Taste of Honey (44 page)

“My plane gets in at noon. If I don’t run into any traffic, I should roll in around two, two-thirty.”

She gave him directions to the house, saying, “It’s the one with all the ivy.”
And a half-finished wheelchair ramp.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

“I’ve missed you, babe.” His voice turned husky.

“Me, too.” She had, hadn’t she? Otherwise, why would she have slept with Matt?

The following morning she was a nervous wreck. Would he take one look at her and
know?
She thought about phoning Kitty for a dose of common sense, but didn’t her friend have enough problems at the moment? Besides, it would only delay Kitty further.

By the time Byron arrived, she was a nervous wreck. But the sight of him climbing out of the rental car in his floppy shirt and chinos immediately put her at ease.

He wore a faintly astonished look as he wandered about the room.

“Wow! The photos didn’t do it justice.”

“That was Before, this is After.”

Any misgivings she might have had fell away as Byron walked from room to room, admiring every detail. Though she was careful not to linger in the bedroom, never mind she’d scoured it of any sign of Matt.

“Nice,” he said, not seeming to notice that the mattress was on the floor.

She showed him the adjoining sitting room, where a wall had been knocked down between two small bedrooms, an idea she’d gotten from Sam. All that was left was to wallpaper it; then she’d be able to take the rest of her furniture out of storage. The long-range plan, when she could afford it, she explained, was to convert the garage into an apartment for the two of them.

Byron didn’t respond. He seemed genuinely excited for her, but she noticed he was careful not to include himself in any discussion of future plans.

They returned to the sunny front room, the only one besides the kitchen and bathroom that was complete. “Your contractor did a nice job,” he said, running a hand over the wainscoting.

Claire felt herself blush. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

“I like the way you’ve decorated it, too.”

She looked around, seeing it anew through Byron’s eyes—the ruffled curtains Mavis had sewn, the painted tables and chairs stenciled with designs, the pine hutch with her collection of antique bottles and vintage tins from Avery Lewellyn’s antique barn. The Victrola by the door was from Maude, and the quilt on the wall a gift from Olive and Rose Miller. Laura’s contribution had been the oak rocker in the corner, for mothers with babies.

“I didn’t do it all myself,” she said.

“I wasn’t expecting anything this … finished.”

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. He looked the same, but their roles seemed to have shifted. After a lifetime of playing it safe, she’d stepped out on a limb while Byron, who’d always gone his own way, was following in the more traditional footsteps of his uncle. Gone were any references to opening a practice or doing volunteer work—subjects he’d once spoken of with passion. Lately their conversations had been peppered with mentions of his uncle Andrew, and how much he would earn a year practicing in Hillsborough.

“I was going to go with crepe paper and balloons,” she answered facetiously, “but it seemed tacky somehow.”

“You know what I meant.” He put his arms around her, making her feel petty for misconstruing his comment. “You worked hard—you deserve to have this be a huge success.”

She dropped her head onto his shoulder. He smelled faintly and pleasantly of the Castile soap his ecofriendly parents bought in industrial-size jugs and used for everything from shampooing their hair to laundering their clothes.

“Why don’t we grab a bite to eat in town? It may be my only chance to show you around. The next few days are going to be kind of hectic.”

“Actually, I had something else in mind.” He cast a meaningful look in the direction of the bedroom.

She felt uneasy all of a sudden. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later on.”

“All right, if you insist …”

The partially completed wheelchair ramp seemed to mock her as she stepped out onto the porch. She thought of Matt and how she’d have no choice but to introduce him. Oh, God. How had she gotten herself into this? She didn’t know which she feared most: Byron finding out, or hurting Matt any more than she already had.

By the time they’d walked the half mile into town, some of the tension had gone out of her. As they strolled along Old Mission she prattled on about the centuries-old oaks that were the sacred cows of Carson Springs (it had made front-page headlines last month when Norma Devane, of Shear Delight, had cut down one of hers); the lecture at the public library, given by renowned naturalist Petra Crowley, at which a red-tailed hawk had gotten loose and nearly made off with Marguerite Moore’s miniature French poodle; and the post office tower with its bell that had been slated for munitions during World War I only to have been conveniently “stolen” until such time as it could be safely restored.

