Taste of Honey (36 page)

It was getting dark. Her mom got up and switched on the lamp, which briefly lit her face with a Halloweenish glow, making the hollows under her eyes more pronounced.

“How have you been?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Pretty much.”

“If you feel like a snack there’s some pizza in the fridge. It won’t take a minute to heat up.”

Andie shook her head, giving her mother a reproachful look. “You shouldn’t eat that stuff, you know. It’s not good for you.” Mom was like a kid that way.

Gerry smiled. “You sound just like your grandmother.”

Andie glanced about the room, reassured to find it exactly as she’d left it, everything in place—even that stupid fishing pole that should have found its way into the garage by now. She cleared her throat. “Dad said there was something you wanted to talk to me about?”

Her mother looked tense. This wasn’t easy for her, either. “I wanted you to know … well, that this wasn’t what I had in mind when Claire moved here. I saw us as one big family. I didn’t stop to think that you might not feel the same way.”

Andie sighed. “It’s not just Claire.”

“I know, honey.”

“You should’ve believed me about that CD.”

“I know that, too.” Andie caught the flash of tears in her eyes.

She felt her resolve waver. “Even if it wasn’t on purpose, I’m sorry Aubrey was upset.”

Her mother looked sad at the mention of Aubrey, and Andie wondered if they’d split up. She hoped not. With him, her mom had seemed happy for the first time since the divorce.

“Is it too late to say I’m sorry?” her mother asked plaintively.

Andie couldn’t bear seeing that look on her face. At the same time it filled her with hope, hope that things would get better. She risked a tentative smile. “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me it’s never too late to apologize?”

“I promise things will be different.”

“How?” Andie hadn’t meant to sound rude. She honestly wanted to know.

“For one thing, we’ll be together more.”

Andie was prompted to ask, “Did you and Aubrey break up?”

Her mother glanced down. “What I meant was it looks like I’m about to be fired.”

“No way.” Andie shook her head in disbelief. “They can’t do that to you, can they?”

Her mother’s mouth flattened in a humorless smile. “You’ve heard that saying, Let sleeping dogs lie? Well, apparently it’s true. Claire met her father, who was none too pleased and decided it was time to put an end to this once and for all. Either that, or he’s doing it to get back at me.”

Claire. So she was the reason. A short while ago Andie might have held it against her, but she saw now that Claire hadn’t asked for this any more than she had.

“Can he really get you fired?”

“Apparently so.”

“That sucks.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself. Yes, it sucks.”

They looked at each other and began to laugh. That was the thing about her mother: She could always make Andie laugh. Even when what they were laughing about wasn’t the least bit funny.

It broke the ice, though, and when Andie spoke the words came more easily. “I’m sorry, Mom. I wish there was something I could do.”

“There is. Come home.” The laughter went out of her mom’s face, and she looked expectantly at Andie.

Andie wanted nothing more than to fly into her arms, but something kept her from moving. “I’m staying over at Finch’s tonight,” she said. “Dad’s giving me a ride.”

“I gather he and Cindy are having a party.”

“It’s for Cindy’s friend.”

It must have shown on her face, for her mom smiled knowingly. “Not your scene, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

“Do you like it at your dad’s?”

“It’s okay.” Andie shrugged. “I have my own room and everything.”

“Which reminds me, I was thinking we could redecorate your room here. New wallpaper, the works. I remember you had your eye on that wicker headboard at Pier One.”

Before Andie could reply, her father tapped on his horn out front.

“I should go,” she said.

Her mother walked her to the door, where she hugged Andie tightly. She was wearing the Calyx cologne Andie had given her for Christmas the year before. Andie found herself remembering that after those times she’d threatened to run away from home, her mom would always do something fun with her—like bake cookies, or help make a playhouse out of blankets.

Suddenly Andie was in no hurry to leave.

Her mother stepped back, wearing a crooked little smile. “If you don’t come home soon, I’ll have to break down and buy myself a decent hair dryer.” It was a family joke that her mother was the only one on the planet who borrowed her daughter’s.

