Taste of Honey (28 page)

“Probably no different from the way I do now.” His eyes grew remote all of a sudden, and she remembered that he was divorced.

“I’m sorry. It must be hard.”

“Hey, it could be worse. I have them two nights a week and on Sundays, plus six weeks in the summer.” It sounded like a lawyer’s words he was parroting. “My ex-wife and I fought over just about everything else, but the one thing we agreed on was that the kids come first.” He paused, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. “What about you? Any ex-husbands in the closet?”

She shook her head. “Just the longest-running engagement in history.”

“Have you set a date?”

“Not yet.” She felt a tiny pang of misgiving at the ease with which she said it. She used to count the days, and now it seemed she wasn’t in any rush.

“Well, he’s a lucky guy, whoever he is.”

Claire looked away, her cheeks warming. Was Matt flirting? If he was, she had only herself to blame. What was she doing, anyway, dumping all this stuff on him?

She glanced at her watch. “I should be going. Heavy date with a guy selling used restaurant equipment.”

“Me, too. I have to pick my kids up from school.” He straightened, placing his empty bottle on the sill and scooting a hand into his pocket to retrieve his keys.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.” He tipped an invisible cap.

She watched him stroll outside, a shaggy bear of a man in jeans and paint-spattered Timberland boots. She wondered if his kids knew how lucky they were.

She and Byron had discussed having children, but always in the abstract. “We’ll have the requisite two point two kids. A dog will round it out to an even three,” he liked to say. She’d always gone along with the joke, but for the first time she felt a small tug, wondering what it would be like to be a mother.

Two years suddenly seemed like a long time.

The next few weeks Matt and his crew worked every day from sunup to sundown, replacing windows and doors, tearing out old bathroom tiles and fixtures, installing a new kitchen sink and hooking up appliances—she’d splurged on a Sub-Zero and a secondhand Viking stove, plus a second dishwasher to handle the extra load. Claire grew accustomed to seeing trucks and vans in the driveway, and hearing the whine of saws and pounding of hammers. She had never felt more exhausted, and at the same time more exhilarated. When doubts and worries crept in, she had a ready cure: staying one step ahead of them at all times.

As soon as the kitchen was minimally operational she began experimenting with recipes: Gran Brewster’s maple doughnuts, a tangerine tart that would take advantage of the valley’s abundance of citrus, an updated version of
Fannie Farmer’s
black-bottom pie. With Matt and his crew, she had no shortage of willing guinea pigs; the trouble was keeping up with the demand. Matt had confided with a twinkle in his eye that his plumber, Billy Bremerton, had said he’d work for free provided she kept the baked goods coming.

Justin was equally happy to sample her wares. True to his word, he’d been bicycling over after school and on weekends. When he occasionally got in the way—pestering Matt or the workmen with questions—she sent him outside to sweep the front walk or mow the lawn. Most of the time she enjoyed his company. It was nice having a little brother, though she couldn’t say the same about Andie. With her, Claire felt like she did with her parents: as if she were walking on eggshells.

Mavis had been the most welcome surprise of all. The old woman who’d moved about with such difficulty when they’d first met had been replaced by one with seemingly boundless energy. Maybe because Mavis, too, was finally doing something she enjoyed. Either way, she’d been a godsend: lining cupboards and arranging kitchen shelves, even tackling the daunting task of organizing Claire’s recipe file. She was full of suggestions, too, for how to promote Tea & Sympathy.

“You’ll need a flyer,” she said one morning, seated at the old Singer sewing machine from her house that she’d had installed in Claire’s kitchen (no reason to buy curtains when fabric was so much cheaper). “Something really catchy that’ll get people to sit up and take notice.”

Claire thought of her dwindling reserves with something close to panic. “I’m not sure it’s in my budget.”

“Who said anything about money?” Mavis straightened, brushing away a loose thread. She was wearing her hair knotted in back, and fine wisps the color of the copper wire in snippets all over the house drifted about her head. “My friend Lillian will design it for free. She used to work in advertising, so she knows what she’s doing. In fact, I’ve already spoken to her about it. She said she’d love to help.”

“I’d feel bad not paying her.”

