gerry gave a throaty laugh. “Nobody’s getting rich, believe me. Most of the income from Blessed Bee goes to the upkeep of the convent. As for the contemplative life, you’d be surprised how much praying you can do with your sleeves rolled up. If you find one of the sisters on her knees, it’s likely she’ll be scrubbing floors.”

And wouldn’t Marian Abrams be surprised to learn that nuns weren’t above a practical joke? Like Sister John putting sugar in the salt shaker, or the little joke Sister Agnes had played on one of the postulants last spring, instructing her to plant the seeds pointy end down so the zucchini wouldn’t grow underground like turnips. The poor girl had yet to live it down.

“I see we have our work cut out for us as well—starting with debunking a few myths,” Marian replied with a chuckle. “Why don’t we schedule a date to meet in person?”

Gerry glanced longingly at her calendar. “I’ll speak to the reverend mother.” Mother Ignatius—torn between pride in Blessed Bee and fear that they were becoming a tourist attraction, especially after what had happened following the article in
People,
when curiosity seekers began showing up, snapping photos and peering through the gates—was famous for turning down interview requests. “If she gives it the green light, we’ll set something up.”

“Fair enough. I’ll wait to hear from you, then.” There was a polite beat; then Marian added firmly, “Don’t take too long, though. I was hoping to slate this for our July issue.”

“I’ll get back to you on Monday.”

Gerry hung up with a sigh. It wasn’t just the article in
People.
Earlier this year the newspaper and TV coverage generated by Sister Beatrice’s arrest had sent them back into the dark ages as far as public opinion was concerned. One tabloid even had the gall to suggest she’d killed those people out of sexual frustration gone awry. Our Lady
needed
more pieces like the one Marian Abrams was proposing so people could see that, in many ways, its nuns were no different than anyone else. But try telling Mother Ignatius. Paul had had an easier time converting the Romans.

Never mind. She’d deal with it on Monday. There was only enough time now for a quick word with Sister Carmela. Earlier in the week the hive mistress had spoken to Gerry about an infestation in one of the colonies, and though they had enough bottled honey to last until spring, when the wintering hives would be back in production, the poor woman was beside herself. Gerry needed to find out just how bad it was.

She stepped out into the corridor, leaving the door to her office unlocked. At Our Lady, trust was never an issue; it would have been unthinkable for one of the sisters to help herself to a paper clip without asking. And if someone had a problem with something you’d done, she’d tell you to your face. In that way, Gerry was about as far from the corporate world as she could get. Which was why she couldn’t imagine working anywhere else. After twenty-eight years this was her second home.

Gerry remembered when old Mother Jerome had approached her about becoming lay manager of Blessed Bee. It was only a few months after she’d given birth to Claire, and she’d been so heartsick she could scarcely get out of bed each morning, much less face another grueling day searching for a job. Word of her predicament must have reached the mother superior, for she phoned Gerry, inviting her to tea.

The old woman had cut right to the chase. “I hear you’re having trouble finding work. Not surprising, considering your rather unique qualifications.” She smiled, a tiny woman hunched with age holding her teacup in both gnarled hands to keep it from spilling. “Now, now, there’s no need for tears—I didn’t invite you up for that. The fact is, we could use you here.”

Gerry couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. “I don’t see how I could be of any help.” She’d stared down at her plate, on which a scone lay split and glistening with honey. Falling back on the gallows humor that had served her well through the years, she’d lifted her head to add with a small, tremulous smile, “Unless you want me around as a reminder of the perils of falling from grace.”

“Horse apples.” Mother Jerome was not above the occasional mild expletive. “I’m not looking to make an example of you—goodness, child, I have better things to do. We need someone to see to the business end of Blessed Bee, someone well versed in convent life who can interface with the outside world, and I can’t think of anyone more qualified than you.”

Gerry sat there in stunned silence.

The reverend mother smiled. “Don’t you want to know what your salary will be?”

“I don’t have to know,” she said. “Whatever it is, I’ll take it.”

She’d gone to work the very next day, and had been there ever since.

Now she glanced down the corridor to find it empty; even the reception area was deserted. But she was used to that by now. As she stepped outside, a sweet chorus of voices drifted from the direction of the chapel: the chanting of the midmorning office. She paused on the steps, closing her eyes to take in the ancient rhythms of worship. The sun had come out, casting a dappled greenish light over the cloister garden, where tools lay abandoned willy-nilly and a half-drunk glass of soda was attracting flies. Seven times a day, at precise intervals, the sisters dropped everything and headed for the chapel to chant the liturgy of the hours. Needless to say, no one was without a watch.

She stepped down onto the path where she would be sure to catch Sister Carmela on her way out of chapel. The garden lay furled, awaiting spring. As Gerry strolled along, she looked about at the mulched flower beds and bare rosebushes, the skeletal arbor that in a few months would be dripping with wisteria blossoms. By then Sister Agnes and her crew would be going full tilt: their sleeves rolled over their elbows and the hems of their habits tucked up into their belts, declaring war on the weeds and insects. Even the stone statue of Saint John presiding over the medieval knot garden would be given a good scrubbing.

“Since when do you pass an old friend without saying hello?”

Startled, she looked about to find Father Reardon seated on the bench under the weeping willow half hidden by its branches. She smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Dan. I guess my mind was elsewhere.”

“You
do
need a vacation.” His blue eyes crinkled.

“Vacation? I’ll have to look that one up in the dictionary.” She cocked her head, looking down at him with mock sternness. “Might I ask what you’re doing here, spying on innocent people going about their business?”

He sighed, pushing a hand through his unruly black hair streaked with silver at the temples. “I wish I could say I was up to no good—it’s Sister Seraphina.”

“Is she—?”

Dan shook his head. “False alarm.” This was the third time he’d been called out to say last rites, yet old Sister Seraphina, one of the order’s founding members, who was well into her nineties, somehow managed to hang on—if only by a thread. “As you can see, I’m taking a little breather.” He inhaled deeply, looking about in appreciation. As if, in the face of death, it was good to be reminded of what made life worth living.

Gerry didn’t know whether to be sorry or relieved. Clinging to life like Sister Seraphina was no way to go. “When it’s my time,” she told him, “I’d like a huge wave to wash me out to sea.”

“Knowing you, that won’t be for quite some time.” He patted the bench beside him. “Have a seat.”

Gerry glanced at her watch. She supposed Sister Carmela could wait. “All right,” she said, sinking down on the bench, “but only for a minute. I have to be somewhere.”

Dan leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him: every Irish mother’s dream in his black suit and white collar—and every unmarried woman’s with his sparkling blue eyes and broad shoulders straining at his seams. “And where is it you’re rushing off to this fine day?”

She thought of Claire, and her stomach executed another cartwheel. “I’m meeting someone for lunch.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s still early.”

“You know me—always jumping the gun,” she said, not wanting to get into it. “My mother is forever saying that one day I’ll get there ahead of myself.”

“How is your mother? I didn’t see her in church last Sunday.”

“Fine—at least that’s what she always says. With her dying breath she’ll be telling you to put the kettle on and don’t bother with a tray, she’ll be down in just a bit.” Gerry shook her head, though Dan was probably thinking the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. “The truth is her health isn’t what it used to be. I’ve been trying to get her to sell that old white elephant of hers, but she won’t hear of it.”

“She’s better off than Sister Seraphina, at least.” He eyed a robin perched on the mossy lip of the birdbath. “Why don’t I stop by sometime next week? Sounds as if she could use a bit of cheering up.”