Authors: Eileen Goudge
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. If this were a TV movie, she thought, the violins would be playing, but it wasn’t, and when Simon drew back to look at her, the only sound was that of their breathing.
After a moment she said, “I can’t help wondering what it’d have been like.”
“What?”
“Our kid.”
“With our DNA? It would have been a genius.” He grinned.
She shook her head, holding her lips pressed together to keep from smiling, which would only encourage him. “I hope it’s a long, long time before I’m a parent.”
“It’s harder than it looks, believe me.” He caught hold of her hand, and they headed for the door. “I have an idea. There’s a Motel 6 down the road. Can’t you just see it, a piece on sleazy motels from a teen’s point of view? Think how it would sell. They’d be standing in line down at …”
He was still talking as she raced past him down the stairs.
“The most extraordinary thing.” Mother Ignatius’s wintry blue eyes peered at Gerry over the tops of her reading glasses. On her desk was a stack of mail, most of it unopened, as if her morning routine had been interrupted. “I just got off the phone with the motherhouse.
It seems that based on Sister Clement’s report, they’ve concluded that no drastic changes are called for. In short, we’re to continue on as before.”
Gerry stared at her in disbelief. She’d been so sure when the reverend mother called her in that it would be to ask for her resignation. Now goose bumps skittered up the back of her neck, making its tiny hairs stand on end. Not like a sighting of the Blessed Mother, but a miracle all the same.
She let out a breath. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
Mother Ignatius removed her glasses, folding them carefully before tucking them in her pocket. “Quite honestly, I don’t know what to make of it,” she said.
“Could Sister Clement have changed her mind?” Even as she said it, Gerry found it impossible to believe.
“It’s more likely due to the special mass I asked Father Reardon to say.”
“You, too?” When she’d buttonholed Dan last week, he hadn’t mentioned Mother Ignatius’s request. She smiled. “I figured I could use all the help I could get.”
And not just in keeping her job. She thought of everything she’d been through these past months: a daughter coming home and another one temporarily moving out; Sam’s near death and the birth of her baby (all in one night!); and, last but not least, Aubrey, who might or might not be in Carson Springs for good. It was enough to make her wonder if it was God behind the wheel—or someone learning to drive.
I’ll make the announcement in chapter, but I wanted you to be the first to know.” The reverend mother’s voice was calm, but her eyes shone. She extended her hand across her tidy desk. “Congratulations, my dear. I look forward to many more years of battling with you over what’s best for Blessed Bee.”
“Even though I sometimes win?” Gerry said with a laugh.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
They exchanged a wry smile. Gerry was turning to go when she was brought short by an unfamiliar sound: the reverend mother chuckling softly to herself.
She hurried off down the hall, knowing that if she didn’t share the good news with someone, she’d burst.
She immediately thought of Sister Agnes, but a quick tour of the garden netted only Sister Henry, on her knees weeding a flower bed.
“Sister Agnes is in the infirmary,” the older nun informed her. She shook her head sadly, and Gerry saw that she’d once been quite pretty before the years had taken their toll. “The poor dear doesn’t have much longer.” It was a panicked moment before Gerry realized she was talking about Sister Seraphina.
The infirmary was a former caretaker’s cottage that had been equipped with beds and state-of-the-art emergency care. The sisters who worked there were registered nurses, and a doctor made rounds twice a week. Now, as Gerry pushed her way through the door into the sunny foyer, she was struck as always by the contrast to the exterior. While the facade retained its ancient stones and thick curtain of ivy, the interior had been thoroughly modernized—white tile flooring and a built-in reception desk with a cozy, wicker-furnished lounge just beyond. Only the security camera over the door stood as a mute reminder of the community’s aging population: It guarded against those who tended to wander.
“I’m looking for Sister Agnes,” she told the plump-cheeked novice at the desk.
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?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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.”
“It’s no trouble.” She poured some into a glass and topped it with a mint sprig.
He took one sip and said, “Best lemonade I’ve ever tasted.”
She smiled, leaning into the counter. “People are surprised when I give them the recipe. It’s as if they expect it to have been hand squeezed by Trappist monks.”
“This is better.” He flashed her a grin, tipping his head back to take a long swallow. She stared at his Adam’s apple moving up and down the brown column of his throat. Drops of condensation from the glass dribbled over his knuckles, and she had a sudden urge to lick them off. God, what was wrong with her? Couldn’t she have a conversation with the man without wanting to jump into bed with him?
Are you sure it’s just sex?
whispered a voice in her head.
She felt close to Matt in other ways. She could tell him things other people might have thought silly—like how her favorite pastime was watching corny old movies on TV, and that her number-one comfort food was s’mores. If Byron were here, it’d be different, she knew. But wasn’t that the crux of it all?
“I can’t believe we forgot,” she said, referring to the ramp.
Matt shrugged. “If the inspector hadn’t caught it, Monica Vincent would’ve reminded us in a hurry.”
Claire remembered that Monica lived nearby and wondered what she was like. So much had been written about her—her tantrums on the movie sets, her countless love affairs, and finally the accident that had left her partially paralyzed. For the longest time you couldn’t walk into a supermarket without seeing her on every tabloid.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if she came to the opening?”
“She probably will. She never misses an opportunity to make an entrance.”
“I haven’t spotted her yet.”
“You’ll know it when you do. She’s pretty hard to miss.” He helped himself to another glass of lemonade. Anyone looking in the window, she thought, would’ve taken him for her husband, home from a hard day’s work.
