The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (95 page)

“It’s no trouble.” She poured some into a glass and topped it with a mint sprig.

He took one sip and said, “Best lemonade I’ve ever tasted.”

She smiled, leaning into the counter. “People are surprised when I give them the recipe. It’s as if they expect it to have been hand squeezed by Trappist monks.”

“This is better.” He flashed her a grin, tipping his head back to take a long swallow. She stared at his Adam’s apple moving up and down the brown column of his throat. Drops of condensation from the glass dribbled over his knuckles, and she had a sudden urge to lick them off. God, what was wrong with her? Couldn’t she have a conversation with the man without wanting to jump into bed with him?

Are you sure it’s just sex?
whispered a voice in her head.

She felt close to Matt in other ways. She could tell him things other people might have thought silly—like how her favorite pastime was watching corny old movies on TV, and that her number-one comfort food was s’mores. If Byron were here, it’d be different, she knew. But wasn’t that the crux of it all?

“I can’t believe we forgot,” she said, referring to the ramp.

Matt shrugged. “If the inspector hadn’t caught it, Monica Vincent would’ve reminded us in a hurry.”

Claire remembered that Monica lived nearby and wondered what she was like. So much had been written about her—her tantrums on the movie sets, her countless love affairs, and finally the accident that had left her partially paralyzed. For the longest time you couldn’t walk into a supermarket without seeing her on every tabloid.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if she came to the opening?”

“She probably will. She never misses an opportunity to make an entrance.”

“I haven’t spotted her yet.”

“You’ll know it when you do. She’s pretty hard to miss.” He helped himself to another glass of lemonade. Anyone looking in the window, she thought, would’ve taken him for her husband, home from a hard day’s work.

“Because she’s in a wheelchair?”

Matt’s mouth stretched in a humorless smile. “That’s the least of her handicaps. Ask anyone who’s had to deal with her. We all have stories.”

“You know her?”

“I did some work up at her house a while back.”

“What was she like?”

“You mean before or after she tried to seduce me?”

“She
didn’t.”

“Oh, I don’t flatter myself. I think just about any guy in reasonably good shape would be fair game.” He was quick to add, “Not that I took her up on it. Though if I had, she might have paid me for all my extra work.”

“At least she’s not sitting around feeling sorry for herself.”

He laughed at the idea. “If anyone’s to be pitied, it’s her sister.”

“Doesn’t she work for Monica?” She recalled Andie’s mentioning something.

He gave a snort. “More like indentured servitude. Anna does everything but polish Monica’s hubcaps—hell, I’ll bet she even does that.”

“Why doesn’t she quit?”

“Easier said than done. For one thing, she can’t afford to. If it wasn’t for Anna, their mother would be in a state nursing home.”

“Why doesn’t Monica help? With all her money—”

“A lot of people are wondering the same thing.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s like she thinks employing Anna is enough. There’s another sister, Liz, but for whatever reason, Anna does all the heavy lifting.”

“Sounds pretty grim.”

Claire suppressed a small shudder, thinking of her own parents. Who would take care of them when they could no longer care for themselves? “I guess I should count my blessings.” Her new family wasn’t perfect by any means, but they’d shown her, each in their own way, that she could count on them in a pinch.

She saw something flicker in Matt’s eyes. Longing?

Regret? He drained his glass, and set it down on the counter. “I should get started on that ramp while it’s still light.” His tone wasn’t so much brusque as businesslike. “Thanks for the lemonade.”

Claire could hear him outside as she washed up, the clatter of lumber being unloaded from his truck, followed by the shrill whine of his saw. Hours later, when the sun had set and the light was fading from the sky, she stepped outside to find the framework in place, its raw pine boards gleaming like x-rayed bones in the dusk.

“It’s amazing. You hardly notice it’s there,” she marveled as she inspected it. Rather than mar the line of the porch, he’d built it off to one side, setting it back from the path.

“You’ll have to extend the path a bit, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” he told her.

“It’s the least of my worries, believe me.”

“I’ll send someone over with the concrete. No extra charge.”

