Taste of Honey (42 page)

She groped for something familiar, something that would anchor her against this feeling that was about to come untethered, and found it in her old bantering lightness. “Well, since you’ve come all this way, the least I can do is buy you a cup of coffee.”

“You two go on. I’ll stay with the kids,” Mavis urged. When Justin opened his mouth to protest, she shot him a stern look. His mouth snapped shut.

They found their way to the cafeteria on the second floor. Gerry remembered from the last time she was here, the year Andie had had her tonsils out, that the coffee was terrible. It hadn’t improved in the intervening years. She took a sip and set it down to stir in another packet of sugar.

“It was good of you to come,” she told him. “You didn’t have to.”

“Because you’re strong enough to bear the weight of the world on your own?” He spoke lightly, but his expression was serious. “I didn’t come because Andie asked. I came because I had to.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I had some old business to settle.”

Gerry tensed. Was he here because of Isabelle? Because of some need to put his demons to rest? “What will you tell them in Brussels?”

He shrugged. “That it’s taking a bit longer than expected to wrap things up.”

She felt the warmth expanding in her contract suddenly. Was that what she was, an item on his agenda to be wrapped up?

But when she looked into his eyes, it wasn’t Isabelle she saw. Suddenly, she had trouble catching her breath.

“I’m not putting it very eloquently, am I?” he went on, smiling. “What I’m trying to say is that I may have made a mistake.”

Gerry’s heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her cheeks, a steady hot pulsing. On this night of surprises, was she up for one more? “About me? Or leaving in general?”

“Both,” he said.

She frowned. “I need you to be a little more specific.”

A man nursing a cup of coffee at the next table glanced over at them with disinterest. His eyes were blank, and his jaw stubbled as if he hadn’t slept in days. When she brought her gaze back to Aubrey, his eyes were the opposite—so full of raw emotion she could hardly bear to look into them.

“I realized something tonight—that I’ve been a fool,” he said. “I imagined that if I let myself love you, I’d somehow be erasing Isabelle. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

“You’re not the only one to blame.”

“Then maybe it’s time we both took another look.” He gestured in a way that made her think of how he looked when he was conducting, the way he’d seem to pluck a note from midair, as delicately as he might have a butterfly. “Tonight, on the way here, I was reminded of something I’d forgotten—that great music often comes from great sorrow.” He smiled sadly. “I’m better for having loved Isabelle. Just as I am for loving you.”

Gerry couldn’t bring herself to move or even speak. She wanted to say the words beating in her head to the rhythm of her pounding heart:
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.
But something was stopping her. At last she gave up and said with a crooked smile, “We’re a fine pair, aren’t we?”

Aubrey reached up to tuck a stray wisp behind her ear, waiting for her to go on.

“I was thinking of Sam just now,” she said. “When Martin died, she didn’t expect to fall in love, but I wasn’t at all surprised when she did. She’s built to be a wife and mother.” She idly stirred her coffee. “Me? I wasn’t much of a wife, and aside from the fact that I’m crazy about my kids, I’m not even sure I’m much of a mother.”

“I doubt your children share that opinion.”

“What about you?” She eyed him cautiously. “Don’t you want kids?”

“They wouldn’t have to be mine.”

Gerry felt a seed crack open inside her and send out a pale tendril. She’d always gone her own way, and had paid the price in having to shoulder the entire burden. Now here was Aubrey offering what no man before him had been able to provide: enough love to go around. Her eyes filled with tears and she angrily brushed them away.

However much she might want to, she wasn’t ready to trust.

“Speaking of which, I should go see what mine are up to.” She pushed herself to her feet.

In the lounge, they found Andie and Justin sipping sodas and watching a
Seinfeld
rerun on TV. “Grandma’s with Aunt Sam,” Andie informed them.

“We saw the baby through the window.” Justin sounded vaguely disappointed. It would be a long while before Sam’s baby was old enough to be of much interest.

“I think he looks like Aunt Sam,” Andie observed.

“He looks more like Ian,” Justin disagreed.

“I think he looks like both.” Gerry didn’t have the energy to light a match, much less mediate one of their squabbles. But looking at them—Justin with his head resting close enough for Andie’s hair to tickle his cheek—she thought that maybe she hadn’t done such a bad job of raising them after all.

