A Sin Such as This Page 11

  Eli jumps to her defense. “That’s not very nice. I thought you two were friends.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, you should be.”

  When Genevieve notices our approach, she dismisses her entourage and comes over to join us. I introduce her to Eli, who really should close his mouth.

  He pushes in between her and me to shake her hand. “Hey, Ms. Lennon. Wow. I’m such a huge fan!”

  Yeah, of her half-naked Sports Illustrated poses. God, could he be any more obvious? Should I offer a pen for her autograph?

  Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a kid and she’s an icon.

  “So good to meet you, Eli, and please call me Genevieve. Are we ready to go in?” She hooks Eli’s elbow, steers him toward the entrance.

  Cavin takes my hand, bends to put his mouth close to my ear. “Heaven help us, that kid’s ego is visibly bloating.”

  We have to stop several times as people who either know or want to know Genevieve say hello, but eventually we make our way to the VIP section, where an attractive young usher checks our tickets. Eli is so enthralled by Genevieve, he barely even notices the cute attendant, who escorts us to our seats. The low Adirondacks are front row, square center.

  “Wow,” exhales Eli. “What do you have to do to rate seats like this? Kill someone?”

  “No,” replies Genevieve. “You just have to donate a lot of money. Money is generally a better motivator than murder.”

  Before we can sit, a tall man with rather amazing silver hair makes his way through the crowd. “Good evening, Genevieve. How have you been?”

  “Wonderful, thank you. Oh, allow me to introduce my guests. Austin, this is Cavin Lattimore; his wife, Tara; and son, Eli. Cavin is an orthopedic surgeon. And Austin is the executive director of the festival.”

  Austin reluctantly pries his gaze off Genevieve to give me an assessing once-over, and then meets Cavin’s eyes. “Of course. So good to see you again, Dr. Lattimore. I wasn’t aware you’d married.”

  Cavin looks slightly flustered. He takes my hand. “It was a relatively quick decision. But how could I let this one get away?”

  The question rankles, though it sounds like a compliment. “To be fair, I wasn’t running very fast,” I say. “Literally or figuratively.”

  “How do you two know each other?” asks Genevieve, intrigued.

  “My daughter Allison’s a dancer,” answers Austin. “Dr. Lattimore put her splintered tibia back together. Happy to say she’s still dancing.”

  “That’s very good to hear,” says Cavin. “How long have you been in charge of the festival?”

  “This is my second year.”

  “And Maryann?” queries Genevieve. “Is she here somewhere?”

  “Not tonight. She had another function. My wife is involved with the Parasol Foundation,” explains Austin. “It’s an umbrella organization for several local nonprofits, including the Shakespeare Festival.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “I’ve only just moved to the lake, after years of fund-raising work in San Francisco. If there’s anything I can do to help out, I’d love to be involved.”

  “Tara does fantastic events,” Genevieve adds. “I’ve attended several, and always leave a little poorer.”

  Austin reassesses me. “I’ll be sure to mention your interest to Maryann. In fact, we’re hosting a postperformance party on Friday evening, mostly for festival donors who want to meet the cast. Would you care to join us?”

  I glance at Cavin, whose expression says “why not?” “We’d love to.”

  “Great. You’re welcome, too, Genevieve, if you’ll still be around.”

  “I’m here another week at least. Why don’t you send me the details and I’ll forward them to Tara?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Now, I’d better mingle. I hope you enjoy the performance.”

  The play is The Taming of the Shrew, not my favorite of the bard’s offerings.

  Too much deception and more than a fair amount of misogyny—thanks so much for that, Mr. Shakespeare. But it’s performed well by a stellar cast, with the requisite humor to make the premise palatable. Even Eli laughs where he should.

  Genevieve flirts with him. She flirts with Cavin. She does not flirt with me, at least not while flirting with them. But at intermission, when the guys excuse themselves to head to the restroom, she stays behind.

  “Attractive men,” she observes.

  I don’t feel the need to argue. “Yes, they are.”

