The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (108 page)

They should pass out Kleenex at the door,
she thought. Even Simon had taken his glasses off and was wiping them on his shirttail. And he was nothing if not cynical.

Andie reached across him to nudge Finch. “Look.” She pointed at the credits scrolling down the screen. The name Lorraine Wells jumped out at Finch. Before she’d become a Kiley, her name had been Wells—Bethany Lorraine Wells. Andie arched a brow, as if to suggest that there was a connection.

But Finch only shrugged, as if to say,
What of it?

“You could be related,” Andie said as they gathered up their things. “You never know.”

“It’s a common name,” Finch said.

“Still.”

“It’s a stretch.” Simon tugged his backpack out from under his seat. He didn’t go anywhere without it; inside was his notebook and pen, Nikon and minirecorder. You never knew when you’d come across a lead, he’d often said.

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s fate. Did you ever think that there’s a reason you ended up in Carson Springs?” Andie could be like a dog with a bone even when debating something she didn’t necessarily believe in. Whatever the consensus, you’d generally find her on the opposing side. “I remember you telling me that it felt like you’d been here before.”

“Maybe in another life,” Finch joked. They were making their way down the aisle, its carpet littered with popcorn and candy wrappers.

“Don’t you believe in destiny?”

“Sure—as in Destiny’s Child,” Finch cracked.

A tiny seed had taken root nonetheless. What if it was true? Stranger things had been known to happen. And getting off the bus that first day, Finch
had
felt as if she were coming home. Suppose in some weird way it was connected to Lorraine Wells?

By the time they reached the lobby, she’d decided that it was only the movie putting such ideas into her head—all that stuff about the hereafter and souls finding their mates. Like after watching
Salem’s Lot,
when she’d seen a vampire in every shadow.

Glancing about, she saw a number of bloodshot eyes—it seemed she wasn’t the only sucker for a tearjerker—though everyone appeared to be having a good time. Myrna McBride, the red-headed owner of The Last Word, was chatting with the elderly Miller twins, Olive and Rose, dressed in identical seersucker shirtwaists and clutching matching straw purses. And over by the vintage popcorn machine, burly, tattooed Herman Tyzzer from the Den of Cin was regaling the small group gathered around him with little-known facts about the film. Herman was one of the festival’s organizers. He also knew more about movies than anyone.

She waved hello to Dawn and Eve Parrish, Rose’s identical twin granddaughters, a pair of towheads. Dawn sat next to her in bio, and had once brought in a marijuana leaf as part of a project on medicinal herbs. She wouldn’t say where she’d gotten it, but everyone knew her dopehead parents grew it in their backyard. Luckily for her, their teacher hadn’t reported it.

Finch was sorry that Anna couldn’t be there, and she hoped things would get better now that Monica was in rehab. Between her mother and her sister, Anna had her hands full.

They made their way outside, where a light breeze had kicked up. The leaves of the mock orange trees in tubs along the curb rustled as they strolled along the sidewalk. Like the Park Rio, most of downtown Carson Springs was in a time warp. The post office bell tower chimed the hour just as it had for the past seventy years, competing with church bells on Sunday. The fountain at Parson’s Drugs, with its red vinyl stools, still served cream sodas and malteds. And the Tree House Café had been guarding its recipe for cream of chili soup since David Ryback’s grandfather ran it. The only real change, Laura had said, was that a scoop of ice cream at Lickety-Split that used to cost fifty cents was now a dollar fifty.

They were passing Between the Covers, the bookstore owned by Myrna’s ex-husband Peter—the two were bitter rivals—when Andie pointed across the street at The Last Word, the only shop on the arcade with its lights blazing. It was normally closed at this hour; Myrna must have kept it open late because of the festival. “Let’s go in,” Andie said, grabbing Simon’s hand and setting off across the street. They made an odd couple—Andie petite and bouncy, Simon lanky and bookish—yet they worked somehow.

Hurrying to catch up with them, Finch felt unreasonably left out. However much they bent over backward to make her feel included, there was no getting around the fact that she was a third wheel. Not that she hadn’t gotten her share of interest, just that the guys she’d met seemed immature.

