Authors: Eileen Goudge
He eyed her curiously. “I’d have thought your opportunities would be somewhat limited.” His tone was dry, as if he were conscious of the judgment others had heaped on her. If she hadn’t loved him before, she almost did then.
“The father was our parish priest.”
Aubrey shook his head.
“Mon Dieu.
And the child?”
“A little girl. I gave her up for adoption.” Gerry was surprised by the power it still had over her, even after all these years. “I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, but …” Her voice caught, and she ducked her head.
Aubrey drew her gently against his chest, stroking her back and murmuring in French. It had the effect of a lullaby. Gradually, the knot in her throat eased.
“I hired a private investigator to track her down,” she went on. “We’ve talked on the phone. She’s flying down to meet me—this coming Friday, as a matter of fact.”
She lifted her head and in that unguarded moment saw the look of pain that flitted over his narrow, Gallic face. His wife, she recalled, had been seven months pregnant when she died. He would never know his child. But if he envied her the chance to know hers, he was far too much a gentleman to let it show. All he said was, “You must be anxious.”
Gerry gave a shaky little laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“I can imagine.”
“What if she doesn’t like me?”
“How could she not?” He reached up to tuck a stray wisp behind her ear.
“You should hear my kids. Last night Justin told me he hated me.”
“I thought it was your daughter we were discussing.”
“She probably hates me, too.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I gave her away, didn’t I?” Gerry felt a familiar tightening in her gut.
“You had your reasons, I’m sure.” He didn’t ask what they were, and she loved him for that, too.
“Children don’t care about reasons.”
“She’s not a child anymore.”
“You’re right.” Claire was twenty-eight.
“How did she sound over the phone?”
“Nice,” she said. “A little reserved, but who wouldn’t be?”
“Well, then, you see? You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m Catholic. Worry is my middle name.” She swung her legs off the mattress, nudging with her big toe at the clothes heaped on the floor. “Besides, there’s more to it than you think. As far as my kids know, I was pure as the driven snow when I married their dad.” She pulled on her black silk panties.
“Mon Dieu.”
He shook his head again.
As she reached for the black lace bra hooked over a knob of the armoire, she caught a glimpse of herself in its mirror, her tumble of silver-and-black hair and the color standing out along her cheekbones. “I didn’t see any reason to tell them,” she said. “Until now.”
Aubrey remained silent, an odd look on his face—as if they’d only just met and he was trying to figure out what to make of her.
She went on, “I mean, one minute they’re babies and the next thing you know they’re wanting the keys to the car.” She reached around to hook her bra. “Where did the time go? Why didn’t I see this coming?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask,” he said.
Noting the strained smile he wore, she immediately regretted having dumped all this on him. He had his own problems. She paused in the midst of pulling on her jeans. “I’m probably boring you to death.”
“Quite the contrary. I’m glad you feel you can confide in me.”
He sounded sincere enough, but his gaze was on the framed photo of his wife atop the dresser, a swan-necked woman in a low-cut blue dress, her flaxen hair coiled in a bun, her pearly shoulders gleaming. In her bright blue eyes, fixed somewhere beyond the camera’s range, she might have been catching a glimpse of her destiny: a death that had reverberated throughout the music world, for Isabelle Hubert had been an accomplished musician in her own right. Gerry had one of her last recordings, a Franck violin concerto so exquisite she couldn’t listen to it without tears coming to her eyes.
She tugged her sweater over her head and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks. You’re sweet.”
“I’ll call you from Philly,” he said.
She felt a small flutter of apprehension. They only talked on the phone when arranging a time to get together. Was this his way of saying he wanted more or was he merely being polite?
“You know where to find me.” She struck a breezy tone, letting him know that while she’d appreciate a call she didn’t see it as anything to get overly excited about.
On her way into town, her thoughts turned once more to her kids. How would they take the news about Claire? Andie could at least relate. Several girls in her class had had to drop out this past semester, all but one of whom were planning to give their babies up for adoption. On the other hand …
She’ll probably see this as one more reason to blame me for everything that’s wrong with her life.
