Taste of Honey (11 page)

“Would you like to go?”

Andie, for whom Sundays had become a battleground, nodded ever so slightly before getting up and heading for the door.

Gerry climbed out of bed. “I’ll check on your brother.”

Andie paused in the doorway and turned, a wedge of shadow falling over her face. In the soft glow from the hallway the illuminated half gleamed like a newly minted coin. “He misses Dad.”

“I know.” Gerry kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, sweetie. Sleep tight. Don’t—”

“—let the bedbugs bite,” Andie finished for her, smiling a little and shaking her head as if at the antics of a child. In that moment she looked so grown-up Gerry felt an urge to snatch her back from the brink of adulthood the way she might have from the path of a speeding train.

They arrived just after the introductory hymn, sliding in next to Anna Vincenzi in the second to the last pew. Anna smiled and passed them each a missal. She looked her usual frumpy self in a shapeless flowered smock, yet something was different about her. Then Gerry realized what it was: She was used to seeing Anna with her sister, stoically pushing Monica about in her wheelchair, Monica treating her as if she were a flack in the entourage that had once shadowed her every move. Today Anna was with her elderly mother instead. It must be one of Mrs. Vincenzi’s good days.

“Page thirteen,” Anna whispered while her mother stared vacantly ahead, a hollow-eyed wraith, the black mantilla draped over her snowy head only adding to the effect.

Gerry glanced over at her children. Justin, his face still a little puffy, was quietly thumbing through his missal. Andie, dressed demurely for a change in a long-sleeved top and corduroy jumper, was subdued as well. Gerry saw her pull something from her pocket and was surprised to see it was the rosary beads Mavis had given her when she was confirmed.

The congregation rose for the penitential rite, and Gerry chanted along with the others, “I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault,” she struck her breast lightly with her fist, “in my thoughts and words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do… .”

The familiar rhythms of the mass wrapped around her like a warm blanket, and when it was time for the Eucharist, she felt as if she were being roused from a light doze. She made her way down the aisle, past pug-faced Althea Wormley in a hideous yellow dress several seasons out of date; David and Carol Ryback with their sickly son, Davey; elderly identical twins Rose and Olive Miller. At the altar, when she put out her hand to take the Host, she found Father Dan’s kind blue eyes on her, as if he were looking into her soul—and liking what he saw. She felt a rush of gratitude. In all the years she’d known him, he’d never judged or condemned her. While others whispered behind her back, Dan seemed to understand her passions and needs. Needs he’d surely wrestled with himself. With all the women batting their eyes at him, he’d have to be either gay or made of stone not to at least be tempted.

She closed her eyes, and there was only the rustle of vestments smelling of starch and incense. The murmur of his voice as he dispensed his blessing along with the Host was like cool water trickling over her.

The sermon had had to do with today’s reading from Corinthians. In his deep voice Father Dan had read, “ ‘If the foot should say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” it does not for any reason belong any less to the body… .’ ” He’d lifted his head, wearing his easy smile that seemed to carry a knowing wink. “Who among us hasn’t pulled that one? Our boss asks us to do something and we say, ‘Oh no, not me. That’s not
my
job. Go talk to Mr. Jones down the hall.’ Or a wife asks her husband to watch the kids”—his gaze fell on Janet Stickney and her brood, five red-haired boys ranging in age from two to twelve—”and he says that’s
your
responsibility. I’m too busy earning a living.” He waited for the titters to die down. “The point is we’ve all been guilty of setting ourselves apart, of thinking it’s somebody else’s problem, not ours. Paul says there are many parts, but one body.” He paused. “I think that applies not only to our jobs and families but also to our relationships to one another. For if we’re weaker, we find strength in the body as a whole.”

He might have been speaking directly to her. For all her qualms with the Church, this was what brought her to mass every Sunday: to be reminded that she wasn’t alone. Now she glanced at Anna, quietly attempting to subdue her mother, who’d grown restless. Compared to Anna’s problems—caring for a senile parent in addition to working long hours catering to her sister’s every whim—hers seemed small.

When they rose for the final hymn, “Father, We Thank Thee,” she felt at peace for the first time in weeks. Even Andie and Justin seemed more at ease. They joined the line of parishioners making their way out onto the steps, where she stopped to have a word with Father Dan.

“Wonderful sermon,” she told him.

“You’d have enjoyed last Sunday’s even more.” A not-so-subtle reminder that she’d missed last week’s mass, though his twinkling blue eyes let her know it was only out of concern that he’d mentioned it. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she lied. “Other than that I could use a vacation.”

“The sisters keeping you on your toes, eh?” He smiled broadly. Her job managing the beekeeping operation at Our Lady of the Wayside seemed to amuse him in some way.