When they reached the end of the arcade, she took him on a tour of Delarosa Plaza, with its tiled fountain and quaint shops nestled inside bougainvillea-draped walls.

“Come on,” she said, “I want to introduce you to Laura.”

The bell over the door at Delarosa’s tinkled as they stepped inside. She spotted Laura in back, waiting on a well-dressed older woman. Laura murmured something to her and walked over, greeting them warmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said when Claire had introduced her to Byron. “I hear you’re a doctor. We could use a few more like you around here.”

“More like a starving resident,” he said with a laugh. His gaze traveled about, taking in the artful displays of pottery and weavings, handcrafted objets d’art and one-of-a-kind jewelry. “Nice stuff. I’ll bet you do a good business.”

“We do all right.” Laura, modest to a fault, brushed a wisp of flyaway hair from her forehead. She was dressed in dark brown slacks and a yellow silk blouse that suited her olive complexion. “To be honest, we make more money off our Web site.”

“She’d do even better in a big city,” Byron muttered to Claire as they were leaving.

Claire was taken aback. Didn’t he get it? Delarosa’s had been in the family for generations, since the days of the Gold Rush. Besides, Laura
liked
it here. At the same time, she wondered if she wasn’t being disingenuous herself, her guided tour little more than a glorified sales pitch.

They wandered through Muir Park, stopping to admire the bandstand where concerts were held in summer. Clem Woolley was in his usual place by the gazebo, a tattered bundle of his self-published tome in hand. Standing nearby was burly Nate Comstock, who’d done some electrical work at her house; he was peering through binoculars at the trees overhead,
The Sibley Guide to Birds
clamped under one tattooed arm. Olive and Rose Miller, dressed in identical seersucker shirtwaists, paused to say hello before continuing arm in arm down the path.

Having skipped lunch, she was starving by the time they reached the Tree House. David Ryback, at his usual station by the door, greeted them as they pushed their way inside. “Don’t tell me you’re reconsidering my offer,” he teased, reminding her of the job as pastry chef he’d said was hers anytime she wanted it.

“Only if it means the recipe for your ollalieberry pie,” she joked in return.

“Nothing doing. I’d be out of business in a week.”

When they were seated, she chatted briefly with Melodie Wycoff, who took their orders, and waved hello to one of the regulars, raven-haired Delilah Sims, rumored to be in love with David. They were tucking into their sandwiches when Byron observed casually, “You certainly know a lot of people.”

“I guess so. I hadn’t really thought about it.” She glanced up at a little boy and girl scampering about like a pair of monkeys in the tree house overhead—they might have been her and Byron at that age—and smiled. “It’s funny,” she said, “but in some ways it feels as if I’ve lived here all my life.”

He was quick to change the subject. “How’s your mom these days?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Are they coming to the opening?”

“They haven’t said one way or the other.” She felt a pang, but found that it didn’t upset her as much as it once had. It wasn’t that she loved them any less, just that she didn’t expect so much. “What about yours? I sent them an invitation.”

“Yeah, I know. They told me to tell you they can’t make it. Mom’s speaking at some conference. Which reminds me …” He dug into his jacket pocket and produced a slim paperback volume. “She wanted you to have this. It’s a book of her poetry.”

Claire was surprised. She hadn’t known Byron’s mother was a poet. “Is it any good?” she asked, leafing through it.

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “It’s just the university press. I think they published it to humor her.”

The old Byron wouldn’t have been so dismissive, she thought. Had he changed that much? “Well, it was thoughtful of her,” she said.

“She gave one to your parents, too—as a sort of peace offering.” He shook his head in wonderment. “I don’t know if it worked, but at least they’re on speaking terms.”

“There’s hope for them yet.” She smiled at the irony of it: Byron’s parents making peace with Lou and Millie while she’d been left out in the cold. “It’s funny. I used to think they needed me. But I think all I did was keep them from seeing how lonely they were.”

