The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (60 page)

“She’d love it. Just be sure to bring an empty stomach.”

He laughed heartily. “I haven’t forgotten the pineapple upside-down cake she made the last time—I had three slices. Don’t think I don’t have an ulterior motive here.”

“Well, she’ll be glad to see you either way.”

Gerry watched as the robin, with a flurry of feathers, sent out a spray of droplets that caught the sunlight, sparkling like diamonds.

“What about you? You haven’t stopped by the rectory in ages,” the priest scolded, studying her intently. “And don’t tell me it’s because you’re too busy. That excuse is worn out.”

Gerry felt herself grow warm. From the chapel, wafting like a gentle breeze, came the final chorus of the office:
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and will be forever. Amen.

“I should have told you before,” she said.

He lifted a brow, waiting for her to go on.

Gerry drew in a breath smelling of damp earth. “The person I’m meeting? It’s my daughter.”

He looked confused. “Andie? Isn’t she in school?”

“Not Andie. My
other
daughter.”

His confusion turned to happy astonishment. “You’ve found her, then?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Well, then, this calls for a celebration!” He spread his hands—huge, rough hands more suited to the plow than the good book, some might say. “If I were a drinking man, I’d propose a good scotch.”

“It would calm my nerves, at least,” she said.

“You? Fearless Gerry?”

He knew her too well. This was the man who’d seen her face down an angry mob of Green Earth protesters getting ready to torch the newly built condominiums out by Horse Creek (she’d gotten them to sue instead).

“My kids weren’t too happy when I told them.”

He shrugged. “There’s bound to be a rough patch or two.”

“There’s her father, too—she’ll want to know about
him
.”

Dan’s ruddy face darkened and the light went out of his eyes. “So you’ll tell her the truth—that he’s a cold-hearted
shite
who brings shame to the collar he wears.” Years ago, when she’d told him the whole ugly tale, she’d never seen Dan so angry. Time had done nothing to blunt his contempt.

For her part, she’d kept silent all these years, and if Father Gallagher’s abrupt reassignment had aroused suspicion at the time, she’d done nothing to fan the flames. Nor had she tried to contact him. These days all she knew was what she heard through the grapevine: that he was a favorite to replace Bishop Cardiff when he retired. If word of this got out, it would destroy any possible chance he had.

But why should she care? Was he thinking of
her
when she got pregnant? There’d been no talk of birth control, which they both knew was a sin (as if what they were doing
wasn’t
). But Jim hadn’t had to live with the consequences. And if it weighed on his conscience at all, which she doubted, he didn’t have to face a young woman full of questions for which there were no good answers, or wonder how this new person would fit into a family limping along on three legs.

But if she’d once been full of anger, only the bitter rind remained. “There were nights I used to lie awake thinking of all the ways I’d like to rearrange him. But,” she sighed, “I don’t know that I have the right to ruin a man’s life.”

“He didn’t care whether or not he ruined yours.”

She shot him a look of mild rebuke. “Aren’t priests supposed to counsel forgiveness?”

“We’re also supposed to keep our pants zipped,” he countered without missing a beat. If she could name one fault in Father Dan, she thought, it was his Irish temper.

She smiled. “Well, when you put it that way …”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away.” Dan’s fists unfurled and he leaned over, propping his elbows on his knees and smiling sheepishly up at her. “Have you thought about contacting him? There has to be a civilized way of handling this.”

She felt some of the old bitterness well up in her. “The last time I saw Jim Gallagher it was to tell him I was pregnant. He refused to take even the slightest responsibility. He kept saying I’d tricked him, that it was all my fault.” Her mouth stretched in a cheerless smile. “The worst of it was that, at the time, I believed him.”

“You don’t feel that way now, I hope.”

“No, but it was a long time ago. Do we really need to rake all that up?”

“You might not have a choice.”

“I’ll leave it up to Claire.”

“A pretty name, Claire.” He smiled.

“I would have chosen something different. Something with a little more flair.”

“Such as?”

“Aileen, after my Irish grandmother.”

“I had an aunt named Aileen. She was a big believer in spare the rod and spoil the child.”

