The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (70 page)

It seemed only natural when they kissed.

She drew away with a gasp, whispering in a low, trembling voice, “No … we can’t.”

“I’m sorry … my fault … I shouldn’t have.” He felt an almost crushing despair coupled with a sweet, uplifting relief: He’d stumbled but hadn’t fallen.

“No, it was my—”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, Jim.” She exhaled deeply, pressing up against him: warm and soft and yielding.

He kissed her again, both of them shivering as if the door had been flung open to let in the cold and sheeting rain.

Then somehow they were in the bedroom with their clothes off, Gerry’s pale skin glowing with a pearly luminescence except where a dark triangle disappeared between her thighs, her full breasts—the thought of them all these years later brought a faint stirring in his loins—spilling onto the worn chenille spread, soft and inviting.

He’d never been with a woman until then. Sex had been divided into two distinct categories: the sacred unions alluded to in the Bible and the animal grunts he’d heard through the thin wall of his parents’ bedroom. Gerry was somewhere in the middle: shy and virginal, with more than a touch of wantonness. As thunder boomed and lightning strobed—bringing the crucifix on the wall over the bed to life in brief, stark flashes like exclamation points—she grew bolder, stroking and teasing him to a frenzy. He could hardly believe it was her first time. Not until he entered her and she cried out did he know for sure. Then every conscious thought was obliterated by the fearsome heat in his loins, mounting to a point that seemed to verge on madness itself. Gerry cried out again, not in pain this time, her legs tightening about his, her fingers digging into his flesh. Then he was lost as well, tumbling over and over down the slippery slope he’d spent his entire adult life painstakingly climbing.

In the days and weeks that followed he couldn’t walk into his bedroom without thinking of her: her soft breasts and beckoning thighs, her lips crushed against his like bruised petals. He would see the crucifix gazing down on him with blank detachment and wonder, Was God testing him in some way? Would he emerge from this a better priest? Or was it the devil’s work? Either way, it had to end.

Then she would appear and he’d be no more able to prevent what happened next than his father had been able to keep from drinking. Except for a few fleeting moments here and there, like the lightning flashes that had simultaneously lit his way into heaven and hell that first night, he hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences. Incredible as it seemed to him now, he hadn’t thought of the child that might—
had
—come of it.

Now, all these years later, Jim Gallagher lowered his head into his hands. He was trembling all over as if chilled to the bone, though his skin was feverish to the touch. The years he’d spent convincing himself it was all a wonderful, terrible dream—a spell that’d been cast over him—had been in vain. All at once he was back in the rectory at St. Xavier’s, reliving the awful moment when Gerry had told him she was pregnant.

And now she’d turned up again, like the proverbial bad penny. Except that it was her child—
their
child—she’d sent in her place, a young woman who bore so striking a resemblance to him it was all he’d been able to do to maintain his composure.

He had to find a way to stop the infection from spreading. All these years he’d known where Gerry was, that she was still within the community, close enough to do him harm. For a long while he’d feared she
would
seek revenge, but with the passage of time he’d worried less and less. For whatever reasons—reasons that probably had more to do with her than with him—she’d chosen to keep their secret. Only a select few, that he knew of, had been entrusted with it, and of those only two were still living—Sister Agnes and the current superior, Mother Ignatius.

But now that their child was here there would be no sweeping her under the rug. The rumors would begin again—rumors he’d been able to squelch once but might not be able to again. His only hope was to sever any connection Gerry had with the Church. The less contact, the less likely this was to reach the ears of the archbishop. A long shot to be sure, or perhaps only the desperate measure of a desperate man, but what other choice did he have?

He thought of Brian Corcoran, his old friend from the seminary. He’d had lunch with Brian just last week—he saw a lot of old friends these days, friends that might not have looked him up had he not had the ear of the archbishop—and hadn’t Brian mentioned in passing that his sister Caitlin was assistant superior at the mother house in San Diego?

The chevron in Father Jim’s forehead deepened into something that, had he glanced in the mirror just then, would have profoundly disturbed him. It might have been the mark of Cain. At last he rose on unsteady legs, the ache in his bones so deep it made him think of those underground fires that burn for decades, and hobbled over to his rolltop desk, where he thumbed through his address book, then picked up the phone.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked.

