Taste of Honey (22 page)

“He’s about the same age as you, only taller.”

“Is that so?” If Justin was looking to get a rise out of him, he was going to be disappointed.

“He’s practically head of his whole company, too.”

“What sort of business is he in?” Aubrey already knew; he was only asking to be polite.

“He loans people money to buy houses and stuff.” A hard lob sent the tennis ball bouncing up high and landing in the bushes. The little dog went charging off in pursuit.

“I see—he works at a savings and loan.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“My father was a barrister—that’s the British word for lawyer. I didn’t see much of him growing up.”

“Your parents were divorced?”

“No. I was away at school.”

“Like in
Harry Potter
?” Justin looked intrigued.

“Minus the wizardry.” Aubrey smiled, watching the dog root around in the bushes in search of the ball.

“Didn’t you get homesick?”

“At first, but you get used to it.” In his mind Aubrey heard his father saying almost the exact same words, telling him it would make a man out of him—he’d been eight—and realized it wasn’t entirely true: There was a difference between getting used to something and merely learning to tolerate it.

Justin took a moment to ponder this, elbows propped on his knees as he gazed out over the yard. At last he swung around, squinting at Aubrey like Clint Eastwood in
Fistful of Dollars
—another cowboy he admired.

“Are you and my mom getting married?”

So that’s what was worrying him. Aubrey considered his answer carefully. “Any man would be lucky to have her,” he said. “But I don’t plan on getting married—to anyone.”

Justin looked relieved. “Mom said the same thing when I asked her.”

“What else did she say?”

“That you liked living alone.”

Aubrey felt a sudden sharp hitch like a lungful of air pressing against a bruised rib. “I was married once before,” he said, “to someone I loved very much. She died.”

“Oh.” Justin dropped his gaze.

Just then the little terrier came bounding up the steps with the ball, now coated with dirt as well as slobber. Aubrey pried it from his jaws and wiped it on a napkin someone had dropped. On impulse, he said, “What do you say we throw a few?”

The boy brightened, then with a shrug quickly looked away.

Aubrey rose, stepping down off the porch. A moment passed before he heard the scuffle of footsteps behind him. He gave in to a small smile he was careful to erase before the boy caught up with him.

Gerry watched them from the doorway, the skinny kid whose clothes would have to go straight into the wash as soon as they got home and the elegant, silver-haired man mindless of his expensive jacket. Something floated up in her chest. How had he known what Justin needed? The same boy who’d been moping about all day was now grinning from ear to ear.

“It looks like he’s made a new friend.”

She turned to find that Sam had slipped up alongside her.

Gerry shrugged. “You know Justin—he gets along with everyone.”

“He needs a man in his life.”

“He has his father.”

“When Mike can find the time.” Sam had an even more jaundiced view of her ex-husband than she did, if that was possible.

Gerry shot her a stern look. “Look, whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

She watched Justin leap up to snag the ball and lob it back to Aubrey, who caught it easily. Aubrey spotted her and waved. Gerry waved back, motioning to let him know it was almost time for the cake to be cut. When she turned, bracing herself for another earful, she saw that Sam had drifted off. Gerry spotted her at the other end of the porch, chatting with Tom Kemp. From the glowing tips of his ears—the curse of redheads—it was obvious he still had feelings for her. Gerry wondered if love was always that transparent, even when those afflicted were blind to it.

Aubrey and Justin tramped back up the steps, and they all headed back inside. In the living room the platters had been cleared away, replaced by plates of cookies and a large bowl of fruit salad. The triple-tiered cake stood in the center of the table—a towering tribute, if one that listed slightly, to Maude’s baking. Gerry filled two cups from the coffee urn and handed one to Aubrey. Wandering over to the fireplace, they found room on the cat-scratched sofa to sit down.

“That was nice, what you did,” she told him.

He shrugged. “I enjoyed it.”

“Well, it was nice anyway.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“After the divorce I tried doing all that stuff—one time I fell into the lake trying to reel in a fish that turned out to be a waterlogged T-shirt.” She smiled ruefully at the memory. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that you can’t be both a mother and a father to your kids.”

He shot her an odd look, and she felt a little chill crawl up from the pit of her stomach. Was he warning her not to make too big a deal of his being nice to Justin? Lumping her in with single moms who used their kids to sweeten the deal?

Gerry was heading back to the table for a refill when she caught sight of Andie with a handful of CDs. Laura must have asked her to reload the player. Gerry smiled at her and for once Andie didn’t give her the evil eye. She looked as if she was having a good time.

