The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (94 page)

Before the girl could reply, the double doors to the patients’ rooms swung open and Father Dan came striding out. Seeing Gerry, he stopped short, breaking into a smile. He looked tired, and though still handsome, was no longer the dashing young priest who’d set a new record in female attendance at St. Xavier’s.

“She’s at peace … finally,” he said with a sigh.

Gerry made the sign of the cross and said a silent little prayer for Sister Seraphina. “She didn’t suffer, I hope.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Even so, it must have been a relief for her.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

They strolled into the lounge, where she sank down in a chair facing the window. “I remember when I was a novice. She seemed ancient even then.”

Father Dan sat down opposite her. “I confess I wasn’t in any particular hurry this time,” he admitted sheepishly. And who could blame him? “As it was, I made it with only minutes to spare.”

“She’d have gone to heaven either way.”

Gerry recalled how Sister Seraphina used to walk with the hem of her habit held an inch or two off the ground to keep it from wearing out. Now, in retrospect, it seemed a metaphor for her life as well: Sister Seraphina’s body steadfastly refusing to wear out.

“If she didn’t, I’d have grave concerns about the rest of us.” He paused, smiling as if at a secret they shared. “But you didn’t come to see Sister Seraphina.”

She shook her head. “I was hoping to have a word with Sister Agnes.”

“She’s still in with Sister Seraphina. It’ll be a while, I think.” He didn’t have to remind her that here, at Our Lady, the departed were lovingly prepared for burial by the sisters themselves. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Actually, it’s good news for a change.”

Father Dan looked intrigued. “In that case, I want to hear all about it.”

She told him about the decision from the motherhouse. “It looks as if the dogs have been officially called off.”

“Well, now, that if good news.” He beamed. “But you look as though you don’t quite believe it.”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t see the look on Sister Clement’s face.” Gerry couldn’t help smiling at the memory. The woman had gotten what she deserved. “I can’t imagine her having anything remotely charitable to say.”

“You’re thinking our old friend had a change of heart?”

She’d told him all about her visit to Father Gallagher, leaving nothing out. Dan, to his credit, hadn’t raised an eyebrow. “It’s funny, because at the time it didn’t seem like I was getting through to him.”

“Well, he must have come to his senses. Either way, you’re off the hook.”

“True.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“Right now I’m more confused than happy.”

“Maybe deep down you still feel you don’t deserve it,” he suggested gently.

She thought for a moment, gazing out at a crab apple tree in bloom—it looked like a great pink bouquet—then said softly, “Maybe I don’t.” She recalled that first awkward meeting with Claire. They’d come a long way since then, but still had a long way to go. “Maybe there are some things we never get past.”

“ ‘Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven,’ ” he quoted from Luke. “Don’t you think that might include forgiving yourself?” She turned to him, noting that his eyes were the same shade of blue as the sky just past his shoulder.

“I’m working on it,” she said with a smile.

“How
is
your daughter these days?” He seemed to have read her mind.

“Never better.”

“I hear that tearoom of hers is set to open any day. Just what I need, another stop on the road to temptation.” He patted his middle, where the roll above his belt revealed his weakness. “Though I hear her strawberry tarts alone are worth ten Hail Marys.”

“You’ve been talking to Sam, I see.”

“I dropped in to see the baby. Fine lad. The spitting image of his mother.”

“Let’s hope he inherited her patience.” Sam had reported that she spent more time at night walking the floor than in bed. Amazingly, even after her ordeal, she hadn’t sounded as if she minded.

Father Dan’s expression sobered. “He wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for you,” he said. “Sam couldn’t stop singing your praises.”

“Keep it up, Father, and they’ll soon be canonizing me.” Gerry laughed to cover her embarrassment.

“Not with your record, they won’t,” he teased. “And speaking of the devil, I hear your boyfriend has decided to stick around.” His tone imbued it with a meaning that could only have come from Sam. Gerry made a mental note to wring her neck the first chance she got.

Gerry’s cheeks grew warm. “For now.” She frowned. “You can stop looking at me like that, Dan Reardon. Even if I were madly in love with the man—which I’m not saying I am—happily ever after is for fairy tales. Look what happened the last time I went that route.”

