The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (68 page)

“Unlikely,” Dan agreed.

“As for me,” she felt compelled to add, “once was enough.”

“Never say never.” He cocked his head, smiling, the only man in this room tall enough to look down on her.

Gerry felt herself blush—had that been in reference to Aubrey? “That’s fine and dandy,” she said, “coming from a man who’s never been to bed with a woman.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.” He winked. “Remember, I wasn’t always a priest.”

Aubrey wasn’t thinking about Gerry as he pushed open the screen door. He was thinking about Eddie Navarro, a man who rode bulls the way Itzhak Perlman played the violin. Surprisingly, it turned out Eddie was a fan of his as well. He listened to classical music before each rodeo, not giving a hoot that the other cowboys thought he’d landed on his head one time too many. They’d had a most interesting chat, but after a few minutes he’d found himself, to his surprise, missing Gerry.

He paused in the doorway to scan the crowded room, spotting her deep in conversation with the priest. What was his name? Reardon, yes. A hail-fellow-well-met, broad as a yardarm across the shoulders and chest, who without his dog collar would never have been taken for a priest. But what struck Aubrey most was the way Gerry was looking at him, her face tipped up, glowing like that of a young girl …

…
in love.

The thought startled him. Christ, where had
that
come from? He had no earthly reason to think such a thing, and what if it were so? It wasn’t as if he had any claim on her. He nonetheless felt a certain unease, which took a moment to identify it had been so long:
I’m jealous.
He stood there, too stunned to move, the roomful of happily chatting people fading from consciousness. What business did he have being jealous? He wasn’t in love with Gerry. He liked her, yes, quite a bit more than he’d originally bargained on, but that wasn’t the same, was it? The only reason he’d gone on seeing her was because … well, because … he couldn’t
not
see her.

He frowned, the sense of disquiet deepening. After months, years, of merely keeping his head above water, he’d at last achieved a measure of contentment, which wasn’t the same as happiness, he knew—that had been buried along with his wife—but just as precious in its own way. He hoarded it the way a man stripped of his wealth might hoard his last remaining coins. Now his heart was going off in a direction he hadn’t counted on. And he didn’t like it; he didn’t like it one bit.

He suspected that Gerry would be equally appalled. She’d made it plain she wanted nothing more than she herself was prepared to give: sex and affection, in that order.

He took a step back, easing the screen door shut. As he turned, his gaze fell on Gerry’s son, seated on the porch steps tossing an old tennis ball to one of the dogs—a little black terrier that growled with mock ferociousness as the boy pried the ball away and sent it hurtling back out over the dusty yard. Aubrey strolled over.

“Mind if I join you?”

Justin only shrugged, but he didn’t move when Aubrey sank down beside him.

“I’ve always liked terriers. They’re like big dogs, only smaller.” He nodded in the direction of Rocky. “My grandparents had one—his name was Mignon. He’d swim out to get the sticks I threw him and the waves would keep tossing him back onto the shore. He never gave up.”

“Dogs don’t know any better,” Justin said.

Aubrey cast a sidelong look at him. Justin sat slumped over his knees, his shoulders tense. “You’re not having a very good time, are you?”

The boy shrugged again. “There’s no one my age.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Aubrey remembered all too well what it had been like for him with his grandparents living several kilometers from the nearest village.

Now the boy did look at him, his green-eyed gaze, so like his mother’s, sliding over Aubrey like cool water. “Mom wouldn’t let me bring Nesto.”

“I suppose because he wasn’t invited.”

Justin was staring at him openly now. “You weren’t either and you’re here.”

“A valid point.” Aubrey smiled. No one was going to get anything past this kid.

“I would’ve gone to my dad’s, but she wouldn’t let me do that either.” Justin’s glum face took on a harder cast—showing a glimpse of the teenager just around the bend.

Aubrey gazed out at the hydrangeas lapping the front walk. It made him think of the cottage he and Isabelle had rented that summer in Aix-en-Provence. It had been smothered in hydrangeas. Pink and blue, with blossoms the size of cabbages. He felt his heart retreat back into the safety of its cave.

