Taste of Honey by Eileen Goudge Read Free Book Online Page B

university (his mother taught women’s studies and his father headed the English department), and all three Allendale children—Byron, Keats, and Shelley—had been taught from a very young age about bodily functions and to refer to them by their proper names. No one ever said snot; it was mucus. And when little Shelley, only five at the time, needed to go potty, she would announce loudly that she had to urinate. In explaining things to Claire, Byron had been as natural and unembarrassed as if teaching her to play pinochle.
    Now, watching a curly strip of peel unravel from the apple in his hand—a Granny Smith that in his long, loosely jointed fingers might have been a greengage plum—she thought, He’ll make a fine doctor. He had the touch, but most of all the knack for putting people at ease.
    Just then the phone in the living room trilled.
    Byron shot her a questioning look. “Want me to get it?”
    “No, it’s okay.” It was probably her mother wanting to know when to expect her for dinner—as if they were having company, as if it even mattered what time they ate. Claire pictured her parents on hold, like a freeze-frame that would commence rolling the minute she walked in.
    The answering machine clicked on, and she snatched up the phone. But it wasn’t Millie. After a moment of confusion, when the caller identified herself, Claire felt the blood drain from her head.
    She cast a panicky glance at Byron, who motioned back, wanting to know if he should pick up the extension in the bedroom. She shook her head. No, she’d handle this on her own.
    At the same time, her mind spun in frantic circles: My mother? My mother?
    The narrow, high-ceilinged room yawed and she gripped the nearest chair—her grandmother’s, its lyre back gleaming darkly. From the apartment below came the earnest thumping of a piano: nine-year-old Katie Wexler practicing scales.
    “This is Claire Brewster?” The woman was polite but insistent.
    “Yes … yes, it is.” Claire felt all at once airborne, like a scrap of paper caught in a sudden updraft.
    There was a sharp intake of breath, then: “My name is Gerry. Gerry Fitzgerald.” When Claire didn’t respond, she said anxiously, “They told you about me, didn’t they?”
    “Only that I was adopted,” Claire replied woodenly.
    An awkward silence fell. Then Gerry ventured cautiously, “I … I was wondering if we could meet sometime. Just for coffee. I could come to you.” She hesitated, adding, “I’m sure you have questions.”
    “Truthfully, I haven’t given it much thought.” A lie. Hadn’t she thought about it every day for the past twenty-odd years? She glanced again at Byron, who’d drifted over wearing a concerned look. Why was she acting this way? More importantly, what did this woman want ?
    “I’m sorry. I know this is a shock.” Gerry sounded flustered. “Would you rather I called back another time?”
    “Yes. No. I mean … it’s just …” Claire began to tremble.
    “Or you could call me. Why don’t I give you my number?”
    “I think that would be best.” A strange calm descended over her, and she reached dreamily for a pencil to copy down the number. But she must have been pressing too hard because the lead snapped and went skittering off the pad. She blinked and straightened. Her heart was beating much too fast and the sense of being airborne was stronger than ever. Suddenly she wanted to know everything there was to know about this woman, this Gerry Fitzgerald. Glancing down at the unfamiliar area code, she observed in the same mild voice, “You’re not from around here.”
    Downstairs the piano scales thumped to a halt, then after a moment started up again. Da-da-DEE-da-da-da-DEE-da. The sound seemed to be coming from inside her head.
    “I’m not far—Just east of Santa Barbara.” Some of the tension went out of Gerry’s voice. “A little town called Carson Springs. Do you know it?”
    “I’ve heard of it.”
    “The movie Stranger in