Love Lies Beneath Page 8

“I told you, I don’t scare easily. Anyway, I doubt I’ll be doing much running for quite a while.”

  Cavin laughs. “Guess I should choose my words more carefully. Tell you what. I know this great hamburger joint. Why don’t we grab a bite now, then we’ll swing by the house for dessert and you can meet Kidzilla? That way we have a fair-to-middling chance of getting you back to your hotel before they break out the plows.”

  “I am hugely disappointed that I will not be able to observe your culinary expertise, but I do understand.”

  The burgers, at least, don’t disappoint, and the fries are worth every fat-soaked bite. Good thing I didn’t eat earlier. He’s driving much more carefully now; it’s another half hour around to the east shore and Cavin’s Glenbrook home, which is perched on a forested hill across the highway from the lake. Up the road climbs, flanked by tall Douglas fir and sugar pine trees.

  We pull into what must be a heated driveway, for the snow melts in thin tracks, and park beside a late-model Hummer. “Eli’s car?”

  Cavin nods. “A birthday gift from his stepfather.”

  “Wow.”

  “Indeed.”

  He comes around to open the passenger door and finesse me to my feet. When I stand, my eyes have a hard time processing what they see. Even from the driveway, the view over and through the trees to the water is drop-jaw gorgeous.

  “I never thought a view could rival my own, but I guess I was wrong.”

  “Most people think lakefront property is preferable, but I like being up here, away from the traffic. I can always find a beach if I want one. The main problem is maneuvering this hill when the weather turns crazy.”

  “Have you ever gotten snowed in?”

  “Absolutely, on many occasions. Come on. I’ll help you inside.”

  Cavin slides an arm beneath my shoulder blades and lifts slightly, relieving the weight on my ridiculously loose knee. He guides me along the snow-slicked walkway to the front door. The main entry opens straight into a great room, with big glass windows framing the travel-poster vista. No partitions separate the kitchen, dining area, and living room, which boasts a massive stone fireplace on the far wall. There is little in the way of artwork, and no carpets cover the hardwood floor. Compared to the modern gleam above white carpeting that is my house, this one defines Tahoe-rustic, and yet it’s completely inviting.

  “Home, sweet home,” says Cavin, directing me to a chair. “Make yourself comfortable. Wine?”

  I consider. “Don’t suppose you could approximate a sidecar?”

  “Approximate? I believe I can accommodate.” He goes over to the wet bar, tucked away in a corner of the great room, and busies himself with cognac, triple sec, and a squeeze of fresh lemon.

  I observe appreciatively. “You are a doctor of many talents.”

  “Thank you. But to be fair, you haven’t seen anything yet.” He pours club soda for himself, brings the sidecar to me.

  “Trying to quit?”

  He shakes his head and points toward the window. Just beyond, snowflakes the size of half-dollars tumble from the sky and collect into decent slush on the big deck. “I think a sober driver is in order this evening. I’ve got crème brûlée in the fridge. Eli must be downstairs in his room. Should I ask him to join us?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d yell for him, but he’d never hear me. His current method of tuning out the world is Viking metal through headphones. Be right back.”

  Cavin picks up a remote sitting on the black granite countertop, presses a button to turn on some music. Gin Blossoms.

  He isn’t gone very long. The tick of his footsteps, light against wooden stairs, precedes him. And once he reappears, the noise follows him into the kitchen, where he extracts three bowls of crème brûlée from the stainless steel refrigerator. I assume that means Eli will make an appearance soon, and he does.

  His approach sounds much heavier than Cavin’s, and I expect a hulk of a kid. Instead, the boy who comes through the door has the look of a distance runner—tall, like his father, but not particularly bulky. And, despite his overly long wheat-colored hair, which could really use a stylish cut, he carries Cavin’s charmed good looks, including those storm-cloud eyes. Exceptional genetics.

  “Hello, Eli. I’m Tara.”

  He doesn’t respond immediately, at least not verbally. But he lowers his eyes to meet mine, and the connection is discomfiting, like a static electric shock. “Hi.”