The man in stained chef whites who’d emerged from the kitchen to greet her was angular and loose limbed, with cropped carrot hair and a boyish quality to his finely lined face that instantly put her at ease.

“To hell with it.” He ignored her outstretched hand to scoop her into a bear hug. “I can’t think of a nicer interruption.” He drew back to smile at her, tiny creases like sun rays radiating from the corners of his bright blue eyes. “My sister made me promise not to bug you, or I’d have come to see you myself. She said you’d met the entire Fifth Division and needed time to sort it all out.”

Claire smiled back, disarmed. “Something along those lines.”

“Have a seat while I scare up some coffee.”

He gestured about at the dining area, deserted but for a lone waiter putting the finishing touches to the table settings. Ragout occupied the top floor of a gingerbread Victorian, and had a bay window with a view of the Golden Gate rising from the fog like some fabled city of yore. Its formality was offset by the vintage circus posters on the walls and whimsical arrangements—like the one of artichokes and oat grass on the harvest table in the center of the room—taking the place of more traditional floral displays. She’d looked it up in
Zagat’s,
which had given it a rating of twenty-six with special mention of the decor, but hadn’t expected it to be quite so charming. After her morning with Father Gallagher, it was as welcome as a warm jacket on a freezing day.

Gerry’s brother reappeared a few minutes later with steaming mugs and a plate of crostini, which he pushed toward her. “I’m experimenting. I’d like your opinion.”

She helped herself to one, and her mouth was flooded with a range of subtle flavors. “Amazing. What’s in it?” She reached for another, suddenly aware that she’d skipped breakfast.

“A mixture of red pepper, shallots, and salmon roe.” He sat back, regarding her with open curiosity that somehow didn’t seem intrusive. “My sister tells me you like to cook.”

She felt herself flush. “I’m not in the same class as you.”

“Hey, we’re related, aren’t we?” His smile broadened, showing the slight gap between his front teeth. “She told me some other stuff, too. But it would only embarrass you, so I won’t repeat it.” His expression let her know it was complimentary.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“Don’t believe a word of it.” He winked.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner.”

“I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d decided to chuck the whole lot of us.”

Claire gave a guilty start. Hadn’t she considered doing just that?

“It
is
a little overwhelming,” she admitted.

“I can’t imagine waking up one day to a whole new set of relatives. It’s hard enough dealing with the ones I have.”

“How so?”

Kevin sipped his coffee. “Except for Gerry and me, the term ‘dysfunctional family,’ as far as I’m concerned, is an oxymoron. They’re
all
Looney Tunes.”

“The trouble is, they never see it that way.”

He chuckled. “Don’t I know it. Here, have the rest.” He nudged the plate in her direction. “Try growing up gay in a small town. I was outed by my gym teacher, who yelled at me in front of the whole class to get my faggoty little ass off the field.”

Claire was appalled. “What did you do?”

“Got my faggoty little ass off the field—and kept right on going. Straight home to my mother, who had a fit when I told her why I wasn’t in school. You’d have thought Jesus died all over for my sins alone.” If he’d been traumatized at the time, he seemed to be over it now. “What about you? Any skeletons in the closet? Any Dutch elm disease in the family tree?”

“Not that I know of.” She told him about Lou and Millie and what it was like growing up in the house on Seacrest, skimming over the part about how lonely she’d been.

“How’d the visit with my sister go?” he asked at last.

“Good.” Claire grew guarded.

Kevin wasn’t fooled. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

“Compared to where I just came from, it was a Sunday stroll in the park.” She told him about the visit with Father Gallagher. “I just wish I knew what to believe. He was so … well, like I meant nothing to him.”

Kevin fell silent, toying with a sugar packet. From the kitchen came the sounds of hissing steam and clanging pots, and several languages being spoken—no, shouted—at once. After a moment he said quietly, “I was only thirteen, but I’ll never forget the look on my sister’s face when she came home from the hospital. It was as if she’d had her heart torn out. For two whole days she just sat there, staring into space, not eating or even sleeping as far as I could tell. It scared the hell out of me.” His blue eyes hardened. “There’s something you should know about my sister: She’s made her share of mistakes, but there isn’t a dishonest bone in her body.”