Gerry pushed the thought from her mind. The day was simply too beautiful to waste, the sun shining and the valley spread out before her like a gift waiting to be opened. Descending into the Flats, where the steep, winding road grew level and straight, she passed row upon row of orange trees bordered by fieldstone walls, many patrolled by geese—more effective than watchdogs, she’d heard—that strutted amid the dappled shade like pompous little generals. Alongside the road, wild-flowers climbed from ditches—curly dock and creeping jennie, dog fennel and Dutchman’s-pipe, with the occasional beavertail cactus or Joshua tree thrusting up like a spiny fist—while in the distance grassy hills gave way to the snowcapped mountains whose fanciful names—Sleeping Indian Chief, Moon’s Nest, Two Sisters’ Peak— had so captivated her imagination as a child. How could Claire
not
fall in love with this place?
She swerved to avoid a scruffy-looking mutt that had wandered into the road. Old Dick Truesdale’s—he really ought to keep his dog chained up. But repeated complaints by concerned neighbors had fallen on deaf ears; the poor guy hadn’t been the same since his wife’s death. And from the looks of his overgrown yard, littered with the shriveled brown fists of fallen oranges, and ramshackle house beyond—an older frame structure missing a good deal of its shingles whose walls seemed to lean inward like old drunks holding up each other—he wasn’t doing a very good job of looking after himself, either.
At least I have my kids …
Minutes later she was turning onto Old Mission, with its quaint Spanish-style shops trimmed in colorful tiles. The tile-roofed arcade that stretched along one side of the street was bustling with shoppers, and she remembered that the January white sale was still on at Rusk’s. In the park across the street, white-haired Clem Woolley, toting a bundle of his self-published tome,
My Life with Jesus,
was holding forth to the Vietnamese head gardener, Mr. Nuyen, a solitary little man as silent and ageless as the grounds he tended. She knew only that he’d come here just after the war, and was said to be so enamored of his new home he hadn’t spent a single night away from it since.
Gerry, lost in her thoughts, nearly missed the entrance to Del Rey Plaza, then had to circle the lot several times before she found a spot. Now where was that grocery list? She searched her purse before moving on to her pockets. It must have fallen out at Aubrey’s.
The reminder of how she’d spent the afternoon brought a flush of remembered pleasure. What would these people pushing their grocery carts think if they knew? She spotted Marguerite Moore climbing out of her light blue Le Sabre in front of Safeway. Last summer when Marguerite had gotten wind of Sam and Ian’s affair, she’d been like a bloodhound on the trail, no doubt secretly wishing a man, any man—never mind one as young and attractive as Ian—would give
her
a reason to change her sheets in the middle of the week.
She caught the narrow glance Marguerite shot her. Marguerite and her ilk had been looking down their noses at Gerry for years. For one thing, she didn’t conform to their standards for how a middle-aged woman should behave. Nor did she dress in the secular equivalent of a habit and veil, as befitting a former nun. Today’s outfit, formfitting jeans that left nothing to the imagination and a stretchy top showing more than an inch of cleavage, had Marguerite eyeing her with open contempt. Gerry waved cheerily as she passed.
I wonder what the old cow would think if she knew what I have on underneath.
Inside she cruised down the aisles, tossing boxes and cans and jars into her cart with scarcely a glance at their labels. She was too preoccupied with thoughts of Claire. Had the Tree House been the best choice of venue? Should she have chosen somewhere less crowded, where they wouldn’t draw unwanted attention from the likes of Marguerite?
Gerry didn’t see Fran O’Reilly until they’d nearly collided. She glanced up to find fiery-haired Fran hastily stuffing a box into her cart with a faintly abashed look. It was a moment before Gerry realized that the owner of Francoise’s was embarrassed to be seen buying Pop Tarts.
“Yeah, I know,” Fran said with a self-conscious laugh. “Me with my culinary degree.”
Gerry laughed. “I’m not one to judge, believe me. In my house I’m known as the Lean Cuisine Queen.”
“You don’t have a reputation to uphold.” Fran cast a mock furtive glance at Marguerite, trundling up the aisle.
You got that right,
Gerry thought. Whatever reputation she’d once had, it had long since been trashed. “Your secret is safe with me,” she said, placing a finger over her lips. “Speaking of which, how’s business?”
