The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (48 page)

“Sure as I am that it’ll show off your pretty young neck better than this old wrinkled one of mine.” Mavis’s eyes, blue as the Bay of Kenmare, where she’d been born, shone with love. “It was my mother’s. She was a great beauty in her day. You’re the living image of her, you know.”

Gerry had always been told that Andie looked just like
her.
When had she become the likeness of her great-grandmother? She watched Andie fasten the brooch to the front of her sweatshirt, thinking how pretty it would look with the silk blouse from Mike and Cindy, though she couldn’t help wishing her mother’s gift hadn’t shown up her own more prosaic gifts to Andie: an outfit from The Gap and a gift certificate for Zack’s Stacks.

“I love it.” Andie threw her arms around her grandmother’s neck and kissed her loudly on the cheek.

When the last present had been unwrapped, Gerry rose from the couch, rubbing the stiffness from her limbs. So far, so good. Their second Christmas without Mike, and the first that his absence hadn’t been felt like a pulled tooth. Now the only thing left before the turkey went into the oven was to call her brother.

Kevin picked up on the second ring. “We were just on our way out the door,” he told her. “Art and Thomas’s annual Christmas brunch.”

“Should I call back?”

“Hell, no. You think I’d rather be nibbling on brioche and discussing the latest in window treatments when I could be schmoozing with my favorite sister?” He laughed, and she pictured him in his Noe Valley loft that’d been featured in the July issue of
Architectural Digest.
On his way to becoming famous in the food world, he was still her freckle-faced kid brother with jug ears and carrot hair that refused to lie flat. “What’s up? Mom driving you crazy yet?”

Gerry covered the mouthpiece so Mavis wouldn’t hear her say, “She’s on her best behavior.”

“The day is young.”

“She misses you. We all do.”

“Hey, I invited her to spend Christmas with us. I even offered to pay the fare.” Kevin asked their mother every year, which always managed to prompt a flare-up of her arthritis. “I’m beginning to think she has a wee bit of a problem with the fact that her darlin’ boy’s a queer,” he added in a mock brogue. The laughter in his voice didn’t quite cover its bitter edge.

“Go easy on her, Kev. She’s doing her best.” Why did she always feel she had to defend their mother to Kevin when he was so clearly in the right? “Speaking of your significant other, how’s Darryl?”

“Fine and dandy. Just closed on another big deal.” Kevin’s lover was in commercial real estate.

She wondered if he minded not having kids. He’d always been so great with hers, and Andie and Justin adored him. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he sent lavish presents on their birthdays and on Christmas, like the razor bike Justin was at this very moment trying out in the driveway.

“Wish him a merry Christmas from me.” Kevin and Darryl were happier than most heterosexual couples she knew. “And, hey, thanks for the gift certificate. I’ve already seen about eight hundred things I want to buy with it.” The certificate was from Gump’s, a pricey store in San Francisco. Kevin had been thoughtful enough to include a catalog as well.

“As for
your
gift, you sure know how to make a gay man’s heart beat faster.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Gerry had found the thirties martini set nestled in satin inside a frayed leather case at Avery Lewellyn’s antique barn. It’d had her brother’s name written all over it. “Listen, I better go,” she said. “I should put the turkey in the oven.”

“Don’t forget to cover the breast with foil.”

“What? And risk ruining my reputation as the world’s worst cook?”

Kevin laughed long and heartily.

As she hung up, Gerry’s thoughts strayed to Claire.

Is she with her family?
Gerry knew nothing about the couple who’d adopted her other than that they were Catholic, in keeping with the rules of the agency. Was it fair to intrude? A call from her had to be the last thing any of them were expecting.

When the turkey was in the oven, she returned to tackle the living room, where wrapping paper was strewn over the carpet like tumbleweeds. The logs in the fireplace had burned down, their embers throwing off a drowsy heat. The tree, divested of its presents, looked oddly forlorn. She glanced about at the walls painted a Shaker blue, the country pine tables and chairs. A Nantucket lighthouse basket sat on the mantel, a long-ago gift from Sam, and in the corner by the rocker a fishing pole was propped—a symbol of Mike’s relationship with his son. He’d given it to Justin last summer, promising to take him fishing at the lake, but nothing had come of it. She glanced out the window at her son zigzagging down the driveway on his new bike, Buster tagging after him, barking wildly. How could you not love such a kid?

