The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (98 page)

Shortly before eleven, people began to trickle in. Rose and Olive Miller in flowered dresses and hats, accompanied by Rose’s flaxen-haired granddaughters. They presented Claire with a vintage relic from when the Blue Moon Cafe had been their father’s: a tabletop jukebox. Coming in on their heels were Reverend Grigsby and his petite wife, Edie, followed by Carrie Bramley, First Presbyterian’s pretty new organist.

Head librarian Vivienne Hicks arrived arm in arm with Tom Kemp. Gerry was pleasantly surprised; she hadn’t known Tom and Vivienne were dating. She saw now that they were a perfect match: both angular and bookish, with a tendency to redden easily—as they were doing now. When Sam drifted over to greet them as if Tom were no more than an old family friend, Vivienne looked relieved.

Tom peered at the baby nestled in Wes’s arms. “Will you look at all that hair!”

The downy fluff Jack had sported at birth had grown into a Kewpie-doll swirl. Wes looked as proud as if he’d been personally responsible. “He’s a Carpenter, all right.”

“I think I may have had something to do with it,” Sam said mildly.

“Congratulations, Sam. He’s beautiful.” Vivienne seemed to take a special interest, and Gerry was reminded of how she’d stood up for Sam last year when Marguerite Moore tried to have her ousted. Who knew? Maybe this time next year they’d be congratulating Vivienne.

Myrna McBride, from The Last Word, showed up with a cookbook for Claire. “From the looks of it, you won’t be needing this,” she said, surveying the display case with delight.

Claire thanked her anyway.

Myrna’s ex-husband arrived a few minutes later. Perry McBride, a slope-shouldered, slope-chinned man who brought to mind Ichabod Crane, had clearly been thinking along the same lines: He presented Claire with a handsomely photographed book on collectible teapots. Gerry saw him cast a smug look at Myrna as he handed over what he clearly thought the more fitting gift.

Lupe and Guillermo walked in next, hand in hand like teenagers—never mind they’d been married fifty years—accompanied by crusty veterinarian Doc Henry and portly, white-bearded Avery Lewellyn, who, even without his red suit, was a dead ringer for Santa Claus.

More than half the tables were filled by the time Fran O’Brien blew in the door with her strapping teenaged sons. Though dwarfed by them, the feisty redhead nevertheless wore the air of a lion tamer with the upper hand. Gerry recalled that it was Fran who’d first told her this place was for sale.

“Checking out the competition?” she teased as she escorted them to a table.

“I can already see I’m in trouble.” Fran, her frizzy red hair sprouting from her topknot like sparks from a Roman candle, glanced about at the trays sailing by.

David Ryback arrived solo, explaining that his wife was home taking care of their son. Gerry thought there was more to it than that: Rumor had it their marriage was on the rocks. Melodie Wycoff claimed he spent after hours with Delilah Sims, with whom he shared a passion for literature … and maybe something more.

But it was Monica Vincent who stole the show when she was wheeled in, swathed in layers of diaphanous red silk. It was a moment before Gerry recognized that what she had on was a sari. Since when had Monica gone native? In comparison, her sister Anna looked even dowdier than usual.

Matt ambled over to greet them. “Anna … Monica. Any trouble getting up that ramp?”

“Did you build it?” Anna was really quite pretty when she smiled.

“With my own two hands.” He held them up as if to remind Monica of the work for which she still owed him.

But if Monica remembered, she gave no sign of it. “I could use a pair of those around my house.” She hesitated just long enough for the double meaning to sink in.

Ignoring her, Matt turned to Anna, asking, “How’s that pipe holding up?”

“Fine … thanks.” She blushed, explaining to Monica, “The one under the kitchen sink was leaking. Matt was nice enough to fix it.” Anna was obviously referring to the house she shared with their mother.

“How sweet,” Monica said insincerely.

Gerry showed them to a table by the window, where Monica would be in the harshest light. Anna, beside her, unexpectedly glowed in comparison, her creamy complexion taking on a rosy hue.

When she finally got around to checking her watch, Gerry was surprised to see that it was almost noon. What was keeping Aubrey? Had something come up? It was a good thing Justin, ferrying plates back and forth, was too busy to notice. The last thing her son needed was another disappointment in his life. She, on the other hand, would be grateful if Aubrey didn’t show. Wouldn’t it solve everything if he were to jump on a plane, saving her from having to decide what to do?