“What if she only believes he’s my father?”

“If she does, it’s because he is.” His fingers tightened about the handle of his mug. “And believe me, she’s paid the price.”

“I wish she’d told me what you just did.” Kevin’s memory was far more revealing than anything Gerry had said. “I had no idea. If I’d known—” She broke off abruptly. Why should she feel sorry for Gerry? Had Gerry stopped to consider what it would do to
her
?

“She doesn’t want your pity,” Kevin said gently. “She wants you to like her.”

“I hardly know her.” It came out sounding harsher than Claire intended.

“Give it time.” He sounded sad for some reason.

She turned her head to gaze out the window. The fog was lifting and she could see out over the bay, where seagulls circled like pale riders on an invisible carousel and toy sailboats raced along whitecaps. Time? She could spend the whole rest of her life getting to know Gerry and it wouldn’t make up for the years that were lost.

Claire finished her coffee and the rest of the crostini. Kevin talked about other things—the almost dizzying success of Ragout and the branch he and his partners were opening in Sonoma, hopefully by the end of the year; Kevin’s boyfriend Darryl; and their three cats named Ducasse, Boulud, and Gerard—after legendary chefs. She in turn told him about wanting to quit her job and asked his advice about going into a food-related business—like, say, catering. Kevin said that unless she planned on starving the first year or two, she’d better think twice about giving up a steady paycheck.

When she finally glanced at her watch, she was surprised to see that nearly an hour had elapsed. “I should be going,” she said.

He saw her to the door, where he hugged her again. He smelled of oregano and something faintly smoky. “Don’t be a stranger, hear?”

“I won’t.” Oddly, she felt as if she’d known Kevin all her life.

“And if you go broke starting a business, you always know where to come for a free meal.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

He drew back with a grin. “Hey, what are family for?”

Kitty slid the tray of buns from the oven, looking more flushed than usual. Today was Josie Hendrick’s ninetieth birthday, and a group of former students was throwing her a party. Out front every table was filled and the tea kettles steaming. In addition to Willa and her part-time girl Suzette, Kitty had hired a pair of high school girls for the afternoon. Even so, she could hardly keep up. Only four-year-old Maddie, delighted by the fuss being made over her by Aunt Zee-Zee (as Josie was known to her) and all her friends, would have been content for it to go on forever.

“Thank God you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Kitty told Claire.

She set the tray on the counter and pushed wisps of flyaway hair from her forehead with the back of a floury wrist. It was four o’clock and there was no sign of a letup. Through the swinging kitchen door came the din of chattering voices; children squealing with laughter; and in the thick of it all, old Josie thumping her cane.

Claire couldn’t help but smile.
She thinks I’m doing her a favor?
It was the other way around: If she hadn’t volunteered to lend a hand, she’d have spent the afternoon cleaning closets or, worse, at her desk.

She grabbed the tray with a pot holder and carried it into the front room, where the sticky buns were snatched up almost as fast as she could slide them onto a platter. The birthday girl was ensconced in a wicker chair by the window, her smudged red lipstick making her look like a very old child who’d gotten into the jam. A party hat was perched crookedly atop her snowy head and one of the guests had wound a red crepe paper streamer about her cane, making it look like a large peppermint stick.

One of the kettles behind the counter was whistling. While Suzette and her helpers cleared away cups and saucers and plates, Claire made tea the way Kitty had taught her, pouring an inch or so of boiling water into one of the teapots, no two alike, then swirling until the leaves at the bottom were thoroughly soaked before filling it to the top. She let it steep for a minute before placing it on a tray along with a silver tea strainer, creamer and sugar bowl, and small plate of lemon wedges.

Over the next hour she didn’t stop moving. There was more tea to be made, creamers to be refilled, cookies and scones and tarts to be brought in from the kitchen. Yet she never felt tired or harried. Someone had once told her—it might have been Byron—that only things you didn’t like doing were tiring, which would explain why an hour at her desk was more exhausting than five on her feet.