  “I was surprised you married again. And again. I thought Jordan might’ve soured you on the practice.”

  A small laugh escapes me. “Guess I’m just a glutton for punishment. As the old song goes, I’ve looked for love in all the wrong places. Hopefully Cavin proves to be the right place.”

  Genevieve sighs. “You know what Jordan told me once? That you were the only woman he ever really loved.”

  Let’s put that on hold. “When did he tell you that?”

  “Oh. I’m not sure if you were aware of it, but he and I saw each other for a short while after the two of you split up.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. “Really.”

  She slides her hand under the armrest and settles it on my knee. “Does that bother you?”

  The sensual gesture is disconcerting, and it takes a couple of seconds to manufacture a question in response to hers. “Do you want it to?”

  That draws a wry smile. “I probably did at the time, and I’m pretty sure Jordan’s motivation revolved completely around revenge.”

  “I don’t understand. It wasn’t like he was interested in keeping our marriage intact.”

  “Love and immorality aren’t mutually exclusive. Know what else he said? That he wasn’t sure you were capable of loving him back, or loving anyone, in fact.”

  There is no judgment in her voice, but it does pose the silent question: Was he right? The slow creep of heat across my cheeks suggests I should change the subject. I cover her hand, still a memory against my knee, with my own. “What about you? Any prospects for love?”

  She shrugs. “Boy toys. Girl toys. Playthings. Insipid conversation and sex as religion. Funny how being not alone can in fact make you lonelier.”

  The men return and she withdraws her hand, and as the second act begins, I consider her last remark. She’s right. There have been times when, surrounded by people, I’ve felt completely isolated.

  Tonight is not one of those occasions.

  sixteen

  I WAKE TO THE SOUND of a door opening. It’s dark in the room, and steady breathing beside me tells me Cavin’s sleep is undisturbed. I lie very still, listening to a soft scratching across the carpet.

  “E-e-e . . .” It’s a rasp, and the second syllable of Eli’s name won’t escape me at all. But even as I realize that, I understand it can’t be him. The footsteps are almost weightless.

  Terror grips me suddenly, holds me fast against the bed. I try to lash out, to kick, to scream, but not a single part of my body will move except my eyes. And they can’t see anything out of the ordinary in the low pewter light of what must be predawn. Yet something—something! —is moving toward me, and it’s carrying menace.

  “N-n-o.” Almost a word. “Lea—”

  But it’s not ready to leave yet.

  Nothing there.

  Nothing there.

  Nothing there.

  That’s what I keep repeating, at least inside my head. Nothing there. Nothing that can be seen. Nothing of substance. Yet there’s a force. A power. Energy. Something dynamic.

  And it wants me.

  Why can’t Cavin feel it? Why can’t he intuit the horror rising up from my gut like bile and gurgling into my brain?

  My side of the bed depresses, like someone just sat beside me. She’s reaching out. She?

  Who?

  What?

  Her voice materializes from the gloom. “We have to go now.”

  Mom’s gone.

  Just a bad dream.

&nb
sp; The pressure on my chest increases and I can barely find breath. It’s like all the air has been vacuumed from my lungs. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump! My heart shrieks and still the weight increases. The more I fight, the more it grows, and after a while I can’t hang on. Fade toward black.

  I settle into a nightmare, find comfort there, because at least I know I’m dreaming. Melody and I are sleeping on a makeshift bed on the smelly floor of the closet of a motel room. We were scared when Mama shut us in here, but she said we didn’t want to see what was going to happen. We hear everything.

  The man grunting.

  Mama moaning.

  The man’s voice rising, angry.

  Mama begging. “I need another twenty. Come on, baby. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Something slapping skin.

  Mama crying.

  Something thumping against flesh.

  Mama screaming.

  Crashing. Thrashing. Something heavy hitting the floor.

  Quiet, then sudden movement.

  The closet door yanks open. “Come on. We have to go now. Fast.”