“I insist on paying. You’re already out of pocket as it is.”

He tugged on the creased bill of his cap, dark green with
ORCHARD LUMBER
printed in white across its sweat-stained band. “Pay me later.”

“All right,” she conceded grudgingly. “But I want it in writing.”

“In that case, I’ll take one of your strawberry tarts as collateral.”

He flashed her a grin before bending to hammer a nail into the railing. The sound rang out in the quiet of the twilit yard. She saw a light go on across the street; that would be widowed Mrs. Gantt feeding her cat. In a minute or two the living room window would light up as well—you could set your clock by it. The old lady never missed the evening news, followed by
Hollywood Squares
and
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

“I’m fresh out of tarts,” she told him. “Would you settle for dinner instead?”

Claire didn’t know which one of them was more surprised; the words had just popped out. When he brushed leisurely at a gnat, revealing a dark half moon of sweat under his arm, the motion seemed oddly exaggerated. “I don’t think that’d be such a good idea,” he said.

“Why not? We’re still friends, aren’t we?” She spoke lightly, but was aware of how childish it sounded. Like wanting to believe in Santa Claus in the face of all evidence to the contrary.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he replied pleasantly. “But I have enough friends as it is.”

She winced. “I guess I had that coming.”

“On the other hand,” he went on in the same mild tone, “if what you have in mind is more than dinner, I could be persuaded.”

Claire felt something rise up in her like a wave racing into shore. She could see it clearly: Matt across from her at the kitchen table, both of them knowing the meal was little more than a prelude.

But if he stayed the night, wouldn’t she be making a choice? And in choosing Matt, she’d be rejecting Byron. It was as simple as that: She couldn’t have both.

“Matt, you know how I feel. But—”

He didn’t give her a chance to finish. “Hey, no big deal. I’m a big boy. I knew what I was getting into. No hard feelings, okay?” He began packing up his tools.

She suddenly felt on the verge of tears. It had been naive of her to think they could remain friends. “I’m sorry. It’s just … I
like
you, dammit. I mean, aside from … from …”

He tilted his head and smiled up at her. “It’s okay, you can say it.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. “I don’t regret anything.”

“You just want it to be over,” he said. “Well, you’ve got it.” The lid of his tool chest clanged shut. He carried it over to his truck and hoisted it onto the bed, calling out breezily, “I’ll be around sometime tomorrow to finish up.”

Watching his truck back out of the driveway, she felt an impulse to run after it, an impulse that quickly faded. Face it, she wasn’t the type—the craziest thing she’d ever done was quit her job and move here. She remained on the path instead, straining to see in the fading light until all that was left were the red sparks of his taillights.

When they’d winked out of sight, she turned and began trudging up the steps. What no one told you about having to choose between two lovers, she thought, was that it was never a clean trade: You were doomed to long for one and give less than your whole heart to the other.

As if he’d somehow known, Byron called that night to announce that he was flying down for the weekend.

“Don’t ask how I managed it,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”

“I can’t wait,” she said, but the words sounded hollow to her ears.

It’ll be different when he’s here,
she told herself. In Byron’s arms, she’d soon forget Matt.

“My plane gets in at noon. If I don’t run into any traffic, I should roll in around two, two-thirty.”

She gave him directions to the house, saying, “It’s the one with all the ivy.”
And a half-finished wheelchair ramp.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

“I’ve missed you, babe.” His voice turned husky.

“Me, too.” She had, hadn’t she? Otherwise, why would she have slept with Matt?

The following morning she was a nervous wreck. Would he take one look at her and
know?
She thought about phoning Kitty for a dose of common sense, but didn’t her friend have enough problems at the moment? Besides, it would only delay Kitty further.

By the time Byron arrived, she was a nervous wreck. But the sight of him climbing out of the rental car in his floppy shirt and chinos immediately put her at ease.

He wore a faintly astonished look as he wandered about the room.

“Wow! The photos didn’t do it justice.”

“That was Before, this is After.”