The room fell silent just then as Maude rose to make a toast, teetering a little from too much champagne. The bundle of white hair atop her head was coming undone and snowy wisps floated about her apple-doll face. “To two people I love dearly,” she said, lifting her glass high overhead. “May they live long and be happy … and never get tired of taking in strays.”

There was a chorus of hoots and cheers and barks; then the cake was cut. Laura fed a bite to Hector while everyone snapped photos with the disposable cameras that had been left about. She looked a little embarrassed by all the attention, and at the same time pleased that everything was going so well. Hector, for his part, wore the somewhat dazed look of a man who’d been thrown from a horse.

The music started up again—not soft rock like before, but a lovely violin concerto. It wasn’t until she glanced over at Aubrey that Gerry knew something was wrong. He wore a stricken look, his mouth frozen in a ghastly parody of a smile. That’s when it hit her: The music was Isabelle’s.

Andie. It was Andie who did this.

Gerry, stunned by the casual cruelty of it, stood rooted to the spot as people swirled about, clapping and making toasts—some ribald, like curmudgeonly Doc Henry joking that Laura and Hector were sure to give new meaning to the term animal husbandry. Glasses clinked and more champagne was poured. All the while the heartbreaking beauty of Isabelle’s music, coupled with the sorrow on Aubrey’s face, was almost more than she could bear.

CHAPTER EIGHT

C
LAIRE EASED INTO
the right lane. Just ahead, a tractor-trailer was pulled over, and though she didn’t see any flares, she slowed as she passed it.
No sense buying trouble,
warned a voice in her head—Millie’s. She smiled at the irony. For on this chilly February day, as she made her way north on Highway 101 to San Francisco, wasn’t trouble the very thing waiting for her at the other end?

When she reached San Mateo, she fished her cell phone from her purse and punched in Byron’s number. He was off today, and it was early still—just after ten. She might catch him.

He picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was groggy with sleep.

“I thought you might be out. I was going to leave a sexy message.”

He yawned. “I was on call until four. I just got up.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Hey, no problem. Can I still get the sexy message?”

“Not now—I’m driving.”

“Where to?”

“You know.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

“He’s there. I called before I left to make sure.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. I hung up.”

“He might be gone by the time you get there.”

She felt a tiny prick of irritation. Didn’t he think she knew that?

“I’ll try him later, then.” She could always look up Gerry’s brother in the meantime. She’d planned on doing so anyway.

“Yeah, but there’s still no guarantee he’ll see you.”

For an instant she thought he was referring to Kevin, before realizing he meant Father Gallagher, of course. “I guess that’s the chance I’ll have to take.” Her pulse quickened at the thought.

She heard the pad of footsteps at the other end, then the sound of Byron peeing into the toilet. God, they weren’t even living together and already they were like old marrieds. Then she remembered that in Byron’s house no one was shy about such things; his parents even sunbathed in the nude. She’d spied them once over the backyard fence.

“Listen, I’m all for it,” he said, “as long as it’s going to help you get some closure.” He’d fallen into the habit of using such lingo since starting his current rotation in psychiatry.

Personally, she distrusted such words. Twenty years ago no one had heard of “closure” and wouldn’t have known what you were talking about. “I’m not doing this to heal my wounded psyche,” she said a bit testily. “I just want to know what he’s like. He’s my father, after all.” It felt strange saying it; the only image that came to mind was of Lou.

“Hey, I’m on your side, remember?” She heard the toilet flush.

“I know,” she said with a sigh.

“I miss you, babe.”

“Me, too.”

“I wish I could be there.”

She wished it, too. At the same time she cringed at the thought of Byron looking on, however sympathetically, as she struggled to make sense of this family that had been dumped in her lap.

“I’ll give you a full report on the way back,” she promised.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, I’ll need it.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She thumbed the
END
button, wishing the words so often whispered in her ear were accompanied by a living, breathing Byron. It was hard seeing so little of him. And what worried her most was that their long-distance relationship had begun to seem normal.

That thought led to ones of Gerry. At least a dozen times over the past few weeks she’d gone to pick up the phone, but something always stopped her. What would be the point? One thing would lead to another, and before she knew it she’d feel pressured into inviting Gerry here. And how would she explain
that
to Lou and Millie? She’d been able to justify the first meeting, in her own mind at least, but her parents would see another as nothing short of a major betrayal.