“I’m not buying that tired old excuse. You and Mike never should have married in the first place.”

“I’m better off this way, believe me. And so is Aubrey … even if he doesn’t know it yet.” She shook her head, wondering who she was trying to convince, herself or Dan.

“What makes you so sure?”

“On top of the fact that I’m not exactly marriage material? I’d be competing with his dead wife. And, believe me, that’s one contest I wouldn’t win. Not even a saint could measure up.”

“No one’s without baggage. Especially at our age.”

“I’ll thank you not to remind me of my age,” she said tartly.

“All I’m advising is that you not rush to judgment.”

Gerry wondered if he was right. For someone who’d taken a vow of celibacy, he certainly seemed to know a lot. Did being on the outside looking in give him an unfair advantage?

“I never thought I’d see the day,” she said dryly, “when my priest would be playing matchmaker.”

The twinkle faded from his eyes. “What it all boils down to is whether or not you have the courage. And I think you do. In fact, I’d bet the farm on it.”

Courage? What did he know? Someone truly courageous would have found a way to keep her child. Even with Mike, she hadn’t had the guts to stand up to him until the very end. Oh yes, she knew how she was perceived by those less enlightened than Father Dan. Which was laughable, really, because she was the furthest thing from being a man-eater. The reason she’d never stuck it out with any one man—Mike being the lone exception, and that was only because she’d had children to think of—was because she’d been afraid. Of getting hurt, of being gobbled up by someone’s ego, and mostly of being left out in the cold. For hadn’t every man in her life, going back to her father, deserted her in some way?

Now she found herself once more on the edge of that precipice. It was different with Aubrey, she knew. But just because there might be a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow didn’t mean she had to go after it. Rainbows, she thought, could be slippery.

“You’re lucky,” she said, half envying him. “You never had to get your own feet wet.”

She rose and walked over to the window. The sun was sinking over the distant mountaintops, and the slight haze of earlier in the day had lifted. She could clearly make out the supine profile of Sleeping Indian Chief, with its jutting nose and chin.

She felt the light brush of Dan Reardon’s hand against hers, and turned to find him standing beside her. “I wasn’t always a priest, you know,” he said softly. “I was in love once.”

“Did she break your heart, or was it the other way around?”

“A little of both, I think. We just went in different directions.” He looked content with the one he had taken. “She’s married now. Three kids, two in college. We exchange cards at Christmas.”

“Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if you’d married her?”

“I don’t know that we’d have been unhappy,” he said with a shrug. “But that isn’t the same as being happy, is it?”

Right now what would make her happy would be an evening at home with her kids: macaroni and cheese followed by a game of Monopoly. Maybe Claire could come, and they’d see if she’d inherited the Fitzgerald penchant for acquiring hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place. Gerry could see it in her mind, the four of them gathered around the card table in the living room. Not exactly Norman Rockwell, but the next best thing.

Where would Aubrey fit in? For a delicious moment she allowed herself to imagine it: his toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, his shoes parked alongside hers. What were hotels on Park Place compared to that?

E
ASTER BROUGHT MORE
than the tolling of church bells. There was the annual Easter egg decorating contest, with prizes in every age category and the winning eggs on display in the window at Lundquists’s, nestled alongside bunny-shaped cookies and loaves of sweet braided bread. The grand finale was the Easter egg hunt in Muir Park, sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce, where children from eight to eighty scrambled amid the gardenias and cape plumbago, the hostas and thyme, for the more than one hundred eggs that were hidden. Other than a few scratches, the only real casualty was when Otis and Jean Farmer’s four-year-old grandson got stung by a hornet, and the only disturbance, when crazy old Clem Woolley climbed up on a bench to bellow, “Make way for Jesus!” A few took it as a tribute to the season, but most knew he meant it literally: Jesus was as real to Clem as was Reverend Grigsby, who gently escorted him over to the refreshment table, where the portly pastor treated him to two slices of Elsie Burnett’s apple-plum tart—one for Clem and one for his invisible companion. (It was an underreported fact, Clem would tell anyone who’d listen, that Jesus had a sweet tooth.)

