Taste of Honey (17 page)

Aubrey moved away from the window. On the stereo, Franck’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in A Major was playing, and he paused to let it sweep through him like a strong breeze blowing away debris. He’d been unsure about this recording at first, with its dreamy, almost Gallic quality and rigid attention to detail, but it was growing on him. Of course none compared to Isabelle’s, but her CDs were tucked away in a drawer. He hadn’t been able to listen to them since she died.

What most people didn’t understand about music, he thought, was that it wasn’t fixed. A recording you’d listened to a hundred times could sound different on the hundred and first. A Bach concerto as precise as a mathematical equation could, in the blink of an eye, move you to tears. Music was merely the framework, he thought, on which hopes and dreams, dashed and otherwise, were hung.

As he descended the stairs Aubrey thought how much simpler everything would be if life were broken into movements. An
adagio
followed by an
allegretto,
the restful quiet of a
pianissimo
after the thunder of a
fortissimo.
Gerry, he thought, would be
con brio
—with spirit. After seeing her he always felt refreshed, like after an invigorating walk. And the sex …

That
hadn’t deserted him, at least. Only in the darkest hours of his darkest days had the urge gone. Gerry Fitzgerald had merely opened the door and let in fresh air and sunlight. Better yet, she gave freely of herself, asking nothing in return. What he wanted was what she wanted too: friendship and intimacy without ties. There would be no demands, subtle or otherwise, no tears when it was time to part. Gerry was the only woman he’d known who’d have run for the hills even faster than he at the sound of wedding bells.

He could hear her in the foyer as he descended the stairs, speaking in a soft voice to Angelita. When she saw him, a look of profound relief washed over her face. Her Spanish, he knew, was as spotty as his housekeeper’s English.

Angelita turned to him. “Señor Roellinger. I bring drink?”

“There’s iced tea in the fridge.” He smiled at Gerry, who looked windblown, her cheeks pink and eyes over-bright. “Unless you’d like something stronger?”

“Iced tea would be fine,” she said.

Angelita hurried off toward the kitchen, a skinny little thing with big brown eyes who made him think of Bambi. Watching her go, he realized that he hadn’t so much replaced Lupe as provided the doughty old retainer with a compromise: Angelita was allowed to do the heavier housework in exchange for Lupe monitoring her every move. It was a tribute to the girl that her great-aunt’s demands hadn’t put a dent in her cheerful nature.

“You’re sure this isn’t a bad time?” Gerry kissed him on the cheek. She smelled of the outdoors and something faintly citrusy, like fresh-picked lemons still warm from the sun.

“I can’t think of a nicer interruption.” When she’d called a few minutes ago, he’d been in the midst of notating a score. But the sound of her voice brought such welcome associations, he’d immediately seized on the excuse to invite her over.

“I promise I won’t stay long,” she told him.

He remembered that today was the day she was to have met her daughter. Had it not gone well? She looked faintly troubled, and it occurred to him that no one could have lived up to her expectations. Perhaps her daughter felt the same way. That was the trouble with people who were missing—a subject he was all too familiar with—they had a tendency to grow larger than life in the mind’s eye. He harbored a tiny seed of suspicion, deep down, that even Isabelle, if she was alive today, couldn’t live up to his glorified memories of her.

“Stay as long as you like,” he said, smiling. “I want to hear all about it.” He took her arm, tucking it through his. “Shall we sit out on the patio? It’s warm enough.”

They strolled past the sun-washed living room with its dark Mission furniture upholstered in bold southwestern fabrics—all of it Sam’s (her taste was exactly his, so he’d seen no reason to change it)—Aubrey recalling his first visit to Isla Verde, not five months ago. Unlike real estate agents who pointed out every virtue until you wanted to toss them out a window, Sam Kiley had let the house speak for itself.

“Take your time. I’m here if you have any questions,” she’d said, pausing in the midst of her packing to gesture vaguely in the direction of the stairs. So he’d done just that, strolling from room to room, absorbing it the way he would a particularly harmonious piece of music: its square solidity softened by Mediterranean curves, its stark whiteness bordered here and there with decorative tiles. The view from each exposure was different, but equally pleasing in its own way. The downstairs windows looked out on the garden, the ones upstairs on the distant hills. It was a house that had been built to withstand fire and earthquakes, and now would hopefully guard against memories of Isabelle.

They stepped out onto the patio, where the swimming pool glimmered an unearthly blue and the citrus trees were hung with the green globes of ripening fruit. The high stone walls draped in bougainvillea seemed to cup the sunlight like a bowl. As they settled onto deck chairs, Aubrey could feel the warm tiles through the soles of his loafers.