When he looked back, Justin was eyeing him narrowly. “Do you know my dad?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“He’s about the same age as you, only taller.”

“Is that so?” If Justin was looking to get a rise out of him, he was going to be disappointed.

“He’s practically head of his whole company, too.”

“What sort of business is he in?” Aubrey already knew; he was only asking to be polite.

“He loans people money to buy houses and stuff.” A hard lob sent the tennis ball bouncing up high and landing in the bushes. The little dog went charging off in pursuit.

“I see—he works at a savings and loan.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“My father was a barrister—that’s the British word for lawyer. I didn’t see much of him growing up.”

“Your parents were divorced?”

“No. I was away at school.”

“Like in
Harry Potter
?” Justin looked intrigued.

“Minus the wizardry.” Aubrey smiled, watching the dog root around in the bushes in search of the ball.

“Didn’t you get homesick?”

“At first, but you get used to it.” In his mind Aubrey heard his father saying almost the exact same words, telling him it would make a man out of him—he’d been eight—and realized it wasn’t entirely true: There was a difference between getting used to something and merely learning to tolerate it.

Justin took a moment to ponder this, elbows propped on his knees as he gazed out over the yard. At last he swung around, squinting at Aubrey like Clint Eastwood in
Fistful of Dollars
—another cowboy he admired.

“Are you and my mom getting married?”

So that’s what was worrying him. Aubrey considered his answer carefully. “Any man would be lucky to have her,” he said. “But I don’t plan on getting married—to anyone.”

Justin looked relieved. “Mom said the same thing when I asked her.”

“What else did she say?”

“That you liked living alone.”

Aubrey felt a sudden sharp hitch like a lungful of air pressing against a bruised rib. “I was married once before,” he said, “to someone I loved very much. She died.”

“Oh.” Justin dropped his gaze.

Just then the little terrier came bounding up the steps with the ball, now coated with dirt as well as slobber. Aubrey pried it from his jaws and wiped it on a napkin someone had dropped. On impulse, he said, “What do you say we throw a few?”

The boy brightened, then with a shrug quickly looked away.

Aubrey rose, stepping down off the porch. A moment passed before he heard the scuffle of footsteps behind him. He gave in to a small smile he was careful to erase before the boy caught up with him.

Gerry watched them from the doorway, the skinny kid whose clothes would have to go straight into the wash as soon as they got home and the elegant, silver-haired man mindless of his expensive jacket. Something floated up in her chest. How had he known what Justin needed? The same boy who’d been moping about all day was now grinning from ear to ear.

“It looks like he’s made a new friend.”

She turned to find that Sam had slipped up alongside her.

Gerry shrugged. “You know Justin—he gets along with everyone.”

“He needs a man in his life.”

“He has his father.”

“When Mike can find the time.” Sam had an even more jaundiced view of her ex-husband than she did, if that was possible.

Gerry shot her a stern look. “Look, whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

She watched Justin leap up to snag the ball and lob it back to Aubrey, who caught it easily. Aubrey spotted her and waved. Gerry waved back, motioning to let him know it was almost time for the cake to be cut. When she turned, bracing herself for another earful, she saw that Sam had drifted off. Gerry spotted her at the other end of the porch, chatting with Tom Kemp. From the glowing tips of his ears—the curse of redheads—it was obvious he still had feelings for her. Gerry wondered if love was always that transparent, even when those afflicted were blind to it.

Aubrey and Justin tramped back up the steps, and they all headed back inside. In the living room the platters had been cleared away, replaced by plates of cookies and a large bowl of fruit salad. The triple-tiered cake stood in the center of the table—a towering tribute, if one that listed slightly, to Maude’s baking. Gerry filled two cups from the coffee urn and handed one to Aubrey. Wandering over to the fireplace, they found room on the cat-scratched sofa to sit down.

“That was nice, what you did,” she told him.

He shrugged. “I enjoyed it.”

