The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (10 page)

He kissed her, the scent of her on his lips like some exotic new fruit. Sam surprised herself by responding just as greedily as before. She ran her hands over him,
all
of him. Ian seemed to revel in her appetite, in each timid exploration that grew bolder. When he pushed her away it was only to whisper huskily, “No. I want to be inside you when I come.”

He reached up, groping for a condom on the narrow shelf overhead. She thought:
In my day? It would’ve been me getting up to put in my diaphragm.

She smiled at the idea. The last time she’d had a period was…well, she’d lost count. Pregnancy was the least of her worries. “You don’t have to,” she said, putting a hand over his and feeling the sharp edges of a foil packet.

He hesitated even so. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Then he was straddling her, and she was opening her legs to take him in. Rocking to an age-old rhythm, their sweaty bodies making small sucking sounds as they came together and apart, heat flashing like summer lightning through her belly and thighs.

She teetered deliriously on the edge of release. When it finally came it was longer and deeper than the first time. As if her blood had been replaced by a warm elixir coursing through her. Ian held back as long as he could then with a single, hard thrust let go. He climaxed with a yell that was almost savage.

He collapsed atop her, panting. Sweat trickled into the crevices between their joined limbs. She could feel his heart racing…or was it hers?

After a minute or so, she eased out from under him. “My God,” she breathed. “I had no idea. All those years, innocently going about my business, and the whole sexual revolution passed me by somehow.” She shook her head, and began to laugh giddily.

He smiled lazily, reaching up to tuck a hank of hair behind her ear. “You’re a quick study.”

“I have an excellent teacher.”

Sam realized that this was okay, too. Bantering. Making light of something so momentous…for her, at least. Sex didn’t have to be spoken of only in sacred whispers.

“Does this mean we’ll see each other again?”

He spoke lightly, teasingly almost, but his eyes studied her in the half light. What he was really asking, she knew, was whether or not she had the guts.

“I’d like that,” she hedged.

“That’s not exactly a yes.”

“It’s not a no, either.”

“Are you afraid of what people might say?”

“I
know
what they’ll say.” She sighed. “Oh, Ian. It’s easy for you. I’ve lived in Carson Springs all my life. People know me as Mrs. Kiley, the nice lady who runs Delarosa’s. I’ve raised two lovely daughters, and buried a husband everyone thought was a saint. I subscribe to
Sunset
magazine, for heaven’s sake. Are you beginning to get the picture?”

He brought a hand to her cheek. “If those people are your friends, wouldn’t they want you to be happy?”

“I
am
happy,” she said a bit defensively.

“There must be something more you want.”

His eyes gleamed in the muted light.
He could have anyone,
she thought.
What does he see in me?
Even as she wondered, she found herself wrapping her arms about his neck and pulling him close to whisper, “There
is.
Make love to me again. Once more before we go.”

They spent the remainder of the day in bed, until hunger forced them down into the world. Ian unearthed bread and cheese from the refrigerator, and made toasted cheese sandwiches—which tasted heavenly—chased by strong coffee in anticipation of the ride home. When it was finally time to go, she felt as if she were waking from a lovely dream.

It was after eleven by the time they pulled up in front of her house. She noticed the lights still on in the guest house. No sooner had he driven off than the windows went dark—Lupe ending her watch. It seemed a bellwether of things to come. If she couldn’t escape scrutiny in her own home, what would it be like with the whole town watching?

After a restless night, Monday morning dawned clear and cool. The mechanic at the garage informed her that her Honda wouldn’t be ready until Wednesday, so she rode into town with Guillermo. They sat in companionable silence, the windows of his old Ford pickup rolled down, the smoke from his Camel blowing across her in a thin, bluish stream: an old man with a mustache stained yellow from nicotine—as taciturn as his wife was talkative—and a middle-aged woman reflecting unhappily on the choice she was about to make.

She didn’t regret what had happened with Ian—it had been so long, even God would have to agree she was owed. But her life was too complicated; there would be repercussions. Her daughters, for one. Her friends, too, all except Gerry.

Then there was Ian, mature in the ways that had thrilled her in bed, but what did he know about a real relationship? About
life,
for that matter? A life of marriage and motherhood, community activities and clubs. He couldn’t begin to understand what this would do to her…or what he’d be getting into.

