Taste of Honey (21 page)

She caught sight of Father Dan getting his ear chewed off by Sam’s sallow-faced sister Audrey—as different from Sam as night from day. Since Laura was divorced he hadn’t been able to officiate, and now it seemed he was fair game for every soul in need of unburdening. Poor Dan. Gerry would be forced to rescue him if she kept it up.

The Episcopal minister was an old friend of Laura’s from college: a tall, plain-faced woman with cropped brown hair. She looked stately standing opposite Laura and Hector, her robe and surplice fluttering in the breeze, yet managed to conduct the ceremony in a down-home manner, more like a big sister handing out advice. Gerry smiled, half expecting her to remind Hector to always put the toilet seat down.

In keeping with the relaxed tone, Laura read aloud a short fairy tale about an elderly couple granted a single wish, which was to die together when the time came, and who were subsequently transformed into trees forever entwined. Hector, his voice hoarse with emotion, followed with a Pablo Neruda poem that he read both in English and in Spanish. It was followed by Finch shyly stepping forward to give a speech about Laura taking her in when no one else would, and how she hoped Hector would be as happy with her mother as
she
was. By the time vows were exchanged, there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd.

Gerry glanced over at Sam, who was smiling through her tears. Both daughters married off, and now she was about to start all over again. Living proof, Gerry thought wryly, that good things didn’t necessarily come in neatly labeled packages by registered mail.

“They look happy, don’t they?” Aubrey murmured. Gerry thought she caught a note of wistfulness in his voice, and wondered if he was thinking of Isabelle.

“They’ve earned it.” She didn’t trust herself to say more—she was too choked up.

When she dared look at him, she saw that he was gazing not at Laura and Hector but at the mountains rising in the distance. Suddenly she wanted to snatch him back from wherever he’d gone in his mind. She could do what Isabelle couldn’t—warm his bed—but in every other way he’d remained faithful to his wife.

Then Aubrey took her hand, squeezing it gently and making her wonder if she was only imagining things.

Back at the ranch, decked in balloons and crepe paper streamers—Maude’s doing, no doubt—even the animals joined in celebrating: Rocky, the terrier, tagged after everyone holding a plate, hoping for a scrap; dear old Pearl, too old and dignified to beg, padded about with her big yellow head offered up for stroking; while the cats, Napoleon and Josephine, darted anxiously amid the thicket of legs crowding the living room. Even Punch and Judy, and Finch’s new chestnut mare Cheyenne, nickering in the barn, were making themselves known.

Sam darted over to plant a kiss on Gerry’s cheek. “I hope you’re hungry, because there’s enough food for a small army.” She didn’t have to say it: Lupe was in charge.

The smell of barbecued chicken drifted from the backyard, and Gerry could see past Sam into the kitchen, where Lupe, her thick black braids wrapped about her head—the only thing about her that hadn’t aged—bustled about like the world’s oldest general. The makeshift table at one end of the cozy living room, an old door propped on sawhorses and covered with an embroidered cloth, was laden with serving bowls and platters and baskets heaped with Lupe’s famous jalapeno cornbread. What a difference from Alice’s elegant reception on the lawn at Isla Verde!

Sam must have been thinking of Isla Verde, too. She turned to Aubrey with a smile. “By the way, Mr. Hathaway wanted me to tell you the roofers will be finishing up some time next week. I hope all the noise hasn’t been disturbing you too much.”

Gerry recalled that Mr. Hathaway was the property manager Sam had hired, which in turn reminded her of why Sam had rented Isla Verde out in the first place: All the upkeep had been more than she could handle on her own.

“Not in the least.” Aubrey
had
mentioned the noise, but was too much of a gentleman to let Sam know.

“Well, if you need to get away, there’s always Gerry’s.”

Gerry shot her a warning look. “One day at my house and he’d be running home to his leaky roof.”

“Not to mention Lupe.” Aubrey, thankfully, wasn’t taking it too seriously.

“As far as Lupe goes, you’re on your own. I gave up on her years ago.” Sam said with a laugh. “Excuse me …”

She darted off to rescue Anna, who’d been cornered by one of Hector’s uncles, a grizzled older man who clearly had an eye for the ladies. From Anna’s panicked expression it was obvious she didn’t understand a word he was saying.

