Taste of Honey by Eileen Goudge Page A

lifetime dream. That’d been—what? Eight, nine years ago. Since then wiry little Fran, who made her think of a red squirrel always darting about, had made a real go of it. Her hole-in-the-wall creperie was so popular there was always a line spilling onto the sidewalk.
    Fran brightened. “Actually, I’m looking to expand. If you hear of anything, let me know. It has to be at least double the square feet, where the rent won’t eat me alive.”
    “What about the Dalrymple place? I heard it was on the market.” In her mind, Gerry saw the older shingled cottage with roses climbing up the front and shards of terra-cotta roof tiles scattered about the yard. “I don’t imagine they’ll get top dollar. It’s pretty run-down.”
    “Yeah, I know. It was the first thing I looked at. It’d be perfect—zoned for commercial use, too. Except it’s a little too far off the main drag. I’d lose the lunch trade.” Fran looked thoughtful, as if she hadn’t completely ruled it out.
    They chatted briefly about the high price of real estate before Gerry shoved off.
    Fifteen minutes later she was on her way home. Turning down Green Willow she waved at Tom Kemp, bent over his hedge with a pair of clippers like a tall question mark. She remembered when Martin’s former partner had been crazy about Sam, and wondered if he was still carrying the torch. Did love truly spring eternal? She wouldn’t know. The men she dated were disposable. Only Aubrey was different, in a way she hadn’t quite been able to pinpoint.
    She turned off Green Willow onto Mesa, slowing at the sight of two boys cruising along on their bikes. A little farther down, Marcy Walters’s little girl was playing hopscotch on the sidewalk while her brother pedaled in furious circles on his Hot Wheels. It used to drive Mike crazy that he couldn’t park his Lincoln Town Car in the driveway without worrying that some kid would scratch it. But everything Mike had hated about this neighborhood she loved—its older Spanish-style homes standing hip to hip, many still trimmed in Christmas lights, and the neighbors who waved to you and knew everything that went on. She wouldn’t have traded it for Mike’s fancy new house in the hills any more than she’d have given up the job she loved for one that paid twice the salary.
    Pulling into the driveway, the first thing Gerry noticed was Justin’s bike blocking the door to the garage. Her mellow mood dissolved. Damn it. How many times had she told him—
    Go easy, a voice interjected. You don’t want to set the wrong tone.
    Inside she found her son slouched in front of the TV, lost in a video game. He barely glanced up when she walked in. “Where’s Andie?” she called, dumping an armload of groceries on the kitchen counter.
    “Huh?”
    “Your sister. You know: five foot two, curly dark hair. Last seen wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans.”
    “I dunno—with Finch, I guess.” His eyes remained glued to the screen, on which amazingly lifelike race cars zipped through tunnels and around bends.
    “Did she say when she’d be back?”
    “Nope.”
    Gerry sighed. When Andie and Finch were together they lost all track of time; she’d be lucky if Andie made it home in time for supper. But hadn’t it been that way with her and Sam? At that age they’d been inseparable. Gerry had probably spent more time at Sam’s house than at her own.
    Justin still hadn’t budged. “Hey, buster, I could use a hand here. If it’s not too inconvenient.” Their elderly Labrador, snoozing by the fireplace, lifted his gray-muzzled head. “Not you,” she said. Buster dropped his head back onto his paws with a grunt.
    Justin shot her a sheepish glance. “Uh, sure, Mom. In a minute.”
    Gerry sighed again. The manic soundtrack emanating from the living room made the days she and Sam used to hang out in the penny arcade at Palisades Park, playing Gypsy Fortune-teller and Rifle Shoot, seem basked in a golden glow. Though she was certain her