At the coffee bar, Andie treated them to lattes and slices of lemon meringue pie. It was a school night, but they were in no hurry to get home—maybe because they never ran out of things to talk about. Simon and Andie were the only ones besides her family and Anna with whom Finch could totally be herself. They didn’t judge her for being behind in some ways and older than her years in others. In her former life, she’d never been in one place long enough to make real friends. Now she had two she could count on through thick and thin.

They were on their way out when a display of books caught her eye. She picked up a slim volume titled
On Location: The Making of Stranger in Paradise,
a sticker on the front identifying its author as local. Before she knew it, she was thumbing through the index. If Lorraine Wells was listed anywhere, it would be here.

Andie peered over her shoulder. “I knew it.”

Finch whirled about, embarrassed. “What?”

“You’re curious. Admit it.”

“Okay, I admit it.” With Andie, it was sometimes easier just to give in. “But that doesn’t mean I think you’re right.”

Simon picked up another copy of the same book and began flipping through it. “I see Orson Wells, but no Lorraine.”

“So that’s it? We just give up?” Andie said.

He shrugged, returning the book to the stack. “Either way, it’s probably a moot point. Chances are she’s dead—or too old to remember much.”

Andie glared at him. “You don’t know that.”

“Why are you making such a big deal of this?” Finch wanted to know.

“I believe in fate, even if you don’t.” She snatched the book out of Finch’s hand and marched over to the register. “Like with my grandparents.”

“What about them?” Finch asked.

“When they met, and Grandma found out his name was Fitzgerald, the same as hers, she knew then and there that they were meant for each other.”

“A name as common as Smith among the Irish,” Simon pointed out, looking bemused. He was used to her flights of fancy—like the time she’d dragged him to a fortuneteller, who’d told him his future included lots of children (which was how he knew she was a fake, because playing dad to his five younger brothers and sisters had made him vow to remain childless). When Andie shot him a dirty look, he was quick to add, “Though I’m sure fate had something to do with it.”

“Look, I know it’s a needle in a haystack, but why don’t we look for her anyway?” Andie said as she took out her wallet and paid for the book.

“Your grandmother?” Simon teased.

“No, dummy.
Lorraine.
” This time she giggled.

Finch sighed. “All right. But I want it on record that I’m not expecting anything to come of it.” The less you expected, she’d found, the less disappointed you were.

She didn’t dare reveal the truth, not even to her best friend: that she longed to know where she’d come from. All her life she’d wondered about her parents—if they were married to other people, if she had sisters or brothers. The thought that she could pass them on the street and not know them nagged at her constantly.

Was Lorraine Wells some long-lost relation? The chances were a million to one. But that didn’t stop her from wondering … and wishing.

Simon volunteered to do a little poking around on his own first. “I’ll talk to this guy, see if he can give us any leads,” he said, seizing hold of the book.

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” Andie flashed him her most dazzling smile. Poor Simon. How could he resist?

On the way back to their cars, Andie talked about her mother and stepfather’s upcoming trip to Europe, and how absolutely amazing it was that she’d been entrusted to look after her little brother while they were away. Since going to her dad’s was out of the question after her disastrous stay earlier in the year, her mom had decided she was old enough to be left in charge. Finch didn’t want to burst her bubble by telling her that being on your own wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Talk turned to the new kid who’d transferred from some prep school back east. Finch hadn’t yet met him, but according to Andie he was just her type—brooding and mysterious. Like Andie would know her type. More to the point, like she had the slightest interest in hooking up with him or
any
guy. Never mind the rumors going around school that she was frigid, or maybe even a lesbian. Let people think what they liked. Would it be better if they knew the truth—that she’d slept with more guys than Madonna?

“I’d better get going. I have to study for a test,” she said as she was hurrying toward Hector’s pickup parked in the municipal lot. “Like there’s any reason you’d ever need to know about the Peloponnesian Wars.” She rolled her eyes.

“Ask Andie; she was probably there in another life.” Simon grinned.

“Bite me,” Andie said sweetly.

“Why is it that in past lives, people always claim to have been someone famous, like Cleopatra or Napoleon?” Finch paused, reaching into her purse for her keys. “Aren’t ordinary people ever reincarnated?”

“One of these days we’ll find out,” Simon said with a wink.

Finch laughed as she waved good-bye, but deep down she wondered uneasily if her own past life might come back to haunt her.

“Hey, faggot!”

“Dude, are you, like, deaf or something?”

“Are all preppies faggots, or is it just you?”