  As she hurries us toward our escape, I see the man, still naked, lying silent on the floor, a small trickle of blood on his forehead where the now-broken lamp connected. She pushes us out the door and across the parking lot, to where the pickup truck sleeps. I wait till we’re on the highway to ask, “Did you kill him?”

  “I don’t think his wife got that lucky.” Her voice is cold concrete.

  And so is mine when I ask, “Did we get lucky?”

  In answer, she pulls into McDonald’s. After two days, bellies burning with hunger, we will eat tonight after all. I picture the stranger, a mannequin on that stinking motel room floor. Smile.

  Suddenly, my body compresses again, only this time when I ascend from the depths, I look up into my husband’s eyes, feel the dream-risen heat of his skin against my own. Relief relaxes me into his arms, and a vortex of need drives away every vestige of fear. Despite his weight, I can breathe again.

  I inhale him.

  Exhale me.

  Into his mouth, a breath of us, wrapped up in a kiss too tender.

  I want more, want him to take me, and encourage him with a tango of tongue and teeth. He understands, no words required, moves the dance lower. I arch my back, invite his hands to explore the knolls of my breasts, and the slow circling of his fingers lifts my nipples, ripens them into sweet, purple berries for the pluck of his lips.

  “Bite them,” I demand, and he does, but too gently. “Harder.”

  Quick bolts.

  Exquisite pain.

  Enough to waken Inanna, the queen of Heaven, sleeping within. Goddess of gentle rain and, equally, flood; of evening star and morning dawning; of war and ritual sex. Her lust infuses me now, threads my body, coaxes every nerve to full alert. Cavin throws off the covers, drops back toward the foot of the bed, and parts my legs gently, careful to put all the pressure on the left side. He kisses up the length of each, back and forth between them, and knowing what’s surely coming next, an anticipatory moan escapes me.

  I close my eyes against the morning light and surety of his motives and am instantly rewarded with the firm demand of his tongue. It knows me well.

  All ghosts forgotten, I open myself to the heady perfection of my husband’s practiced foreplay, and when he pauses before entering me, I beg, “Please don’t stop.” My hands explore the firm musculature of his derriere, settle there, and push.

  Hard.

  He’s inside me.

  Stretching me.

  Filling me.

  Rocking me.

  Making me scream.

  Anyone listening would think he was killing me, but every hint of pain is perfect pain, and I match each thrust with one of my own until we build in unison to the ultimate cresting.

  Mutual orgasm.

  His, punctuated by distant thunder.

  Mine, by epic flood.

  I crumble back into his arms, and realize he’s brought me to tears. “Thank you.”

  He strokes my hair, fingers tangling into the damp mess of curls. “For what?”

  “Chasing her away.”

  “Who?”

  “Mom. She wanted to take me with her.” I confide the horror movie that recently played itself right in this very room.

  His lips brush across my forehead. “Nightmare. Nothing more.”

  “I know.”

  It was a lot more than a dream, but I leave it there and allow myself the luxury of two minutes’ respite, cushioned by his arms and buoyed by his spirit.

  Finally, he rouses. “Busy day ahead. Better get it started.”

  “Okay, fine.” I pout. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Tara, I see no need whatsoever to worry about you.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaches back for one more kiss. Then he goes to the window, slides it all the way open, inviting the forest inside. “See? It’s a gorgeous day. Not a cloud in sight. And no evidence of ghosts.”

  Cavin retreats to the shower and I go in search of a mega helping of caffeine to ward off any lingering spirits. Once the coffee is brewing I check my phone. Sure enough, there’s a message from Mel.

  Mom died just before midnight. She went peacefully.

  The first part doesn’t surprise me. I have little doubt she actually stopped by, hoping to take me with her. But I expected she’d complain about her departure. Wrestle the Grim Reaper, in fact, desperate to remain in this world. I find myself disappointed she exited so easily.

