A Sin Such as This Page 8

  “Don’t you think that was rather inappropriate?” I know it’s a mistake the second it slips from my mouth.

  “I don’t see what the problem is. We had all our clothes on.”

  “Look. The last thing any mother wants to see is some guy groping her daughter.”

  “That’s a rather broad statement. Some mothers actually offer their daughters up to potential gropers.”

  Okay, he’s got me there. Still. “Well, Melody isn’t that kind of mother. You might show her more respect.”

  He looks me straight in the eye. “I will. Since it matters to you. Now, want some breakfast?”

  “You’re offering to cook for me?” He nods, and I’d like to take him up on it. But now I glance at my watch. Nine twenty. “Sorry. Can’t. I have to be at Barton by ten.”

  “Maybe tomorrow, then.”

  “Maybe. But, hey, since your day just got less complicated, would you take responsibility for dinner again? After being poked, prodded, and otherwise violated, I don’t think I’ll be in the mood.”

  “Any preference as to what I make?”

  “Nope. There’s plenty of stuff to choose from. Surprise me.”

  “Okay. But wait. Can I ask you something?”

  Uh-oh. I hate when someone prefaces a question by asking if it’s all right to ask it. How can you respond except with something like “I guess”?

  “Will you really not feel bad when your mother dies?” Eli’s a go-directly-for-the-jugular kind of kid.

  And I’ll be direct with my answer. “No.”

  “Is that the sociopath in you?”

  “No. It’s the ritually abused little girl.”

  He grins. “I can’t imagine you as a little girl, but I suppose you were one once.” He reaches out, touches my arm with the very tips of his fingers. “I’m sorry your mom is so fucked up. Kind of makes me wonder what her childhood was like, though.”

  Jesus. I hate when he sounds like an adult.

  Truthfully, I don’t know a lot about Mom’s early years. I never met my grandfather, who was stationed at Mountain Home Air Force Base when he played the knock-up-a-local-girl-then-get-out-of-Dodge game, or at least that’s how the story went. My grandmother raised Mom solo in Glenns Ferry, Idaho, though she apparently cycled through a string of men, one of whom ultimately drew a steady bead and shot her through her left eye in the heat of an argument. I was four or five when that happened, so I did have some contact with her beforehand, but not much. I best remember her lying in her unadorned casket, a waxy-skinned mannequin with an eye patch.

  Grandmother wasn’t close to Mom, who rarely discussed how she was raised, though it’s obvious enough whose examples she emulated.

  Did Mom inherit borderline personality disorder from her own mother?

  Possibly, although BPD could have been carried by Air Force Dude’s genes.

  Was Mom abused?

  Maybe. In fact, I’d say it’s likely.

  Does that make me any more forgiving of her?

  Not even remotely.

  twelve

  T HE BATTERY OF TESTS I’m subjected to is more than extensive. It’s exhausting. A very nice, very young clinician does his best to keep me distracted with some awful jokes as he observes my alignment while weight bearing and watches my gait for a “dynamic varus thrust,” whatever the hell that is.

  “Varus and valgus may sound like Greek gods,” explains Drew, “but the terms have to do with the way your lower leg aligns with the upper leg through the knee. ‘Varus’ means the tibia/fibula point toward the midline of your body. ‘Valgus’ means the tibia/fibula head away from midline. Think about being bowlegged (varus) versus knock-kneed (valgus).”

  More useless medical lingo to store away. “Actually, I think ‘varus’ sounds like a disease. ‘Valgus’ sounds like something you’d see in Hustler.”

  Drew laughs. “The odds of Hustler paying me to expose anything aren’t very good, I’m afraid. Okay, hop up on the table.” At my gigantic eye roll, he amends, “Not doing much hopping lately, I guess. Let me help.”

  He gives me a little boost and then examines my skin for signs of infection before checking range of motion, patellar mobility, and overall muscle strength. He names the tests as he goes: Lachman, pivot shift, posterior drawer, sag, dial. And that’s just the beginning.

