Taste of Honey (16 page)

“Claire?” Gerry took Claire’s hand in both of hers. Claire could feel her trembling, those startling green eyes searching hers with an intensity—a hunger almost— that made her want to pull back. “You’re so pretty. I had no idea you’d be so pretty.” Her voice was low and strangely lulling.

“It’s … nice to finally meet you,” Claire managed to croak.

“I hope my directions were okay.”

“Fine. I left plenty of time just in case.”

Gerry flashed her a small, rueful smile. “Sorry about that little incident just now, but I’m afraid Dean had it coming.”

“What did he do?”

She glanced at the blond waitress, now deep in conversation with the owner. “Let’s just say he wanted more than sugar in his coffee.”

“Oh.” Claire offered her a feeble smile. How did she know Gerry wasn’t some nutcase?

At the table she sank down in the chair opposite Gerry’s. The waitress broke away from the owner and hurried over.

“Anything you want, it’s on the house,” she said, looking down at Gerry with something close to worship. A hank of platinum hair showing more than an inch of dark root had slipped free of the bobby pins holding it loosely anchored atop her head. She tucked it behind her ear. “Hell, if it weren’t for you, I’d be keeping Jimmy company down at the station.”

“I’ll take another iced tea.” Gerry smiled up at her. “And if being locked up by that handsome husband of yours is any kind of punishment, believe me, I didn’t do you any favors.” She turned to Claire. “What would you like to drink?”

“Same for me,” she said.

Gerry waited until the waitress was out of earshot, then leaned forward. “Would you rather we went somewhere more private?”

Claire shook her head. “This is fine.”

“The food is good at least. And you can’t beat the setting.”

Food was the last thing on Claire’s mind. The shape her stomach was in right now, she’d be lucky to keep down a crouton. “It’s lovely. The whole valley—it’s as beautiful as you said.”

Gerry sat back, her brow smoothing. “I thought I’d show you around after lunch.”

Claire hesitated, then said, “Sure. I mean … yes, I’d like that. I’ll have to check in at the motel first.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Horse Creek Inn.”

“Good. We can stop on the way.”

On the way to what? Claire wondered, once more getting the feeling that she’d bitten off more than she could chew. Gerry didn’t look the type to take no for an answer.

But she must have sensed Claire’s hesitation, for she was quick to say, “On the other hand, you must be tired. Maybe you’d like to rest.”

“As a matter of fact—”

“I mean, there’s no rush, is there? You’re here until Sunday.”

“Right.” Claire felt drained all of a sudden, but managed to say with the proper amount of enthusiasm, “I’m looking forward to meeting your kids.”

Their iced tea came, and she sipped hers gratefully.

“They’re more than a little curious about you, too.”

Gerry took her time removing the wrapper from her straw.

“I guess it’s not every day they meet a sister they didn’t know they had.” Claire had meant it to break the ice, but it came out sounding sarcastic instead. She blushed.

Gerry’s expression clouded over briefly. “Speaking of which, you didn’t mention any brothers or sisters when we spoke on the phone.”

“I’m an only child.”

“It must have been lonely growing up.”

“My parents made up for it,” Claire said stiffly.

“I didn’t mean—” Gerry’s face crumpled. “Oh, God. I was afraid of this—putting my foot in my mouth. I have a bad habit of it, you see.”

Claire softened. “I think we’re both a little nervous.”

Gerry reached up as if to touch her cheek, her outstretched hand hovering in midair before falling to her side. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined this. The two of us …” A tear spilled down her cheek, and she brushed it away with a self-conscious little laugh. “Oh, God. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this—embarrass you with a lot of waterworks. It’s just”—her voice cracked—“it’s been so long.”

Claire felt her own eyes fill. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“You must have a thousand questions.”

Claire felt the air around her grow thick. She took a deep breath that filled her lungs like water. “Just one, really
—why?”

Gerry searched her daughter’s face. Claire wore an expression of mild reproach, coupled with something deeper and more forlorn. She felt a surge of panic, and thought:
I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.

Somehow she had to get back on track.

