The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (86 page)

“You mean have I returned any of his calls?” Finch knew perfectly well that she hadn’t. “I doubt he’s holding his breath.”

Finch cast her a faintly injured look. “Hey, I was just asking.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m a little touchy.”

“Still no sign of your period?” Finch dropped her voice though there was no one around to hear.

Andie shook her head, suddenly filled with dread.

“What about the test? Did you take it?”

“Yesterday.” She’d picked up one of those home pregnancy kits when she stopped to buy tampons.

“And?”

“It was negative.”

Finch came to an abrupt halt. “Why didn’t you
tell
me? I’ve been worried sick.”

“Tests can be wrong.”

“Just how late
are
you?”

“This is the second period I’ve missed.”

Finch frowned. “You should see a doctor.”

“The only one I know is my mom’s.”

“We’ll find someone, don’t worry.”

Andie was instantly reassured by her use of “we.” The thought of having to go through this alone was almost more than she could bear. “I still haven’t told Simon.”

“Don’t you think you should?”

“He won’t take it seriously. He’ll say the test can’t be wrong.” Simon was, first and foremost, a reporter. He dealt in facts, not speculation.

“Okay, then why don’t you wait until you’re sure? One way or the other,” Finch was quick to add. “In the meantime, you should at least
see
him. You don’t know for sure that there’s anything going on with him and Monica.”

An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness; it seemed like the loneliest sound in the world. Andie thought for a moment, then said, “You’re right. This is stupid.”

The truth was, she missed Simon almost as much as she’d missed her mother. She missed his backpack bumping companionably against hers, and the look on his face when she’d sneak up on him in the library, the way he’d blink up at her in happy surprise. She even missed his dumb little gifts: the Skittles he knew she loved; a box of colored paper clips; the key ring he’d given her to celebrate her getting her learner’s permit.

“Why don’t you call him when we get back to the house?” Finch quickened her step.

Andie shot her a narrow look. “Did Simon put you up to this?”

“Who me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But from the suddenness with which Finch darted ahead, Andie had a pretty good idea he
had.
For some reason, it didn’t make her mad. She smiled at her friend’s retreating back in the darkness.

But Simon wasn’t home when she called. The only thing his little brother (Andie didn’t know which one; they all sounded alike) would tell her was that he was out. With Monica? She didn’t dare ask. Nor did she leave a message, since she knew from experience that there was less than a 50 percent chance he’d get it.

The following morning she and Finch rose just after dawn. With the sun a fat peach in a watermelon sky, they saddled the horses—Andie on Punch, and Finch on Cheyenne—and set off. They rode all the way to the creek, where they stopped to let the horses rest. By the time they returned, sunlight was warming the barn’s weathered boards and they were both starving. As they rubbed the horses down, Andie thought of toast slathered in butter and Maude’s peach jam.

Fortunately, Maude was up and about, coffee brewing and a pot of oatmeal steaming on the stove. Andie helped herself to a heaping bowl, and two slices of toast with jam. Halfway through breakfast, Hector ambled in yawning and asked Andie if she’d like a lift in to town. She was quick to take him up on his offer, asking if he’d drop her off at Simon’s.

A short while later she was getting out at the entrance to a run-down trailer park. She looked around in dismay. She’d imagined Mariposa Gardens to be like the mobile home park her dad’s sister, Aunt Teresa, had lived in at one time—nice, double-wide trailers with well-tended yards. Here there were only patches of dried brown grass where the yards weren’t scuffed completely bare. As she walked along the sparsely graveled drive, she saw that the cars in the tiny carports were mostly older models marred with dents and patches of primer. The only signs of life were the clotheslines from which laundry flapped dispiritedly, and the toys scattered about—Hot Wheels, an inflatable swimming pool half filled with scummy water, a rusty Tonka truck overturned in the dirt.

No wonder Simon hadn’t been in a rush to have her visit.

The few people out and about—a man trying to start his car, the sound of its engine like the moan of a dying beast; an old woman in flip-flops and a faded housecoat taking out the trash; and a towheaded boy of around ten perched on the tailgate of a battered yellow pickup sporting a bumper sticker that read
IF YOU CAN READ THIS, EAT MY SHIT
—glanced at her without interest as she passed. It was obvious Simon’s neighbors were used to seeing strangers wandering about at odd hours.

