The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (74 page)

“Better than any restaurant.” Gerry beamed at Claire. “They’ll be lining up at your door.”

Look at me,
Andie wanted to cry.
I’m here. I’m your daughter, too.

She jumped to her feet instead. “I’ll wash up.” She could win a few points doing that, at least.

“Thanks, honey,” her mother said distractedly as she rose from the table. “I was thinking Claire and I could pop over to your grandma’s. I can’t wait to give her the good news.” She turned to Claire. “If you’re not in a rush.”

Claire smiled. “Sure, why not?”

“Can I come, too?” Justin wanted to know.

Claire ruffled his hair. “If it’s okay with your mom.”

“Don’t you have homework?” Gerry was already reaching for her coat, on a peg by the door.

“I did it already.” Justin ducked his head, but not before Andie caught the guilty gleam in his eyes: He was lying.

Claire turned to Andie. “Want us to wait for you?”

“No, it’s okay.” She tried not to sound hurt that she’d been an afterthought. “Tell Grandma I said hi.”

Then they were trooping out the door, leaving her with a sink full of dirty dishes, a pile of homework, and something she’d done her best not to think about until now—a period that was overdue.

Andie was reaching into the cupboard under the sink for the detergent when she abruptly burst into tears. Claire might not turn out to be her worst problem. What if she was pregnant? What then? Her life would be ruined.

Before she knew it, she was picking up the phone and punching in her father’s number. Luckily, he was home.

“Daddy?”

“Honey, what’s wrong?” The concern in his voice was almost more than she could bear, reminding her of when she was little and would come to him with a scraped elbow or skinned knee.

“I’m fine,” she sniffed.

“You don’t sound so fine.”

“Oh, Daddy.” A sob broke loose, and she quickly muffled it with her hand. “I miss you so much.”

“Me, too, sweetheart.” It wasn’t like the other times she’d called when he’d been too busy or distracted to talk. This was how it had been before the divorce—and before Cindy.

“Are you busy?” she asked even so.

“Not especially. Cindy’s up at the club—it’s her bridge night. I’m just clearing some stuff off my desk.” There was a pause, and she listened for the familiar background noise of her father in his den—the shuffle of paper and faint clatter of his keyboard—but there was only the sound of his breathing. “What’s up?”

“Claire’s moving here.”

He was silent a moment, then said, “Well, that
is
something.”

“It’s not that I hate her or anything.” It occurred to Andie then that her mother wasn’t the only one who’d kept Claire a secret all these years. Now she was shocked to hear the five-year-old Andie’s voice coming out of her mouth. “Oh Daddy, why didn’t you tell us? If I’d known all along, it wouldn’t have been so bad.”

Her dad sighed heavily into the phone. “I would have, sweetheart, but it wasn’t my place. I had to respect your mother’s wishes.” He paused, and she could hear the sound of a drawer closing. “What’s she like? You haven’t told me much. All I know is that your brother thinks she walks on water.”

“Nice. She’s nice.”

“Well, that’s a start at least.”

“Daddy,” Andie drew in a watery breath, leaning her head against the wall. “Would it be okay if I came to live with you?” She hadn’t meant to ask; the words were out before she realized it. Now she felt a stab of guilt. Her mother would be furious. And her father …

God, please don’t let him say no. I don’t think I could stand it.

But for once there wasn’t another call he had to take, or somewhere else he had to be. He didn’t reach into his grab bag of excuses, either. Instead, in the Daddy-voice she remembered from when she was little, he said the words that were like sweet music to her ears.

“Of course you can, sweetheart. Any time you like.”

MONICA’S MANSION ON THE HILL

b
y

Simon Winthrop

The wrought iron gates guarding the entrance to LoreiLinda open with the magic words
Monica Vincent is expecting us.
As we pull up in front, we’re unprepared for the sheer sprawl of it: more Greek temple than mansion, with grounds that might have been a botanical garden closed to the public year-round. We’re struck, too, by how quiet it is; even the birds seem to know better than to make a peep.