Gerry saw what he was up to here—he was trying to calm her fears—and felt a rush of affection. “All I want is a chance to get to know her. That’s not too much to hope, is it?”

He was gazing out over the garden, with its stone paths winding in and out of view and ancient trees bowed with age. “Hope,” he said, turning to her with a smile, “is but the poor cousin to faith. And that, my dear, you are blessed with in abundance.” He rose with a sigh. “On that note, why don’t I walk you to your car? After all this talk, I wouldn’t want you to be late.”

They’d scarcely started down the path when the sisters began emerging from the chapel, gliding silently onto the covered walkway that linked it to the chapter house. No one raised an eyebrow at the sight of Gerry strolling side by side with the handsome Father Reardon (all the gossip about Jim had died down years ago), which was exactly how she intended to keep it.

The wrought iron gate creaked as he pushed it open and they stepped out onto the rose-lined drive. She waved good-bye as he climbed into his ancient Pontiac that looked as if it ran on a wing and a prayer. Moments later she was following the cloud of dust billowing in his wake—the sisters purposely kept the road unpaved to cut down on unwanted visitors—bumping over ruts and swerving to avoid potholes.

A troubling new thought occurred to her. What if Claire had changed her mind and decided not to come?

Her heart lurched.
No, she’d have called.

Gerry was unaware that she was pressing too hard on the gas until her car hit a pothole and for a heart-stopping moment became airborne. Then the wheels hit ground with a jarring
thunk,
hard enough to bring her back teeth together with an audible click. She felt the car start to skid out of control and wrenched hard on the wheel, bringing it back into line. Relief sluiced through her and she began to laugh, a low, breathless laugh that held a tiny note of hysteria. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that she might be the one who, through no fault of her own, would stand up Claire.

A dozen miles away, Claire negotiated the steep, twisting grade overlooking the valley with the caution of someone who’d been taught from a very early age that most everything in life was an accident waiting to happen. She’d been driving for the better part of two hours and had made it without incident to the outskirts of Ventura, where the road hooked northeast onto Highway 33 and began to climb. Now there was nothing but steep sandstone bluffs on one side and only the narrowest of shoulders separating her from the precipitous drop-off on the other.

It seemed a metaphor for what lay ahead.

Why had she insisted on making this trip? She, of all people, should have known better. She was a lawyer, for God’s sake. And wasn’t it the first rule of strategy that you were always at an advantage on your home turf? It was why she saw a good number of clients in their homes, where they were more comfortable discussing life and death matters, and mapping out their estates.

Just then she rounded a curve and a graveled overlook swung into view. Scarcely realizing it, she found herself pulling over. As if in a trance she unbuckled her seat belt and got out. A gentle breeze was blowing, and she caught the faint scent of dry grass and sage. Spread out below was a vast tureen of a valley. At the eastern end a wooded lake gazed serenely up at the sky, and to the west a tumble of brown hills, dusky with chaparral, climbed to meet the snowcapped mountains in the distance. Orange groves, crisscrossed like neat rows of stitching, lay in green patches over the valley floor interspersed with clusters of buildings.

She drew closer to the edge, the wind catching her hair and blowing it about her face. She
knew
this place. Déjà vu was too strong a word; it was more a feeling that she belonged somehow. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? She couldn’t have been more than a few days old when she was taken from here.

She felt a sudden charged lightness, as if she were a spark the wind could snatch up and send spinning out over the scrub-dotted gully below. It didn’t matter that after this she might never again see Gerry. The thing she’d wished for all her life was coming true: She was finally going to meet her birth mother.

Millie’s words came back to haunt her:
She gave you away as if you were no more than a kitten.
But could Gerry have been so heartless? She hadn’t seemed so over the phone. Only one thing was for sure: It had been easier when Gerry was a blank page.

Reluctantly, Claire turned away, her gaze falling on a bronze plaque mounted on a concrete base a few feet away, partially obscured by a tall silver-leafed bush. She peered at its age-blackened lettering. Something about the movie
Stranger in Paradise
having been shot on location here sometime in the fifties. Maybe that’s why the terrain looked so familiar.

As she headed back to her car, she wondered what kind of movie
this
would end up being—a weepy melodrama, or one of those artsy-fartsy films in which everyone talks in circles and nothing ever happens? Either way, life was never going to be the same.