“I’ll help.” Mavis pushed herself up off the couch with what seemed an effort. They’d filled one trash bag and were starting on another when she paused and said, “I’m having a wonderful Christmas. Thank you, dear.”

“We love having you.” Gerry meant it.

“I know I’m not the easiest,” her mother went on matter-of-factly, smoothing a wisp of rusty hair that had sprung loose at her temple. “It’s hard being old. The worst part is feeling so useless.”

Gerry squatted down to fish a wad of wrapping paper from under the couch. “Useless? You never sit still!” There was bridge on Tuesdays, and the senior center on Wednesdays. Thursday mornings it was pool aerobics at the YWCA, and Fridays her sewing circle.

Mavis shook her head. “It’s not the same.”

Gerry felt a rush of concern. There was more color in her mother’s cheeks these days, but she was still so frail.

“Did you look at that brochure?” For months she’d been working on her mother to sell the house, move into one of those nice new condos out where the old Hensen ranch used to be. Mavis would be around other people her age, the hospital only minutes away.

Mavis flapped a hand dismissively. “What’s the point? I’m not going anywhere.”

“That old house is too big for one person,” Gerry insisted. “Not to mention it’s falling down around your ears.” The argument was tired, old ground they’d been over many times.

“Well, then, when I’m dead and gone, you can give it a good kick and save yourself the cost of a funeral.” Her mother grinned. She might be crumbling like her house, but she still had a full set of teeth and all her marbles—enough to trump Gerry from time to time.

Gerry couldn’t keep from smiling. “You shouldn’t joke about a thing like that,” she said.

Mavis lowered herself gingerly onto the couch. “Why not? People die all the time—especially old people.” She cocked her head, peering up at Gerry. “Now why don’t you tell me what’s
really
on your mind? You didn’t get those dark circles under your eyes fretting over me.”

“What do you mean? I’m fine.” Gerry glanced around. Justin was still outside, and Andie on the phone with Finch. Gerry could hear her down the hall, comparing notes on Christmas gifts. It seemed Finch had been given a horse of her own, in addition to the two Laura and Hector owned, and it was all they could talk about.

“Nonsense,” Mavis scoffed. “Something’s wrong. It’s no use trying to hide it.”

Gerry hesitated a moment, then wordlessly went over to the front hall closet and retrieved the folded envelope from the pocket of her good winter coat. She walked back and handed it to her mother.

Mavis fished her glasses from her cardigan and bent to read the letter, holding it so close it was practically touching her nose. After an eternity she lowered it to her lap, letting out a long sighing breath. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t see this coming.”

“I wish I’d done it years ago.” Gerry spoke with defiance.

“You had your children to think of.”

“She
was my child, too.” A sleeping dragon stirred to life in Gerry’s chest, beating inside her with leathery wings. “I never should have given her away.”

“You had no choice.”

“You didn’t give me one! You couldn’t handle another baby in the house, not after raising two of your own.” If Mavis had conveniently forgotten, it was as vivid in Gerry’s memory as the images on the 8mm reels stored in her mother’s attic—home movies that presented a far sunnier picture.

Mavis’s eyes were steely behind the thick lenses of the glasses that sat slightly askew on her nose. “If you’d wanted to badly enough, you’d have found a way to keep her.”

Gerry dropped her head, pressing her loosely fisted hands into the hollows of her eyes. She sighed deeply. “You’re right.” Blaming her mother was the easy way out.

She looked up to find her mother regarding her, not without compassion. “You were so young. With no job, and no prospect of one. What would you have done with a baby?”

“Loved her.” The words emerged in a hoarse whisper. She hadn’t known then what she did now, that love was the only prerequisite, that the rest took care of itself.

“You did what you thought was best.”

“How could I have known what was best?”

“None of us ever do, dear. The most we can do is keep on putting one foot in front of the other and hope it’ll all work out somehow.”