“Because she’s in a wheelchair?”
Matt’s mouth stretched in a humorless smile. “That’s the least of her handicaps. Ask anyone who’s had to deal with her. We all have stories.”
“You know her?”
“I did some work up at her house a while back.”
“What was she like?”
“You mean before or after she tried to seduce me?”
“She
didn’t.”
“Oh, I don’t flatter myself. I think just about any guy in reasonably good shape would be fair game.” He was quick to add, “Not that I took her up on it. Though if I had, she might have paid me for all my extra work.”
“At least she’s not sitting around feeling sorry for herself.”
He laughed at the idea. “If anyone’s to be pitied, it’s her sister.”
“Doesn’t she work for Monica?” She recalled Andie’s mentioning something.
He gave a snort. “More like indentured servitude. Anna does everything but polish Monica’s hubcaps—hell, I’ll bet she even does that.”
“Why doesn’t she quit?”
“Easier said than done. For one thing, she can’t afford to. If it wasn’t for Anna, their mother would be in a state nursing home.”
“Why doesn’t Monica help? With all her money—”
“A lot of people are wondering the same thing.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s like she thinks employing Anna is enough. There’s another sister, Liz, but for whatever reason, Anna does all the heavy lifting.”
“Sounds pretty grim.”
Claire suppressed a small shudder, thinking of her own parents. Who would take care of them when they could no longer care for themselves? “I guess I should count my blessings.” Her new family wasn’t perfect by any means, but they’d shown her, each in their own way, that she could count on them in a pinch.
She saw something flicker in Matt’s eyes. Longing?
Regret? He drained his glass, and set it down on the counter. “I should get started on that ramp while it’s still light.” His tone wasn’t so much brusque as businesslike. “Thanks for the lemonade.”
Claire could hear him outside as she washed up, the clatter of lumber being unloaded from his truck, followed by the shrill whine of his saw. Hours later, when the sun had set and the light was fading from the sky, she stepped outside to find the framework in place, its raw pine boards gleaming like x-rayed bones in the dusk.
“It’s amazing. You hardly notice it’s there,” she marveled as she inspected it. Rather than mar the line of the porch, he’d built it off to one side, setting it back from the path.
“You’ll have to extend the path a bit, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” he told her.
“It’s the least of my worries, believe me.”
“I’ll send someone over with the concrete. No extra charge.”
“I insist on paying. You’re already out of pocket as it is.”
He tugged on the creased bill of his cap, dark green with
ORCHARD LUMBER
printed in white across its sweat-stained band. “Pay me later.”
“All right,” she conceded grudgingly. “But I want it in writing.”
“In that case, I’ll take one of your strawberry tarts as collateral.”
He flashed her a grin before bending to hammer a nail into the railing. The sound rang out in the quiet of the twilit yard. She saw a light go on across the street; that would be widowed Mrs. Gantt feeding her cat. In a minute or two the living room window would light up as well—you could set your clock by it. The old lady never missed the evening news, followed by
Hollywood Squares
and
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
“I’m fresh out of tarts,” she told him. “Would you settle for dinner instead?”
Claire didn’t know which one of them was more surprised; the words had just popped out. When he brushed leisurely at a gnat, revealing a dark half moon of sweat under his arm, the motion seemed oddly exaggerated. “I don’t think that’d be such a good idea,” he said.
“Why not? We’re still friends, aren’t we?” She spoke lightly, but was aware of how childish it sounded. Like wanting to believe in Santa Claus in the face of all evidence to the contrary.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he replied pleasantly. “But I have enough friends as it is.”
She winced. “I guess I had that coming.”
“On the other hand,” he went on in the same mild tone, “if what you have in mind is more than dinner, I could be persuaded.”
Claire felt something rise up in her like a wave racing into shore. She could see it clearly: Matt across from her at the kitchen table, both of them knowing the meal was little more than a prelude.
But if he stayed the night, wouldn’t she be making a choice? And in choosing Matt, she’d be rejecting Byron. It was as simple as that: She couldn’t have both.
“Matt, you know how I feel. But—”
He didn’t give her a chance to finish. “Hey, no big deal. I’m a big boy. I knew what I was getting into. No hard feelings, okay?” He began packing up his tools.
She suddenly felt on the verge of tears. It had been naive of her to think they could remain friends. “I’m sorry. It’s just … I
like
you, dammit. I mean, aside from … from …”
He tilted his head and smiled up at her. “It’s okay, you can say it.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks. “I don’t regret anything.”
“You just want it to be over,” he said. “Well, you’ve got it.” The lid of his tool chest clanged shut. He carried it over to his truck and hoisted it onto the bed, calling out breezily, “I’ll be around sometime tomorrow to finish up.”
Watching his truck back out of the driveway, she felt an impulse to run after it, an impulse that quickly faded. Face it, she wasn’t the type—the craziest thing she’d ever done was quit her job and move here. She remained on the path instead, straining to see in the fading light until all that was left were the red sparks of his taillights.
When they’d winked out of sight, she turned and began trudging up the steps. What no one told you about having to choose between two lovers, she thought, was that it was never a clean trade: You were doomed to long for one and give less than your whole heart to the other.
As if he’d somehow known, Byron called that night to announce that he was flying down for the weekend.
“Don’t ask how I managed it,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”
“I can’t wait,” she said, but the words sounded hollow to her ears.
It’ll be different when he’s here,
she told herself. In Byron’s arms, she’d soon forget Matt.