  Next comes a full set of radiographs, taken from every angle, some with me standing. Another noisy MRI—this time with rock music in the headphones to keep me from going crazy. And finally, a CT scan, which apparently gives a better indication of “bony architecture” than the MRI, which is all about the soft tissue.

  “There are many reasons a reconstruction might fail, if that’s even what’s happening,” Drew tells me as he wraps things up. “I’ll spare you the boring details, but surgeon error is only one possibility. You might have rehabbed too hard and reinjured it, or it could be that something was missed in the initial diagnosis. Dr. Stanley should have a pretty good idea of what’s going on when you see him tomorrow.”

  “I doubt you could have missed anything this time around. In fact, I can reasonably state that no one has ever been quite this familiar with my knee before. Not even my husband.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” he responds. “Other than a fair amount of swelling, it’s a very nice knee.”

  Bedside manner is everything.

  It’s close to one by the time we finish, so I stop by Cavin’s office to see if he wants to grab a bite or something. The reception desk is unmanned. Rebecca must be at lunch. “Hello?” I call toward Cavin’s closed door. “Anyone home?” There’s no response, so I crack it, peek behind. Empty. Could he still be in surgery? Considering how long it took just to run some tests, I suppose he very well could be.

  Mildly disappointed, I leave him a simple note: Stopped by. Sorry we missed each other. I’m on my way out when my attention is necessarily drawn to a familiar person on her way in. All heads turn at the entrance of Genevieve Lennon, who, though her famed beauty is fading, will always remain a member of the supermodel club.

  I’ve known her for a decade. We first met at one of Jordan’s campaign dinners. He knew lots of the “beautiful people,” and she and her entourage certainly qualified. My first impression of Genevieve was “breathtaking,” a term I rarely apply to other women, including models. At twenty-nine, she was already beyond industry prime, I suppose, but that didn’t bother me. What did was my instant attraction, and it proved to be mutual.

  Before I married Raul, I slept with a couple of women—strippers at the Jellybean Club. I chalk up those encounters to youthful curiosity and a sincere hunger for the kind of comfort only sex can provide. At that point, the club’s customers had pretty much turned me from men, all of whom, it seemed, only wanted to get off as quickly and cheaply as possible. Those girls were coarse and crude and satisfied my appetite without forming any real attachment.

  Genevieve was different. I’d believed my draw toward women a passing fancy, so the mad jolt of lust I felt the first time I met her shocked me. I’ve never been one much for gossip, but during the height of her career it would’ve been impossible to be unaware of Genevieve Lennon, whose exotic good looks graced magazine covers from Vogue to Sports Illustrated, and whose famed excesses gave her spreads in the National Enquirer. Before we actually met, however, I would’ve discounted her as just another hollow celebrity.

  To say she isn’t fueled by conceit would be a lie, but there is substance there as well as beauty, and the combination was irresistible. With Jordan’s explicit approval, Genevieve and I entered into a sexually charged part-time liaison that lasted for almost two years. Jordan’s only requirement was being allowed to watch a time or two. It didn’t feel like cheating, with his permission. Only later did I learn that was meant to distract me from his personal infidelities.

  After Jordan and I split and I met Finn, I let Genevieve know the nature of our relationship had to change. We’ve remained friends, though not close, and
she’s continued to support my fund-raising efforts over the years. I rarely revisit that window of my life and have never confessed it to anyone. What’s interesting is how often she and I seem to run into each other in unexpected places. Like today, for instance.

  “Tara,” she says when she sees me. “What a surprise, not to mention a coincidence. So happens I’m here to consult with your husband.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, yes. I often come up to the lake to enjoy the Shakespeare Festival at Sand Harbor. Have you been?”

  “Once, several years ago. I imagine I’ll go every summer now, though.”

  “If you’d like to attend, please let me know. I’m a patron, and the director happens to be a good friend, so tickets are not a problem.”

  Sounds uncomfortable. Not watching a play on the beach, which is a lovely experience, and I enjoy Shakespeare. But spending an evening in such close proximity to Genevieve, with my new husband along? “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not really sure. I mean, besides me, it would be Cavin and probably Eli as well.”

