Taste of Honey (3 page)

The image rose once more: bright blue eyes peering from the folds of a blanket, a feathery tuft of hair. She felt a profound sense of sorrow sweep over her. That baby girl was gone forever. Gerry would never again hold or cuddle her; she could only hope to know the woman her baby had grown up to be. She slipped her hand into her pocket, once more fingering the envelope and seeing in her mind the address neatly typed at the bottom of the letter inside:
Claire Brewster, 457 Seacrest Drive, Miramonte.
That’s what had gotten to her the most, that all this time she’d been so close, just half a day’s drive up the coast. She recalled the weekend, six years ago, that she and Mike had spent in the quaint seaside town, strolling along the wharf, with its rows of tacky tourist shops, where they’d warmed themselves with bowls of thick chowder and peered through cloudy windows at saltwater taffy being made. To think she might have passed right by Claire and not have known it.

The caroling drifted to a close. They were mounting the steps that led up a steep slope to the mission, perched in theatrically lit splendor atop the grassy knoll overlooking the park. Another, smaller spotlight was trained on the creche, artfully banked in poinsettias—dozens and dozens, in every shade ranging from pale pink to blood red—that gave the illusion of a tropical island inhabited by Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the Three Kings. She was reminded of the Christmas Eve some years back when the manger had been found empty, the baby Jesus missing and a live infant left in its place: a tiny boy just hours old. The mystery hadn’t remained unsolved for long. Within hours his remorseful mother, a popular junior at Portola High, had shown up to claim him, and after much ado the authorities released him into her parents’ custody. The following morning, Christmas Day, the infant Jesus reappeared in the manger, none the worse for the wear. These days she often saw Penny Rogers around town with her little boy, who looked happy and well cared for. Gerry always made a point of being friendly.

Inside, the church was packed, with standing room only. She quickly lost sight of Sam and Ian, and had to keep a close eye on her children lest she be separated from them as well. Andie cast one last longing glance at her friends before joining her and Justin. Together, they made their way up the narrow flight of stairs to the choir loft, where they were lucky to find three seats together.

Gerry preferred the loft. From her bird’s-eye view, she could see the whole sanctuary: the ancient hand-hewn timbers and paneled walls darkened with age, the niches displaying painted wooden statues of saints, and the alcove, accessed by a decorative wrought iron gate, where the stone baptismal font stood. A deep peace stole over her. It didn’t matter that she’d failed miserably as a nun and even now often railed against Catholic doctrine. Within the comforting embrace of these old walls, steeped in smoke and incense, the ancient rituals never failed to work their magic.

Her gaze fell on her old friend Father Dan Reardon, resplendent in his gold vestments at the altar: a priest with a ploughman’s build and the gentle heart of a child. In the golden glow cast by the candelabra at both ends of the tabernacle, he might have been the larger-than-life star of some biblical epic. Wasn’t it Fran O’Brien who’d once sighed that for a man as handsome as Dan to be off-limits was downright cruel? Gerry happened to agree, though she knew that the constant stream of female attentions he received were as lost on him as the
Mona Lisa
on a blind man.

Following a soaring rendition by the choir of “What Child Is This?” led by Lily Ann Beasley on the organ, they all stood for the opening prayer, the sounds of shuffling feet and riffling pages as soothing as the wind rustling through the trees outside.

The first reading was from Micah, prophesying the advent of the promised one in Bethlehem. The second, from Hebrews, told of the second covenant. But it was the gospel reading, from Luke, with its reference to the infant Jesus in Mary’s womb, that spoke to Gerry most.

Father Dan seemed to be looking straight up at her as he lifted his head from the prayer book that lay open on the pulpit before him. But she was imagining things. How could he possibly have singled her out? She shivered even so, glancing at Andie and Justin on each side of her. No, she wasn’t a complete failure. She’d raised two beautiful children, after all.

The thought did nothing to dispel the certain knowledge that she’d failed her firstborn. Why couldn’t she have done the same with Claire? Looked after her and loved her? Gerry bowed her head in prayer:
Dear Lord, if there’s a way to make this right, help me find it.

The sermon was short and to the point. Father Dan told the true story of a married couple who’d won several million in a lottery and given every penny of it to charity. More like a football coach rallying his team than a priest reminding them of their Christian duty, he urged everyone to do as the couple had and find room in their hearts for those in need.