“You know the old saying, No rest for the wicked.”

“Ah, so it’s not just work.”

She smiled at the inference to Aubrey. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it from Marguerite.”

He arched a brow. “Is there something I should know?”

“Not a thing, Father.” She put on an innocent look.

Her hand, when he took it in both of his, felt like a flower pressed between the pages of a book. “When you feel like talking about it, you know where to find me.”

Before she could reply he drifted over to a group of ladies from the Altar Guild, leaving her to head off in search of her children. She spotted Andie with several of her friends from school. A short distance away Justin was getting an earful from garrulous old Mr. Hennessey, the former merchant marine who’d been the church caretaker for as long as she could recall.

She remembered that she’d promised to stop at Lickety Split on the way home. Justin was at that age when he could eat an entire banana split and still be hungry for lunch. Maybe later, if Andie and Justin were in the mood, they’d take a hike up into Wheeler Canyon. It was beautiful this time of year, just a hint of chill in the air. Apple weather, her mother called it, for out near the orchards you could still catch the faint cidery scent of windfall. With luck they wouldn’t come across any bears, like the one Waldo Squires claimed to have seen last week up on Chorro Ridge (Waldo’s word, however, was suspect, given his long and well-documented battle with the bottle). Though after all they’d been through what was a wild animal or two?

She felt a sudden burst of optimism. Things would work out somehow. Eventually her kids would come to accept Claire … and Claire would accept them. One day they might all attend mass together, not to mention weddings and christenings down the line: a family like the body of which Paul had spoken, a body made up of disparate parts that was strong as a whole.

Gerry had no sooner reached the bottom step when the world was plunged into shadow. She glanced up at the sky, where the sun had disappeared behind clouds that had come out of nowhere. More were gathering in billowy heaps over the mountains to the west, and the wind picked up, scudding in over the trees with a low, confiding rustle. Gerry shivered, pulling at the lapels of her blazer.

“Andie! Justin!” she called.

There’d be no outing today. They’d be lucky if they made it home without getting drenched.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
NDIE SLUNG HER BACKPACK
over her shoulder with a sigh and started up the stairwell. Portola High was all on one level, a series of low buildings connected by breezeways, with the exception of the building she was in now. It housed the principal’s and vice principal’s offices, with a faculty lounge upstairs and a large room overlooking the quad, where the school newspaper put out its monthly ruminations on everything from the football team’s current losing streak to the student petition being circulated right now in favor of installing vending machines for condoms in the boys’ and girls’ bathrooms, and where on this bright Monday afternoon, a good half hour after he’d promised to meet her out front, she was certain she’d find her boyfriend Simon, editor in chief of the
Scribe.

She ought to have been totally pissed. This wasn’t the first time he’d kept her waiting. Why did she put up with it? He wasn’t the best-looking guy around. Nor was he the coolest (not that Simon gave a damn). While other guys looked up to Derek Jeter and Shaquille O’Neal her boyfriend’s idols were Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. And while jocks like Pete Underwood and Lonnie Thorsen were butting heads on the field or in the locker room snapping each other with towels, her boyfriend could usually be found on the trail of a hot tip or tapping furiously on a keyboard.

That was the thing about Simon. He cared about stuff like global warming and gun control and wasn’t too busy trying to score some action (or in Dink Rogers’s case, some dope) to try making a difference—though the editor in chief of the
Valley Clarion,
to which Simon regularly submitted on spec, had suggested that many of his articles were more suited to the
Berkeley Barb.

He was sexy, too—in a reverse cool kind of way. The kind that doesn’t advertise itself and is always a little surprised that anyone would think so. The reason they hadn’t done It yet wasn’t because she didn’t want to or was holding out for a better offer but simply because she was afraid of where it would lead. She was already crazy about him. What would happen if they were sleeping together?

Andie was halfway to forgiving him by the time she reached the top of the stairs. She found the door to the
Scribe’s
room propped open with an overflowing trash basket. Inside she looked about at the shelves and cubbyholes jammed with reference books and old bound issues of the
Scribe;
the bulletin board that nearly covered one wall layered with index cards and photos and play-off schedules for every sport; the desks on which computers sat, flying toasters and brightly colored cubes floating across their screens. Only one was in use—the one at which Simon sat hunched, oblivious to the world.

He blinked up at her, the thick lenses of his Buddy Holly glasses giving his wide-set hazel eyes a faintly astonished look. “Andie, hey. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” she said sharply, placing her hands on her hips. “You were supposed to meet me out front.”