Which reminded her of Claire. She should phone and let her know what had happened. But the enormity of it all piled on her all at once, and she sank down in the nearest chair as abruptly as if a karate chop had been delivered to the backs of her knees. “I don’t know about you guys,” she said, “but if I’m not home in the next half hour, you’ll have to check
me
in.”

Aubrey bent down, offering her his arm. “My car’s waiting downstairs.”

Gerry opened her mouth to decline, she couldn’t just leave hers in the parking lot, when Justin popped up off the sofa, crowing, “Oh boy, we get to ride in a limo! Wait’ll I tell Nesto.”

“Why don’t you call him from the car?” Aubrey suggested man to man. “It has a bit more cachet than having him hear about it after the fact, don’t you think?”

Justin looked up at him and grinned. “Awesome.”

“I’ll get Grandma,” Andie set off down the hall in search of Mavis, and was back moments later with her grandmother in tow.

Then they were all trooping off toward the elevator. When the doors thumped open and they stepped inside, Gerry had the strangest feeling it was going up instead of down.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
NDIE WAS GOING OVER
the list of doctors Finch had e-mailed her when she felt the first cramp. She rushed into the bathroom and locked the door.
Please, God, let it be what I think it is. I swear I’ll go to mass every Sunday for the rest of my life.
With trembling hands, she unzipped her jeans.

There it was, a streak of blood on her panties.

A wave of relief swept over her, and she sank down on the toilet seat, grabbing a towel off the rack to muffle the sob that escaped her. It wasn’t until this very minute that she realized how scared she’d been. For if she
had
been pregnant, she wouldn’t have been able to go through with an abortion. At the same time, she hadn’t seen a way to keep it.

Like with Claire. Would her life have been any better if Gerry had kept
her
… or just different? It came to Andie then that very few decisions in life were 100 percent right or wrong. Claire’s parents might have been the best ones to raise her, just as Gerry was best for her now. And if the family Andie had grown up in had morphed into something she hardly recognized these days—with different players and a whole new set of rules—it had started long before Claire.

The first time Andie had held Aunt Sam’s baby, a little more than a week ago, she’d realized, too, how perfect it could be when everything was in place. On the birth certificate he was listed as Jacinto Wesley Carpenter, after both his grandfathers, but they were calling him Jack for short. The only boy in a family of women. he already had them twisted about his little finger with those blue, blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. Aunt Sam couldn’t take her eyes off him, and Laura couldn’t stop cooing. Even the coolly elegant Alice wasn’t above making goo-goo noises. And when he’d started to cry and wouldn’t stop, it had been Grandma who’d put him over her knees and patted him until he let out a loud burp.

When it was her turn, Andie had cradled him as if he were made of spun sugar. He’d looked so small, though the tiny fist clutching her finger was surprisingly strong. The thing that had struck her most was the trust with which he’d gazed up at her. He didn’t know yet what it was to be hurt; he hadn’t learned that it was often the people who are supposed to protect you that you have to watch out for most.

She’d wondered then what it would be like to give up her own baby. In that moment she’d understood the sacrifice her mother had made—not a heartless act, but probably the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.

Andie rose on shaky legs. She couldn’t wait to tell Simon. Finch, too. They’d be so relieved.

She fished a tampon from under the sink, smiling at the thought of how she used to hate her period. Her grandmother had told her that in her day it was known as a woman’s “friend.” Now Andie understood. Tearing the wrapper from the Tampax was like opening the best present in the world.

Justin chose that moment to begin hammering on the door, whining, “Come on, I have to go! You’re not the only one in this house, you know!”

She caught a glimpse of herself in the medicine cabinet mirror, cheeks flushed, grinning like a fool. She was careful to rearrange her features into a scowl before opening the door.

Her brother scowled back. “What
took
so long?”

“I’m a girl,” she informed him loftily, as if no other explanation were necessary. “Why didn’t you use Mom’s bathroom?”

“She’s in the shower.”

“Face it, you’re outnumbered.” She took pleasure in reminding him that he was in the minority here.

“I liked it better when you were at Dad’s,” he grumbled, but she knew he didn’t mean it. This past week he’d been nicer than usual, the other day even loaning her his Discman.

Andie brushed past him into the hallway. “I’m surprised you even noticed I was gone. You’re always at Nesto’s.”