“I was young,” she began haltingly, looking down at the table where her straw wrapper lay pleated in a neat square. “Oh, I knew what I was getting into when I … that there might be consequences. I just never thought I’d wind up pregnant.”

She glanced up at Claire, who sat silent and watchful, a doe amid the dappled shade. She looked familiar, and at the same time so different from what Gerry had expected, it brought a little jolt each time their eyes met. She’d imagined Claire to be pretty, but not this pretty. She was long and lean like Jim with his mouth and porcelain skin, lightly dusted with freckles. Only her eyes were Gerry’s.

“Were you in love with him?” she asked.

Gerry smiled. “It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a normal courtship. I was a nun, you see.”

Claire looked stunned.

Gerry smiled. “Yes, I know. It’s hard to believe looking at me now.”

“I had no idea.”

“How could you?”

“What happened when you found out you were pregnant?”

“I left the convent and moved back in with my mother. It was tough on both of us. My father had passed away some years before, and she was just making ends meet. As for me, I couldn’t find a job to save my life. Who was going to hire a former nun?”

“So you never considered keeping the—me?” Claire’s expression was flat.

Gerry choked back an ironic laugh. “I thought of nothing else. In the end, though, I did what I thought was right. For you. For both of us.” She paused. “I didn’t know I’d spend the rest of my life regretting it.”

Something dark flitted across Claire’s face. But when she spoke, her tone was light, even upbeat. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I couldn’t have asked for better parents.”

Gerry forced a smile that felt glued on. “Tell me about them.”

Claire’s expression softened. “My father’s retired. He used to manage a supermarket. My mom worked in the accounting department upstairs—for twenty years—but she quit her job to stay home and take care of me.”

“They sound like nice people.”

“They are.”

“I’d like to meet them sometime.”

Claire tensed. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

Gerry felt stung. What did they have against her? If anything, they ought to be grateful. “It was just a thought.” she said with a shrug.

“What sort of work do you do?” Claire seemed eager to change the subject.

“I guess you could say I’ve come full circle. I’m lay manager of the convent’s beekeeping operation.” Gerry gestured toward the register up front, where along with a variety of jams and preserves the shelves behind the counter displayed several dozen jars of Blessed Bee honey. “The only difference is I no longer wear a veil.”

“It sounds interesting.”

“It is, most days.” Gerry’s gaze dropped to Claire’s hand, on which a small sapphire sparkled. “You didn’t tell me you were engaged.”

“I’m not, well, not exactly—more like engaged to be engaged.” Claire gave a little self-conscious laugh, lowering her hand to her lap. “Byron’s in his second year of residency at Stanford.”

“Have you two known each other long?”

“You could say that—we practically grew up together. His parents live next door to mine.” She blushed a little, and Gerry got the feeling there was more to it than that. “What about you? You mentioned that you were divorced.”

“Almost two years.”

“He’s not—”

“No.” Gerry drew in a breath. “That was a long time before I met Mike. Your father was—
is
—a priest.”

There was a moment of silence; then Claire broke into a smile. “It’s not what I was expecting.”

“What
were
you expecting?”

“I don’t know—James Dean in
Rebel Without a Cause.
” She shook her head, still smiling. A ray of sunlight found its way through the branches just then, setting her hair ablaze, hair that was a dozen shades of brown ranging from dark honey to ginger. “Does he live around here?”

Gerry shook her head. “He’s with the archdiocese in San Francisco.”

“Does he want to meet me?”

“You’d have to ask
him.
But my guess is no.”

“What makes you think that?”

“First, he’d have to admit you existed.”

Claire looked at her in confusion. “Doesn’t he know?”

“Oh, he knows all right. But knowing and accepting are often two very different things.”

“Maybe if I went to see him …”

“You could.” Gerry chose her words carefully. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Claire fell silent, staring thoughtfully into the distance. At last Gerry said, “You must be hungry. Why don’t we order?”

Claire’s gaze returned to her. “Actually, I don’t seem to have much of an appetite.” She looked faintly abashed, as if fearful of seeming rude.