The thought brought no comfort.

Moments later she forgot about Aubrey when Kevin and Darryl breezed in through the door. Gerry darted over and flung her arms around her brother. “Kevin! I was beginning to think you two weren’t going to make it.”

“Car trouble. Never trust a fairy with tune-ups.” Darryl winked, and she remembered that he and Kevin had decided to make a minivacation out of it by driving down the coast.

Kevin stepped back to give her the once-over. “You look good, Ger. New man in your life?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

“He still playing hard to get … or is it the other way around?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me,” she said with a laugh. “What have we got here?” She peered into the shopping bag Kevin was holding.

“Spices from the Orient.” In his Armani sport coat, her brother stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of denim. He glanced about the crowded room. “Where’s Claire?”

“In the kitchen. Where else?”

“I’ll see if she needs any help.” Kevin was already taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “Darryl can entertain the ladies while I’m gone.” It was a private joke that his boyfriend, a young Al Pacino look-alike, hooked them every time—even the ones who knew he was gay.

Gerry was showing one of the new moms from Sam’s Lamaze class to a table when Father Reardon appeared. He gave Emma Pettigrew a hand with her two younger boys while she freed the baby from its carrier. Emma thanked him profusely, taking the opportunity to ask if she could stop by the rectory later on to discuss baptism dates.

Gerry took him aside. “I’m glad you could make it.” She felt honored, knowing he’d left today’s noon mass to his friend Father Hurley, visiting from Seattle.

“You know my weakness.” He glanced longingly at the display case.

“I saved you a piece of whiskey cake,” she confided in a low voice.

“As long as it’s our little secret.” With a twinkle in his eye, he glanced over at Althea Wormley, president of the Altar Guild, tucking into a strawberry tart lathered in whipped cream. “If Althea gets wind of it, she’ll have me following in Father Kinney’s footsteps.” He was referring to his predecessor, who’d gone into rehab.

“I’ll bring it in a brown paper bag,” she joked, though her heart was heavy. Where the hell was Aubrey?

She’d just about given up hope when as suddenly as the skies had cleared, he strolled in through the door. Heads turned, and people looked up. Aubrey might have been conjured from the steam rising genielike from the teapots. It wasn’t just that he was famous: The party didn’t start until he arrived.

“You’re out of luck,” she told him, her heart beating much too fast all of a sudden. “I just gave away the last table.”

She looked about in amazement: The opening was a success. Every muffin was gone from the case, and only a few tarts remained. When Kitty sailed in with a tray of apple turnovers fresh from the oven, they were snatched up at once. Gerry wondered if Claire, who popped in from the kitchen every now and then wearing a harried look, had had a chance to let it sink in. Probably not. Later, when the dishes were washed and stacked, she would savor it.

“I don’t mind sitting on the porch,” he said. “Will you join me?”

She hesitated, not wanting to abandon her post. It wasn’t until Sam, seated nearby with the baby on her lap, caught her eye and gave a nearly imperceptible jerk of her head that Gerry reluctantly gave in. “All right,” she said. “But only for a few minutes.”

On the porch, the wicker chairs creaked as they settled into them. The hubbub inside was a pleasant hum. Gerry saw that the morning glories planted only weeks before were already climbing up the railing. In no time at all they’d need to be cut back.

“I’m delighted for Claire,” he said. “It looks as if it’s all working out as she’d hoped.”

“It wasn’t just luck.”

“Of course not. You had a hand in it as well.”

Gerry turned to him in surprise. “What did I do?”

“If you hadn’t gone with her to see her mother, this might have had a very different outcome.”

“I didn’t think it through at the time,” she said with a shrug. “I just did what seemed right.”

“Spoken like a mother.” He smiled, and reached to take her hand.

“They sent balloons,” she said. “Do you believe it? With a card that said ‘Best of luck, from Mom and Dad.’ Claire tried not to show it, but I know she was hurt. And you know something? I wish they
had
come. It just seems so … unfinished.”

“Speaking of unfinished.” Aubrey’s fingers tightened. “There’s something you should know.”

