Free Taste of Honey by Eileen Goudge

her. “Mom, this isn’t about you. Why can’t you see that?”
    “Oh, I see all right. I see the handwriting on the wall.”
    “Nothing will change. You’re still my parents.”
    “Yes, your parents.” Millie’s voice was thick with tears. “The ones who fed and clothed you and looked after you when you were sick. The ones who sat up worrying themselves half to death when you stayed out late. What has this woman ever done for you? Tell me. What can she give you that we can’t?”
    Claire gazed down into her mother’s face, at her mouth slack with anguish and the deep lines etched about her eyes. “It’s not about what she can give me— I want to know why, ,” she said.
    “You’ll get more than you bargained for.”
    “Maybe. But it won’t change how I feel about you and Dad.” She reached for her mother’s hand, holding it lightly clasped. It felt cool to the touch, the bones underneath like something loosely wrapped in tissue paper. “Good night. Mom. Sleep tight.”
    “Would you shut the door on your way out?” Millie sighed, turning her head toward the wall. Claire was stepping into the hall when she added in a barely audible voice, “The pie was good.”
    Claire eased the door shut, pausing to rest her forehead against the jamb. A headache was starting in one temple and her eyes felt hot and achy. What now? But the house gave nothing back. As she made her way past the living room, there was only the muted sound of the TV. Outside, a strong wind was blowing in off the ocean. She could hear it whining in the eaves, sending leaves scuttling along the gutters her father hadn’t gotten around to cleaning—she’d have to look into hiring a yard boy.
    “Bye, Dad,” she called. She could see only the back of the recliner where he sat, the bald dome of his head flickering with reflected light from the TV.
    “Bye, honey.” He didn’t get up. “Drive safely.”
    She retrieved her jacket from the oak hall stand, catching a glimpse of her face in its beveled mirror: her prominent cheekbones with their sprinkling of freckles, her gray-green eyes and Cupid’s bow mouth drawn into a straight line. Who did she resemble? Her mother or her father … or neither? Was it from some long-lost ancestor she’d gotten her curly brown hair and the dimple in her chin?
    She stepped outside to find that the wind had scoured away the fog, leaving the sky empty except for the stars glittering like fistfuls of flung sand. Stopping to gaze across the hedge at the lighted windows next door, she thought of Byron. She’d never needed him more than she did now. But the Allendales would be lingering over their supper, she knew, engaged in an animated discussion about a hot-button topic such as stem cell research or global warming or gun control. Better to wait until tomorrow.
    Her thoughts turned once more to Gerry. Claire imagined a stout, gray-haired matron at the head of a table surrounded by family—Claire’s half sister and brother, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—and felt a warm trickle of anticipation. Was this a gift she’d been offered, like in a heartwarming Christmas tale … or the proverbial poisoned apple? She shivered at the thought, pulling her collar up around her ears as she headed down the steps.
    “Of course you should call her.” Kitty stood at the kitchen counter of her rambling old house that doubled as a tearoom, elbow deep in dough, the air filled with the delicious scent of something baking in the oven. A pot of tea was steeping under a quilted cozy at Claire’s elbow.
    “Give me one good reason.” It had been two weeks since Christmas, and she was still no closer to a decision.
    Kitty turned to give her a mildly admonishing look. “You don’t need one. She’s your mother.”
    “Who gave me up at birth.”
    “Don’t you at least want to know why?”
    More than you know, Claire thought. “What about my parents?”
    “What about them?’’
    “It would kill them.”
    Claire