Then she remembered Justin’s sweet, funny e-mails. And the recipes Mavis had sent, painstakingly copied onto index cards in her crabbed, arthritic hand. Even the memory of Gerry’s ambivalence and Andie’s pushing her away weren’t enough to blot out the warm feelings that crept in.

But first she needed to solve the puzzle of her father. Using the little bit of information Gerry had given her, she’d gotten his home number from the offices of the archdiocese in San Francisco. Luckily his housekeeper had answered when she called. With her fingers crossed behind her back, Claire had told her she worked for the
Marian Reader
and would like to send Father Gallagher a copy of the article in which he’d been mentioned.

Now, armed with his address, she was going to confront him face-to-face.

She saw that she was nearing the Civic Center turnoff, and her stomach did another free fall. Was it fair to ambush him like this? Maybe she should have told him who she was over the phone. If Gerry was right, it would have saved her a trip.

And what about her parents? She hadn’t told them about this little jaunt. They could hardly stand to hear about Gerry. After Claire’s weekend in Carson Springs they’d asked only the bare minimum—what was she like, how were her kids? She knew they felt bad about the stink they’d made. Millie had been going out of her way to be nice, and Lou had volunteered to fix a leak under her sink. So Claire had stuck to the facts, not elaborating. It was easier to let them think her curiosity had been satisfied, that she’d gotten … closure.

Father Gallagher lived on Turk Street in a narrow, two-story clapboard house tucked back from the sidewalk. She circled the block several times before she found a parking space. Fog had crept in, and the dampness clung like wet flannel as she walked back to the house.

She let herself in the gate and made her way up the front path. In the yard, dwarf trees and shrubs were bowed with moisture, and the house seemed to loom like a ship in the fog. Her heart was pounding as she mounted the steps to the porch.

She knocked on the door and a long minute passed before a pair of washed-out blue eyes below a fringe of gray bangs appeared in its beveled glass oval. Claire must not have looked threatening, for the door swung open. A heavyset older woman in a nubby brown sweater that bagged down around her hips stood before her, a lime-green duster in hand.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Father Gallagher,” Claire said.

“Oh yes, he’s expecting you.” Claire’s heart lurched. How had he known? Then the woman said, “Father said they were sending over some papers for him to sign.” She stepped back to let Claire in.

She was ushered into a shabby but scrupulously neat living room with a small dining ell off to one side. She caught the faint odor of cooked fish from the night before. Apparently the easing of restrictions brought by Vatican II hadn’t penetrated this corner of the ecclesiastical universe.

What am I doing here? This is crazy.
She ought to be looking ahead to the future, not mucking around in the past. Didn’t she have enough with just Gerry? What could this man offer her that would be worth the grief?

She heard the creak of someone descending the stairs, and a moment later a man stepped through the archway into the living room, walking with a slight limp—a priest from central casting with piercing blue eyes and wavy silver hair brushed into wings over his temples. His face was smooth and serene except for the deep line, like a chevron, between his brows.

He stuck out a large dry hand smelling faintly of soap. His grip was firm. “I’m sorry the archbishop had to send you all this way.” He smiled and tapped his leg. “Touch of rheumatism. I’ll be back at my desk in a day or two.”

Her cheeks grew warm. “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

He cocked his head, wearing a faintly puzzled look, as if trying to remember if he knew her from somewhere. “Well, my mistake, then. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Claire—Claire Brewster.” She waited to see if her name would ring a bell and when it didn’t grew light-headed. “Would it be all right if I sat down?”

“Of course.” He gestured toward the sofa.

Claire had the strangest sensation of its cushion falling away from her even as she sank into it. She waited for Father Gallagher to sit down as well, but he remained standing, favoring his good leg as he leaned up against a wing chair.

She cleared her throat. “Gerry told me where to find you.”

“Gerry?”

“Fitzgerald.”

He only frowned slightly, then tapped his temple and said, “Ah yes—Our Lady of the Wayside. She was one of the sisters there. She taught catechism, didn’t she?”

“But weren’t you—?” She stopped, feeling suddenly unsure of herself.

“Friends? Yes, I suppose you could call it that. As much as any spiritual adviser can be.” Father Gallagher regarded her mildly. “I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Brewster, but I’m rather busy at the moment. Perhaps you can tell me why you’re here.”

Claire drew in a deep breath. “I thought—she told me you were my father.”

The chevron on his forehead deepened, and now he did sit down, sinking heavily into the wing chair. “What would make her say—or even think—such a thing?”

