The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (96 page)

“We do all right.” Laura, modest to a fault, brushed a wisp of flyaway hair from her forehead. She was dressed in dark brown slacks and a yellow silk blouse that suited her olive complexion. “To be honest, we make more money off our Web site.”

“She’d do even better in a big city,” Byron muttered to Claire as they were leaving.

Claire was taken aback. Didn’t he get it? Delarosa’s had been in the family for generations, since the days of the Gold Rush. Besides, Laura
liked
it here. At the same time, she wondered if she wasn’t being disingenuous herself, her guided tour little more than a glorified sales pitch.

They wandered through Muir Park, stopping to admire the bandstand where concerts were held in summer. Clem Woolley was in his usual place by the gazebo, a tattered bundle of his self-published tome in hand. Standing nearby was burly Nate Comstock, who’d done some electrical work at her house; he was peering through binoculars at the trees overhead,
The Sibley Guide to Birds
clamped under one tattooed arm. Olive and Rose Miller, dressed in identical seersucker shirtwaists, paused to say hello before continuing arm in arm down the path.

Having skipped lunch, she was starving by the time they reached the Tree House. David Ryback, at his usual station by the door, greeted them as they pushed their way inside. “Don’t tell me you’re reconsidering my offer,” he teased, reminding her of the job as pastry chef he’d said was hers anytime she wanted it.

“Only if it means the recipe for your ollalieberry pie,” she joked in return.

“Nothing doing. I’d be out of business in a week.”

When they were seated, she chatted briefly with Melodie Wycoff, who took their orders, and waved hello to one of the regulars, raven-haired Delilah Sims, rumored to be in love with David. They were tucking into their sandwiches when Byron observed casually, “You certainly know a lot of people.”

“I guess so. I hadn’t really thought about it.” She glanced up at a little boy and girl scampering about like a pair of monkeys in the tree house overhead—they might have been her and Byron at that age—and smiled. “It’s funny,” she said, “but in some ways it feels as if I’ve lived here all my life.”

He was quick to change the subject. “How’s your mom these days?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Are they coming to the opening?”

“They haven’t said one way or the other.” She felt a pang, but found that it didn’t upset her as much as it once had. It wasn’t that she loved them any less, just that she didn’t expect so much. “What about yours? I sent them an invitation.”

“Yeah, I know. They told me to tell you they can’t make it. Mom’s speaking at some conference. Which reminds me …” He dug into his jacket pocket and produced a slim paperback volume. “She wanted you to have this. It’s a book of her poetry.”

Claire was surprised. She hadn’t known Byron’s mother was a poet. “Is it any good?” she asked, leafing through it.

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “It’s just the university press. I think they published it to humor her.”

The old Byron wouldn’t have been so dismissive, she thought. Had he changed that much? “Well, it was thoughtful of her,” she said.

“She gave one to your parents, too—as a sort of peace offering.” He shook his head in wonderment. “I don’t know if it worked, but at least they’re on speaking terms.”

“There’s hope for them yet.” She smiled at the irony of it: Byron’s parents making peace with Lou and Millie while she’d been left out in the cold. “It’s funny. I used to think they needed me. But I think all I did was keep them from seeing how lonely they were.”

Byron reached across the table to take her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. “The only thing that counts is if
you’re
happy.”

She hadn’t once heard the word
we
since he’d arrived.

“I am,” she said. “But it’s not the same without you here.”

“It won’t be forever. Just a couple more years.”

“I should be in the black by then.” She held his gaze, adding, “And once the garage is converted …”

He abruptly let go of her hand. “You know how I feel about that.”

“I was hoping you’d changed your mind.”

He pushed his plate aside. He was smiling at least, and she took heart from that. “Okay, I’ll admit I wasn’t sure at first, but judging from what I’ve seen …” He spread his hands, a look of eagerness lighting his thin, intense face. “Once this takes off, you could open branches in other places.”

“It would sort of defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it?”

If he’d caught the sarcasm in her voice, he showed no sign of it. “What would be wrong with opening a Tea and Sympathy in, say, Hillsborough?”