She looked sad just then, and Gerry thought of her father, dying inch by inch, and of the sacrifices her mother must have had to make—sacrifices she couldn’t have dreamed of as a young, dewy-eyed bride. Gerry remembered him only as sickly, a yellowing husk of a man who’d sit hour after hour in front of the TV, only occasionally glancing with mild interest at his wife and children. He died when she was thirteen, the year she received her calling.

“Am I crazy for doing this?” she asked.

“Crazy? No.” Mavis shook her head, saying gently, “It’s what any mother would want.” There was a touch of yearning in her expression. Claire was her grandchild, after all.

“I’m not her mother. I gave up that right.”

“What about Andie and Justin? Have you told them?”

“Not yet.”

“They’ll want to know why they’re only just hearing of it.”

“Mike—” Gerry stopped herself. She couldn’t blame this on her ex-husband, either. “I should have told them when they were little. It just … well, I didn’t see the point.”

Mavis handed the letter back, her fingers closing over Gerry’s, light as the crumpled tissue paper gathered from under the tree. “They’ll understand.”

Gerry wasn’t so sure.

“I … I should check on the turkey,” she said, feeling a sudden need to escape.

In the kitchen the turkey was browning nicely, and a pan of peeled potatoes floated in milky water on the stove. She eyed the four lonely plates stacked at the end of the counter, waiting to be set out on the dining room table, and brought her head to rest against the cool door of the refrigerator. What was wrong with her? Why was she being such a coward about this?

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she reached for the phone on the wall. She was trembling as she punched in the number on the letter in her hand.

She won’t be there.

And what if she
was?
Then what?

The ringing at the other end seemed to go on forever before the line clicked and an answering machine came on. She froze. A pleasant female voice at the other end thanked her for her call and instructed her to leave a message. But what on earth would she say?
Hello, you don’t know me, but I’m your mother. Look, I realize it’s been a while, but I was kind of hoping we could pick up where we left off.

She was about to hang up when a voice came on. “Mom? Is that you?”

Gerry felt her heart lurch into her throat. How had Claire known who it was? She felt almost delirious with the wonder of it. But before she could reply, Claire—she was almost certain it was Claire—went on breathlessly, “I was just about to put the pie in the oven. I’ll be there no later than five, okay?”

Oh, God. What now? Gerry forced her voice past vocal chords that felt like old rusted pipes. “Is this Claire? Claire Brewster?”

Silence at the other end, then the voice asked cautiously, “Who is this?”

For a panicked moment Gerry couldn’t quite catch her breath. Then her heart dropped back into place, and a voice she hardly recognized as her own replied calmly, “I’m your mother.”

“F
ORGET PEACE ON EARTH
. I’d settle for peace right here at home,” Claire said with a sigh.

Byron smiled. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“I mean, they’ve been at each other’s throats for so long it’s gotten to be a joke: the Montagues and Capulets of Seacrest Drive. Do they even know what they’re fighting about anymore?”

It was Christmas Day, minutes before the call that would change her life, and she was enjoying a quiet hour alone with her boyfriend. The irony of the fact that her parents lived next door to Byron’s wasn’t lost on either of them.

Byron laughed his easy, uncomplicated laugh. He sat slouched on a stool at her kitchen counter, watching her roll out dough for an apple pie. “It’s fundamental. One sees white, the other sees black. The only thing they have in common is a fence.”

“And us.”

“Well, we’re out of it, at least,” he said with a shrug. Byron refused to take any of it very seriously.

Claire paused in the midst of what she was doing to give him a long searching look. She took in his frizzy brown hair tied back with an elastic band, his speckled green eyes in the sharp-featured face that in childhood had made him look brash and a bit of a know-it-all (a whippersnapper, her mother had called him, and still did), which he’d grown into like he had the hand-me-downs of his well-heeled older cousins. His flannel shirt looked as if it’d been plucked straight from the dryer, and in place of a wristwatch he wore a braided leather thong. Byron was everything her parents abhorred, and she loved him all the more because of it.

“Which is why,” she said dryly, “we’re forced to sneak around behind their backs.” She’d spent the morning at her parents’, opening gifts, and as soon as she could, she had made her getaway. Byron had made his own escape, timing it so he arrived a few minutes after her.

“Who’s sneaking? We’re merely exercising our rights as freethinking adults. Speaking of which …” He arched a brow, giving her a suggestive look.