The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (39 page)

She glided past the girl, catlike, disappearing into the next room. A moment later Finch heard the scraping sound of something heavy, like a trunk or cabinet being dragged away from the wall. She could hear the woman muttering to herself. Then the sound of a match being struck. The doorway was illuminated and a long witchy shadow angled up the wall just inside.

The girl was swept by a sudden chill. All at once she felt deeply afraid, though she couldn’t have said why. Fear that turned to bewilderment when the nun reappeared minutes later dressed in an ordinary skirt and blouse, high heels clicking against the floor, hair too perfect and blond to be real curling about her shoulders. Her back was turned and from where Finch crouched all she could see was the candle about which her hand was cupped and her long shadow swaying over the rows of glistening jars.

She’d almost passed beyond Finch’s line of sight when she turned, as if hearing a noise. In the flickering candlelight her face, garishly lit from underneath, leaped suddenly and horrifyingly into view: long and horsey, with small deep-set eyes and a slash of crimson mouth.

Laura eyed Mother Ignatius curiously. She’d never before seen a nun dressed in anything but a habit. The mother superior wore an ordinary white chenille bathrobe with a pair of blue terry slippers peeking from under its hem, her cropped gray hair proof that what the girls had whispered in catechism was untrue: Nuns didn’t shave their heads.

They were gathered in the small sitting room where aeons ago Sam had taken tea: Laura, Finch, Sister Agnes, and Mother Ignatius. It was a quarter past three, with the other nuns asleep, presumably unaware of the worrisome situation just down the hall.

Mother Ignatius fixed her gaze on the girl, a pair of flinty gray-blue eyes shining from a face that all at once looked ancient—like those of mummified saints.
She must be close to ninety,
Laura thought with a small measure of surprise. Her mind flew back to the long ago morning when she’d caught her and her sister trespassing. That had to be—what? Almost twenty years. The woman had seemed old as the ages then, and yet here she was, still going strong.

“You’re certain it was Sister Beatrice you saw?” she asked sternly.

Finch glanced nervously at Sister Agnes, in her robe, who nodded encouragingly.

“It was her, all right,” Finch said.

“You’re absolutely sure?” The question seemed superfluous, given that the mother superior had to have done a bed check.

“I’m sure.” Finch’s hands twisted in her lap.

“About what she was wearing, too?”

Finch nodded. In the muted glow of the table lamp, her eyes looked bruised, just as when Laura had first found her—a scrap of a girl looking as if she didn’t have a friend in the world.

Laura felt a rush of love.
You’re not alone,
she wanted to say.

Less than an hour ago, she’d been sure it was all over. Maude’s stricken white face, and the cop barking into his walkie-talkie, had told her everything she needed to know: Finch was gone. She’d stood there, numb, struggling to answer the cop’s questions while telling him next to nothing. No, she hadn’t known the police in New York were looking for the girl. She had no idea, either, where Finch might have gone. Laura had seen no need to tell him what she
did
know, for she was as convinced of Finch’s innocence as she was of her own. She’d even indulged in a secret little smile when the rookie discovered his car keys missing and had to radio for backup.

Shortly after, when Mother Ignatius phoned, it had seemed the answer to Laura’s prayers. Her only thought as she raced to her car was that she’d sort it out somehow. Explain everything to the police, hire a lawyer if necessary. As awful as things might look right now, it’d be a relief, after all the tiptoeing around, for it to be out in the open.

Now she could see it wasn’t going to be as clear-cut as she’d hoped. Finch, it seemed, had unwittingly stumbled into something far more serious than any trouble she herself might be in.

“Was she behaving strangely in any way?” Mother Ignatius, despite her advanced age, stood straight as a steeple.

“You mean, like, crazy?” Finch frowned, nibbling on a thumbnail. “No, not really. It was just weird, that’s all, seeing her all dressed up like that. Like…like a normal person.”

The mother superior’s mouth flattened in a small, humorless smile. “It might surprise you to know, my dear, that underneath our habits we’re all quite normal.”

Finch reddened. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know what you meant.” Her smile softened. “And no, it’s not our practice to traipse about in wigs and high heels.”

Laura thought once more of the blond woman outside the barn. Could it have been Sister Beatrice? Prowling around in the middle of the night dressed in street clothes wasn’t a crime, even for a nun. But suppose it hadn’t stopped there.