Before long, she and her children were descending the stairs to join the congregants making their way to the altar. As she waited her turn to take Communion, it occurred to her that it’d been months since her last confession. What was the point if she was going to keep on committing the same sins over and over? Her extracurricular activities might be frowned on by the Church, but in her opinion—albeit hard-won—there was nothing wrong with two grown-ups enjoying a bit of companionship and mutual satisfying of appetites.

The thought of Aubrey’s supple fingers playing over her naked limbs rose unbidden to warm her cheeks. His breath that smelled faintly of the Gauloises he smoked. His—

A bolt of lightning shot down through her belly. Her Christmas present to herself, she thought, if she could steal away, would be an hour or two with Aubrey in the big oak bed at Isla Verde.

Then they were all shuffling to their feet for the final hymn: “Angels We Have Heard on High.” A lusty contralto soaring behind her caused Gerry to steal a glance over her shoulder. She was surprised to find the voice belonged to Vivienne Hicks, the mousy town librarian. Vivienne’s head was thrown back, the cords in her neck standing out. Where had this talent come from? Why hadn’t Gerry noticed it before? It was as if her world had been turned inside out like a pocket, revealing all sorts of things she’d never known were there.

On her way out, she dipped her fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross before stepping out into the cold. In the belfry above, the campanario bells were pealing. She glanced at Andie and Justin, their frosty breath punctuating the night air. Soon they would have to know. She would have to find a way to tell them. But first she needed to meet with Claire. At the thought, a small sharp tug like a pulled stitch caused her chest to tighten.

Suppose she doesn’t want to meet me?

By the time they reached the car, parked all the way over on El Paseo, she was chilled to the bone. Gerry wanted nothing more than to be curled up in front of the fire at Sam’s, but it would’ve been unthinkable to skip their annual stop at the People’s Tree. Even the kids didn’t complain when, a mile or so down the road, she turned off Willow onto Old River.

The tree, a towering Spanish cypress featured on postcards at Shickler’s Drugs and no doubt in Gayle Warrington’s brochures, stood smack in the center of Old River, a short distance from the junction where it met up with Highway 33. A number of years ago, when the road was going in, the town council had called an emergency meeting two weeks before Christmas to decide what to do about the tree. The obvious thing would have been to cut it down, since to jog around it would’ve meant either blasting into the steep embankment on one side or bringing the road down into the dry creek bed on the other. Yet to the people of Carson Springs, its venerable trees were just this side of sacred. The vote had been unanimous in favor of letting it stand, and the road was merely widened to allow access on either side. In honor of the decision, and because it was Christmas, after all, someone had anonymously hung an ornament. Soon other ornaments began to appear until the whole tree was covered. A tradition that, in the decades since, had become as deeply rooted as the tree itself.

They parked and got out. The road was deserted. Almost perfectly centered, the People’s Tree, decked in all its finery, rose tall and dark and majestic. Justin scampered up the ladder that had been set up alongside it, taking his time finding a branch for his ornament: a Styrofoam ball studded with colored pushpins that he’d made himself. After it was hung, he leaned back to admire it, a hooded silhouette against the starlit sky.

“It’s not the same without Dad.”

Andie sounded so wistful, Gerry’s heart went out to her. “I know,” she said, silently cursing her ex-husband.

“I’m not sorry, though. About Tahoe. I wouldn’t have wanted to go anyway.”

“I’m sure he would have asked if …” She let the sentence trail off. For her kids’ sake, she made a point of sticking up for him, but at that moment couldn’t think of a single valid excuse.

“Whatever,” Andie said with an elaborate shrug.

“There’ll be other trips,” Gerry said.

“No, there won’t. She doesn’t like me.”
She,
meaning Cindy.

Gerry was about to dish out the usual pap about Mike’s new wife’s adjusting to stepchildren, but thought better of it. “I wouldn’t take it personally. She doesn’t strike me as the motherly type.”

Cindy was clearly more interested in spending Mike’s money than in spending time with his kids. But she wasn’t the problem. Mike was the one with his head up his ass.

“Do you think they’ll ever have kids?” Andie asked with a note of trepidation.