Angelita appeared just then bearing a tray with a pitcher of tea and a plate of freshly baked
dulces.
She placed it on the glass table between them and scurried off with her eyes downcast.

“Why do I always get the feeling she half expects to find us romping about naked?” Gerry observed with a laugh.

“Maybe because we usually are.”

“Behind closed doors.”

“If you’d rather we went upstairs—”

“You’re incorrigible.” A teasing smile flitted about her mouth—the mouth he couldn’t get enough of.

“I enjoy your company either way. With or without clothes.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He poured her a glass of tea before helping himself. “Now, about your daughter. What’s she like?”

Gerry’s face lit up. “Oh, Aubrey, she’s everything I’d hoped—pretty, smart, poised.”

“
Oui
. She’s your daughter.”

“I’m still pinching myself.”

He felt a pang and held very still, as if caught on barbed wire. After more than ten years of trying, he and his wife had been overjoyed to learn that a baby was on the way. Now he would never know his child, a son.

He thought of his own childhood. Nine months of the year in the chilly, wet U.K., and June through August with his grandparents in Brittany. He remembered gathering oysters by the bay in Trinité-sur-Mer, his
grandpère
teaching him how to pry open the horny shells. And his
grandmère
with her old-world remedies, like using pulverized cabbage to bring a boil to a head and groundsel to cure stomachache. Their provincial dialect bore little resemblance to the proper schoolbook French he spoke with his father, and amenities were scarce: a well forever threatening to go dry, the only telephone a ten-minute bike ride away. Yet at the end of each summer, when it was time for him to go—to the interminable season at Eton and even more interminable school holidays with his parents in their townhouse on Cheyne Walk—he’d stand on the dock with a lump the size of an oyster in his throat, fighting back tears. To this day, on nights when he couldn’t sleep, he would close his eyes and summon his grandmother’s scent: that of baking bread and sheets drying on the line.

“I’m happy for you,” he told Gerry.

Her expression clouded over at once. “The trouble is, I’m not sure if she likes
me.
”

“Give her time.”

No one could fail to like Gerry. But, of course, he was prejudiced. Aubrey thought of how she’d brightened his life, how in all the months they’d been seeing each other he had yet to grow tired of her. Looking at her now it was hard to believe that only a year ago he hadn’t had the slightest interest in dating.

He recalled their first meeting at the music festival last summer. How vibrant she’d seemed, and how struck he’d been by her utterly refreshing lack of awe. To Gerry he wasn’t the great Aubrey Roellinger, merely a man she found interesting.

“I’m bringing her home tonight to meet the kids,” she told him.

“That should be interesting,” he said.

“That’s putting it mildly.” She groaned.

He wanted to reassure her, but what could he say that wouldn’t be a platitude? Instead, he passed her the plate of Mexican wedding cakes Lupe had baked just this morning.

She took one, nibbling on it halfheartedly. “I still feel like I’m dreaming. All these years of wondering how big she was, if she was doing well in school, if she—” She stopped, bringing a stricken gaze up to meet his.

Aubrey’s vision blurred, and he became aware of a salty taste on the back of his tongue. Tears, he realized with a small jolt. It had been so long since he’d cried.

“My son would have been four this year,” he said quietly.

“Oh, Aubrey … I’m sorry.” She brought a loosely fisted hand to her mouth. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s all right,” he said.

It was the first time he’d spoken of it to her and he felt something tightly knotted inside him loosen a bit. There was no need to elaborate; it was enough that he could speak of the unspeakable without the earth dissolving beneath his feet.

They moved on to other subjects. He told her of his impending trip to Budapest, where he would be guest conductor at an all-Liszt festival featuring soloists from around the world. She, in turn, told him about the article
West
magazine wanted to do on Blessed Bee, and about the difficulty she was having getting the mother superior to agree to it.

When it was time for her to go, they strolled along the covered walkway that led around the side of the house to the small, gated courtyard in front, deeply shaded this time of day, its koi pond glimmering darkly. He took her in his arms and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Are you free next Friday? I have tickets to a concert.”

“I’ll check my calendar.”

It was what she always said, and he smiled because it was the same line he’d used—less sincerely—with other women. There’d been so many after Isabelle, all eager to console him, both in bed and out. He hadn’t had the heart to tell them he wasn’t the least bit interested.