  “Eli?”

  “Cavin’s son. He’s almost eighteen.”

  “And delicious, I imagine.”

  Is her mouth watering?

  Subject change in order. “You said you’re here to see Cavin?”

  “Tomorrow, actually. Today I’m just here for tests. I’ve been having some joint pain. Nothing major, but enough to cause concern. I’m hoping to rule out arthritis. Anyway, I remembered he specialized in orthopedics and thought since I’m staying in Incline I’d have him take a look.”

  Should this bother me? “Well, your timing is good. We’ve only been home from our honeymoon for a few days.”

  “I know. You were still gone when I called to make the appointment. I’m glad it worked out. Few things I dislike more than going to a strange doctor.”

  To my knowledge, she’s met Cavin only the one time, at a charity event I organized in San Francisco. It’s not like they’re well acquainted. “All doctors are a little strange, within my realm of experience, anyway.”

  “Including your husband?”

  “Especially Cavin. It only bothers me once in a while.” I smile. “Oh, but diagnosticians tend to be solid—at least the one I had today was. Drew was exceptionally thorough.”

  “Good to know. And I suppose I should be on my way. I’m a couple minutes late now. Let’s be in touch. You have my number, yes?”

  “I do.”

  I suppose I should be gracious and invite her to dinner or something. Instead, I watch her slink away. Must be hard to slink when you’re six feet tall, but she carries it off with aplomb. Funny, earlier I was musing about needing a local friend. Genevieve is not who I had in mind.

  Even on a Tuesday, the traffic through South Lake Tahoe into Glenbrook and beyond is horrific. I’ve never spent much time up here in the summer before, and now I know why I’ve avoided peak tourist season. Vehicles clog every byway, and pedestrians taking risks make things even crazier. The eighteen-mile drive home takes almost fifty minutes, and by the time I finally park, my stress-worried shoulders feel like concrete.

  They soften almost immediately when I go inside to find Eli out on the deck, slider open, playing his guitar. It’s acoustic, thank God, and though I would have suspected he’d imitate some annoying brand of metal, he’s strumming a Green Day song.

  Not only is his fingering accurate; so is his vocal.

  I’d considered putting in time on the stationary bike, but suddenly a glass of wine alfresco sounds like the better plan. And, almost unreasonably, it’s something crisp and fruity and white I find myself craving. I don’t feel like digging through my boxed cellar for a wine that will be difficult to locate, considering my usual preference for reds, but as I recall, Andrew was drinking a riesling on Sunday. Maybe he left some in the fridge.

  He did!

  Must be your lucky day.

  Luck. I consider that while I fill my glass, and what I think is luck is a fragile gift and one you mostly create, like buying yourself the birthday present you truly want, rather than hoping someone else will read your mind or pick up on your hints and not quite surprise you with it. Luck is the by-product of ascertaining facts, assessing your odds, then positioning yourself in the exact right location to reach out and grab the golden ring.

  No time for breakfast this morning, no Cavin to take me to lunch, I should probably nibble on something. Eli’s Whole Foods run offers tempting possibilities, and I succumb to the lure of brie and whole grain crackers, plus maybe some fruit. When I search the bin, I discover a mango and make a mental note not to eat anything orange and risk an allergic reaction. I’ll go for red instead and grab a handful of strawberries.

  I take everything out on the deck, where Eli is now into “Bohemian Rhapsody.” The boy can definitely sing. At my interruption, he stops. “No, keep going,” I urge. “You’re really good.”

  His face colors, but his smile stretches wide. “Think so?”

  “I do.” I reach for a strawberry, and that reminds me. “Hey, I noticed a mango in the kitchen. You remember my allergy, right?”

  “Of course. How could I forget the EpiPen episode? No worries. No suspect smoothies, I promise. It was Kayla who bought it, in fact. Think it will still be good by the time she gets back?”

  “Probably. But if you want to eat it, go ahead. Proximity to someone enjoying a mango doesn’t wreak anaphylactic mayhem on my system.”

  “Good to know, though I can take or leave mangoes. I’ll save it for Kayla. She expects to be back by Friday.”