No, what she regretted was not being entirely honest with him, not closing the door all the way.

Guillermo, on his way to the hardware store, dropped her off a few blocks from Delarosa Plaza. Sam didn’t mind the walk; it would help clear her head. She strolled past the photo store, remembering the film she’d meant to drop off, still in a drawer at home. In light of yesterday’s activities, her daughter’s wedding seemed a distant memory. At the Bow-Meow pet shop, she paused to peer in the window at the puppies—probably from the puppy mills that Laura, as a charter member of Lost Paws, campaigned against religiously. Sam indulged in a smile nonetheless; they were so cute.

She passed Françoise’s Creperie, from which delicious smells wafted. Inside she could see the owner bustling about behind the counter, a petite woman with cheeks flushed almost as red as her hair. Anyone expecting a French accent would have been disappointed, though. Françoise’s real name was Fran O’Brien, and she spoke a thick Brooklynese. Sam recalled when she’d first moved to the area, seven years ago. Her husband had walked out, leaving her with two young children to raise on a secretary’s salary. With help from her parents she’d pulled up stakes and moved three thousand miles to fulfill a lifelong dream. Now her little eatery was one of the most popular in town. Sam often spotted Fran’s kids, teenagers now, helping out after school.

At Ragtime she caught sight of Marguerite Moore, on her way out the door. Sam arranged her face in what she hoped was a cheerful expression. “Morning, Marguerite.” It didn’t hurt to be nice. The thrift shop raised money for the music festival, and as much as Sam might dislike her, the woman put in more hours than anyone…even if she ignored the efforts of those, like Sam, who worked for a living as well.

Marguerite pinned a smile in place, a heavyset woman dressed to the nines, sporting a diamond ring that could have put an eye out. “Sam, I was just thinking of you.” She brandished a manila envelope. “I finished typing up the minutes from our last meeting. I was just running out to make copies.” Sam knew it stuck in her craw that she was forced to play second banana. Not an opportunity passed without Marguerite letting everyone know how tirelessly she toiled.

Sam plucked the envelope from her plump, bejeweled hand. “Why don’t you let me take care of it? I have a copier at the store.”

Marguerite’s face fell. “Well, if it’s no trouble—”

“No trouble at all. Bye, Marguerite.” Sam smiled as she sailed past.

Rounding the corner onto Old Mission, she saw that the Tree House Cafe was packed as usual, with a line of people spilling onto the sidewalk. Children clambered in and out of the tree house in the centuries-old live oak at the center of its large screened patio, while their parents enjoyed the opportunity to sip coffee and thumb through one of the dog-eared paperbacks from the bookcases in back. Waitresses scurried in and out of the small building housing the kitchen and gift shop.

Sam waved to its owner, David Ryback, making a run to Ingersoll’s—for more of its buttermilk crullers, no doubt. David, the star of the football team when he and Laura were in high school together, waved back distractedly. She’d heard his son Davey was in the hospital again, and made a mental note to send a card.

Crossing the street, she stopped at Higher Ground for coffee and muffins. Minutes later she was strolling through the arch onto the plaza. Delarosa’s stood at the farthest edge of the half-moon-shaped courtyard, flanked by shops on either side. The buildings were identical—Spanish-style adobe trimmed in colorful tiles and wrought-iron grilles. A terra-cotta overhang provided shade against the sun, and carved wooden benches respite for weary shoppers. Bougainvillea flowed in crimson waves down the high stone walls, and at the center of the courtyard, a tiered Moroccan fountain splashed in three-part harmony.

She pushed open the door to the shop. Laura was bent over the counter in back, arranging something inside the display case. Sam held up the paper sack in her hand. “They were all out of blueberry. I got you banana-nut instead.”

“Fine.” Laura flashed her a distracted smile. Sam walked over to see what she was putting out. “I don’t remember ordering these.”

Laura arranged a necklace on the top shelf, and then straightened. “You were so busy with the wedding,” she said. “I didn’t want to bother you. Unusual, aren’t they?”