He groaned, his gaze dropping to the battered Swatch draped like Dali’s clock over the top of the monitor, where he was no doubt under the mistaken illusion it would be more visible. “Damn. I’m sorry. I lost track.” He lurched to his feet, nimbly picking his way over the computer cables that snaked like tree roots over the floor. When he pulled her into his arms, she resisted at first, then relented with a sigh. He smelled woolly, like a comfortable old sweater on a foggy day. “Forgive me?” He drew back to give her his endearingly crooked smile, his glasses askew and a tuft of brown hair sticking up over one ear.

“I’m working on it,” she said grudgingly.

“One more minute, okay?” He held up an ink-stained index finger. “I promise I won’t be long.”

“Okay. But this better be good.”

“It is. In fact, it may be the scoop of a lifetime.” He returned to his computer and tapped in a URL. “I’m interviewing Monica Vincent in”—he glanced once more at his Swatch—“exactly one hour.”

“
The
Monica Vincent?” She gaped at him in astonishment.

“The one and only.”

“How on earth did you manage that?” Their resident movie star was famous for turning down interview requests.

He tapped his temple, casting her a mysterious look. “I have my sources.”

A home page scrolled up on the screen, and a photo of Monica appeared. It must have been taken some years back because she was striding down a red carpet wearing a shimmery aqua dress, her famous auburn hair cascading down over her shoulders. She looked ravishing.

“Seriously,” she said.

“All right, it was pure luck. I must have caught her at the right moment.” He punched a key and the printer began spewing out pages. “Bob Heidiger at the
Clarion
is so excited he’s practically wetting his pants. And if one of the wire services picks it up …” He didn’t need to add that it would be in papers all over the country.

Andie peered at the photo on the screen. “It’s weird when you think how she used to be on the cover of every magazine. You couldn’t stand in line at the supermarket without her jumping out at you.”

She recalled the piece in
People,
just after the boating accident that had left Monica paralyzed from the waist down, in which her publicist and friends were quoted as saying how courageously she was carrying on. What they didn’t mention was what a raving bitch she was—all the shopkeepers downtown had their stories. Monica’s mansion on the hill was appropriately named LoreiLinda, after the Lorelei in the
Odyssey
that lured sailors to their death.

“You couldn’t get her to pose for the cover of
Time
magazine these days,” he said.

“I don’t see what she has to hide. I mean, look at Christopher Reeve.”

“Ego, pure and simple,” he said with a shrug. “She’d rather be remembered in all her glory.”

“I guess that means no photos.”

“I’m bringing my camera just in case. It’s only the local paper, after all.” He winked. “Hey, why don’t you come along? I’ll tell her we’re a team.”

“I don’t know,” she said, though it
was
tempting—no one she knew had seen the inside of LoreiLinda. “I should get home.”

Simon logged off. “Why? What’s up?”

Something a lot bigger than Monica Vincent,
she thought, but only shrugged and said, “I have a paper on
Of Human Bondage
that’s due tomorrow, and I haven’t even finished the book.”

“I’ll tell you all about it on the way.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Besides, how often do you get a chance to observe a praying mantis in its natural habitat?”

“She couldn’t be
that
bad.”

“Tell that to Herman Tyzzer.” Herman, a bearded ex-marine who fancied himself a film buff, owned their favorite video store, Den of Cyn. “She spent fifteen minutes reaming him out for not having every one of her movies. Even Blockbuster doesn’t carry them all.”

“I waited on her once at Rusk’s,” she recalled. “She returned a pair of panty hose that looked as if it’d been worn. Mr. Kremer told me to take it back anyway.”

“Smart man.”

“Do you think she’d recognize me?”

“I doubt it. From what I’ve heard, she’s more concerned about people recognizing
her.”
He grabbed his bulging backpack from the floor and slung it over one shoulder.

They were halfway down the stairs before she realized she hadn’t exactly told him she was coming. Simon had just assumed it. Oh well. It’d be worth it just for the stories she could tell.

His car, a battered tan VW Squareback with more miles on it than a 747, was one of the few remaining in the lot. She was opening the door to climb in when she spotted a briefcase-toting figure trudging their way. Recognizing him as her math teacher, she quickly ducked into her seat.

Simon grinned. “What’s wrong—you flunk an algebra test?”

Andie ignored the gibe. Okay, so math wasn’t her strongest subject. “Haven’t you heard? Mr. Hillman was spotted in a gay bar on Sunset Strip.”

“Really?” Simon sounded nonplussed. He started the engine, which sputtered, then caught with a grinding roar.

“Did you know he was gay?”

Her boyfriend shrugged, casting another glance at the teacher—everything about Mr. Hillman was beige: his thinning hair, his coat, his briefcase, even his skin—the last person you’d expect to see in any kind of bar. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m just wondering who’d be stupid enough to rat him out. I mean, think about it, why would you be in a gay bar unless you were gay yourself?”