She pulled back onto the road to find herself on the downward slope. Nevertheless, it was several more miles before service stations and convenience marts began taking the place of boulders and scrub. Soon she was cruising along the main street of town, with its Spanish-style storefronts trimmed in bright mosaic tiles and its curbs dotted with citrus trees in clay tubs. Little things jumped out at her: a bright blue door festooned with a garland of dried chilies, an old merry-go-round horse sporting a new leather saddle, a pushcart stacked with boxes of fruits and vegetables as lovingly displayed as a jeweler’s wares. On the corner, by the stoplight, stood the Depression-era post office pictured on the cover of the guidebook she’d bought. She gazed up at its gilded bell tower glittering in the late-morning sun. It seemed a good omen somehow.

Following Gerry’s directions, she made a left at the light. On the corner to her right was a tall oak rising above a funky, screened enclosure—what could only be the Tree House Cafe. She found a parking space and got out. Her hands were trembling as she fed money into the meter, and she dropped a quarter that rolled off into the bushes. She started to go after it, then, straightened with a low, tremulous laugh. How would it look if Gerry was to see her rooting in the bushes?

By the entrance to the enclosure was a rough-hewn bookcase lined with used paperbacks, with a slotted box for paying on the honor system. She pushed her way in through the screen door, stepping onto a patio roughly the size of a baseball diamond over which several dozen tables were scattered. There was a small clapboard building in back, and at the center stood the enormous live oak visible from the street. A tree house accessed by a stout ladder had been built into its lower branches, where several children scampered about, shrieking to one another. In the shade below people sat contentedly nibbling from their plates, some reading books no doubt culled from the crammed shelves in back.

She was greeted by a tanned, athletic-looking man in an open-necked shirt. She unstuck her tongue from the dry roof of her mouth long enough to tell him, “I’m meeting someone. Gerry Fitzgerald.”

His smile broadened. He looked to be in his thirties— thick, wavy brown hair, brown eyes, Colgate teeth. “You must be Claire. She asked me to look out for you. Follow me.”

She fell in behind him, glancing about in panic.

What if it was like
The Monkey’s Paw
? A case of being careful what you wish for. Her gaze fell on a Naugahyde-skinned woman in tennis whites frowning at her menu. Two tables away sat a fat lady in a straw hat and garish muumuu asking in a loud voice about the day’s specials. In the sunlight that fell in dappled pools at her feet Claire felt suddenly chilled.

This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.

Why, oh why, hadn’t she left well enough alone?

Gerry had arrived a few minutes before noon, just before the lunch-hour rush. She’d chatted briefly with David Ryback at the door. Little Davey was in the hospital again, and though David must have been under a tremendous strain shuttling back and forth, he seemed his usual laid-back self. She didn’t know how he managed it. His days as a high school and college athlete, coupled with the years of working here under his dad, had trained him well.

David showed her to a shady table in back, pulling out a chair into which she sank like a lioness on its haunches, every muscle tensed. Mistaking her obvious nervousness for something else, he said with a wink, “I’ll keep an eye out for him. What does he look like?”

“Actually, it’s a she.” Gerry realized she didn’t know what her daughter looked like; she’d assumed she would recognize her. Now she felt foolish. “About your age. Her name is Claire.”

She ordered an iced tea and sipped it slowly. The minutes felt more like hours. Oh, God. Wasn’t that Marguerite Moore over there with the ladies from her bridge club?
Please don’t look this way,
Gerry prayed. She didn’t mind people gossiping about her love life, but this was something else altogether.

Marguerite didn’t turn around. For once, she was minding her own business. The same couldn’t be said of Dean Cribbs. Gerry noticed that the obnoxious car dealer—he owned the largest Chevy dealership this side of Ventura—had Melodie Wycoff cornered by the wait station. Poor Melodie. Who would come rushing to her defense dressed the way she was? Today’s outfit was a short denim skirt and white blouse through which Gerry could see the outline of her bra. She, too, might have assumed Melodie had been flirting with Dean, as she had a tendency to do with male customers, if not for the pained smile she wore.