Taste of Honey Read Free

staring blankly back at her from amid the lush greenery, was that life, her life—wildly divergent from any she’d imagined—was about to begin. And there wasn’t a blessed thing she could do about it.

CHAPTER ONE
    Present day
    G ERRY SLIPPED A HAND into her coat pocket. The envelope was still there: folded and refolded, the letter inside dog-eared, its contents long since committed to memory. In the two days since it had arrived in the mail she’d carried it everywhere, fingering it as compulsively as she once had her rosary beads. Her name is Claire. Not a name she’d have chosen. In her mind it would always be Ai-leen. Aileen Fitzgerald, after her great-grandmother from Kenmare.
    An image surfaced in her mind: a small red face peeking from the folds of a blanket, topped by a tuft of pale brown hair. An old pain flared to life, and her ears were filled with a rushing noise that momentarily dimmed the warbling of the carolers. On the thronged sidewalk, in the flickering glow of countless bobbing candles, their voices drifted toward her as if through layers of cotton: Silent night, holy night … all is calm … all is bright …
    The knot of people in front of her inched forward: men and women, each clutching a lighted candle and bundled up against the unaccustomed cold, many with babies in their arms or toddlers on their hips. She spotted Sam’s sister, Audrey, with her husband, Grant, the tin of coconut snowballs Audrey gave Father Reardon every year tucked under one arm. And who could miss Marguerite Moore, in a crimson jacket, sailing at the head of the line like a brightly decked barge? Or the elderly Miller twins, Rose and Olive, dressed in identical green velvet coats and matching cloche hats.
    It was a tradition that had been a part of Christmas festivities in Carson Springs since the days of the early Spanish settlers, this candlelight procession up Calle de Navidad that ended with evening mass at St. Xavier’s. Gerry remembered when she was small, trudging dutifully at her mother’s side, wanting only to be inside where it was warm and she could keep an eye out for Santa. Tonight it was the only thing keeping her sane. She straightened her shoulders, joining the chorus in her sure, strong alto.
    Round yon virgin, mother and child … holy infant, so tender and mild …
    The familiar lyrics acted like a tonic, and her fears seemed to evaporate along with the frosty plume of her breath funneling up into the night sky. The knot in her chest loosened, and she felt a surge of wild hope: that she and Claire would meet and find they had more in common than not, that they would find a way to put the past behind them and move forward, like a broken leg that’s healed badly but is still strong enough to walk on.
    Yeah, and a few hours from now Santa and his reindeer are going to land on your rooftop with a sack full of goodies. She gave in to a small, wry smile. It was Christmas, the time of the year one was allowed visions of dancing sugarplums. Tomorrow, when the wrapping paper was cleared away, she would get real, as her daughter would say.
    She caught sight of Andie, a dozen or so yards ahead, gabbing with a group of friends from school, their faces rosy in the candlelight. She looked happy and relaxed, and Gerry couldn’t help thinking of how long it had been since she’d been that way at home. Justin, dragging his heels at Gerry’s side, followed her gaze and sighed.
    “Mom, how come Andie gets to be with her friends?”
    Gerry turned to him, answering mildly, “Because all of yours are with their parents. And because,” she threw in, “you’d be leaving your poor old mother all alone on Christmas Eve.”
    Justin, not seeing the humor in her reply, merely eyed her plaintively, his narrow freckled face, framed by the hood of his sweatshirt, making her long for the Christmas Eves when he’d been a baby in his snowsuit and she’d carried him in her arms up Calle de Navidad. “It’s just …” His