Near the end of the drive, she spotted Simon’s beat-up squareback parked in a carport that was little more than a sheet of corrugated plastic propped on aluminum poles and felt a wave of relief wash over her. If he’d been at Monica’s the night before, he wasn’t there now. She climbed the steps of the trailer, distinguished from the ones on either side by the window box from which tendrils of ivy straggled forlornly, and knocked on the door. Inside, a dog began to yap.

The door cracked open and something small and white and furry came hurtling out—Bartlesby, the mutt Simon had adopted from Lost Paws, where she volunteered. She bent to scoop him up.

“Andie! What are you doing here?”

She straightened, holding the wriggling dog in her arms, to find Simon gaping at her. “I was in the neighborhood,” she told him.

He looked flustered as he stepped back to let her in. He was wearing a faded Monterey Jazz T-shirt over rumpled pajama bottoms, and, with his hair flopping down over his brows, looked all of about twelve. He offered her a tentative smile. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. You didn’t return any of my calls.”

“I called last night. You weren’t home.”

Andie glanced about. A pair of dark-haired boys who bore a striking resemblance to Simon lay sprawled on the carpet in front of the loudly squawking TV. A third, younger than the other two, sat at the table a few feet away, slurping cereal from a bowl while a little girl alongside him drank milk from the carton.

“Junie!” Simon stalked over and snatched the carton from her hands. “How many times have I told you to use a glass?”

“I couldn’t reach!” she whined.

He fetched a glass from the cupboard. Ricki, whom Andie recognized from school, wandered in just then, barely glancing at her as she plopped down on the couch.

“Guys, this is Andie,” Simon announced.

“Hi,” she said, lowering the dog onto the carpet.

The boys mumbled something without tearing their eyes from the TV. Ricki, a lanky dark-haired girl in leggings and a baggy black sweatshirt, lifted a hand in greeting while Junie flashed her a milk-mustachioed grin, crowing, “It’s Simon’s girlfriend.”

Color rushed up into Simon’s cheeks, and he shot Andie an apologetic look. “They’re not very big on manners.”

Andie glanced down the narrow hallway. “Your mom asleep?”

He nodded. “She works the night shift. Don’t worry, a bomb could go off, and it wouldn’t wake her.”

Andie watched Bartlesby race over to the table, where the milk Junie had spilled was dripping onto the floor.

“About last night,” she said. “I would have left a message, only I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”

“That’s funny, considering all the messages
I’ve
been leaving.” Simon’s tone was dry, and his hazel eyes large with reproach. He poked at his glasses, which had slipped down his nose.

“Maybe I should have called you at Monica’s.”

Simon’s face flushed an even deeper red, and he cast a nervous glance at his brothers and sisters, who’d gone from watching the Power Rangers to eyeballing them. He grabbed Andie’s arm and steered her to the door. “Come on, we can talk outside.”

“Watch out for Mrs. Malcolm,” Ricki warned with a laugh. “Her TV’s on the fritz again.”

“Do we look like fugitives from
The Young and the Restless?”
Simon shot back.

The screen door slapped shut behind them with a tinny rattle. He led the way to a pair of aluminum folding chairs tilting to starboard on the scrap of lawn under a huge old chestnut. He gallantly chose the one with the most broken straps.

“Sorry about that. We don’t get much company,” he said.

“I didn’t come for coffee and cake.”

“Why
did
you come?” He sounded hurt, and she wondered if she’d been too quick to judge him—like when her mother had jumped to conclusions about that stupid CD.

“I thought we should talk.”

“About Monica?” She caught an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

She looked down at her shadow stretching over the stunted brown grass. “I’m sorry. It was a stupid crack.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you had to find out sometime: Monica and I are eloping to Vegas. We figured, why wait until I graduate? There’s no time like the present. Who gives a shit about college when I can live like a king, lounging around the pool all day sipping piña coladas?”

She looked up to find Simon regarding her with a deadpan expression.

“Piña coladas?” She giggled.

He cracked a smile. “It sounded good.”