Gerry felt her heart constrict. That night at the hospital had been nothing more than chivalry, and now he was growing restless. She could see it in his eyes: the need to move on. And though it was what she wanted—or so she’d been telling herself—it felt like a door about to slam shut in her face.

“I’m all ears.” She tried to sound lighthearted, but it came out like a dropped rock instead.

Aubrey hesitated, a silence filled by the roaring of blood in her ears. Then he said in a soft voice, “I know we promised each other in the beginning that we wouldn’t let it get out of hand. Fuck buddies, I think that was your term for it.” He smiled. “But I meant what I said the other night—I think it’s time we took another look.”

She couldn’t keep from blurting, “What about Isabelle?”

His gaze was clear as he answered, “I won’t make any promises I can’t keep—I couldn’t forget her if I tried—but there’s a difference between cherishing someone’s memory and, as you so quaintly put it, throwing yourself on the pyre.” He paused, his eyes searching her face. “What about you, my dear? Will you stay for the second act?”

Gerry could feel the tight ball that had been her heart unfolding like petals. “I always felt there was something noble in not needing a man. Like I deserved some sort of medal.” Her mouth curved in a rueful smile.

“Would you settle for a ring instead?” Aubrey fished something from his pocket: a small velvet box.

Gerry stared at it, a rash of goose bumps spreading up her arms and neck.

“It’s the reason I was late,” he went on. “I had it sent over by courier from London.” He opened the box, and a perfect emerald-cut diamond caught the light in a dazzling burst that made her gasp. “It was my mother’s. She’d have wanted you to have it.”

“But … shouldn’t it have been Isabelle’s?” Gerry immediately wanted to bite her tongue. What a way to spoil the moment.

But Aubrey’s face was relaxed and his gaze steady. “The truth is, my mother didn’t much like her,” he said with a shrug. “I never quite knew why—maybe they were too much alike—but you, on the other hand, she’d have liked you.” He regarded her tenderly. “Mother had absolutely no sense of humor, but she appreciated it in others.”

“I can’t think of a single clever thing to say right now.” Gerry began to tremble.

“In that case, don’t say anything at all.” Aubrey slipped the ring onto her finger. Not surprisingly, it was a perfect fit.

Gerry held out her hand, turning it this way and that. The ring flashed as if signaling in Morse code. What would its message be? She eyed it for a long moment before giving up and listening to her heart instead. The words came then, spilling from her effortlessly.

“I hate big weddings,” she said.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“There’s always Vegas.”

“Your family would never forgive us.” Family. Oh, God. Did Aubrey have any idea what he was taking on? Her fears vanished at once when he added, “I know a certain young man who’d be delighted to walk you down the aisle.”

“With Andie and Claire as bridesmaids.”

“And Sam as matron of honor.”

“Holding a baby instead of a bouquet.” She laughed.

There, that wasn’t so hard,
she thought. Just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Before you knew it you were there. She squeezed Aubrey’s hand, a sense of peace stealing over her. It wasn’t about a knight riding up on his white charger. She’d rescued herself … and salvaged something important along the way: the courage to love again.

She smiled at Aubrey through her tears. “We should go back in. They’ll wonder what’s keeping us.”

“In a little while,” he said.

For once, she didn’t argue.

In lieu of the usual acknowledgments—those of you deserving thanks, you know who you are—I would like to take this opportunity to make mention of the fact that something extraordinary occurred during the writing of this book: September 11th. I was heading upstairs to my office when the news came. Along with millions of others across the land, I watched in horror as the twin towers collapsed. Living in New York City made it especially poignant. In the days that followed I couldn’t walk out my door without seeing the photos of all those missing loved ones, and weeping at the almost certain knowledge that they would not be found alive.

I was luckier than most. I could retreat daily to the safety of my fictional town, Carson Springs, where the destinies of my characters weren’t controlled by terrorists, or even acts of God. It was me moving the chess pieces about the board, a sense of empowerment that seized hold in my everyday life as well, saving me from the worst of the anxieties that plagued us as a nation. A reminder that we are all, ultimately, captains of our souls, if not of our fates.

I would like to pay tribute to all who were lost on that terrible day. They are the true heroes and heroines. Mine exist only on paper, while the memories of those slain live on in the minds and hearts of their families and friends.