We are greeted at the door by Monica’s assistant, Anna Vincenzi. If there’s a resemblance, it’s because Anna is her sister. Monica shortened her name to Vincent when she moved to Hollywood more than a dozen years ago, her ticket to stardom a face mere mortals would kill for. Though her first movie,
Holy Smoke,
was a self-described “unholy mess,” she fared better with her second feature film. For her starring role in
Tender
she was nominated for an Academy Award as Best Actress. The rest is history. She went on to make more than thirty films before her star crashed to earth, in 1996, with a boating accident that left her paralyzed from the waist down.

The auburn-tressed Monica is as lovely as ever. As she’s wheeled into the luxuriously appointed living room where we’ve been kept waiting, it’s like Cleopatra being borne in on her pallet. There is nothing about her that evokes pity. When asked about her famous reclusiveness, she dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “If it’s Garbo you want,” she says, “you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Miss Vincent, as she insists on being called, even by her sister, is still in the game and ready to fight another day. It’s a feistiness that becomes increasingly clear as we sit with our drinks—soda for us, something stronger for her—in the pink light of the setting sun, looking out over the valley she once called home and now jokingly refers to as her prison …

“So, what do you think?”

Andie looked up from the newspaper to find Simon eyeing her eagerly. They’d stopped at the bookstore on their way home from school, where she’d snagged the last remaining copy of the morning’s
Clarion.
Apparently word had gotten out, and there’d been a run on it the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the scandal involving Sister Beatrice.

“I love it,” she said. “But I’m not so sure Monica will.”

She’d be none too pleased with the veiled references to her drinking and quotes on everything from ex-husbands and old flames to the sad state of today’s movie industry.

“She can sue me if she likes. I have it all on tape.” He spoke blithely, but she knew it was only a cover. He was anxious, not so much about Monica, but about whether or not the piece would be picked up by one of the wire services.

“Uh-oh, speaking of the devil.” She nudged Simon, who glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of Monica wheeling in through the door. “Look where she’s headed.”

Monica, dressed in a black turtleneck and slim black trousers that made her look like a spider in its web, was going straight for the newspapers and magazines by the register.

“She’s obviously gotten the four-one-one,” he observed dryly.

“What are our chances of sneaking out before she spots us?” Andie muttered under her breath.

“About a million to one.” He didn’t look too concerned. Then she remembered: Simon thrived on controversy.

Andie glanced around. The store was mostly deserted except for a few browsers in back. She watched Monica roll to a stop in front of the register, nearly blocking the entrance. If they tried to slip out now, she’d have to be blind as well as wheelchair-bound not to see them. Andie shrank out of sight behind the bookcase, pulling Simon with her.

“I see you’re out of the
Clarion,
” she said sweetly to Myrna.

Andie peeked out to see Myrna McBride pause in the midst of ringing up a purchase. In her bulky hand-knit sweater and tweed skirt, her tufted swirls of strawberry blond hair bringing to mind a guinea pig, Myrna was as frumpy as Monica was fashionable.

“Sorry,” she said. “I just sold the last one.”

“Will you be getting any more?” Monica asked.

“That’s it for today. You could try the library.”

“I’ve
seen
it, thank you. I wanted my own copy.” She was losing patience. “Do you know where I could
buy
one?”

“The drugstore sells them, but they’re out, too.”

Myrna had clearly dealt with Monica in the past, and, besides which, she wasn’t the type to be pushed around. When she and her husband, with whom she’d co-owned the town’s only other bookstore, had gotten divorced, Myrna had opened her own rival bookstore just across the street—appropriately named The Last Word.

Simon stepped out from behind the bookcase. “You can have this one.”

He plucked the newspaper from Andie’s hand and strode over to Monica, handing it to her with a flourish. God, where did he get the nerve? If Andie had written that piece she wouldn’t have been able to look Monica in the eye.

But if Monica was angry at him, it didn’t show. “How gallant.” Her mouth curved in a sultry smile. “I suppose they paid you in copies.” A not-so-subtle reminder that the
Clarion
was small-town, not to be confused with the publications she was used to being featured in.

Simon shrugged, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his chinos. “I’m not in it for the money.”

“Don’t tell me. It’s the hunt—the
kill—
that excites you.” A disdainful note crept into Monica’s voice. At the same time she sounded faintly amused, as if toying with Simon.