Andie and Finch, with some help from Simon—mostly occupied with keeping track of his brothers and baby sister—passed out pamphlets at the Lost Paws booth manned by Laura, though the caged pets were the real draw. By day’s end, nearly four hundred dollars had been raised and they had tentative placements, contingent on home inspections, for Bitsy, a four-year-old Maltese, and a big black tomcat named Cole. The mother of a little girl who’d thrown a tantrum when Laura gently explained that the animals couldn’t be let out to play was discouraged from adopting, Laura saying the woman clearly had enough on her hands.

It had been Mavis’s idea for Claire to advertise the grand opening of her tearoom, just a week away, with several carefully chosen desserts for the bake sale. After much discussion they’d decided to stick with classics—a triple-layer coconut cake with lemon filling, brownies, and thumbprint cookies made with homemade strawberry jam—Mavis arguing that down-home desserts a cut above the rest would make more of an impression than any fancy creations. Claire had nonetheless watched with bated breath as David Ryback from the Tree House brought a forkful of cake to his mouth. David would be a tough critic; his cafe was famous for its desserts.

After a tense moment, he rolled his eyes in ecstasy. “I have only one question. Do you deliver?”

Word spread and people began lining up. In less than an hour every last cookie, brownie, and slice of cake was sold. The only one who was less than pleased by Claire’s success was Candace Milestrup, whose chocolate chip pound cake had been the hands-down favorite in past years.

As the big day drew near, Claire was thrown into a frenzy of activity. All the main stuff had been seen to—dishes and cutlery uncrated and put away, bulk supplies in cardboard barrels lined up neatly in the garage, the deep freeze filled with enough frozen pie shells and cookie dough for an army. But there were still a million and one details, which seemed to multiply like the brooms in
Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
The curtain rods were crooked and needed to be rehung, the dairy she’d been using had shut down due to a bovine disease, and mice had the run of the pantry.

And those were just the last-minute headaches. On her to-do list were menus (which Justin had sweetly offered to do on his computer), and ads to be placed in the
Clarion
and
Pennywise Press
for hired help. None of the candidates she’d seen so far, ranging from the sweet but slightly addled Vina Haskins to superefficient, and more than a little bossy Gert Springer, had seemed the right fit. For the time being Mavis would fill in, with Andie and Justin helping out after school.

Kitty, delayed by a flood in her basement, would be arriving any day. Kitty, whose relaxed approach and expert touch, would make it all seem easy. It would be good, too, to have someone to talk to about Matt.

Claire hadn’t seen him since the evening of the party, but the other day the building inspector had pointed out an oversight—it seemed she’d neglected to put in a wheelchair ramp. With no time to waste, she’d phoned Matt in a panic. He was on another job, but had promised to take care of it after hours. It wasn’t until she’d hung up that she realized what a mistake it could turn out to be. The last thing she needed right now was to see him angry or, worse, miserable. She’d end up feeling twice as guilty and torn.

But when Matt ambled in late the following day, just after Mavis had left, he was his usual laid-back self and seemed none the worse for wear. If anything, he looked better than ever: deeply tanned, just this side of sunburned, wearing a T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms.

“Thanks for making the time,” she told him. “I know how busy you are.” She hung back in the doorway, folding her arms over her chest. Her feet were bare and she was suddenly aware of the floor, cool and satiny against her soles. “Would you like some lemonade? You look as if you could use a cold drink.”

“Sure, if it’s no trouble.” He sounded as relaxed as he had over the phone.

“No trouble at all.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where lemons from the trees at Isla Verde were heaped in a basket on the counter. She chose three and cut them into wedges, tossing them into the blender, rinds and all, along with a cup each of sugar and water. She dumped the puree into a bowl lined with cheesecloth and squeezed out the liquid, which she poured into a pitcher. She added several more cups of water and a handful of ice.

Matt watched the process with interest. “If I’d known you were making it from scratch. I wouldn’t have put you to all the trouble.”