Taste of Honey by Eileen Goudge Page B

son, perched on the sofa in his baggy jeans and even baggier Lakers T-shirt, would have scoffed at the idea.
    She went back for a second load. Her mother would say she was too easy on the kids, that you couldn’t run a tight ship without cracking the whip now and then. But Gerry wasn’t interested in running a tight ship.
    Hadn’t she done that with Mike? Juggling a job and kids with a constant round of lists, chores, and activities: cocktails with clients, dinner parties for people she barely knew, an endless stream of country club affairs.
    If it hadn’t been for the Dawsons, who knew how long it might have gone on? She cringed at the memory, even though it had been her salvation in a way. Paul and Nancy Dawson, a couple she knew from church, had expressed interest in joining the club. Gerry, seeing no reason such nice people wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms, had offered to sponsor them. Unfortunately, the board members hadn’t seen it her way. The Dawsons, she learned when the vote came down, weren’t quite tony enough for the Dos Palmas crowd.
    “They knew the risk,” Mike had said when she came to him in tears. “This is a private club, not some church organization.”
    That had only stoked Gerry’s ire. “I get it. They’re good enough to organize a drive for earthquake victims in Nicaragua, but not loll about by the pool showing off their tans.”
    Mike shrugged. “There were lots of considerations.”
    “You mean like the fact that Paul doesn’t play golf, and Nancy isn’t on the museum board?”
    “That had nothing to do with it, and you know it. Stop blowing this out of proportion. They just … well, they didn’t fit in.”
    “Maybe I don’t fit in either,” she’d shot back. She knew perfectly well she wouldn’t have gotten in on her own. Not that she’d have cared; Mike was the one who’d been so hell-bent on joining.
    The very next day she told him he could screw the club. But if she’d secretly hoped he would come around to seeing it her way in time, the plan backfired. Mike saw no reason to stop spending his weekends at Dos Palmas just because she was foolish enough to stay home. It was around that time he’d met Cindy—newly divorced, and an ace golfer to boot. Cindy, with her tiny voice and even tinier waist, her baby blues that could fell a man at fifty paces. Once they became an item, it was all over but the shouting. They’d been married a year, and Gerry wished them well. She had nothing against Cindy; Mike either, for that matter. It all made perfect sense. If anything, she wondered what he’d ever seen in her.
    With the groceries unloaded and put away, she filled a large pot with water. When it was boiling furiously, she dumped in a packet of noodles and went hunting for the jar of Ragu she was sure she had. One of the great innovations of the twentieth century, she thought, was spaghetti sauce in a jar. Mixed with a pound of hamburger you had the perfect meal.
    Dinner was almost ready by the time Justin ambled into the kitchen to help. She put him to work setting the table, trying not to notice when he laid the forks and knives in the wrong place and left the milk carton out. Andie walked in the door just as they were about to sit down.
    Gerry watched her daughter shrug off her jacket and toss it over one of the hooks by the door. Her cheeks were ruddy with more than cold; it looked as if she and Finch had hit the makeup counter at Rusk’s. And was that a new earring? It was hard to tell with so many in her ears.
    “You’re just in time,” she said.
    Andie meandered over to the table. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Spaghetti.” Gerry spoke calmly, though it was perfectly obvious what they were having. “Did you and Finch have fun?”
    “We were at the ranch most of the day. Then Hector had to go into town, so we caught a ride with him.” Andie dropped into her chair, eyeing the spaghetti without much interest. “I tried on some stuff at