“So far, so good,” Gerry muttered, glancing about. For the moment at least, they were being officially ignored.

Aubrey cast a faintly ironic glance at Andie and Justin, standing in line at the table, plates in hand. “I get the distinct impression your children haven’t missed a thing.”

Gerry sighed. “Knowing them, I don’t doubt it.”

Aubrey sipped his wine, regarding her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. People pressed in around them, laughing and talking, everyone having a good time— even the old Miller twins, Olive and Rose, who’d had a bit too much to drink and were giggling like schoolgirls as Sam’s brother Ray attempted to teach them the Texas two-step.

“I’m not sure they know what to make of me,” he said.

Tipsy from the champagne, Gerry leaned close to confide, “They’re a little intimidated, I think.”

“Am I such an ogre?”

“Worse—you’re famous.”

He smiled. “I hope the two aren’t synonymous.”

“You’re also the second bomb I’ve dropped on them in less than a month.” The thought of Claire brought a dull ache.

“Your daughter, yes.” He sipped his wine, his long fingers curled about the stem of his glass. “Still no word?”

“Not yet.” Gerry forced a smile, determined not to cast a pall over the occasion. “Look, forget I mentioned it. I shouldn’t be boring you with all this stuff.”

His fingertips brushed lightly over her arm. “You could never bore me.”

The small hairs on her forearm prickled. Oh, God, she shouldn’t have had so much to drink. How much easier to keep everything tidily in a box when you’re sober.

“That’s why we get along so well—I’m never around long enough to test it,” she said tipsily.

Gerry expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. She caught a flicker of something in his eyes, and felt a cool rush of unease. So often with him she sensed he was walking in two worlds: the past, with its memories no flesh-and-blood woman could measure up against, and the present, in which each step had to be carefully negotiated. Then the look was gone, and he was once more smiling at her as if she were the only woman in the room.

He took her arm. “Shall we get something to eat before it’s all gone?”

By the time they reached the head of the line, serious inroads had been made into the platters. They helped themselves to barbecued chicken, black bean salad, and tamale pie before wandering out onto the porch, where a number of the other guests were enjoying the unusually mild weather. The food was as delicious as it looked and Gerry ate more than she should have. She was about to head back inside for a drink of water to quench the fire from Lupe’s jalapeno cornbread when Aubrey said, “Will you excuse me a moment? I see someone I’d like to talk to.”

She glanced in the direction he was looking and saw a beautiful young Hispanic woman in hip-hugger jeans and a sleek top that left little to the imagination—one of Hector’s young cousins, no doubt. She felt a quick, hot little stab, then saw that it was Hector’s brother Eddie he was heading toward. She remembered that Eddie was a minor celebrity in his own right—on the rodeo circuit. Annoyed at herself for jumping to conclusions, and even more for being jealous, she frowned as she pushed open the screen door.

Inside, she caught sight of Father Dan in line at the table. She couldn’t help noticing that it was time for a haircut—any longer and Althea Wormley would accuse him of being one of those hippie priests who, according to Althea and her ilk, had taken all the sanctity out of the Church with their guitar masses and freewheeling discussion groups and other such tomfoolery.

She sidled up to him. “Having fun?”

He turned to her with a smile. “To be honest, I feel a little out of place. I don’t usually come to weddings as a guest.”

“Think of all the future business you’ll be drumming up.” She glanced in the direction of Sam’s nephews—Audrey’s boys—both angular and dark-haired like their mother, doing their best to impress Rose Miller’s twin granddaughters, Dawn and Eve.

“Oh, there’s never a shortage of people wanting me to marry them,” he said, blue eyes twinkling in his broad Irish face. “It’s when they come to me after the bloom is off the rose that I wish I’d counseled them to wait.”

She felt a deep affection for her old friend. How many times had she gone to him for advice? Dan didn’t have all the answers, and that’s what she loved about him. If he didn’t have advice to give, he listened instead. He was the only priest she knew who didn’t feel the need to quote chapter and verse for every ill under the sun.

“I don’t think the bloom will ever be off
that
rose.”

She nodded in the direction of Laura and Hector, surrounded by family and friends. They already wore the look of old marrieds—hands loosely linked, their gazes straying to each other before reluctantly pulling away to focus on whoever was speaking.