Gerry’s appetite seemed to have vanished as well. “I have an even better idea—let’s skip lunch. We’ll make up for it with a big dinner. Do you like Chinese?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you a home-cooked meal. I’m not exactly Martha Stewart.” A corner of Claire’s mouth hooked up, prompting Gerry to ask, “What? Did I say something funny?”

Claire shook her head, holding her lips together to keep from smiling. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking that you and my mom have something in common after all.”

“We’re both lousy cooks?” It was something, at least.

“Let’s just say I did most of the cooking in our house.”

“A talent you obviously didn’t inherit from me.” Gerry laughed. “Wait until you meet your—my mother. She makes the best corned beef this side of the Atlantic, and her soda bread is out of this world. You two can talk recipes until the cows come home.”

She signaled to Melodie, who appeared to have forgotten the incident with Dean and was busy flirting up a storm with Bobby Treadwell. Melodie came hurrying over. Gerry noticed that her cheeks were more flushed than usual and the top two buttons of her blouse undone.

“We changed our minds about lunch,” Gerry told her.

“Is there a problem?” Melodie looked anxious.

“Not at all.”

For an instant Gerry almost believed it. They’d made it over the hump, hadn’t they? Surely the worst was behind them.

They were outside strolling along the sidewalk when the absurdity of that notion was brought home. Claire turned to her and asked, “Just how old
were
you?”

“I was twenty,” Gerry told her.

Claire’s face fell. “I thought …”

She didn’t have to say it: she’d have found it easier to forgive the actions of a teenager. But twenty—well, that was different. Gerry had been a fully grown adult.

She opened her mouth to explain, but something in Claire’s expression made her think better of it. “Right now I feel old as the hills,” she said with forced cheer. “In fact, I could do with a little rest myself.”

Aubrey gazed out the window at the woman making her way up the front walk. Tall, with a purposeful long-legged stride, her sweater hugging her generous curves. The sunlight was on her face, and even from his study on the second floor he could see that it was mature … yet lovelier than that of any of the younger women constantly slipping him their cards. He was glad she hadn’t made the mistake of so many closing in on fifty, that she hadn’t had a face-lift or even colored her hair.

Isabelle would have approved.

The thought, as always, brought a familiar tug—an undertow that could snatch him out to sea if he didn’t navigate very, very carefully. His wife would have been forty-six this year. Isabelle, whose hair had been the color of the sunlight on the hills he looked out on every day, and whose eyes and mouth had been etched with feathery lines. Isabelle, who could make a violin sing with joy or weep with despair.

He pushed the thought from his mind. There’d been a time he’d hovered on the brink of madness, and that particular darkness was out there still—crouched like a tiger waiting to pounce. Sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller. But always there. Dr. Drier had said it would get easier with time, but Aubrey had found that, if so, it wasn’t a gradual, linear process, like treads wearing down, but a strange and circuitous route that at times seemed to go nowhere. That was the part the good doctor had failed to communicate.

What business are you in, Aubrey?

I’m a conductor; you know that.

I wasn’t referring to what you do for a living.

I see where this is leading.

Where is it leading?

Some moronic pap about the business of living, I suppose.

Why do you refer to it as pap?

Because all that crap about life going on is just that
—
crap. Life isn’t just about living … it’s about dying, too. People you love dying. People who had no business taking the car out at night in the pouring rain.

You sound angry.

I AM angry, goddammit! She didn’t
think,
she didn’t stop for one minute to think what could happen … what it would do to us if-
—

What? Say it, Aubrey.

But he hadn’t been able to. Because then he’d have had to let go and she’d have been gone—really and truly gone. He closed his eyes, and saw her casket covered in flowers. Red and blue and purple cascading to the floor. Isabelle had loved bright colors—their rooms on the rue des Saints-Pères had been all bold stripes and floral prints. The small white casket alongside hers had seemed antithetical almost, a slap in the face of everything she’d loved. But babies’ caskets didn’t come in dark colors.
You didn’t know that, did you, Dr. Drier? No, of course not, you bastard.