Andie felt foolish all of a sudden. “Come to think of it, you and Monica would make a cute couple.”

“Yeah, I could visit her behind bars when she gets arrested for having sex with a minor.”

She laughed at the idea, at the same time seeing his knee-jerk wisecracking for what it was: a front. The truth was, Simon was ashamed—of
this,
which made it all the more understandable that he’d jumped at Monica’s offer.

“I really
am
sorry,” she said. “I should have trusted you.”

“Okay, I’ll let you off easy this time—considering it’s your first offense.” His smile widened into a grin. “By the way, I thought you’d be interested to know that Monica wasn’t bullshitting when she said she knew the dean of admissions at Stanford. It’s all set. I’m meeting him in a few weeks.”

“That’s amazing! You must be psyched.” Andie was happy for him—even though it would mean their being separated. No way was she getting into Stanford with her grades.

“Just for the record, she never laid a hand on me.”

“Not even make a pass?”

He smiled mysteriously.

“Should I be jealous?”

He put on an innocent expression. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’d cheat on his girlfriend?”

Andie drew in a deep breath. She might as well get it over with. “There’s something
you
should know—I think I might be pregnant.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just sat there staring at her in disbelief. Not Clark Kent or even Carl Bernstein, just a lanky kid in a faded red T-shirt and pajama bottoms that bagged down around his ankles. Someone who looked after his brothers and sisters and took in stray dogs.

“You
think,
or you
know
?” His voice was surprisingly calm.

“I took the test—it was negative.”

He sagged with relief. “Well, then.”

“I won’t know for sure until I see a doctor.” It hit her full force. “Oh, Simon, what if I am?”

He regarded her gravely for a long moment, then rose with a creak of nylon webbing and sank down on one knee, taking her hands in his. “We’re too young to get married. It would only make things worse. How do you think my mom ended up in this shithole with six kids? But I
can
promise you one thing: Whatever happens, I won’t let you down.”

Her heart swelled until she felt as if she could be lifted up and carried over the treetops like a balloon. “I don’t want us to get married,” she said in a small cracked voice. “But thanks for not asking.”

He flashed her his familiar lopsided grin. “You’re welcome.”

She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and glanced up to find an old woman with her hair in curlers peering out the window of the trailer next door.

Andie smiled, asking in a low voice, “Do you think we’re giving your neighbor her money’s worth?”

“Are you kidding? The show hasn’t even started.” Simon rose to his full height, pulling Andie into his arms. He smelled muzzily of sleep and T-shirts from the bottom of the drawer. When he kissed her, she grew weak-kneed, forgetting the old lady until he pulled back to whisper in her ear, “We’re doing her a favor, you know. Why spend money on a new TV when she has
this
?”

Andie knew then that it was going to be okay. Whatever happened. For at this particular moment, with the sun climbing over the treetops and Mrs. Malcolm settling in for the rest of the show, there was no doubt in her mind that Simon loved her.

T
HE FIRST STRAWBERRIES
of the season were small and as sweetly tart as candied rind. Claire had bought several flats from a small farm off Route 128 owned by an old man and his middle-aged son, Chester and Chuck Dunlop, with whom she’d arranged to get regular deliveries when Tea & Sympathy opened in a month. That’s how such business was conducted around here, she’d discovered, in the barns and farm stands scattered over the fields and groves that stretched in a broad green band across the valley floor and produced an embarrassment of riches: cherries, peaches, apricots, plums, grapes, and berries in summer; apples, pears, persimmons, and pomegranates in the fall, with citrus fruits being in abundance nearly year-round. The opening-day menu had been planned in accordance and would include strawberry tarts, blueberry scones, apple-lemon turnovers, and Kitty’s famous orange cake drizzled in orange syrup, which Gladys Honeick, a Tea & Sympathy regular, had once described as a trip to heaven and back for seconds.

Kitty had been on Claire’s mind a lot these days. She always made it seem so effortless, as if the people who flocked to Tea & Sympathy were neighbors who’d happened to drop in just as she was taking something from the oven. Even her past failures seemed amusing in the retelling, because Kitty was, well, Kitty, and it wasn’t just her baked goods that drew people in. What remained to be seen was whether they’d feel the same about
her.