Looking at Gerry now, poised by the pond in the dappled light, he wanted nothing more than to spirit her off to his bedroom. He took her hand instead. Oddly, it was the one thing he missed most about being married: a woman’s soft hand in his.

“We should make a habit of this,” he said.

She drew away with a laugh. “You say that now.”

“I’m serious.”

“Famous last words—you’d be sick of me in a week.”

She dug into her shoulder bag, rooting for her keys. How she could find anything in all that clutter, he would never know. “By the way, Sam wants to know if you’re coming with me to Laura’s wedding. For some reason she seems to expect it.” She paused to smile at some quaint old tradition.

He shrugged. “I’m game if you are.”

“Great. I’ll let her know.”

He waved to her as she stepped through the gates. The heaviness he wore like a sodden jacket had lifted. He felt lighter than he had in days. If Dr. Drier had been right, if
this
was his true business—to live life to the fullest—Gerry Fitzgerald had given him a substantial lease.

CHAPTER SIX

“I
T’S BEAUTIFUL,”
C
LAIRE SAID.

On either side of her were gently rolling pastures in various shades of brown and green, dotted with giant oaks and sycamores and inhabited only by the occasional horse. They’d been driving for nearly an hour and she had yet to see a strip mall or even a neon sign.

“You should see it in the spring. A few months from now all this will be covered in poppies.” Gerry drove with purposeful slowness, like someone accustomed to going faster who was ferrying an elderly relative to the doctor. “When we were little, Dad used to say they were the ghosts of the forty-niners coming back to haunt us.”

“When did he pass away?”

“When I was thirteen.” Claire detected a note of not quite sorrow—what the French called
tristesse
—underneath her matter-of-fact tone.

“Your mom never remarried?” Claire thought of Lou and Millie, together so long they were like salt and pepper. At times it almost seemed as if they could read each other’s minds.

Gerry shook her head. “She was young enough, God knows—only forty. But she always said there was only one man for her, and Dad was it.” She slowed to keep from hitting a squirrel that had scampered into the road. “They met during the war, when Dad was on leave in Dublin. He and his buddies were out one night, and Mom happened to be working in one of the pubs they stopped at. When he told her his name was Fitzgerald, she said she knew then—it was like an omen.” She smiled. “That was my mother’s maiden name, you see.”

My grandparents,
Claire thought, rolling it about in her mind the way she would savor some new and unusual taste on her tongue.

“It wasn’t perfect, mind you,” Gerry went on. “They had their share of problems. My dad … well, let’s just say she had enough backbone for the two of them. Mom kept things going when—” She broke off with a cryptic smile. “You’ll see when you meet her.”

“I can’t wait.” They were on their way there now.

At the same time, Claire felt tense and keyed up, not because Gerry wasn’t bending over backward to please her, but
because
she was trying so hard. How much easier it would be if Claire could go back to Miramonte safe in the knowledge that her parents had been right all along—that Gerry was a shallow, heartless creature with no more feeling for her child than a mother cat for its grown kitten. Instead, with each kind word and hopeful smile, Claire was left feeling as if the knives in their backs were being given a sharp twist.

“I have a younger brother, Kevin,” Gerry went on. “He was a little kid when Dad died.”

“Does he live around here?”

They rounded a bend and a red farmhouse by Grandma Moses swung into view. A hand-painted sign out front read
LEWELLYN’S ANTIQUES
. “He’s in San Francisco,” Gerry told her. “I wish we saw more of him but when he can’t get away, he’ll fly the kids up for a visit.”

Claire could tell from her tone that they were close. “I’m only an hour or so from there,” she said.

“I’ll give you his address. He’s dying to meet you.” Gerry brushed back a dark curl plastered to her cheek. “In fact, you two have something in common: You both love to cook. Kevin’s the executive chef at Ragout. Have you heard of it? It was just awarded three stars.”

“I don’t eat out much.” Claire’s mouth stretched in a humorless smile. Filling in the blanks for Gerry—a brief history of the life and times of Claire Brewster—she realized something: Her life was pretty boring.

“Kevin’s just the opposite—he almost never eats at home. Darryl’s always complaining that he hardly ever sees him.” Claire must have looked puzzled for Gerry was quick to add, “Darryl’s his significant other.”

So her uncle was gay. Claire wondered what her parents would have had to say about
that.
Lou referred to gay men as “queers,” and Millie was certain they were all out to corrupt young boys. “Does your mother know?”

Gerry sighed. “Yes, and no. She knows, but she pretends not to. As far as Mom’s concerned, Darryl is sort of an extended version of Kevin’s college roommate.”