“The land of carpooling and soccer moms?”

His face fell. “You could at least consider it.”

“On the other hand, you could move here.”

“Come on, Claire. Be serious.”

“I
am
serious.”

Byron shook his head. “Look,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ve spent the past eight years trying to make something of myself. I’m not about to trade one backwater for another.”

She felt her heart sink. There’d been a time when, like Byron, all she’d thought of was getting ahead. But she hadn’t given up law to make more money elsewhere. Whether or not Tea & Sympathy was a huge success was beside the point. She was doing what she wanted, surrounded by people she liked. As long as she could make ends meet, what else mattered?

“I don’t have to tell you what it was like for me growing up,” he went on, reminding her that both his parents’ salaries combined had barely been enough to make ends meet. “If it hadn’t been for my uncle’s help, I couldn’t have afforded medical school. You know how I feel about my parents, but all I ever wanted was
not
to be like them.”

“So you’d rather be like your uncle instead?” She was surprised by how calm she sounded. “A fancy house in Hillsborough and a Mercedes in the garage?”

“Would that be so terrible?” His face, dappled in shadow from the leaves overhead, seemed to shift with the breeze.

“I can remember when you cared more about other things.”

“I still care. I just don’t see why I have to starve to make the world a better place.”

“You could make a nice living
here.
”

But he went on shaking his head. “It wouldn’t work, Claire.”

Still, she persisted. “They’re building a new clinic. They’ll need doctors. As for volunteering, the migrant camps are full of illegal aliens who’d sooner die than go to a hospital. You could do some real good.”

“Sounds as if you have it all figured out.”

“All I’m asking is that you consider it.”

“Will you think about what
I’m
suggesting?”

The hopelessness of it swept over her, and she shook her head. “I … can’t.”

This wasn’t about Matt, she realized. Or even her moving here. It was about the hairline cracks that had been widening into a rift, so quietly and gradually neither of them had noticed. Or maybe they’d merely chosen to turn a blind eye. Hadn’t she felt it that night Matt had taken her to see his boat? Seeing the love that had gone into it, she’d known it couldn’t have been easy for him to turn his back on his dream. Yet he had, for his children’s sake. Would Byron have done the same? Once upon a time she would have thought so, but now she wasn’t so sure.

“You might feel differently in a year or two,” he said, but she could see in his face that he knew she wouldn’t.

Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s not going to work, is it?”

It was as if a key had turned in a lock. His face flooded with anguish, his dear face that she’d known and loved since childhood. “Maybe we just need some time apart,” he said in a strange, choked voice.

Claire was dimly aware of Melodie yammering on and on to someone at the next table about a remedy for hair loss that she’d read about in the
Enquirer.
And David Ryback at the other end of the patio in intense conversation with his tired-looking blond wife. No one was looking at her and Byron; no one seemed the least bit aware of the seismic rupture taking place.

“Maybe so,” she said.

The look in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. “When I talked you into coming here that first time, I never imagined it would turn out this way.” A corner of his mouth hooked up in an ironic smile.

“Me neither.”

“I don’t think I should stay. It would only make it worse.” Byron was suddenly having trouble meeting her gaze.

She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “You’ll stay in touch?”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked.

She knew it could be months, maybe years, before they’d be ready to see each other in person. She was just as certain they’d never be entirely out of touch.

When Melodie brought the check, he tossed some bills down on the table. They rose in unison, chairs scraping over the patio’s worn bricks. Several people turned to glance at them but, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, went back to what they were doing. It seemed only natural, as Claire and Byron made their way toward the exit, to join hands: not as lovers, but as old friends consoling each other in a time of need.

David wore a knowing expression as he saw them out the door. He’d clearly had his share of experience in such matters.

They walked home in silence. When at last her house came into view, complete with Matt’s truck in the driveway, it seemed the perfect coda to a perfectly awful day.

Matt rose to the fore with a firm handshake and friendly smile. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Claire’s told me a lot about you.”

“Likewise.” Byron forced a smile, glancing impatiently toward the house. She could almost hear him thinking:
How quickly can I grab my things and get out of here?