There were two of them, a pair of hulking Neanderthals. Yet the new kid—at least that’s who she assumed he was—remained a picture in studied disinterest as he stood slouched against the bus shelter, squinting off into the distance, his dark shoulder-length hair tucked behind his ears and a tattered paperback of
Catcher in the Rye
under one arm. Finch watched as the two Neanderthals—she didn’t know their names but had seen them around school—began circling their prey. The larger of the two was built like a meat locker, with a buzz cut and beady eyes that brought to mind Bluto from
Popeye;
his shorter bullet-headed sidekick had such bad acne, his face resembled a fully loaded pizza. When they were practically on top of him, the new kid turned at last to look at them with mild interest.

“I’m sorry.” He spoke pleasantly. “Do I know you?”

Finch saw a flicker of uncertainty in Bullethead’s stupid eyes as he turned to his friend. But Bluto only leaned closer to the kid, his jaw thrust forward. “I don’t hang with faggots.” His gaze slithered down the front of the navy blazer the kid wore over his T-shirt. It bore a school crest, she saw.

“Really?” A corner of the kid’s mouth curled up. “Because you seem pretty interested in the subject.”

“Dude, you callin’ my friend a faggot?” Bullethead, all jacked up on adrenaline and maybe something more, jive-stepped to within inches of the kill, thrusting his pimply jaw forward in an unintentionally comic imitation of his friend.

The kid shrugged. “Hey, it’s cool. Everybody’s entitled to his own thing.”

The smirk dropped from Bluto’s face and a flush crept up the sides of his Neanderthal neck. “One more word outta you, asshole,” he growled, “and I’ll rearrange your fucking face.”

Those waiting for the bus just stood there gaping, except Courtney Russo, who was too busy yakking on her cell phone to notice what was going on. But Finch had seen enough. She stalked over. “What’s the matter with you two? You get off on this shit?” She rocked forward on the balls of her feet so that she was eye to eye with Bluto, her heels lifting off the packed dirt littered with cigarette butts and gum wrappers. “Where I come from guys like you get eaten for breakfast.”

“Yeah, and where would that be—the gutter?” Bluto smirked at her. “I heard about you. I heard you were in trouble with the cops before you came here.”

Bullethead let loose a shrill, hyena laugh. He reminded Finch of a toy she’d once had, a clown on a stick with arms and legs that flopped up and down when you pulled a string. “Yeah, I bet it was for turning tricks,” he sputtered.

“How much for a blow job?” Bluto’s smirk had taken on a menacing slant.

She trembled in fury. All her life she’d been dealing with assholes like these—guys with brains the size of their dicks and girls that could’ve taught Lady Macbeth a thing or two. “First,” she said, speaking loudly enough for the others to hear, “I’d have to find it.”

“Fuck you, bitch!” Bluto flicked her shoulder hard enough to throw her off balance. She stumbled and caught her foot against a tree root, reeling backward to land on her rear end. A hard jolt traveled up her spine, and the world went a little fuzzy. When the kid stepped between her and Bluto, it seemed to take place in slow motion.

“Back off,” he ordered.

“Yeah, and who’s gonna make me?” Bluto gave him a hard shove that caused him to stagger.

The kid just stared at Bluto. That’s when Finch noticed his eyes: They were blue-black, the color of dreams she’d had of falling endlessly in space.

As if some silent signal had been given, the onlookers gathered into a huddle. On the other side of the parking lot, the American flag over the lawn whipped smartly in the breeze, the hollow clanking of its pulley against the pole like an alarm being sounded.

Bullethead flicked an uncertain glance at his sidekick, braying with a patently false bravado, “Watch it, Dude. Me and Dink, we’ll fucking an-i-uh-late your ass.”

The kid ignored him to eye Bluto, who was advancing on him like a one-man commando division. “You heard me.” His voice was low and unafraid. “I said back off.”

Bluto either wasn’t listening or didn’t care. He charged, head lowered and fists cocked, swinging his arm in a clumsy roundhouse blow. But the kid was quicker, landing a hard uppercut to his belly. Finch heard a
huhhnh
of escaping breath and saw Bluto lurch backward, his face flooding with color. The look of utter astonishment he wore might have been comical if she hadn’t seen what was coming next: Bullethead getting ready to jump the kid from the rear.