  “Sorry if I don’t get up, but—”

  “It’s okay,” he interrupts. “I can see what your problem is.”

  I can’t quite interpret the connotation. Literal? Sarcastic? Accusing? I choose to play ignorant. “Yeah, well, it was not my best day skiing, and it trashed my vacation.”

  “That’s too bad. My mom trashed my vacation.”

  Cavin seems to be trying too hard not to sound hurt. “Hey, now. Your vacation has just begun. There’s some fine snow up on that mountain.”

  “Which would be great,” Eli responds, “except for all the tourists tracking it up, not to mention face-planting.”

  The intent of his statement is clear. Game on. “Don’t worry. It’s not the tracks that will get you. It’s the guy who decides he’s equal to a run that’s way over his head. That’s a clear and present danger.” I wink at him, and he actually smiles.

  Cavin brings a tray over, allows me to choose my bowl, and then sets the rest on the coffee table. “Hope you like. It’s a specialty of the house.”

  It’s amazing, and that’s what I tell him. Then I turn to Eli, who’s picking the brown sugar crust off the custard. “Your father says you go to school in the Bay Area.”

  “Yeah. The Athenian. Lucky me. My mom figured I needed better grooming if I wanted half a chance at Stanford.”

  “I see. Stanford’s tough, all right. It’s very ambitious of you.”

  “Uh, Stanford is her idea. Not mine.”

  “Oh. Well, I happen to be acquainted with the Athenian.”

  “Really?”

  “In a roundabout way. I have a friend whose son goes there. Do you, by any chance, know Taylor Andaman?”

  “Everyone knows everyone at the Athenian.” Which doesn’t exactly answer my question. “So, are all your friends rich?”

  “Eli . . .” warns Cavin.

  “That’s okay,” I soothe. “Actually, most of the people I know are well-off, yes.”

  “Including you?”

  “Why? Is that important?”

  He heaves his shoulders. “Nope. Not to me. But it’s a prerequisite if you want to date Dad.”

  “Eli!” Cavin shifts his weight as if to rise.

  I put a hand on his knee to stop him and lock eyes with the brat. “Nothing wrong with having high standards, is there?”

  Eli smiles, revealing teeth that must be the product of excellent orthodontia. “Personally, I prefer slumming. Rich women are boring.”

  “Not nearly as boring as privileged kids.”

  His grin dissolves. “You just might have a point. Well, if you’ll excuse me, pudding has a laxative effect on me.”

  Nice. He leaves his bowl, brown sugar shards crusting the sides, on the coffee table, starts toward the door. “Great meeting you, Eli.” And he’s gone. I turn to Cavin and smile. “That went well, don’t you think?”

  He grimaces. “At least you didn’t run. Finish your drink while I load the dishwasher. Then I’d better get you back to your hotel.”

  By the time we’re on our way, maybe three inches of snow have accumulated on the roads. It’s slow going, and I’m grateful that Cavin chose to play designated driver. One small lapse of judgment could lead to serious consequences. Unlike most of the other men in my life, this one is cautious, and while that might once have bothered me, tonight I appreciate his prudence.

  “Thank you for a great day.” I don’t want to distract him, but I need him to know I’m interested in pursuing something more, so I rest my hand on his leg, just above his knee
.

  “No. Thank you.” He lifts my hand to his lips and then replaces it, a bit closer to his inner thigh. “Meeting you was quite unexpected, and absolutely my pleasure.”

  “Would that I could pleasure you more. But this is definitely a case of wrong time, wrong place.”

  “No apology necessary. I’m happy to accept your IOU. Tomorrow’s your last day here, yes?”

  “That’s right. We’ll probably just kick back. Melody’s done a lot more skiing than she’s used to. And I . . . Well, I don’t really have much of a choice. Just so you know, Doc Lattimore, this injury really stinks.”

  “It’s a bad one. If you have any questions about presurgical rehab, don’t hesitate to call. You’ve got my number.”

  “Can I call even if I don’t have any questions?”

  “If you don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  He pulls up in front of the hotel and parks. I’m reluctant to say good-bye. “If you ever decide to give up doctoring, you could become a tour guide. Thanks for the private excursion.”