“Nonsense. What else does she have to do all day?” Her direct blue eyes fixed on Claire. “One thing you’ve got to understand if you’re to make a go of it here: People
like
being asked, especially old people.” She jabbed a finger, knotted like a piece of old rope, in the direction of the hutch Claire was painting, a vintage flea-market find. “You missed a spot.”

Claire couldn’t help comparing Mavis to her mother’s mother, Nana Schilling, a dour woman best remembered for the sweater that dutifully arrived each Christmas and birthday, and that was invariably a size too small. Once a year Nana would take the train from Albuquerque.

She’d always stayed exactly two weeks—not a day more or less. During that time she would go through Claire’s drawers, making sure everything was neatly folded. If she’d noticed the absence of all those sweaters she never said anything.

She’d felt more of an affinity with her father’s mother, Gran Brewster, who’d provided her earliest inspiration in the culinary arts. Claire remembered her as always in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove or pulling a pan from the oven. If she was making a cake, Gran always let her lick the bowl. It was Claire’s only good memory of Gran—that, and her sublime maple doughnuts—who’d tended to be bossy and sharp-tongued.

Mavis wasn’t a bit like either of them. Nor was she a sweet little old lady from central casting. She spoke her mind and had opinions on everything from the Catholic Church to the present state of affairs on Capitol Hill. She also firmly believed in living in the present. In Mavis’s view, too many trips down memory lane kept you from enjoying the here and now.

Claire dipped her paintbrush in the can and dabbed the spot while Mavis returned to her sewing. A neat stack of cloth squares waiting to be hemmed sat on the card table at her elbow: the napkins made from the same fabric as the curtains.

“As for getting those flyers out,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the whirring of the Singer, “we have a secret weapon—Justin. Who’d be the wiser if he tucked them into the papers on his route?”

Claire eyed her in admiration. She never would have thought of that herself. Never mind Mavis having all her marbles; she seemed to possess more than most.

Just then Gerry walked in with Sam, who presented Claire with a bunch of daffodils wrapped in newspaper. “The first of the season,” she said, heading for the cupboards in search of a vase.

Claire was touched. She set aside her paintbrush, and rose to her feet with a crackling of joints. “Thanks. It was sweet of you.”

“Don’t mention it. I went a little overboard with the planting last fall and now everything’s growing like topsy. In a few months, when the zucchini is coming in, you’re not going to want to know me.” She found a pitcher and carried it to the sink. The old pipes groaned as she cranked on the tap: another thing on Matt’s to-do list.

“Don’t worry. I have a great recipe for zucchini bread,” Claire told her.

Sam smiled. “You’ll need it.”

Claire secretly thought that if Sam had been her mother instead of Gerry, it would have been a closer match in some ways. Sam, who looked as if she’d stepped from a Lands’ End catalog, came across as ladylike, even a bit prim, until Gerry made some off-color remark that made her laugh—a laugh as unbridled as Gerry’s.

Gerry fingered the pile of napkins Mavis was hemming—bright yellow patterned with strawberries. “It looks as if you’ve got enough here to cover every lap in town.”

“Let’s hope they’re put to good use.” Claire felt the familiar niggling of money worries—a more or less constant drumbeat these days.

“It won’t be for lack of trying.” Mavis pressed her foot down on the Singer’s pedal, its furious whirring seeming to underscore her words.

“That reminds me.” Gerry turned to Claire. She was wearing a variation of her usual weekend attire—jeans, stretchy top, cork-soled mules—in which no one would ever take her for a former nun. “I spoke to Kevin. He said to tell you that he and Darryl will be here for the opening. His exact words were that he’ll be here with bells”—she darted a glance at Mavis—“that he wouldn’t miss it for the world. He wanted to know if you’ll need a hand with anything.”

“And have him show me up as the rank amateur I am? No way.” Claire appreciated the offer nonetheless. “Tell him not to worry—Kitty’ll be here.”

“Your friend Kitty who walks on water?” Mavis seemed eager for them to get off the subject of Kevin and his lover. “What will she think of us mere mortals, I wonder?”

“She’ll want to whisk you off to Miramonte to sew napkins for
her
,” Claire answered with a laugh.

Sam was arranging the daffodils in the pitcher when she paused suddenly, bringing a hand to her pregnant belly with a smile. “Junior’s frisky today.”

“What makes you think it’s a boy?” Gerry reached for the fruit bowl on the table, helping herself to a banana. From the front room came the banging of Matt’s hammer.