“I doubt it.” Cindy was still young enough, in her mid-thirties, but far too self-absorbed.

Andie tilted her head to look up at Gerry. “Did you and Dad want more?”

It was as if Andie had somehow picked up her thoughts. Gerry could feel the folded envelope in her pocket glowing like a coal through the heavy wool of her coat.

“We talked about it.” She kept her voice light. “With kids as great as you two, how could we not?”

Andie’s face was a pale oval, her curly black hair barely visible in the surrounding darkness. The divorce had hit her hardest for some reason, maybe because. growing up, she’d always been Daddy’s little girl. “Why didn’t you?”

Gerry shrugged. “Things weren’t so great with us by then,” she said. “I guess we both knew another baby would’ve been the wrong way to try to fix things.”

Andie looked thoughtful, and Gerry had a sudden piercing image of the woman she would grow up to be—beautiful and strong and fearless. Then the moment passed and Andie was yelling up at her brother, “Come
on,
Justin. I’m freezing my buns off down here!”

Justin shouted back, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

He was descending the ladder when he slipped, skidding down several rungs. Gerry’s heart bumped up into her throat, but before she could rush over to catch him, his foot found purchase and he pulled himself upright, the only casualty an ornament that caught the breeze and went sailing off into the dry creek bed below—a small paper cherub, its wings glimmering faintly in the spiny grasp of the Joshua tree in which it had landed.

“Mom, no,” Andie squealed.

But Gerry was already slipping her shoes off and scrambling down the rocky embankment. Twigs and small sharp stones dug into the tender soles of her feet. Why was she doing this? She couldn’t have said. When she reached the creek bed, glittering white in the starlight with a thin rind of frost, she saw that the Joshua tree was taller than it had looked from the road, the cherub snared in its highest branch. She searched amid the weeds along the embankment, ignoring the small voice in the back of her mind warning of rattlesnakes and other small creatures of the night, until she found a stick long enough to knock it loose.

“Mom, leave it,” Andie called. Justin joined in, “Hey, it’s no big deal!”

But she couldn’t leave it. For some reason the thought of that cherub stranded far from its brethren was too much to bear. She swung at it with the stick, reminded of when she used to swat at piñatas as a child and feeling a little foolish dancing about under the stars in her bare feet. It took several tries, but she finally managed to free it.

Moments later, her children watched in silence as she climbed to the top of the ladder and secured it to a branch alongside a lumpy angel fashioned from pipe cleaners and tinfoil.

“You’re not like other mothers, you know,” Justin observed as they were making their way to Sam’s in Gerry’s Toyota Corolla that had nearly 180,000 miles on it and was due for either an overhaul or the junkyard. His voice was tinged with admiration.

“What he means is, you’re weird,” Andie said helpfully.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Gerry smiled.

They bumped and lurched along the unlit, potholed road, the People’s Tree in the rearview mirror glimmering faintly like something more imagined than real. It was Christmas Eve, her children safe and sound. What more could she ask?

Sam had done more than bake a cake. They arrived to find plates of homemade cookies, a bowl of buttered popcorn, and enough hot cocoa to have warmed Washington’s troops at Valley Forge. Her little house in the Flats glowed inside and out. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the Christmas tree, decked with antique ornaments passed down through generations of Delarosas, sparkled with dozens upon dozens of white pinpoint lights.

“Either you’ve gone stir-crazy or I’ve stumbled onto the set of a Kathie Lee Gifford Christmas special,” Gerry teased.

“The former, I hope,” Sam replied with a laugh. She’d changed out of her church clothes into a forest-green velour caftan that made her look queenly as she moved about in her graceful, if slightly swaybacked, waddle. “I just hope this baby comes before I run out of projects. Promise me one thing: If I take up needlepoint, you’ll have me committed.”

“Deal.” They shook on it.

“Speaking of projects, wait till you see what Ian’s done with the nursery.”

They left Andie and Justin with Ian, who was showing them a new computer game, and Sam ushered her down the hall. Gerry stepped inside the nursery to find the antique spool crib trimmed in calico bunting, and the white wicker changing table neatly arrayed with supplies. But it was the wall across from the crib that caught her attention and made her gasp. It was covered in an elaborate mural depicting a host of nursery-tale figures. Ian had to have been working on it for months.