  As has become my habit, I carry my coffee out onto the deck and immerse myself in the crisp Sierra air. Rarely did I have such an opportunity in San Francisco, where morning most often comes shrouded in Pacific mist, and not often did I rise before nine. Here, though Cavin doesn’t expect it, I want to see him off to work. But even without that necessity, I enjoy the amenities offered in the mountains this time of day.

  Chief among those is quiet, albeit punctuated by the varied voices of wildlife, busily attending their a.m. duties. But those fade into the grand envelope of woodland silence. I sink down into it and try to decipher the strange mix of emotions I seem to be experiencing.

  My mother drew her last breath.

  There’s loss here, but I’m not sure why.

  She’s been dead to you for years.

  There’s regret here that I don’t understand.

  Did some sliver of you want connection?

  Anger seethes, familiar.

  If anyone deserved a truncated life, she did .

  A wind of confusion mushrooms.

  Why should you care that she’s gone?

  She was never there.

  Cavin’s voice startles me out of my reverie. “Hey. You okay? You’re trembling.”

  My head bobs, on autopilot. I don’t feel so okay but don’t need to share that with him. “But so happens you were wrong about that ghost. I heard from Melody.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Yes. She’s gone.”

  I just hope she stays that way.

  seventeen

  I T’S AN EMOTIONALLY TUMULTUOUS couple of days. Melody handles the final details, turning whatever’s left of our mother over to the funeral parlor to plop into the casket. I tried to talk Mel into the $995 Walmart low-end job, but the funeral director proposed a special deal on a prettier model, offering to toss in the gaskets that will keep water from leaking in. So, for the rock-bottom price of $2,250 plus applicable taxes, Mom’s remains will rot just a little slower, with a satin pillow to cushion her head.

  They swing back by the house on Wednesday afternoon, and Mel decides to take me up on my invitation to spend the night. It’s uncomfortable all the way round, starting with Kayla, who arrives with a well-deserved chip on her shoulder. She storms through the door, defenses raised.

  Eli has been preparing his alibi, which, of course, is a lie. But first he greets her with a very sweet kiss. “Hey, baby. Missed you.”

  Kayla does her be
st not to be swayed. “I’m sure.”

  “I really did. The house has seemed empty without you.”

  Oh my God. What a crock. The boy is shameless. And I do believe it’s working. Kayla’s shoulders drop just a little, as if tension is deserting them.

  Eli continues, “Um . . . Sorry about your grandma.”

  “You didn’t even know June.”

  “But you cared about h—”

  “I didn’t know her either. Not really.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry anyway. Here, let me take your backpack.”

  She hoists it higher on her shoulder. “I’ve got it. Can we go downstairs? We need to talk. Now.”

  Yikes.

  Mel and her other two girls stand in a straight line in the hallway, watching the scene unfold. We all wait for Kayla and Eli to disappear from sight before any of us dares move. As soon as they’re gone for sure, the chatter begins.

  Jessica, in her just-turned-thirteen, high-decibel squeal: “Ooh. She’s so gonna dump him!”

  Suzette, pretending to be worldlier than her overprotected not-quite-sixteen years could possibly allow: “Okay by me. I’ll take him on the rebound.”

  Jesus, now that I’ve invited them to stay over, what am I going to do with them? No wonder I avoided all this family stuff for so many years. “The guest rooms are downstairs, and so is the game room. You’re welcome to check them out, although you might want to wait a few minutes until the fireworks fizzle out. Meanwhile, I guess you can watch TV up here.”

  “What about the beach?” asks Jessica.

  “I did promise that, didn’t I? We’ll go in a little while, unless you want to stay another day, and then we could go tomorrow instead and hang out longer,” I offer, certain Mel will want to get home.

  So when Suz pleads for the extra time, it’s something of a surprise that Melody agrees. “Oh, why not? It’s just back to the tedium anyway, not to mention the God-awful heat. It’s supposed to be, like, ninety-eight in Sacramento today.”

  “Graham won’t mind?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Don’t you think you should call him?”

  Her head cocks to one side. “What business is it of yours?”

  Whoa. Okay. “None at all.”