“Just a hunch,” Sam said. “Though I’d be just as happy with a girl.”

“Too bad you didn’t hang onto all those little dresses of Alice’s,” Gerry said.

“If I had, they’d be musty with age.” Sam sank into a chair at the old pine table from the attic at Isla Verde—her housewarming gift to Claire. “Imagine having sisters as old as Laura and Alice. It’ll be like having
three
mothers.”

“Make that four,” Gerry said.

Silence fell, and Claire had the sudden sense of every eye on her, though they were all going out of their way not to look in her direction. It wasn’t that she hadn’t forgiven Gerry—she had, for the most part—but there was still a gap that would never be bridged, and thoughtless remarks such as the one she’d just tossed off only made it wider. If Gerry wanted to be a mother to Sam’s baby, she should try remembering she had more than one daughter of her own.

Claire walked over to the refrigerator. “Who wants something to drink? There’s iced tea and lemonade.”

Gerry rushed to the cupboard where the glasses were kept as if eager to make herself useful.

She filled them with ice while Claire set out pitchers of iced tea and lemonade and sliced the loaf of banana bread cooling on the counter. Matt was herded into the kitchen, looking like the proverbial bull in the china shop. Watching him, Claire had to struggle not to smile. He was clearly out of his depth amid all these women with their talk of layettes and breast-feeding and natural childbirth versus epidural. She didn’t blame him when he escaped as soon as he could without seeming rude.

Claire lingered at the table while Gerry and Sam washed up. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet. There was still so much to do: boxes to be unpacked, their contents organized, and in the garden years’ worth of weeds to be pulled. When Matt was a little further along, she’d start ordering bulk supplies. Kitty had given her a list of wholesalers for dry goods, but she’d need local outlets for produce. Last week she’d driven around visiting various orchards and citrus groves, and had talked to a chicken farmer who’d promised all the eggs she could use.

“It looks as if your garden could use a little therapy.” Sam, gazing out the window, seemed to have picked up on her thoughts. “I’d take it on myself, but my doctor would read me the riot act.” She turned away from the window with a wistful smile. “No reason I can’t help sketch out a plan, though. We’ll hire some strapping young man to do the dirty work.”

Tears came to Claire’s eyes. “That would be …” She didn’t know what to say. Everyone was being so kind, including Gerry. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t be silly. You’d be doing
me
a favor. To tell the truth, I’m going a little stir crazy.” Sam stroked her belly absently, smiling her secret little smile, before moving on to a story about her last doctor’s appointment. Her chart, it seemed, had gotten mixed up with that of a patient having twins. She’d nearly fainted when the nurse at the desk glanced at it and joked, “Double the pleasure, double the fun.”

When the plates and glasses were dried and put away, Sam went outside, accompanied by Mavis, to have a look around. Alone with Gerry, Claire felt some of the old awkwardness return. If only Gerry had been someone other than her mother; if they’d met under different circumstances, she’d be able to shake loose this feeling, like a bone in her throat, that despite all her bending over backward to prove otherwise, Gerry would just as soon she’d stayed in Miramonte.

“Sam’s got the greenest thumb of anyone I know. Even in kindergarten her avocado seeds had more leaves than any of the other kids’.” Gerry folded the dish towel over the drainer, smiling at the memory. “One of these days I’ll take you up to Isla Verde and show you the garden there. The only one that’s a patch on it is Our Lady’s.”

Which Claire had yet to tour. She’d hinted a few times to Gerry that she’d like to see the convent, but Gerry always put her off. No doubt she didn’t want the awkwardness of having to introduce her around. Some of the nuns had to have been around back when Gerry was a novice and would be reminded of why she’d left. Why should she risk her safe little world for the sake of someone she’d only just met?

Never mind I’m her daughter.

She watched Gerry’s gaze drift to the window. She appeared lost in thought. No, more than that, troubled in some way.

Claire was prompted to ask, “Is something the matter?”

Gerry turned away from the window with a sigh. “I haven’t told anyone yet, but it looks like I might be out of a job.” She went on to explain—something about the motherhouse thinking she was a bad influence—which didn’t make much sense considering how long she’d worked there. Then she said something that jumped out at Claire: “Someone’s behind this, and I have a feeling it’s your father.”