Andie was halfway down the front path when she glanced over her shoulder. Her mother looked so forlorn, standing in the doorway, Andie thought of a flood victim stranded on the roof while her house was being swept downriver. It was all she could do not to turn around and run back. But just then her father honked the horn again, more urgently this time.

He shot her a funny look as she climbed in, but didn’t say anything until they were rounding the corner onto the next block. “How did it go?” he asked.

“All right,” she said.

“You didn’t give her a hard time, I hope.”

Andie sighed, and shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. We talked.”

“So it’s all settled then?”

“What?”

“You and Mom.”

She studied the profile that in a year or two would sport a double chin. She knew then that he wanted this as much as her mother did—for reasons entirely his own. It wasn’t anything specific, just a feeling she had—that life would be a lot easier without her around.

“I’ll pack my stuff tomorrow,” she told him.

He reached over to pat her knee. “That’s my girl.”

She could see the relief in his face, but surprisingly it didn’t hurt as it once might have. She only felt sad. In his own way he loved her, she knew. Just not as much as she needed.

It was nearly dark by the time she got to Finch’s. Andie found her in the barn with Hector, mucking out a stall. She grabbed a rake and pitched in, spreading clean straw over the floor while Punch stood hooked to the crossties by the tack room. Judy, the Appaloosa, and Finch’s chestnut mare, Cheyenne, peered over the tops of their stalls, patiently waiting their turn. When all the stalls had been seen to, the horses were each given a scoop of bran mash with molasses as a treat. Hector went outside to hose off, and Andie and Finch took turns washing up at the tack room sink.

Supper, courtesy of Maude, was baked beans with frankfurters and homemade buttermilk biscuits. They sat around the kitchen table, all talking at once—Andie and Finch, Laura and Hector and Maude—eating off mismatched plates and using knives and forks from at least three different sets. Andie had never seen Laura so happy, except maybe at her wedding. She chattered on about her day—after a slow spell, it seemed business at Delarosa’s was really picking up—but every so often she’d dart a look at Hector, who’d glance back with a little smile as if they shared a secret of some kind.

“More beans?” Maude, who reminded Andie of a snow-white canary she’d once had, waved in the direction of the stoneware casserole dish that had been Finch’s present to the newlyweds, then went chattering on about the vegetable garden she’d planted, the cats’ needing to be wormed, and the falling star she’d wished on last night.

No wonder Finch fit right into this family of odds and ends. Andie could remember a time, not so long ago, when she’d seemed instead like a square peg in the round hole that was the world. But now, watching her butter a biscuit while talking animatedly about the Japanese exchange student in her geometry class who’d invited her over for sushi, Andie was struck by how happy she seemed—as if nothing bad had ever happened to her, as if she hadn’t been as foreign as Mariko when she’d first come to Carson Springs.

Halfway through the meal Laura remarked to Andie, “I hear you’ve been staying at your dad’s.” She’d changed out of her work clothes into jeans and a sweatshirt—her usual at-home attire.

“I’m going home tomorrow,” Andie told her.

“Your mom must be happy about that.”

The words came easily. “She is.”

Laura smiled. “By the way, I finally met Claire.”

“Oh?” Andie waited for the little inner downbeat that always came when Claire was mentioned, but found that she felt only mildly curious to know what Laura had thought of her.

“That tearoom of hers is the talk of the town.”

“I, for one, can’t wait.” Maude was all but clapping her hands with glee.

“I stopped by the other day to see if she needed a hand.” Hector reached for another biscuit. “That contractor of hers does nice work. Place is really shaping up.”

Andie felt guilty that she hadn’t been by to see it, and was relieved when talk turned to other things: the new roof that was going on the barn, the pickled string beans Maude was entering in the county fair, and Hector’s class in literature at the community college that’d had him up half the night plowing through
War and Peace.

Dessert was cobbler made from apricots Maude had put up last summer. After which, Finch sat back and announced, “I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite if you paid me.”

“In that case, you can help with the dishes,” Laura told her.