He has a point,
she thought. After a moment, she said, “My uncle’s gay.”

“The one in San Francisco?” They pulled out of the lot and started down the hill.

“Uncle Kevin, yeah.”

“I’d like to meet him sometime.”

“You two would get along.” The last time she’d seen Uncle Kevin was a year ago when he’d flown her and Justin up for a visit. It was the most fun she could remember having since the divorce.

Simon flashed her a grin. “I’d like anyone who cooks.” He was famous for his appetite, though he never seemed to gain an ounce.

She hesitated before asking, “When am I going to meet
your
family?” In the four months they’d been dating she’d never once been out to his place. It was always one excuse or another.

“You know my sister.” Simon spoke guardedly.

“That’s only because she goes to school here.” Besides, Ricki was a sophomore, which meant they hardly ever saw each other.

“My mom’s hardly ever home. And you wouldn’t find my brothers all that interesting, believe me.”

“Like mine is such a prize?”

“Justin? He’s okay.”

Andie remained puzzled. Simon had gone out of his way to be nice to her brother, helping him with his homework and showing him stuff on the computer. It didn’t make sense that he’d be so dismissive of his own. Was he hiding something? Or—an even more worrisome thought occurred to her—keeping her at arm’s length?

The Squareback belched and rattled its way down the hill, making enough noise to drown out a fleet of Hell’s Angels. In the opposite lane a school bus, empty of its passengers, was trundling along like an old horse returning to its stable. The driver, heavyset Mr. Drill, who moonlighted with his wife as a caterer, waved to a group of damp-haired girls from the swim team, trudging along the shoulder. Andie felt older than those girls by at least a hundred years.

Simon seemed to sense her mood. “Hey, are you okay? You seem a little down.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’re not still mad at me, I hope.”

She slumped back in her seat with a sigh. “It’s not you … things have been kind of weird at home.” Even after two days it hadn’t fully sunk in.

“In what way?” He seemed genuinely interested.

She hesitated. It wasn’t that she cared if he knew—hadn’t she told Finch?—just that it was hard talking about something that still seemed so surreal. “Here’s a news flash for you,” she said in a lightly sarcastic voice meant to distance herself from the whole thing, but which twisted in on itself, grabbing her about the throat instead. “I just found out I have a sister.”

Simon cast her a startled glance, then seeing she was serious whistled through his teeth. “Jesus. How the hell did that happen?”

“The usual way. My mom got knocked up.”

“I’m assuming it was before she met your dad.”

“
Way
before.”

“And she waited all this time to tell you? Wow.” For once even Simon was speechless.

“She says it was for our own good. Can you believe it?” Andie bristled anew at the indignity of it.

Simon shrugged. “Normally intelligent people can have an amazing lack of insight when it comes to their offspring.” He ought to know. In last month’s issue of the
Scribe
Simon had run a column on the realities of teen sex that had outraged parents descending on Mr. Blanton’s office like a flock of screeching crows.

“Now we’re supposed to welcome her with open arms—one big happy family.” It seemed a cruel joke. For the past year and a half she’d wished for things to go back to the way they were before the divorce, but this wasn’t how she’d imagined the empty chair at their table being filled. “I mean, it’s not like my mom
lied
exactly, but isn’t it the same thing?”

They were cruising past the elementary school, where the flag was still at half mast for old Mr. Geiger, who’d died the week before last following a long illness. On the lawn out front a yellow ribbon, drooping now, was tied to the concrete base of the cast-iron bell from the original one-room schoolhouse across town.

“I remember when my dad walked out on us,” he said in an odd, tight voice. “I was nine. All I knew was that he went out for a pack of cigarettes and didn’t come back. It was at least six months before my mom got around to telling us he was never coming home.”

So that’s why he never talked about his dad. She felt a new sympathy for Simon; they had more in common than she’d realized. “The funny thing is, I always wanted a sister,” she told him. “I just never thought it would be like this.”

“Who knows? You might like her.”

“That’s not the point.” Andie thought for a moment, frowning. What
was
the point? “I used to think I knew my mom, but now … I’m not sure. It’s not like the guys she sleeps with that she thinks I don’t know about. It’s like … well, like all of a sudden she’s this whole other person.”

It was the same with her dad. She used to think she was the most important person in his life. Hadn’t he called her his Best Girl? He even had a special little wink he’d give her when siding with her behind her mother’s back. She remembered the mornings he used to wake her while it was still dark to take her fishing at the lake; they always stopped at Lundquist’s for coffee and doughnuts on the way home—something he hadn’t even done with Justin. But everything had changed since the divorce. Cindy was his Best Girl now. Andie was lucky if she saw him once a week.

“I probably wouldn’t even recognize my dad if I saw him now,” Simon said.