Byron reached across the table to take her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. “The only thing that counts is if
you’re
happy.”

She hadn’t once heard the word
we
since he’d arrived.

“I am,” she said. “But it’s not the same without you here.”

“It won’t be forever. Just a couple more years.”

“I should be in the black by then.” She held his gaze, adding, “And once the garage is converted …”

He abruptly let go of her hand. “You know how I feel about that.”

“I was hoping you’d changed your mind.”

He pushed his plate aside. He was smiling at least, and she took heart from that. “Okay, I’ll admit I wasn’t sure at first, but judging from what I’ve seen …” He spread his hands, a look of eagerness lighting his thin, intense face. “Once this takes off, you could open branches in other places.”

“It would sort of defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it?”

If he’d caught the sarcasm in her voice, he showed no sign of it. “What would be wrong with opening a Tea and Sympathy in, say, Hillsborough?”

“The land of carpooling and soccer moms?”

His face fell. “You could at least consider it.”

“On the other hand, you could move here.”

“Come on, Claire. Be serious.”

“I
am
serious.”

Byron shook his head. “Look,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ve spent the past eight years trying to make something of myself. I’m not about to trade one backwater for another.”

She felt her heart sink. There’d been a time when, like Byron, all she’d thought of was getting ahead. But she hadn’t given up law to make more money elsewhere. Whether or not Tea & Sympathy was a huge success was beside the point. She was doing what she wanted, surrounded by people she liked. As long as she could make ends meet, what else mattered?

“I don’t have to tell you what it was like for me growing up,” he went on, reminding her that both his parents’ salaries combined had barely been enough to make ends meet. “If it hadn’t been for my uncle’s help, I couldn’t have afforded medical school. You know how I feel about my parents, but all I ever wanted was
not
to be like them.”

“So you’d rather be like your uncle instead?” She was surprised by how calm she sounded. “A fancy house in Hillsborough and a Mercedes in the garage?”

“Would that be so terrible?” His face, dappled in shadow from the leaves overhead, seemed to shift with the breeze.

“I can remember when you cared more about other things.”

“I still care. I just don’t see why I have to starve to make the world a better place.”

“You could make a nice living
here.
”

But he went on shaking his head. “It wouldn’t work, Claire.”

Still, she persisted. “They’re building a new clinic. They’ll need doctors. As for volunteering, the migrant camps are full of illegal aliens who’d sooner die than go to a hospital. You could do some real good.”

“Sounds as if you have it all figured out.”

“All I’m asking is that you consider it.”

“Will you think about what
I’m
suggesting?”

The hopelessness of it swept over her, and she shook her head. “I … can’t.”

This wasn’t about Matt, she realized. Or even her moving here. It was about the hairline cracks that had been widening into a rift, so quietly and gradually neither of them had noticed. Or maybe they’d merely chosen to turn a blind eye. Hadn’t she felt it that night Matt had taken her to see his boat? Seeing the love that had gone into it, she’d known it couldn’t have been easy for him to turn his back on his dream. Yet he had, for his children’s sake. Would Byron have done the same? Once upon a time she would have thought so, but now she wasn’t so sure.

“You might feel differently in a year or two,” he said, but she could see in his face that he knew she wouldn’t.

Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s not going to work, is it?”

It was as if a key had turned in a lock. His face flooded with anguish, his dear face that she’d known and loved since childhood. “Maybe we just need some time apart,” he said in a strange, choked voice.

Claire was dimly aware of Melodie yammering on and on to someone at the next table about a remedy for hair loss that she’d read about in the
Enquirer.
And David Ryback at the other end of the patio in intense conversation with his tired-looking blond wife. No one was looking at her and Byron; no one seemed the least bit aware of the seismic rupture taking place.

“Maybe so,” she said.

The look in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. “When I talked you into coming here that first time, I never imagined it would turn out this way.” A corner of his mouth hooked up in an ironic smile.