The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (79 page)

Claire gave him a stern look. “I want you and Mom to visit.”

“We will,” he said wearily. “Soon as Mother’s back on her feet.”

Gerry cleared her throat, which felt tight all of a sudden. “I hope you can make it for the opening. I’d love for you to meet my family.”

Lou turned to her. “Claire tells us you have children of your own.” He flushed as if realizing how it had sounded—as if Claire weren’t her child, too.

“Two, a boy and a girl,” Gerry told him. She felt a pang at the thought of Andie. “My son thinks Claire hung the moon.”

Lou managed a weak chuckle. “We feel the same way.” He cast an adoring look at his daughter. “Among other things, we miss her cooking.”

“I’m not much of a cook myself.” Gerry seized the opportunity to change the subject—anything to divert herself from the eyes staring up at her like the unblinking red lights on the monitor. “Potato salad is about all I can manage without a mix.”

“I make mine with sour cream. Gives it a nice tang,” Millie said.

Gerry suppressed a smile. “My secret is Miracle Whip.”

Millie’s face relaxed a bit, and Gerry saw how she must have looked when she was younger, how people might have seen a resemblance between her and Claire. Both were delicate-boned and fair, with the same air of thoughtful seriousness. Millie exhaled with a long, sighing breath. “I’m a little tired,” she announced to no one in particular.

Gerry took the hint. “I should let you get some rest,” she said, stepping away from the bed.

Lou tenderly pulled the blanket up around his wife’s shoulders before turning to Claire. “Why don’t you get something to eat, honey? I’ll still be here when you get back.”

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Brewster.” Gerry put her hand out.

“Lou. Call me Lou.” He gave her hand a little squeeze, his eyes meeting hers only briefly before sliding away. “It was nice meeting you, too.”

“Can I bring you anything?” Claire asked.

“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”

Claire kissed him on the cheek. “Be back in a bit.”

Gerry walked with her into the corridor. Lit by the eternal noon of fluorescents, it made her think of a spaceship, the nurses, doctors, and orderlies bustling past like aliens in search of the true meaning of life on earth. She realized how hungry she was—starving, in fact. Even hospital food would taste good right now.

They rode the elevator down to the mezzanine level, where the cafeteria occupied the balcony opposite the gift shop and florist. They carried their trays to a table by the railing, where they had a bird’s-eye view of the lobby. Nearby, a man with thinning gray hair sat hunched over a bowl of soup, and several tables away a group of nurses were engaged in an animated discussion.

“I’m sorry about my mother,” Claire said.

“Don’t be.” Millie hadn’t acted out of meanness, Gerry knew; she was frightened, that’s all. And old—Gerry had been unprepared for how old they’d both seemed, more like grandparents. “They seem like nice people.”

“They mean well.” Claire was looking down at her tray, making no move to pick up her utensils. A pale tendril of steam from a Styrofoam cup of tea caressed the delicate curve of her cheek.

“It’s obvious they love you.”

Claire lifted her head, her mouth twisting in a pained smile. “Sometimes it feels like too much of a good thing.”

Gerry wanted to say,
I love you, too,
but this wasn’t the time or place. Instead, she asked, “Will you be staying long?”

“Hopefully not more than a few days. I’ll be at Kitty’s. She said to tell you you’re welcome, too, if you’d like to stay the night.”

Gerry shook her head. “I should be getting back.”

Claire poked listlessly with her fork at the mashed potatoes on her plate. “Would you keep an eye on things while I’m gone? Tell Matt …” She glanced up, her cheeks reddening. “Tell him I’ll be back.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Gerry ate half her sandwich, wrapping up the other half to take with her. Claire, she saw, had barely touched her food.

“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting a flight,” she said. “Not at this hour.”

Gerry only nodded. Claire didn’t have to know she had other plans. The idea had come to her during the interminable wait downstairs. God had brought her here for a reason, she’d concluded. Not just to give comfort to Claire, or force the Brewsters to acknowledge her, but to take care of some unfinished business of her own. It was time, she thought, to pay a little visit to someone who’d be even less happy to see her than Millie Brewster, someone from the past who held the key to her future.