Suddenly, she wished Hector were here.

Sister Agnes spoke up. “Temptation takes many forms.” She bowed her head, fidgeting with the sash on her robe. “Perhaps if Sister Beatrice were to get help…” She let the sentence trail off.

Mother Ignatius cast her a sharp look. “I’m afraid this is more than any of us is equipped to handle, Sister.” She didn’t have to say what they all suspected: that dressing up in street clothes might be the least of Sister Beatrice’s sins. When she reached for the phone on the table beside her, no one was surprised, least of all Laura.

What startled her was her own hand shooting out to cover Mother Ignatius’s. “Wait.” Laura looked at Finch slumped in her chair. She could only imagine the courage it must have taken for her to come forward, to risk her own safety for what might, in the end, amount to a false alarm. “Could we leave Finch out of this? She’s been through enough as it is. If the police think she’s involved in any way—”

Finch cut her off. “It’s all right. Anything would be better than this. Always running. Always scared.” She lifted her bruised eyes to Laura. Hope was the one thing they hadn’t been able to take from her, and now it, too, was gone.

Laura’s hand fell heavily to her side. She watched with weary resignation as Sister Agnes bowed her head and prayed, “Our soul waits for the Lord, who is our help and our shield. May your kindness, O Lord, be upon us who have put our hope in you.”

They all watched as the mother superior punched in the dreaded three digits. “This is Mother Ignatius of Our Lady of the Wayside,” she spoke crisply into the phone. “We have an urgent matter requiring the police. Would you send someone at once?”

On the other side of town, oblivious to the drama taking place at Our Lady of the Wayside, Sam sat curled on her living room sofa, wallowing in an old weeper on AMC—a truly awful movie that nonetheless had her digging into the pocket of her robe for a tissue. She seemed to cry at the drop of a hat these days: Hallmark commercials, sentimental songs, couples in the park holding hands. The only thing she didn’t dare cry about was Ian.

When she’d woken and couldn’t get back to sleep, she’d thought about phoning Gerry, but four in the morning was too early even for best friends. Gerry, when she realized it wasn’t an emergency, would kill her. Sam hauled herself to her feet with a sigh. She felt heavy, the flat stomach in which she’d always taken such pride replaced by a round little tummy.

I’m too old for this,
she thought.

It’d be different when the baby was here. She’d have help. But for now it was just her. Like an old house, sagging a bit here and there, with room for one more.

It’s not just that,
a voice spoke clearly in her head, the way voices do in the wee hours of the morning.
You miss Ian.
She’d tried to push him from her mind by immersing herself in a flurry of activities. Decorating the house, gardening, endless committee meetings for the festival that had entered the military-operations stage. She’d even taken up crocheting again, with a half finished baby blanket to show for it. But each day was like swimming against the tide.

In the sleepless hours before dawn she had no defense against the loneliness. She would wake while it was still dark, an ache in her throat, picturing him asleep in his bed or perched on a scaffolding in some other time zone.

Was he thinking of her, too?

She thought of the one time she’d phoned, in a weak moment she’d regretted as soon as his voice came on the line. It had been clear and upbeat, not that of the wounded man she’d left behind in Big Sur.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” she’d asked, her pulse racing.

“Just the usual. Boy genius at work.” He gave an ironic chuckle that cut through her like a blade. “What’s up?” As if she were an old friend checking in after a lengthy absence.

Sam hesitated. “I just…” What? Why
had
she called? “I just wanted to see how you were doing. And to let you know… Ian, I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls.” He must have left five, six messages.

There was a brief silence at the other end before he said, “I was calling to see if you were okay.”

“I’m fine. The amnio…” She closed her eyes, remembering how scared she’d been when the results came in, how desperately she’d wanted him there. “Everything looks normal. Ten fingers, ten toes.”

“That’s good.” He sounded relieved. “Boy or girl?”

“I don’t want to know.” It had never occurred to her that Ian might feel differently, and now, though he hadn’t uttered a word, she could sense his displeasure. She was quick to add, “I’ll let you know when…the time comes.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “I guess I’m owed that much, right?”