He didn’t bat an eye. “Whatever. I just didn’t see the point in recycling all the usual crap—you know, Monica Vincent the Legend. People are tired of it. I’ll bet you are, too. I wanted to show you as a real person.” He looked so sincere, with his brown hair flopping over his forehead and his glasses slipping down his nose, Andie almost bought it herself. She wasn’t surprised when a slow smile spread across Monica’s face.

“Local girl made good?” But there was no malice to it this time. “You certainly have balls, I’ll give you that much. How old did you say you were?”

“Sixteen.” A pink flush crept into his cheeks.

“I suppose you have your eye on the Ivy Leagues, a smart young man like you.”

Simon averted his gaze, his blush deepening. There was no question he had the grades and board scores—straight As and fifteen hundred on his PSATs—but without a full scholarship he’d be out of luck. A state college was all his mother could afford.

“Columbia and Stanford are my top choices,” he told her.

Monica eyed him speculatively. A look of true interest had replaced her tailored-to-the-public face. “It just so happens the admissions director at Stanford is an old friend of mine,” she said.

Simon perked up. “Really?”

“I could put in a good word. Why don’t you stop by the house tomorrow around this time and we’ll discuss it?”

For once, Simon was speechless. Then he gathered his wits and stammered, “Tomorrow? Sure, that’d be great.”

“Good. I’ll have Anna put it on the calendar.”

Before he could say another word, she was propelling herself out the door, the afternoon sunlight catching the chrome hubs of her wheels in little pinwheels of reflected light.

Andie stepped out from behind the bookcase. She looked at Simon. He looked at her. For a full thirty seconds neither of them spoke. At last she drew in a breath and said, “I can’t believe it.”

“What?” Simon was putting on his innocent act.

“That you fell for it.”

“Didn’t you hear her? This could be my lucky break.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’d have been insane to say no.”

“If you think it’s your
mind
she’s interested in, you’re not as smart as I thought.”

Simon gave a nervous little laugh, as if he knew he’d been busted. “Get real. She’s got to be my mom’s age.”

“Except she doesn’t look anything like your mother, I’ll bet.” She wouldn’t know. She had yet to meet his mom—another sore point.

“Come on, Andie, don’t be this way.” It wasn’t until she’d stalked past him on her way out the door that he seemed to realize she was serious. He caught up with her outside. “Look, this is crazy. She’s in a
wheelchair,
for God’s sake.”

“It hasn’t stopped her so far.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“Am I? Did you see the look on her face?”

“What look?”

“Like a cat who ate the canary.” She hurried along the arcade, stepping around a heavyset woman juggling several shopping bags and a Pekinese whose leash had gotten tangled around a bench leg.

He quickened his pace to keep up with her. “Okay, just for argument’s sake, let’s say she
does
have the hots for me. What makes you think I’d do anything about it?”

“So you admit she has the hots for you.”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“You just said—”

Simon grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around. “What
is
it with you? If it’s because of your sister, I’m here for you, you know. All you have to do is—”

Andie glared at him, tears springing to her eyes. “It has nothing to do with
that.
”

“Look, I understand.”

“You don’t understand a
thing.
” She had a sudden image of him scooping Monica into his arms and carrying her off into her bedroom, whispering,
Don’t worry, I’ll pull out in time.

She jerked from his grasp, scurrying off down the arcade. Shoppers swirled past in a blur while little things jumped out at her like freeze frames: ice cream drying to a rubbery puddle on the sidewalk outside of Lickety Split, a mother tugging on the arm of her whining toddler. At the corner, as she waited for the light to turn, she spotted a stout, middle-aged woman with hair that curled in crisp iron waves about her ears. Andie recognized her as Dr. Rosario, her mother’s OB who’d delivered both her and Justin.

The fear crouched in the back of her mind once more sprang into full consciousness. What if
she
were pregnant? Her period was only a little late, less than a week, which wasn’t unusual, but still …

A baby would screw up everything. It’d be like her mother and Claire—history repeating itself. But suppose she kept it? That’d be worse in a way. She could kiss college good-bye. While her classmates, including Simon, were off at school, she’d be stuck home changing diapers. Just another statistic.