“You ladies take it easy.
I’ll
wash up.” Hector’s chair scraped back from the table, and he gave Laura’s shoulder an affectionate little squeeze as he rose. “That goes for you, too,” he called to Maude, who was already tying her apron on.

“We’ll walk the dogs.” Finch cast a meaningful glance at Andie, then whistled for Pearl and Rocky.

As she stepped out through the back door, Andie saw that it was a clear night—the moon out, and the stars like bright light shining through velvet. Cold, too. She could see her breath and was glad she’d thought to bring her warm jacket.

They picked their way up the path that led up the grassy slope behind the barn. It had rained the night before and the air smelled of damp earth and sage. In the distance, the mountains were like construction paper cutouts against the starry horizon.

They paused every so often to let old, half-blind Pearl and Rocky, who found it necessary to pee on every bush, catch up. At one point, Finch crouched down to pry something from his jaws. “What’s that you’ve got there, boy?” She peered at it in the darkness, then flung it into the bushes with a grimace. “Uck, whatever it is, it’s dead.”

Andie would’ve puked, but she supposed a rotting mouse carcass was nothing compared to the things Finch had seen. Like her foster father getting shot by drug dealers and bleeding to death before her eyes. It was amazing how normal she was, considering.

They continued on, their shadows stretching like elongated scissors over the moonlit path. After a while, Finch said, “I’m glad you and your mom made up.”

“Yeah, me too.” Andie kicked at a rock.

“Is your dad cool with it?”

“Actually, I think he’s sort of relieved that I’m going back.” Finch was the one person she could confide’ in.

“Because of Cindy?”

“In a way.”

“What a real bitch.”

Andie shrugged. “She’s not so bad.”

“I thought you hated her.”

“I used to … but not anymore.”

They’d reached the top of the hill, where they sank down on a large flat rock while the dogs went charging off to explore. The Big Dipper looked almost close enough to touch. After a moment, Andie asked, “Do you ever wonder about your mother?”

“I don’t really remember her.” As far as Finch was concerned, Laura was the only mother she had. “I was two—at least that’s what it says in my file. They found me all alone at a McDonald’s.” She smiled faintly. “Sometimes I have this dream—well, not really a dream, more like a memory—of a blond lady in a blue dress bending over me. She must have been my mother.”

“Is it a good memory?”

Finch tugged at a weed growing up through a crack in the rock. “I guess so. It’d be nice, though, if I could remember more.”

Andie’s own troubles all at once seemed small in comparison. “Claire must have wondered, too.”

“Lucky she doesn’t have to anymore.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking.” Finch turned to her. “Maybe we could drive over to her place after school on Monday and, you know, check it out.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” Andie didn’t tell her the same thought had occurred to her as well.

“I’d like to meet her.”

“Why didn’t you go with Laura and Hector?”

“Like I’d do that to you.” Finch gave her a stern look, letting her know that she wouldn’t even have considered it without Andie’s knowing.

Andie ducked her head, not wanting Finch to see the tears in her eyes.

Rocky came rustling out of the bushes just then, carrying a stick that Finch pried loose and tossed down the slope for him to retrieve. On the opposite hill a line of trees stood starkly outlined against the sky, and farther off in the distance the open scrub gave way to houses that glinted like scattered dice against the dark landscape.

When it grew too cold, they started back, the dogs trotting at their heels. It wasn’t until they were halfway down the hill that Finch turned to ask casually,
too
casually, “Heard from Simon lately?”

“You mean have I returned any of his calls?” Finch knew perfectly well that she hadn’t. “I doubt he’s holding his breath.”

Finch cast her a faintly injured look. “Hey, I was just asking.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m a little touchy.”

“Still no sign of your period?” Finch dropped her voice though there was no one around to hear.

Andie shook her head, suddenly filled with dread.

“What about the test? Did you take it?”

“Yesterday.” She’d picked up one of those home pregnancy kits when she stopped to buy tampons.

“And?”

“It was negative.”

Finch came to an abrupt halt. “Why didn’t you
tell
me? I’ve been worried sick.”

“Tests can be wrong.”

“Just how late
are
you?”