It was midnight by the time she reached San Francisco. On the drive north she’d booked a room at the Hilton, and by the time she checked in she was long past exhaustion. She was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

Gerry awoke to find sunlight streaming in through the nylon sheers. She bolted upright, squinting at the digital clock on the nightstand. Nine-thirty. How had she managed to sleep so late? She scrambled out of bed and hit the shower running. She was dressed, checked out, and in her car by half past ten.

A short while later she was pulling up in front of Father Gallagher’s neat frame house on Turk Street. Her knock was answered by a heavyset gray-haired woman who informed her, “You just missed him.”

“Oh dear.” Gerry smiled ingratiatingly, holding her sweater closed so her wrinkled blouse from the day before wouldn’t show. “I should have called first. I just thought … well, I was passing through. I’m an old friend, you see.”

The woman looked her up and down, but was apparently satisfied that she was telling the truth. “He hears confessions Thursdays and Fridays.” She gave Gerry directions to the church.

As she drove off in search of it, Gerry’s heart was knocking in her chest and she felt sick to her stomach. What would she say to him? More important, what would he say to
her
? It was one thing for him to lie to Claire, but Gerry knew better. She wouldn’t let him worm out of it this time.

St. Thomas Aquinas was a square, featureless concrete building in the middle of a graffiti-scrawled block, situated between a Laundromat and an all-night bodega. Its shabbiness struck her as odd until she recalled that Jim had always chosen humility as a means to an end. And clearly it had paid off. Rumor had it that he was one of the archbishop’s most trusted aides.

She pushed open the wooden door, pausing just inside the vestibule to let her eyes adjust to the dimness. In the sanctuary, which smelled close and cedary like a trunk in which winter clothes are stored, feeble rays shone from high recessed windows that might once have been made of stained glass but were now reinforced safety glass. Scattered about the pews were half a dozen worshipers, old women mostly, their heads bent low in prayer. She drifted to the bank of votive candles. Only a few flickered wanly in their ruby glass holders. She dropped a coin in the donation box before lighting one.

She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned. Someone was emerging from the confessional—an old woman bent nearly double with arthritis. Gerry watched her shuffle to the nearest pew, where she sank down slowly, clutching hold of the pew in front of her.

Before she could lose her nerve, Gerry darted over and pushed aside the heavy, velvet drape. Inside, she sank down on the padded kneeler.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …
She nearly lapsed into the familiar recitation before realizing how ludicrous it would be under the circumstances.

She could see a darkened silhouette through the grille and heard the faint, even sound of breathing. After a moment a voice prompted, “Yes, my child?”

“It’s me,” she hissed. “Gerry.”

She became aware of a sudden stillness; then in a hoarse whisper, he demanded, “What do you want?” From the fear in his voice, anyone eavesdropping might have thought it was a holdup.

“I think you know.”

This was a sin, what she was doing, but she didn’t care. Exhilaration rose in her.

“For the love of God—”

“You bastard. She wasn’t asking anything of you. All she wanted was the truth.”

“This … this is an outrage.” His voice rose to a shrill whine. “Have you no decency?”

“Decency? How dare you speak to me about decency?” She leaned so close her mouth was almost touching the grille. “Tell me, Jim, while you were sweeping it all under the rug, did you ever stop to think of me? Or of your daughter?”

A memory surfaced: Jim reaching to cup her bare breast as if bringing his hand to a flame, a look on his face like in the portraits of martyrs—a mixture of fear and rapture that seemed to hover on the very brink of madness.

She closed her eyes, seeing him naked in her mind, his body pale as a statue’s. Yet in her arms he’d been liquid heat, not so much making love to her as
consuming
her. Maybe it was because he’d been her first, or because it was forbidden, but she’d sensed then what she now knew to be a certainty: No one would ever make love to her quite the same again. For all its passion, deep down she’d felt afraid, as if not sure she would come out alive.

Now in the closeness of the confessional, she caught his scent, that of a trapped animal. He hissed:
“Get out.”

“I’ll go when I’m good and ready.” She felt oddly cleansed—more so than if she’d confessed. She ought to have done this years ago. “Oh yes, I’m responsible, too. I’m not denying that. And I’ve paid the price. I won’t be punished anymore.”

“What do you want?” he repeated. Only this time he sounded defeated—and old, far older than his years.