“Unlikely,” Dan agreed.

“As for me,” she felt compelled to add, “once was enough.”

“Never say never.” He cocked his head, smiling, the only man in this room tall enough to look down on her.

Gerry felt herself blush—had that been in reference to Aubrey? “That’s fine and dandy,” she said, “coming from a man who’s never been to bed with a woman.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.” He winked. “Remember, I wasn’t always a priest.”

Aubrey wasn’t thinking about Gerry as he pushed open the screen door. He was thinking about Eddie Navarro, a man who rode bulls the way Itzhak Perlman played the violin. Surprisingly, it turned out Eddie was a fan of his as well. He listened to classical music before each rodeo, not giving a hoot that the other cowboys thought he’d landed on his head one time too many. They’d had a most interesting chat, but after a few minutes he’d found himself, to his surprise, missing Gerry.

He paused in the doorway to scan the crowded room, spotting her deep in conversation with the priest. What was his name? Reardon, yes. A hail-fellow-well-met, broad as a yardarm across the shoulders and chest, who without his dog collar would never have been taken for a priest. But what struck Aubrey most was the way Gerry was looking at him, her face tipped up, glowing like that of a young girl …

…
in love.

The thought startled him. Christ, where had
that
come from? He had no earthly reason to think such a thing, and what if it were so? It wasn’t as if he had any claim on her. He nonetheless felt a certain unease, which took a moment to identify it had been so long:
I’m jealous.
He stood there, too stunned to move, the roomful of happily chatting people fading from consciousness. What business did he have being jealous? He wasn’t in love with Gerry. He liked her, yes, quite a bit more than he’d originally bargained on, but that wasn’t the same, was it? The only reason he’d gone on seeing her was because … well, because … he couldn’t
not
see her.

He frowned, the sense of disquiet deepening. After months, years, of merely keeping his head above water, he’d at last achieved a measure of contentment, which wasn’t the same as happiness, he knew—that had been buried along with his wife—but just as precious in its own way. He hoarded it the way a man stripped of his wealth might hoard his last remaining coins. Now his heart was going off in a direction he hadn’t counted on. And he didn’t like it; he didn’t like it one bit.

He suspected that Gerry would be equally appalled. She’d made it plain she wanted nothing more than she herself was prepared to give: sex and affection, in that order.

He took a step back, easing the screen door shut. As he turned, his gaze fell on Gerry’s son, seated on the porch steps tossing an old tennis ball to one of the dogs—a little black terrier that growled with mock ferociousness as the boy pried the ball away and sent it hurtling back out over the dusty yard. Aubrey strolled over.

“Mind if I join you?”

Justin only shrugged, but he didn’t move when Aubrey sank down beside him.

“I’ve always liked terriers. They’re like big dogs, only smaller.” He nodded in the direction of Rocky. “My grandparents had one—his name was Mignon. He’d swim out to get the sticks I threw him and the waves would keep tossing him back onto the shore. He never gave up.”

“Dogs don’t know any better,” Justin said.

Aubrey cast a sidelong look at him. Justin sat slumped over his knees, his shoulders tense. “You’re not having a very good time, are you?”

The boy shrugged again. “There’s no one my age.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Aubrey remembered all too well what it had been like for him with his grandparents living several kilometers from the nearest village.

Now the boy did look at him, his green-eyed gaze, so like his mother’s, sliding over Aubrey like cool water. “Mom wouldn’t let me bring Nesto.”

“I suppose because he wasn’t invited.”

Justin was staring at him openly now. “You weren’t either and you’re here.”

“A valid point.” Aubrey smiled. No one was going to get anything past this kid.

“I would’ve gone to my dad’s, but she wouldn’t let me do that either.” Justin’s glum face took on a harder cast—showing a glimpse of the teenager just around the bend.

Aubrey gazed out at the hydrangeas lapping the front walk. It made him think of the cottage he and Isabelle had rented that summer in Aix-en-Provence. It had been smothered in hydrangeas. Pink and blue, with blossoms the size of cabbages. He felt his heart retreat back into the safety of its cave.

When he looked back, Justin was eyeing him narrowly. “Do you know my dad?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”