  Friday? Seems ambitious to me, but it doesn’t really matter either way. “Well, if she doesn’t reappear before the weekend, go ahead and do something with the mango. Just be sure to warn me first. Meanwhile, please play something.”

  “I’m taking requests.”

  “Everclear?”

  He launches into an excellent rendition of “Volvo Driving Soccer Moms.” The lyrics are amusing, but Eli’s facial expressions when he delivers some of them make me laugh out loud. There’s a single uncomfortable moment when he sings about being a dancer at the local strip club, but it dissolves as soon as he moves on. My days working at the Jellybean Club were a long time ago, and they did lead to my most fortunate marriage to Raul, but I’d rather not contemplate them. And I’d definitely prefer that Cavin, not to mention Eli, never finds out about them.

  Even at this elevation, it’s a relatively warm summer afternoon, and we move into the cool shelter of the house after an hour or so. “What have you planned for dinner?” I ask. “Hope it’s not too heavy.”

  “I was thinking tacos. Chicken or steak, your call. With mango-free salsa.”

  “Steak. Definitely.”

  “Awesome. Oh, by the way, you’ll have to take care of dinner tomorrow. I’m going to hang out with a friend in Reno. In fact, I’ll probably spend the night so I don’t have to drive home late.”

  “Really. I didn’t know you have friends in Reno.”

  “A friend,” he corrects. “You know who she is.”

  I do, and my cheeks ignite, along with the tips of my ears. “Not Sophia?”

  “Who else? She invited me to see her new show.”

  He’s got to be kidding. “What about Kayla?”

  He shrugs. “She isn’t here, is she?”

  The kid has the morals of a horny chimpanzee, but that’s the least of my problems with this whole proposed scenario. “Kayla’s only been gone a few hours. When did you get this invitation?”

  “It was open-ended. I called Sophia after Kayla left, and she happened to be free mañana.” He interprets my body language. “You don’t approve.”

  “Not of infidelity in general and especially not with Sophia. Don’t you feel strange about sleeping with your father’s ex-fiancée?”

  “Not really. Why should I?”

  “It doesn’t seem a bit incestuous?”

  He looks me straight in the eye. “Sleeping with you might be
a bit incestuous.”

  Might?

  I ignore the comment. “What about your dad’s feelings?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Eli. Surely he wouldn’t be happy about this arrangement.”

  “Actually, I talked to him about Sophia and me. He said he doesn’t care.”

  Impossible. “That can’t be true.”

  “Why would I lie to you?”

  That’s what I keep trying to figure out. “All right, then. If it’s okay by your father—and I really can’t see how it would be—what about me? You know it aggravates me for that woman to be attached so closely to this family.”

  “I understand. But I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Oh yeah? How?”

  “Tacos.”

  Tacos. Right.

  By the time Cavin gets home, tired and more than a little hungry, Eli has prepared a huge spread: warm tortillas, freshly grated cheddar, shredded cabbage, chopped onions, and from-scratch salsa and guacamole. I’m thinking he’s got quite an evening planned with Sophia tomorrow.

  As Cavin washes up, Eli grills the steak, and by the time his father joins us in the kitchen, the meat is cooked medium rare and sliced. Cavin peruses the buffet. “I think Tara’s right. You could make a career out of this.”

  Eli doesn’t respond. Instead, he hands Cavin a plate. “You have to build your own tacos. I don’t do grunt labor.”

  We sit at the table, considering topics for discussion, and before very long the conversation rolls around to my tests this morning. After reciting the extended list, I remember, “Oh, I bumped into Genevieve, on her way in for her own lab work. You didn’t tell me she’d made an appointment with you.”

  “Sorry. It slipped my mind.”

  “Slipped your mind? Considering the shameless way she flirted with you at my Lost Souls fund-raiser (and right in front of me, no less) I’d think it would be foremost on your mind.”

  Cavin laughs. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “Who, me? Jealous of my handsome husband examining the oft-photographed limbs of a world-famous supermodel who just might be crushing on him?”