“Call off the dogs or I’ll—” What? Go to the archbishop? What would that accomplish? It might ruin Jim, but it wouldn’t keep her from being fired. “I’ll make you sorry you ever knew me,” she finished somewhat less spectacularly than she’d intended.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted.

“Am I supposed to believe it’s pure coincidence that the motherhouse is nosing around?” She gave a dry little laugh. “If I was that stupid once, I’m not anymore.”

“You attribute far too much power to me.”

“Just the opposite—I’ve underestimated you.” His shadowy silhouette loomed, becoming something monstrous. “If I’d wanted to have you fired, I’d have done it years ago!”

“Who said anything about my being fired?” A tiny beat of hesitation. He realized he’d given himself away. Even so, he continued the charade. “It’s a natural assumption.”

“Like you assuming this would be our little secret forever?”

“It … it … was a mistake. I never intended—”

“To fuck me? Or for me to get pregnant?” Nearly thirty years of keeping her mouth shut hadn’t caused it to diminish, just the opposite—it had grown so huge it would no longer fit in its box. “I think the archbishop will have a hard time believing you were taken advantage of by a nineteen-year-old virgin.”

“Get thee behind me!”
For a moment she feared he’d come completely unhinged; then in that same shrill whisper he went on. “It was
your
doing. You … you … led me into temptation.” He broke off with a choking sound, followed by an incoherent mumbling that she recognized after a moment as the Act of Contrition.
“Oh God, I am heartily sorry for all my sins …”

Gerry gave in to a bleak smile. When she was little, she’d thought it was “hardly sorry,” which would have been more fitting in this case. She opened her mouth to tell him he had no business asking God’s forgiveness when he had yet to make amends to her, but he was clearly beyond her now. He wouldn’t hear anything she had to say.

Silently she rose and pushed open the curtain to see a startled face eyeing her aghast: a doughy middle-aged woman, with the collar of her coat pulled up around her ears, who’d clearly heard enough, if not every word.

Millie was sent home the following day, much to Claire’s relief. With the medication her doctor had prescribed, her heart had settled into a steady rhythm, and some of her old color was back. When Millie jokingly asked if she’d live to see her first grandchild, Dr. Farland had chuckled and said, “I think that depends more on Claire.”

After the first night at Kitty’s, Claire stayed at her parents’ house, nursing her mother and seeing that her father, who would have lived off canned soup and Rice-A-Roni otherwise, was properly fed. She also cleaned the house from top to bottom, noting that Millie in her old age, had grown slipshod. When she ran out of things to clean, she went over the checkbook her father hadn’t balanced in months.

The first Sunday in April she was heading out to the grocery store—today was her last day, and she wanted to stock up—when she spotted a familiar car in the driveway next door. Byron’s blue Hyundai. Her heart skipped a beat. The next moment she was racing across the lawn, mindless of the dew soaking her shoes.

Byron met her at the door, bare-chested and wearing a pair of his oldest jeans, his hair damp from the shower. She noticed his ribs sticking out a bit—he’d dropped a few pounds—and the thought of Matt flashed through her mind: his big arms and chest, his muscles like a longshoreman’s. She immediately felt disloyal.

Her boyfriend stepped out onto the porch, easing the door shut behind him. She remembered that the Allendales slept late on weekends, sometimes into the afternoon—a habit Millie considered to be just this side of pagan.

“I got in late last night. I was just on my way over to surprise you.” He wrapped his arms around her, shivering a little with the cold. He smelled of shampoo and pipe tobacco—his father’s—and she had a sudden sense, like a crooked picture frame being straightened, that everything was going to be all right.

“You should have called to let me know you were coming.” She couldn’t keep the faint note of accusation from her voice.

“I wasn’t sure until the very last minute that I could get away.” He drew back with a smile, his eyes searching hers. “God, it’s good to see you.”

“Feel like taking a walk on the beach?” The shopping could wait. She had all morning. “We’ll grab some coffee on the way.”

“Sure. Wait here while I throw something on.” He disappeared into the house, emerging a few minutes later buttoning up an old flannel shirt she recognized from his college days. His hair was in a ponytail. On his sockless feet was a pair of ancient battered Weejuns.