She recalled when Fran had first moved here, a single mom from Brooklyn who’d traded her secretary’s salary for a shot at a lifetime dream. That’d been—what? Eight, nine years ago. Since then wiry little Fran, who made her think of a red squirrel always darting about, had made a real go of it. Her hole-in-the-wall creperie was so popular there was always a line spilling onto the sidewalk.
Fran brightened. “Actually, I’m looking to expand. If you hear of anything, let me know. It has to be at least double the square feet, where the rent won’t eat me alive.”
“What about the Dalrymple place? I heard it was on the market.” In her mind, Gerry saw the older shingled cottage with roses climbing up the front and shards of terra-cotta roof tiles scattered about the yard. “I don’t imagine they’ll get top dollar. It’s pretty run-down.”
“Yeah, I know. It was the first thing I looked at. It’d be perfect—zoned for commercial use, too. Except it’s a little too far off the main drag. I’d lose the lunch trade.” Fran looked thoughtful, as if she hadn’t completely ruled it out.
They chatted briefly about the high price of real estate before Gerry shoved off.
Fifteen minutes later she was on her way home. Turning down Green Willow she waved at Tom Kemp, bent over his hedge with a pair of clippers like a tall question mark. She remembered when Martin’s former partner had been crazy about Sam, and wondered if he was still carrying the torch. Did love truly spring eternal? She wouldn’t know. The men she dated were disposable. Only Aubrey was different, in a way she hadn’t quite been able to pinpoint.
She turned off Green Willow onto Mesa, slowing at the sight of two boys cruising along on their bikes. A little farther down, Marcy Walters’s little girl was playing hopscotch on the sidewalk while her brother pedaled in furious circles on his Hot Wheels. It used to drive Mike crazy that he couldn’t park his Lincoln Town Car in the driveway without worrying that some kid would scratch it. But everything Mike had hated about this neighborhood she loved—its older Spanish-style homes standing hip to hip, many still trimmed in Christmas lights, and the neighbors who waved to you and knew everything that went on. She wouldn’t have traded it for Mike’s fancy new house in the hills any more than she’d have given up the job she loved for one that paid twice the salary.
Pulling into the driveway, the first thing Gerry noticed was Justin’s bike blocking the door to the garage. Her mellow mood dissolved. Damn it.
How
many times had she told him—
Go easy,
a voice interjected.
You don’t want to set the wrong tone.
Inside she found her son slouched in front of the TV, lost in a video game. He barely glanced up when she walked in. “Where’s Andie?” she called, dumping an armload of groceries on the kitchen counter.
“Huh?”
“Your sister. You know: five foot two, curly dark hair. Last seen wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans.”
“I dunno—with Finch, I guess.” His eyes remained glued to the screen, on which amazingly lifelike race cars zipped through tunnels and around bends.
“Did she say when she’d be back?”
“Nope.”
Gerry sighed. When Andie and Finch were together they lost all track of time; she’d be lucky if Andie made it home in time for supper. But hadn’t it been that way with her and Sam? At that age they’d been inseparable. Gerry had probably spent more time at Sam’s house than at her own.
Justin still hadn’t budged. “Hey, buster, I could use a hand here. If it’s not
too
inconvenient.” Their elderly Labrador, snoozing by the fireplace, lifted his gray-muzzled head. “Not you,” she said. Buster dropped his head back onto his paws with a grunt.
Justin shot her a sheepish glance. “Uh, sure, Mom. In a minute.”
Gerry sighed again. The manic soundtrack emanating from the living room made the days she and Sam used to hang out in the penny arcade at Palisades Park, playing Gypsy Fortune-teller and Rifle Shoot, seem basked in a golden glow. Though she was certain her son, perched on the sofa in his baggy jeans and even baggier Lakers T-shirt, would have scoffed at the idea.
She went back for a second load. Her mother would say she was too easy on the kids, that you couldn’t run a tight ship without cracking the whip now and then. But Gerry wasn’t interested in running a tight ship.
Hadn’t she done that with Mike? Juggling a job and kids with a constant round of lists, chores, and activities: cocktails with clients, dinner parties for people she barely knew, an endless stream of country club affairs.