Sam winced, closing her eyes against the image that rushed up at her—Ian peering through binoculars at an osprey nest, in which baby birds cheeped.

“I’m sorry,” she choked.

“Me, too.” He sucked in a breath. “Listen, I’m sort of in the middle of something. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be around.”

She hadn’t spoken to him since.

She reached for the remote on the coffee table and switched off the TV. Amazingly, she felt no sleepier than before. She glanced a bit enviously at Max, sacked out on the rug. All he did was sleep and chase squirrels, though if he were ever to catch one he probably wouldn’t know what to do with it. She smiled. Tom had meant well, but his dog was really just a big old chicken.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen. When her daughters were little and couldn’t sleep she’d given them warm milk. Maybe it would work for her. She reached into the cupboard under the stove, rattling around until she found the smallest of her saucepans. She poured milk into it, and while waiting for it to heat found herself looking about in wonder at all she’d accomplished.

Finding the original cupboards had been the biggest bonanza. Restored to their rightful place, with a fresh coat of pale green paint, they went perfectly with the deep porcelain sink and built-in china cupboard. The old beige linoleum had been replaced with tiles, and the pine table from the sewing room at Isla Verde, though a snug fit, was perfect in the breakfast nook. The oak high chair she’d found at Avery Lewellyn’s antique barn, in need only of refinishing, provided the finishing touch.

I won’t feel so lonely when the baby comes.

She tested the milk with her finger and poured it into a mug, adding a teaspoon of honey. As she sank down at the table, idly stirring her mug, it occurred to her that this house wasn’t the only thing that had been renovated. Her life, too, had been altered—drastically in some ways, more subtly in others. In addition to finding out who her true friends were, she’d discovered who
she
was: not just a mother, or a widow bravely carrying on, but a middle-aged woman capable of pulling up stakes, even reinventing herself. When you got right down to it, wasn’t there something pretty remarkable about that?

She smiled at the irony. Wasn’t it only a few months ago she’d looked upon this unexpected blessing as a curse? One that had disrupted her life and dumped a whole new set of responsibilities in her lap just as she was disentangling herself from old ones. And yet…

I wouldn’t be here otherwise.
Enjoying the kind of freedom she’d always dreamed of. At Isla Verde she’d have had to draw the curtains to keep the television’s glow from Lupe, who’d have wanted to know what she was doing up so late. A light in the kitchen at this hour would have had her housekeeper poking her head in to see if Sam needed anything. And it wasn’t just the lack of privacy. There’d have been endless calls to the plumber and electrician, the pool man and roofer. Leaks to plug, cracks to plaster, bugs to be exterminated. Now the property manager took care of all that.

She didn’t miss Delarosa’s, either. It had been time to step down, leaving Laura to flourish in a way she couldn’t have otherwise. The few times Sam had stopped by, she’d sensed a subtly different atmosphere, as if a window had been opened to let in fresh air and sunshine. Even Laura seemed happier.

Sam caught a movement outside the sliding glass door, and started. She seldom drew the curtains at night. What would have been the point? The only creatures out and about at this hour were the raccoons and possums that regularly raided her trash cans. It wasn’t until Max began to growl in the next room that she felt a flicker of concern.

A minute later he padded in, still rumbling. She stroked his head. “Relax, boy. It’s just our old friend Rocky Raccoon. If you’re lucky he’ll leave you a bone, though I wouldn’t count on it.”

Max continued to growl, wandering over to the door with his plumed tail rigid, staring out at the darkness. She’d never seen him like this, and the little hairs on the back of her neck stood up as well. What if it was something other than a raccoon?

Her thoughts turned to the murders the paper had been full of all summer. Daily warnings were issued against hitchhiking and going out unaccompanied at night. But while forensic experts were busy combing every shred of evidence, so far there’d been no arrest.

Sam hadn’t given it much thought, other than to lock her doors and windows—more as a precaution than out of any real concern—probably because an intruder was the least of her fears.

She’d finished her milk and was rinsing her mug at the sink when Max erupted into furious barking. “What is it, boy?” Her voice was thin and high pitched. Almost before she realized it, she was reaching into the drawer on her right, groping blindly for—what? She didn’t know until her hand closed firmly about a knife handle. Even so, she was struck by the absurdity of it. She’d read too many newspaper stories, that’s all.