Sam stooped to peer at the jewelry. Unusual? More like bizarre. Each piece with a bug cast in epoxy as its centerpiece—ladybugs, beetles, crickets, bees. Strangely beautiful in their own way, but at the same time…

“I’m not sure our customers are ready for this,” she said, frowning. “Isn’t it a bit too—” She searched for the word.

“Funky?” Laura put in. “That’s the whole
point,
Mom. We need to attract a younger crowd. Remember those Japanese hair sticks? They sold out in just two days. The kids loved them.”

It had been her daughter’s idea to carry smaller, less expensive items like jewelry and key rings. Sam had worried it would detract from the high-end goods for which Delarosa’s was known.

One brooch in particular caught her eye: an iridescent beetle framed in silver leaves. She fingered it thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, how’s our runaway? I meant to call you yesterday. I just never got around to it.” She thought of Ian, which had the effect of a drug, causing her to grow warm and heavy limbed.

Laura sighed. “She seems healthy, and God knows she eats enough, but you’d think she materialized out of thin air. I don’t know any more than you.”

“No word on her parents?”

“If they’re even in the picture. Poor kid. She tiptoes around like she’s scared of getting hit.”

“Or the police getting involved.” Sam recalled the girl’s terror at the wedding. “What are you going to do with her?”

“Give it a few days, see what happens.” Laura shrugged, but there was no hiding her concern.
The patron saint of lost souls,
Sam thought. “In the meantime, I have my hands full with Maude. Would you believe her son had a sudden change of heart and wants her to move back in with him?”

“I’d forgotten she even had a son.”

“I think Maude was starting to forget, too.”

“Can’t she tell him she’s happy where she is?”

“She tried.” Flags of indignation stood out on Laura’s cheeks. “I told her she’s got to stand up to him.
Make
him listen.”

“What’s stopping her?”

“Misplaced loyalty.” A corner of Laura’s mouth hooked down in a wry smile. “She seems convinced he has a heart.”

She was sliding the door to the display case shut when Sam impulsively reached inside and snatched up the brooch. She fastened it to her lapel, and stepped back to admire it in the mirror. The ancient Egyptians believed scarabs brought luck; maybe it would do the same for her.

Laura gave a nod of approval. “I wouldn’t have thought so…but, yes, it’s you. Definitely. Keep it up, Mom, and you might start a trend.”

Sam smiled. “If I don’t scare our customers off first.”

She did a quick walk-through to make sure everything was in order, marveling, as she often did, at the elegant emporium that had evolved from her great-grandparents’ cramped general store. Even in her parents’ day it had been a hodgepodge—bolts of fabric, kitchen utensils, crockery in every shape and size. She recalled her petite mother forever climbing onto a wooden stepladder to reach the highest shelves, and her father rolling up his sleeve to scoop butterscotch and peppermints from the jars on the counter.

In the years since, housewares had gradually given way to high-end arts and crafts: hand-loomed textiles and Native-American baskets, imported glassware, one-of-a-kind ceramics. She fingered an embroidered tablecloth. A hinged box fashioned from layers of glass, in which tiny beads shifted and flowed, sat on the small pine table beside it. The one remaining vestige of her grandparents’ day was the punched-tin pie safe in which jars of honey bearing the distinctive Blessed Bee label were displayed.

The bell tinkled. She looked up to see Anna Vincenzi pushing her sister’s wheelchair through the door. Monica, in a yellow silk tunic top and matching trousers, her auburn hair twisted into a loose knot, might have been an empress on her throne.

“Samantha, darling, you’re just the one I wanted to see,” she trilled. “My agent’s birthday is coming up, and he’s been so very, very good to me. I need something special to show my appreciation.” She coyly fingered a curl. Her career as an actress might have ended with the accident that left her paralyzed, but Monica was still playing the part of femme fatale.

Sam put on her warmest smile, directing it briefly at Monica before allowing it to settle on Anna, as plain and mousy as her sister was ravishing. “I know just the thing.”

She led the way to a display of art glass against the wall. “This is our most popular executive gift.” She picked up a paperweight layered with blues and whites swirled to resemble a world globe.

Monica gave it only a cursory glance. “Perfect. I’ll take it. Oh, and don’t bother with gift wrapping.” She waved a crimson-nailed hand at her sister. “Anna takes care of all that.”