“My parents would die.”

Claire instantly regretted her words. Suppose Gerry got the wrong idea? Whatever their faults, they were her parents. Gerry was just a nice lady she happened to be related to.

Claire was relieved when Gerry answered breezily, “God knows it’s tough enough being a parent even under the best of circumstances. I remember last summer when Andie wanted to get her eyebrow pierced.” She chuckled. “You’d have thought she wanted to join the circus the way I carried on.”

“Who won?”

“We settled on two more holes in each ear instead.”

Claire smiled. “I had a client who wanted it stipulated in his will that if his grandson showed up at the funeral with a ring in his nose, he’d be instantly disinherited,” she recalled.

Gerry tossed her head back in an airy laugh, reflections skating over the lenses of her sunglasses like moving images on a darkened screen. “I’ll bet you could write a book.”

“Not really. In fact,” she gave in to a rueful smile, “most of the time my job is pretty boring.”

“If you could do it all over again, would you still choose to be a lawyer?”

Claire thought of Kitty. “When I was in school, I worked part-time in a tearoom—Tea & Sympathy—how’s that for a name? It’s in an old house and my friend, the owner, does all the baking. If I could, that’s what I’d do—trade places with Kitty.” She shook her head. “But that’s like wishing I could go to the moon.”

“Why couldn’t you?” Gerry spoke as if it were as easy as switching seats in a bus.

“Well, for starters, I don’t know the first thing about running a business.”

“You could learn. And you already know how to cook.”

“As a hobby, not a profession.”

Gerry was silent, as if mulling it over. “If you had a partner …” she said at last, turning onto a one-lane road riddled with potholes. “This friend of yours, for instance. And you know about things like write-offs and tax benefits and such. It
could
work.”

“If either of us had any money, which we don’t.”

“Couldn’t you get a loan?”

“I’m already up to my eyeballs in student loans.”

Gerry smiled. “Well … it was just a thought.”

“More like a pipe dream,” Claire said with a laugh.

“Empires have been built from less.”

How can you know what’s best for me?
Claire thought. Gerry might not think twice about chasing after every whim, but in her world every move had to be painstakingly choreographed. The riskiest thing she’d ever done was come here.

Fortunately, Gerry said no more on the subject. A short while later they pulled into the driveway of a shabby, undistinguished Victorian surrounded by tall shrubs and trees. A bird feeder—St. Francis with his arms outstretched—presided over what was left of the balding lawn. On the porch, wind chimes made from abalone shells stirred in the breeze with a faint cackling sound.

The front door was unlocked. As she stepped inside, Claire caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, but it was only her reflection in the mirrored oak hall stand. She froze in the dimly lit entry. The house smelled of cookies just out of the oven, and felt familiar somehow.

“Mom! It’s me!” Gerry yelled at the top of her lungs. When several moments passed without a response, she explained, “She’s a little hard of hearing.”

“You don’t have to shout, dear. I can hear perfectly well.”

Claire turned to find an old woman walking toward them. She was tall and big boned, with hair the color of rusty wires springing every which way and eyes like chinks of blue sky glimpsed through weathered boards. Claire could see that she’d once been quite beautiful, and as she drew near it was obvious from the way she carried herself that she’d been used to heads turning in her wake.

“You must be Claire.” Fingers like burled wood sanded to a smooth finish closed over hers. “I’m glad you’re here.”

No flowery speech, no embarrassing overtures, just those few simple words. Claire was instantly disarmed. “Me, too,” she said.

“I didn’t know when to expect you, or I’d have dressed up.” She glanced ruefully down at her apron tied over dungarees and a turtleneck sweater in a shade of blue that matched her eyes. On her feet were a pair of sneakers.

“You look fine, Mom,” Gerry told her.

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to see what I look like.” Her piercing gaze fell once more on Claire. “In fact, right now I’ll bet you could use a cup of tea.”

Claire smiled. “You read my mind.”

Mavis smoothed a hand over her rusty hair, tucking a stray wisp behind her ear. “Make yourselves comfortable while I put the kettle on.” She gestured toward the living room beyond. “I’ll only be but a minute.”

Mavis disappeared into the back of the house, and Gerry led the way into a sunny parlor furnished with overstuffed chairs and bric-a-brac. On the floor was an oriental rug worn threadbare in spots. Claire sank down on the worn plush sofa. On the table at her elbow stood a gallery of framed photos—Gerry and her brother at various ages, and more recent ones of grandchildren. Her eye was drawn to one in particular, its handmade frame studded with cowry shells: a little boy and girl building sand castles on the beach.