Any misgivings she might have had fell away as Byron walked from room to room, admiring every detail. Though she was careful not to linger in the bedroom, never mind she’d scoured it of any sign of Matt.

“Nice,” he said, not seeming to notice that the mattress was on the floor.

She showed him the adjoining sitting room, where a wall had been knocked down between two small bedrooms, an idea she’d gotten from Sam. All that was left was to wallpaper it; then she’d be able to take the rest of her furniture out of storage. The long-range plan, when she could afford it, she explained, was to convert the garage into an apartment for the two of them.

Byron didn’t respond. He seemed genuinely excited for her, but she noticed he was careful not to include himself in any discussion of future plans.

They returned to the sunny front room, the only one besides the kitchen and bathroom that was complete. “Your contractor did a nice job,” he said, running a hand over the wainscoting.

Claire felt herself blush. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

“I like the way you’ve decorated it, too.”

She looked around, seeing it anew through Byron’s eyes—the ruffled curtains Mavis had sewn, the painted tables and chairs stenciled with designs, the pine hutch with her collection of antique bottles and vintage tins from Avery Lewellyn’s antique barn. The Victrola by the door was from Maude, and the quilt on the wall a gift from Olive and Rose Miller. Laura’s contribution had been the oak rocker in the corner, for mothers with babies.

“I didn’t do it all myself,” she said.

“I wasn’t expecting anything this … finished.”

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. He looked the same, but their roles seemed to have shifted. After a lifetime of playing it safe, she’d stepped out on a limb while Byron, who’d always gone his own way, was following in the more traditional footsteps of his uncle. Gone were any references to opening a practice or doing volunteer work—subjects he’d once spoken of with passion. Lately their conversations had been peppered with mentions of his uncle Andrew, and how much he would earn a year practicing in Hillsborough.

“I was going to go with crepe paper and balloons,” she answered facetiously, “but it seemed tacky somehow.”

“You know what I meant.” He put his arms around her, making her feel petty for misconstruing his comment. “You worked hard—you deserve to have this be a huge success.”

She dropped her head onto his shoulder. He smelled faintly and pleasantly of the Castile soap his ecofriendly parents bought in industrial-size jugs and used for everything from shampooing their hair to laundering their clothes.

“Why don’t we grab a bite to eat in town? It may be my only chance to show you around. The next few days are going to be kind of hectic.”

“Actually, I had something else in mind.” He cast a meaningful look in the direction of the bedroom.

She felt uneasy all of a sudden. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later on.”

“All right, if you insist …”

The partially completed wheelchair ramp seemed to mock her as she stepped out onto the porch. She thought of Matt and how she’d have no choice but to introduce him. Oh, God. How had she gotten herself into this? She didn’t know which she feared most: Byron finding out, or hurting Matt any more than she already had.

By the time they’d walked the half mile into town, some of the tension had gone out of her. As they strolled along Old Mission she prattled on about the centuries-old oaks that were the sacred cows of Carson Springs (it had made front-page headlines last month when Norma Devane, of Shear Delight, had cut down one of hers); the lecture at the public library, given by renowned naturalist Petra Crowley, at which a red-tailed hawk had gotten loose and nearly made off with Marguerite Moore’s miniature French poodle; and the post office tower with its bell that had been slated for munitions during World War I only to have been conveniently “stolen” until such time as it could be safely restored.

When they reached the end of the arcade, she took him on a tour of Delarosa Plaza, with its tiled fountain and quaint shops nestled inside bougainvillea-draped walls.

“Come on,” she said, “I want to introduce you to Laura.”

The bell over the door at Delarosa’s tinkled as they stepped inside. She spotted Laura in back, waiting on a well-dressed older woman. Laura murmured something to her and walked over, greeting them warmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said when Claire had introduced her to Byron. “I hear you’re a doctor. We could use a few more like you around here.”

“More like a starving resident,” he said with a laugh. His gaze traveled about, taking in the artful displays of pottery and weavings, handcrafted objets d’art and one-of-a-kind jewelry. “Nice stuff. I’ll bet you do a good business.”