“Not
always.
” He grinned, looking smug.

“Okay, so you spent a day at Aubrey’s. Big deal.” Last Saturday Aubrey had had Justin and Nesto over, and her brother hadn’t stopped talking about it since.

“That wasn’t all. We went to a movie and had banana splits.”

“I thought you had to use the bathroom,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“I do.” He pushed past her, and slammed the door.

Andie raced into the living room and snatched up the phone. Simon answered on the second ring.

“Winthrop, Winthrop, and Winthrop. How may I direct your call?” His standard line, yet she found herself grinning as if it were the first time she’d heard it.

“Customer service, please,” she played along.

“Sorry, all lines are busy.”

She dropped the pretense. “Simon, you won’t believe this but—”

“Great minds think alike,” he broke in. “I was just about to call
you.”

“You were?”

“There’s something I want to show you.”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Give me a hint at least.”

“You’ll know soon enough. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.” Typically, he hadn’t bothered to ask if she was busy.

When he beeped his horn in the driveway, her mother was still getting dressed for her date with Aubrey and Justin had left for Nesto’s. She called good-bye to her mother through her bedroom door and headed outside.

“You missed yesterday’s excitement,” she told him as they rattled their way down the quiet street. “Mom picked up Sam and Ian from the hospital. She said it was funny seeing them both come out in wheelchairs.”

“They’re lucky to be alive. Did you ever find out what caused the accident?”

“A deer. Ian swerved to keep from hitting it.” With all the excitement, the story hadn’t come out until the following day.

“It could’ve been a lot worse.”

She didn’t need Simon to tell her. “My grandmother’s convinced guardian angels were watching over them.”

“That’s crap,” he said good-naturedly.

“You don’t know that for a fact.” Simon claimed to be an atheist, but she thought it was only because he had a hard time believing in any kind of father figure, even God.

“You don’t know for a fact there are such things, either.”

“No one does.”

“I rest my case.”

He made the turn onto Hibiscus, where Mrs. Crawford’s house was decorated for Easter weeks in advance. She’d been the kindergarten teacher at Portola Elementary for about a hundred years, and had only recently retired. Now in her eighties, she was like a five-year-old herself, plastering her front window with decals and construction paper cutouts every holiday season. Right now it was decked in Kleenex roses and baby chicks made from Popsicle sticks and fat colored yarn.

“So what’s this thing you want to show me?” she asked.

“You’ll see.” He smiled mysteriously.

They passed the vacant lot where Andie and her best friend in elementary school, Amy Snow, had fashioned jumps out of old mop handles and broomsticks, pretending to be horses as they whinnied their way around the course. Then Simon was turning up the hill toward school.

He drew to a stop in front of the administration building, which looked to be deserted except for a janitor trundling his cart along the adjoining breezeway. Simon jingled his key ring as he plucked it from the ignition, giving her a meaningful look. Leave it to him to have the key. He’d probably gotten it from the principal himself, who considered Simon to be practically one of the faculty.

Inside, he led the way upstairs to the headquarters of the
Scribe,
where he motioned toward the chair by his desk. “Have a seat.” He unlocked the top drawer and pulled out a minirecorder. “Remember last week when I took that little trip up north?”

“Monica’s friend at Stanford?” Simon had missed two days of school.

He nodded, inserting a tape. “While I was in the neighborhood, I paid someone else a visit, too.”

“Who?” She was in no mood for guessing games. “Simon, will you please—”

He pressed the
PLAY
button. At first there was only the hissing of blank tape; then came Simon’s voice.
“Okay. Got it. First time I’ve used this thing … sorry. I’m a little nervous.”
He sounded like a bumbling sixth grader, which she knew to be an act. What on earth was going on?

A man’s low chuckle.
“Relax, son. We all have to start somewhere.” A
pause.
“Now, if you’ll refresh my memory, which school did you say you were from?”

“Portola High, sir.”

“Father, please. That doesn’t sound like a Catholic school.”

“It isn’t… uh, Father.”

“In that case, I don’t know that anything I say will be of interest to your fellow students.”

“Actually, uh, this isn’t for the school paper.”
Simon’s tone grew bolder.
“Did I forget to mention I also moonlight as a freelancer?”