“The truth is, I don’t know her that well. I was adopted, you see.” Claire plowed on. “I didn’t know much of anything until she called me out of the blue.”

His expression didn’t change, but what she’d taken for priestly serenity suddenly seemed far less benign—a kind of eerie detachment. Even as Claire searched for a resemblance, she was glad when she didn’t see one.

“Whatever she told you,” he said in a voice as eerily detached as his expression, “I’m afraid you’ve been led astray.”

It couldn’t have been more than seventy degrees in the room but sweat was oozing from her armpits. It was just as Gerry had said—he wanted no part of her. Oh, God, why had she come?

“I don’t see why she would make up a thing like that,” Claire said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that she’s sincere in her belief.” His expression shifted subtly, like that of an actor slipping into a role. He leaned toward her with a look of concern. “It happens more often than you’d think— young nuns becoming infatuated with priests to the point of hysteria … and sometimes even delusion.” He shook his head. “There’s a whole body of literature on the subject, if you’d care to read it.”

“She … she’s not like that.”

If anyone was lying, it was Father Gallagher. She’d
swear
to it. At the same time, she couldn’t be 100 percent sure.

“You said yourself that you hardly know her.” He brought his fingertips together in a steeple under his chin, and she caught the glint of a gold signet ring. “May I make a suggestion. Miss Brewster? Let it sit for now. In time, perhaps the truth—the
real
truth—will come out.” He sounded so sincere—as if she were nothing more than a parishioner who’d come to him for spiritual guidance—that for a moment she almost believed him.

“But—”

He glanced at his watch and rose. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this short. I’m sorry you had to come all this way for nothing.”

Claire dragged herself to her feet, cheeks burning as if with fever. “Thank you for seeing me, Father.” The irony of addressing him as “Father” wasn’t lost on her.

“Not at all, my child.” He spoke as if she were just another member of his flock, and when she put her hand out, he took it between both of his, patting it gently.

Then she was out the door, stumbling down the steps in a daze. What had happened back there? Claire scarcely knew what to make of it. She
had
heard of cases where religious fervor crossed the line into sexual hysteria. Was it possible the affair existed only in Gerry’s mind? In which case, if that man wasn’t her father, who
was?

Father Jim Gallagher couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to be a priest. While the other boys were sneaking cigarettes in the parking lot of All Saints and bragging about their sexual exploits with the girls from Holy Cross (most of it wishful thinking), he’d found solace in Father Czerny’s cool book-lined study, where they’d spend hours discussing biblical text and the radical changes wrought by Vatican II.

Father Czerny, a large shaggy-browed man with a habit of blinking rapidly when agitated (as he generally was when discussing such things as the Vatican’s mandate that mass be said in English instead of Latin), had been more than parish priest and mentor. He’d been a true savior. It was from him that Jim had learned to cope with his father’s drinking and his mother’s neglect. The old priest, who was no saint himself—he smoked too much and enjoyed the occasional card game—had done more than show him the light, he’d shown him the way out: from the neighborhood, and from the bottom of the heap where nothing ever changed, where every day looked like the one before, with your mother screaming at your father for running up a tab at O’Malley’s and him screaming back at her to show him some respect and Mrs. Malatesta downstairs thumping on the ceiling with her broom, yelling,
Shaddup, ya goddamn micks, shut up or I’ll call the cops, I mean it this time.

Over the years little Jimmy Gallagher, whose sleeves were always too short and whose nose was always running, had gradually given way to Father Jim Gallagher. The seminary some viewed as restrictive had been a haven of quiet and sanity. Even celibacy, with which he’d struggled at first, had grown easier with time and with the knowledge that a life without sacrifice was a life much like the one he’d abandoned: unstructured, undisciplined—and generally unfit. It wasn’t until he was assigned to St. Xavier’s and a pretty young novice named Gerry Fitzgerald came into his life that everything changed, that he began to wake in the middle of the night to find his sheets damp and stained.

Oh yes, he remembered her all right. Gerry, with her sloe eyes and bewitching smile, her hips that swayed enticingly beneath her habit. Gerry, whose very innocence inflamed him. It was as if an exotic bird had flown over the wall, its bright plumage visible only to him, its silver-throated song for an audience of one: a creature of God’s creation who flew in the face of everything godly, who through no fault of her own was wreaking havoc with his carefully ordered existence. All this before they’d scarcely exchanged more than a word in passing.