Taste of Honey Read Free Page B

and now owned a successful travel agency. Gayle, happily married for more than thirty years, with an elderly mother she looked in on at least once a day and two perfect children—a son in premed at UCLA and a daughter at Columbia Law. Gayle, who even at twenty would have sold pencils on the corner of Old Mission and Juarez rather than give up her own child.
    “Mom?” Justin was giving her that look: the one that reminded her he was too old for some things, and not nearly old enough for others. “It’d be okay if we made believe there’s a Santa Claus. Just, you know, in case Grandma forgets I know there isn’t.”
    Her eyes prickled suddenly, and it was all she could do to keep from reaching for his hand. What would he say if he knew he had another sister? What would Andie’s reaction be? Her children would be confused, maybe even hurt. They’d want to know why she’d kept it a secret for so long. Mostly, they’d want to know why she’d given her baby away, her own flesh and blood. And what could she tell them? What viable excuse could she give?
    I was a different person then. Scared out of my wits. Nearly three years in a convent had left her hardly equipped to care for herself, much less a baby. But how could she expect them to understand?
    At that moment she spotted Sam up ahead, hand in hand with Ian. Gerry caught her eye and waved, edging toward them. In her red jacket and knitted cap, Sam, six and a half months along, made her think of the pregnant young moms you saw in the playground, pushing their toddlers on swings. Never mind that she was forty-eight, the same age as Gerry, with two grown daughters old enough to have children of their own. Gerry noted, too, as she drew near that the candle Sam carried was in a decorative punched-tin holder. She smiled. Wasn’t that just like Sam. In high school, when their classmates were donning love beads and letting their hair grow to their waists, she’d worn hers short and taken up macramé.
    Sam greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. “We missed you at the Tree House,” she said. Every year the procession was kicked off with gingerbread cookies and hot mulled cider at the Tree House Café.
    “I had trouble finding a place to park,” Gerry told her. The truth was that by the time she’d rounded up Andie and Justin, they were too late. Sam would have understood, of course, but such explanations always left Gerry feeling slightly inadequate. She turned to Ian, who, perhaps in honor of the occasion, was sporting a tiny cross in one ear. “Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”
    He flashed her the grin that had no doubt brought stronger women than Sam to their knees. He was nearly fifteen years Sam’s junior, and her eldest daughter’s stepson to boot. Gerry liked to tease Sam that she’d gone from Family Circle to the National Enquirer all in one leap. One thing was for sure: Nothing had been the same since Ian.
    “Sam’s great,” he said. “I’m a nervous wreck.”
    “I’ve had practice, remember.” Sam slipped an arm through his, and smiled up at him reassuringly. “It’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget.”
    Gerry opened her mouth to remind her that it’d been more than a quarter of a century since she’d last ridden this particular bike, but just as quickly shut it. Except for the straining buttons on her jacket, Sam was as slender as ever with the energy to match. Women half her age would be begging to be put out of their misery while she was valiantly bearing down. All Gerry said was, “Just give her a leather strap to bite down on, and she’ll be fine.”
    Ian pulled Sam close. The top of her head fit neatly under his chin, over which he smiled at Gerry. “I’m counting on you to be my understudy,” he told her. His blond ponytail curled rakishly from beneath the navy knitted cap he wore pulled down around his ears.
    “He’s afraid he’ll pass out,” Sam said with a laugh. “I told him it only happens in movies.”
    “What she