“You down for the weekend?” Matt’s gaze was clear and untroubled, giving no indication that it meant anything to him one way or the other. Claire felt a burst of gratitude.

“Actually, I was just leaving,” Byron told him.

Matt’s face registered surprise. “Didn’t you just get here?”

Claire sensed him wanting to dig deeper. “Something came up,” she quickly put in.

Byron went along with it. “The guy who was supposed to cover for me got sick.”

“Tough break,” Matt said.

“Well … nice meeting you.” Byron was halfway up the porch steps, shoulders slumped as if with the weight of the suitcase he hadn’t yet retrieved, when he turned and said, “By the way, I like what you’ve done with this place.”

If he had the slightest inkling that much of it had been a labor of love, it didn’t show. Byron couldn’t know that, in some ways, she considered this house to be as much Matt’s as hers.

She watched Matt amble over to his truck and begin unloading his tools. It was all she could do not to run to him, beg him to understand. But she remained where she was, gazing about at the mock cherry tree in bloom and the honeysuckle creeping up over the hedge. The old shade trees that lined the drive cast lacy patterns over the grass, and, spotting a gopher hole, she wondered about getting a cat.

Why does everything have to be so hard?
she thought.

Minutes later Byron reappeared, suitcase in hand. He looked diminished somehow as he trudged down the steps, and her heart went out to him. She wasn’t good with good-byes—part of the reason she’d stayed in Miramonte for so long—and for a fleeting instant she found herself wanting to run as fast and as far as she could. Anything to keep from having to say those dreaded words.

She walked him to his car, where she hugged him self-consciously, mindful of Matt. “Drive carefully.”

“Yes, Mom.” For years he’d teased her about being like Millie, though this time the words had a hollow ring.

“I’ll miss you.”

“Me, too.” He dropped his gaze, but not before she saw the tears in his eyes. “I’m not going to wish you luck with the opening. I’m sure it’ll be a big success.”

“From your lips to God’s ear.”

He kissed her lightly on the mouth, and ducked into his car. Moments later he was disappearing around the corner. She watched him go with an ache in her throat, the light all around her suddenly too bright. She wasn’t aware of Matt coming up alongside her.

“I could come back another time if you like.”

She turned slowly to face him. She knew what he was asking: Was he part of this, or a mere bystander? She didn’t know what to tell him. The only thing she was certain of right now was that if she tried to speak, she’d come unglued.

“I’d like it if you stayed,” she said at last in a remarkably calm voice.

She saw a light go on in Matt’s eyes, but it was obvious he didn’t want to get his hopes up. He shrugged. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Give me another hour or so.”

“Are you in a hurry?”

He hoisted his power saw from the bed of his truck and set it down on the grass. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“If there’s anything else that needs doing.” He squinted up at the roof.

“I was hoping you’d stay for supper,” she found herself saying. “The last time I asked, you said you’d take a rain check.”

He brought his gaze back to her, his tea-brown eyes soft and considering. “I don’t believe those were my exact words.”

“Byron didn’t leave because he had to,” she said. “We decided it would be for the best.”

“I figured as much.”

“It’s over, Matt. It has been for a while, I just didn’t know it.”

“I guessed that, too.”

“You did?”

“If you’d really loved him, you wouldn’t have been with me.”

It was as if a fog had lifted. Was it too late? Had she blown it? Calmly, she asked, “So why did you ask me to choose?”

“I wanted you to know what kind of man you’d be choosing.”

She looked at him long and hard. It all made perfect sense now.

There was no fanfare when he slipped an arm about her shoulders. Just the chittering of the starlings in the branches overhead and chugging of a sprinkler next door. A quiet sense of wonder filled her, the kind of acute, trembling awareness that only comes in the wake of great happiness or sorrow. She thought of the fruit trees she was going to plant—dwarf peach, plum, and nectarine—and how each spring she would look forward to seeing them blossom. Whatever happened, she would always have that: a place to hang a bird feeder, and enough fruit to fill her pantry.