“Well, it was nice anyway.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“After the divorce I tried doing all that stuff—one time I fell into the lake trying to reel in a fish that turned out to be a waterlogged T-shirt.” She smiled ruefully at the memory. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that you can’t be both a mother and a father to your kids.”

He shot her an odd look, and she felt a little chill crawl up from the pit of her stomach. Was he warning her not to make too big a deal of his being nice to Justin? Lumping her in with single moms who used their kids to sweeten the deal?

Gerry was heading back to the table for a refill when she caught sight of Andie with a handful of CDs. Laura must have asked her to reload the player. Gerry smiled at her and for once Andie didn’t give her the evil eye. She looked as if she was having a good time.

The room fell silent just then as Maude rose to make a toast, teetering a little from too much champagne. The bundle of white hair atop her head was coming undone and snowy wisps floated about her apple-doll face. “To two people I love dearly,” she said, lifting her glass high overhead. “May they live long and be happy … and never get tired of taking in strays.”

There was a chorus of hoots and cheers and barks; then the cake was cut. Laura fed a bite to Hector while everyone snapped photos with the disposable cameras that had been left about. She looked a little embarrassed by all the attention, and at the same time pleased that everything was going so well. Hector, for his part, wore the somewhat dazed look of a man who’d been thrown from a horse.

The music started up again—not soft rock like before, but a lovely violin concerto. It wasn’t until she glanced over at Aubrey that Gerry knew something was wrong. He wore a stricken look, his mouth frozen in a ghastly parody of a smile. That’s when it hit her: The music was Isabelle’s.

Andie. It was Andie who did this.

Gerry, stunned by the casual cruelty of it, stood rooted to the spot as people swirled about, clapping and making toasts—some ribald, like curmudgeonly Doc Henry joking that Laura and Hector were sure to give new meaning to the term animal husbandry. Glasses clinked and more champagne was poured. All the while the heartbreaking beauty of Isabelle’s music, coupled with the sorrow on Aubrey’s face, was almost more than she could bear.

C
LAIRE EASED INTO
the right lane. Just ahead, a tractor-trailer was pulled over, and though she didn’t see any flares, she slowed as she passed it.
No sense buying trouble,
warned a voice in her head—Millie’s. She smiled at the irony. For on this chilly February day, as she made her way north on Highway 101 to San Francisco, wasn’t trouble the very thing waiting for her at the other end?

When she reached San Mateo, she fished her cell phone from her purse and punched in Byron’s number. He was off today, and it was early still—just after ten. She might catch him.

He picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was groggy with sleep.

“I thought you might be out. I was going to leave a sexy message.”

He yawned. “I was on call until four. I just got up.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Hey, no problem. Can I still get the sexy message?”

“Not now—I’m driving.”

“Where to?”

“You know.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

“He’s there. I called before I left to make sure.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. I hung up.”

“He might be gone by the time you get there.”

She felt a tiny prick of irritation. Didn’t he think she knew that?

“I’ll try him later, then.” She could always look up Gerry’s brother in the meantime. She’d planned on doing so anyway.

“Yeah, but there’s still no guarantee he’ll see you.”

For an instant she thought he was referring to Kevin, before realizing he meant Father Gallagher, of course. “I guess that’s the chance I’ll have to take.” Her pulse quickened at the thought.

She heard the pad of footsteps at the other end, then the sound of Byron peeing into the toilet. God, they weren’t even living together and already they were like old marrieds. Then she remembered that in Byron’s house no one was shy about such things; his parents even sunbathed in the nude. She’d spied them once over the backyard fence.

“Listen, I’m all for it,” he said, “as long as it’s going to help you get some closure.” He’d fallen into the habit of using such lingo since starting his current rotation in psychiatry.

Personally, she distrusted such words. Twenty years ago no one had heard of “closure” and wouldn’t have known what you were talking about. “I’m not doing this to heal my wounded psyche,” she said a bit testily. “I just want to know what he’s like. He’s my father, after all.” It felt strange saying it; the only image that came to mind was of Lou.

“Hey, I’m on your side, remember?” She heard the toilet flush.

“I know,” she said with a sigh.