  “Anytime. And the encore will be even better.”

  His kiss good-bye is filled with promise.

  Enigma

  You are roused into the dark

  soup of morning, crawl your way out

  of a green dream of summer.

  One foot explores the far side

  of the quilts, withdraws again, stung

  by subzero tentacles that have infiltrated

  the weather stripping.

  You want to slip back

  into the ignorance of slumber,

  but a jolt of frustration has jump-started

  your brain, and once the words

  have coalesced, they repeat themselves,

  a stutter: It’s a long, long way to June.

  There is no detour except to rise.

  But this day brings a singular

  reward, for in the frozen

  night, a fog has lifted, crowning

  barren branches with tiaras of ice.

  Against an azure mantle, they shimmer

  in soft December sunlight, dazzle

  cynical eyes, then melt like memories.

  Upon the hoarfrost, you spy a flutter

  of rust and fix your gaze on

  the feathered enigma—a robin, huddled

  in the cold white snare. Framed by the tangle,

  he is a picture of despair and you wonder

  why a creature capable of flight

  would choose to stay and weather winter.

  Fifteen

  I expect to find Mel sitting in front of the fake fire, comfortably reading or watching TV. Instead, she’s pacing. “Oh, thank God,” she says when I totter through the door. “You’re back early. I didn’t want to call and bother you if you were having a good time, but . . . Wait. What happened? Why are you back early? It didn’t involve pepper spray, did it?”

  “Not even. It involved snow. You do realize it’s dumping outside, right?”

  “It is? I mean it flurried a little up on the mountain, but when I got the text I came back down to try and manage a little damage control. Is it supposed to quit?”

  “I don’t know. Why? And what text? Mel, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There are, like, five conversations going on at once, and they’re all coming out of Melody’s mouth.

  She flops on the sofa, crestfallen. “It’s Kayla. She’s having an episode.”

  “Episode?”

  “Sometimes she goes a little off the deep end. She’s threatening suicide.”

  “Because of her boyfriend?”

  “He’s not her boyfriend anymore. But no, he’s not the reason. Apparently, she’s getting a B minus in American History, despite massive extra-credit work, and she’s certain her GPA will condemn her to community college.”

  This is keeping my sister away from the latest HBO miniseries? “But she’d never do something so extreme over something so not extreme. Right?”

  “I don’t know,” she admits. “Sometimes I worry she inherited the family gene.”

  “You mean Mom’s BPD.”

  She nods. “It often manifests in late adolescence, and she seems to demonstrate some of the symptoms, including over-the-top reactions to relatively insignificant things. Not to mention relationship problems. I feel sorry for Jeff.”

  “Jeff?”

  “Her last boyfriend. They were together almost a year.”

  “The ‘squeaky little a-hole’?”

  “Is that what she called him? He’s such a nice young man. She just kept seeing things that weren’t there.”

  “You mean, like ghosts?”

  Mel rolls her eyes. “No. Like disrespect or inattentiveness.”

  That does sound like our mother, who demanded respect and attention. “Has she seen a therapist?”

  “Yes, but don’t tell Graham. He insists she has no problems beyond the usual female kind. BPD is difficult to diagnose correctly, and is often confused with other things. Not only that, but medications are hard to get right, especially in teenagers. Antidepressants can actually exacerbate suicidal thoughts in young people. Anyway, if it’s okay with you and we can travel safely tomorrow, I’d like to cut our vacation short a day. What do you think?”

  Oh, great. Extra time at the Schumacher abode, while their oldest daughter flips out and has a giant meltdown over a B minus grade, and her father just nods and says whatever. I seriously must rehab the knee while I’m there so I can get myself home ASAP. “If that’s what you need to do. Not like I’ll miss a whole lot if I don’t hang around here.”

  I call down to the desk and ask for a local weather report. “Clearing by midmorning” is the answer. Assuming that’s close to correct, we should make it no problem, especially once the roads have been plowed. The Escalade is all-wheel drive and would make it anyway, but I’m not always comfortable driving in a blizzard. No way would I trust Melody to get us over that mountain in a whiteout.