Gerry followed her gaze. “That was the year Andie started kindergarten. We’d rented a house in Santa Monica the summer before. I thought those two would never come out of the water.”

Memories Claire had no part in. She felt a sudden keen sense of loss. “I grew up a block from the ocean. The best part was falling asleep every night to the sound of the surf.”

“It sounds like heaven.”

It was on the tip of Claire’s tongue to say she hadn’t spent much time on the beach as a child—Millie had lived in perpetual fear that she’d drown, or at the very least be burned to a crisp—but thought better of it.

Mavis reappeared minutes later carrying a laden tray that rattled precariously as she lowered it onto the coffee table. It held a flowered teapot with a chipped spout and matching sugar bowl and creamer, cups and saucers from another set, and a plate of home-baked cookies. Her arthritic hand trembled a bit as she poured. “Sugar?”

“Just a touch,” Claire said.

“I hope you like gingersnaps,” she said, passing her the plate. “They were my children’s favorite.”

“Mine, too.” Claire bit into the cookie, savoring the delicate medley of spices and molasses. “Mmm. Delicious.”

Mavis leaned forward and in a hushed voice confided, “The secret is fresh ginger.”

Claire smiled. “Really? I’ll have to try that next time.”

Mavis broke into the wide smile of someone stumbling across a fellow countryman in an out-of-the-way place. “I can see we’ll get along just fine.”

Then they were off and running, Mavis regaling her with tales of her mother’s famous light touch, and of her own equally famous culinary disasters—told with a jollity conveying that such misfires were well in the past. She offered Claire the recipe for her prized soda bread, and Claire in turn promised to send her a few of her own favorites in turn. After several minutes Claire glanced over at Gerry. She wore the strained smile of someone who felt thoroughly left out but was trying hard not to show it.

At last she stood up, brushing crumbs from her lap. “We should be going, Mom. Listen, why don’t you give Claire a quick tour while I clean up?”

“Nonsense,” Mavis said.
“I’ll
clean up.”

Claire rose to her feet. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs.—uh, Mavis.”

She tagged after Gerry, taking in the big, old-fashioned kitchen that reminded her of Kitty’s, with its walk-in pantry and screened porch. Upstairs were bedrooms papered in faded floral designs and furnished in heavy, dark Grand Rapids suites.

“This was mine,” Gerry told her as they stepped into a small room that overlooked the garden in back. The bed had been removed, in its place a sewing machine and table piled with old patterns and fabric remnants. It didn’t look as if it had been used in a while. Cardboard cartons were stacked against the wall, along with back issues of
National Geographic
and
Saturday Evening Post
bundled with string. Gerry fished inside one of the boxes, pulling out a crumpled manila envelope. She pried open the clasp, spilling its contents—old black-and-white photos—onto the table.

“That’s Mom and Dad on their wedding day.” She pointed to a tinted portrait of a much younger Mavis, radiant in her bridal gown, posed alongside a stocky, light-haired man in uniform. There were photos of newborns, too—Gerry and her brother—wearing the same lacy christening gown. A heavyset older woman in sensible shoes and hat squinting at the camera was identified as Mavis’s mother—the Irish Grandmother Fitzgerald.

“That’s me with Ginger,” Gerry pointed to a snapshot of a gap-toothed little girl holding a puppy in her lap. “Oh, that was some Christmas. They’d left him under the tree in a crate, only Ginger got out and chewed up everything in sight. It was supposed to have been a surprise for us, but the surprise was on Mom and Dad instead.”

There was another photo of a teenaged Gerry in a wedding dress, a crown of rosebuds on her head. “That was the day I took my vows.” She spoke matter-of-factly, though Claire couldn’t help noticing the haste with which she tucked it out of sight.

“But I thought—”

“You’re not a professed nun until your final vows,” Gerry explained.

“How long does that take?”

“I was there almost three years.”

“Would you have stayed if you hadn’t gotten pregnant?”

“I don’t think I was cut out to be a nun. Of course, it took getting hit over the head to realize it.”

“I suppose an abortion would’ve been out of the question.”

Gerry cast her a shocked glance. “I didn’t even consider it. Not for one second.”

But you had no trouble discarding me like an old shoe once I was born,
Claire thought. “Lucky for me.” She didn’t bother to disguise the scorn in her voice.

Gerry ducked her head, stuffing the photos back into the envelope … but not before Claire caught the gleam of tears in her eyes.