“Really? Anything I would have seen?” The voice was amused.

“There was a piece on Monica Vincent in last Thursday’s
Chronicle.
That was mine. It was picked up from our local paper by UPI. Not bad for my first time out, huh?”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with the archdiocese.” A
note of strain had crept into the voice that could belong to none other than Claire’s father.

“I’m getting to that,”
Simon went on.
“You see, I’m
d
oing this story on our local convent, Our Lady of the Wayside. It started out as a human interest piece, but when I dug a little deeper I saw there was more to it than that.”

“I see. How so?”

“There’s this woman, Gerry Fitzgerald, who runs their beekeeping operation. Well, anyway, her daughter’s a friend of mine and she told me an interesting story: A long time ago her mom was a nun, but had to leave the convent when she found out she was pregnant.”
Pause.
“Father, are you okay? You look a little pale.”

The rumble of a throat being cleared.
“N-no, I’m all right. You were saying?”

“Yeah, well, according to my friend, the father of that baby was you.”

A moment of silence, then came a choked cry.
“How dare you!”
He struggled to catch his breath.
“Get out. Now. Before I call the police and have you charged with … with impersonating a … a …”

“A reporter?”
Andie pictured Simon smiling.
“Father, with all due respect, I only wanted to get your side of the story. I mean, you never know, one of the wire services might pick it up, and if it goes national, I’d hate not having all the facts straight.”

“Get out. Get out of my office! Or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”
All at once Simon was his hard-nosed self.
“Get the poor woman fired? Oh yeah, I heard about that, too. How does this headline sound?
PRIEST FATHERS BABY WITH FORMER NUN
.
It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I also have an interview lined up with your daughter.”

“What do you want from me?”
All the anger had gone out of the man’s voice. He sounded frightened.

“I told you. I’m doing this for
—”

“She sent you, didn’t she?”

“Ms. Fitzgerald? She doesn’t even know I’m here.”
That was the truth, at least.

“I didn’t believe it when she threatened me, but—” He broke off suddenly. “She’s out to get me.”

“Forgive me, Father, but it sounds like it’s the other way
—”

He was abruptly cut off.

Simon, perched on the edge of his desk, thumbed the
STOP
button.

For a long moment, Andie just sat there, staring at the recorder as if hypnotized.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” Simon asked.

“Mad?” She blinked, and looked up at him. “That was amazing.”

Simon grinned. “I wish you could’ve seen it—he crumbled like stale bread. I felt a little bad for the guy.”

“My grandmother was right. She said you had moxie to burn.” Andie was grinning, too. “My, God, Simon— blackmailing a priest. It could just as easily have backfired.” She hadn’t imagined anything like this when she’d confided in him.

“The point is, it didn’t.”

“You could’ve been arrested or … or gone to hell.”

“I don’t believe in hell, remember.”

“Still …”

“Look, it worked. Isn’t that all that matters? I made him promise to back off in exchange for killing the piece.”

“You weren’t really going to do it, were you?”

“No, but he didn’t have to know that, did he?” Simon looked so pleased with himself, she had no doubt he
would
one day win the Pulitzer Prize.

“If my mother ever finds out, she’ll be pissed.” Gerry preferred to fight her own battles.

“In that case, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” He took hold of Andie’s hand, bringing it to his lips. His eyes behind the smudged lenses of his glasses were large as he peered at her over his knuckles. “Which reminds me, I got the name of a doctor—Monica’s.”

“You told
Monica?”

He lowered her hand. “Relax. I didn’t tell her who it was for.”

The tape of Father Gallagher had temporarily eclipsed her own good news, but now it came bubbling to the surface. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you ab—”

“Don’t worry. I have some money saved up. No one has to know.”

“Simon. I—”

“It’ll be all right, I promise.” The tender concern in his face was almost enough to make her cry.

“I’m not pregnant,” she managed to blurt at last.

He rocked back, stunned, a goofy look of relief dawning on his face. He hopped down off the desk, seizing her by the hands and pulling her to her feet. “Why didn’t you
tell
me? All this time I’ve been going on and on … when did you find out?”

“A little while ago.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

He raked a hand through his hair, making it stand up in a rooster comb. “That’s great. I mean, wow, that’s …
great
.” For once in his life, Simon was at a loss for words.