  Regardless, looks like we’ll be able to leave, so we decide to go ahead and pack up. Before I start, I spend a few minutes online, ordering rush delivery gifts. Christmas is on Friday. We can pick up the iPhone at an Apple Store near where Mel lives on the way home. The Sports Authority gift card should arrive no later than Thursday. The Art Institute is trickier, so for now I’ll just give Kayla cash and a promise to make some inquiries. Maybe that will make her relax about her report card.

  This trip was my gift to Mel, but I should probably get something for Graham. Let’s see. What’s a good gift for a self-centered prick who refuses to acknowledge the possibility that his daughter might be a little unstable? Maybe a copy of Mental Illness for Dummies? Okay, probably not.

  As I’m thinking about it, it occurs to me that I should probably let Cavin know we’re departing tomorrow. I call, expecting to leave a voice mail. Instead, he picks up. “Oh, hello. Sorry to bother you. I didn’t think you’d answer.”

  “No bother. Just sitting here, watching it snow. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to tell you that we’re cutting out of here a day early. One of Mel’s kids is having some health issues.” Not exactly a lie.

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  “She’ll be okay. Just needs her mother. Hey, while I’ve got you, you’re a good person to ask. I’m trying to figure out what to get Mel’s husband for Christmas. What’s a good present for a pediatrician with a bad attitude?”

  He laughs. “When in doubt, gift liquor. It’s every off-duty doctor’s best friend, and a surefire mood enhancer.”

  “Alcohol. Of course. A nice añejo should do. Many thanks for the suggestion.”

  “Anytime, fair lady. Safe travel over the pass. Oh, by the way. I’ll be coming through San Francisco next month.”

  “Really? Business or pleasure?”

  “Both, I guess. The headmaster at Eli’s school wants me to stop by for a ‘discussion.’ He wouldn’t elaborate over the phone.”

  “Sounds ominous.”
>
  “There’s a lot about my son that sounds ominous. He seems relatively mellow at the moment, however. But anyway, after my visit to the principal’s office, I’m planning a short vacation. I keep a house in Carmel so I can escape the mountains in favor of the ocean a couple of times a year. I’m still a San Diego boy at heart, I guess. If you’ll be around, I’d like to stop by and see how that knee’s coming.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Give me a heads-up and maybe I’ll cook for you.”

  “I accept your generous invitation. And I’ll bring the Cristal.”

  One thing’s been pestering me, so I unshrink my inner violet and blurt, “Will you be spending Christmas with anyone special? I mean . . . I’m sorry to be blunt, but are you seeing anyone else? I dislike unpleasant surprises.”

  “I’d rather you be blunt than coy. And I’ll answer your question the same way. I go out from time to time, and once or twice I thought I might get serious about someone, but I currently maintain no love interest. And truthfully, I haven’t enjoyed a recent date anywhere near as much as I’ve enjoyed being with you. As for Christmas, Eli and I will probably ski and get takeout. Afterward, I’ll ply myself with heavily spiked eggnog and watch It’s a Wonderful Life alone, while he hangs out in his room, playing World of Warcraft or something. Sounds kind of pathetic, huh?”

  “Actually, it sounds better than Christmas at Mel’s, though you might want to skip pudding for dessert. And thanks for your honesty.”

  “Dishonesty is the surest way I know to ruin a relationship. I have nothing to hide.”

  That I doubt. Everyone has something to hide.

  Sixteen

  The drive back to Sacramento was a tedious slog, plenty of time to consider the ins and outs of this budding relationship. Logistically, there are plenty of problems. Distance. Schedules. Deep snow over the mountain passes. All those are conquerable, however, if we discover a true desire to be together.

  I’ve been at Mel’s for four days now, enough time to dampen the initial attraction, but all it’s done is make me want to see Cavin again, and soon. It’s strange, because I’ve never felt exactly this way about a man, especially not one I know so little. I can’t call the feeling love, but it could be its predecessor. Maybe? I’m not certain.