Love Lies Beneath by Ellen Hopkins
“Thanks for the clarification. I never knew I was an anthrophobe.”
“You’re afraid of human relationships?”
“Not anymore. Give me the tray.”
He moves it to the nightstand and spends thirty minutes proving he’s very much into our relationship.
Afterward, he asks what I’d like to do postshower, predinner. The answer is easy. “Escape.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere. I just need to see the world beyond your front door.”
“Okay. I’ve got an idea. Let me make a call.”
I never realized how important it is to one’s mental health to step out into the sunshine on a regular basis. The Sierra air is frosty but so clean it seems newborn, as if nothing but the uppermost reach of the forest has touched it. I do love the ocean, but I could be convinced to live up here the majority of the time.
What might unconvince me is tourist traffic. Three-day holiday weekends coax sports lovers, winter and summer. It’s bumper-to-bumper into town. Cavin turns off the highway onto a side street before we reach the Stateline casinos. He pulls into a parking area. On the chain-link fence is a sign: SLEIGH RIDES. There is a small sleigh and one very big horse waiting. In the distance, another larger sleigh, pulled by two very big horses, circles the snow-covered meadow.
“Hold on,” Cavin instructs, getting out of the car to go talk to a burly guy in a red powder suit. I see him slip money to the man before he comes to help me out of the car. “It’s slick out here. Let me help you.”
“Are we really taking a sleigh ride?”
“A private sleigh ride,” he corrects. “We shall go where no men—okay, a few men, but not that many men—have ventured before.”
He slides one arm around me, half lifts me across the short stretch to where Sam (our guide) and Samantha (the blond Belgian draft horse named after our guide) await. Cavin lifts me up into the seat, climbs in beside me, and tucks a thick blanket over our legs. “Ready?”
I don’t much care for the word “giddy,” but it suits the way I feel, my face tilted against this amazing man’s chest and our holding hands beneath a down blanket. Samantha pulls the sleigh with a steady gait and Sam repeats area history as we take the elongated track across the meadow and up into the forest. Even with the earthy smell of horse sweat, it’s a delightful experience.
“All the times you’ve been to Tahoe and you’ve never done this before?” asks Cavin.
I shake my head. “It always seemed like such a passive experience.”
“Passive? Guess you never considered this.”
Neither Sam nor Samantha seems to mind when we make out like ridiculous kids. Give the horse a carrot and the man a nice tip.
It’s a lovely, romantic afternoon, capped off with our Valentine’s dinner, an epicurean masterpiece à la Chef Christopher. We are middessert when I notice Cavin’s eyes stray toward a curvy young woman Paolo is seating. She notices and flashes an interested smile over her companion’s shoulder. It’s a short distraction, and when Cavin refocuses in the proper direction, he owns up to the faux pas and apologizes. “Sorry,” he says. “Force of habit.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“Really? Does that include your own?”
I consider the question, and how to answer. “Sexual conquest was never a habit for me, just a game I enjoyed from time to time.”
“You’re a serious player, though.”
“As my mother used to say, anything worth doing is worth doing right.”
“I thought you didn’t listen to your mother.”
“As a general rule, I don’t.”
“Okay, let me ask you this, then. What about me? Was I a sexual conquest?”
“Oh, good Lord, no.” I reach across the table, cover his hand with mine. “I may be serious about you, but this is not a game, at least not for me. And I hope it’s more than that for you, too. Anyway, I have no desire to emasculate you. Loyalty can’t be coerced.”
The statement is semiaccurate. It can’t, however, assuage the recent sting. Still, it’s not enough to ruin an otherwise wonderful day. One little blemish is all. I make a mental note not to test him, at least for a while. What’s the point?
There is only one way to coerce loyalty. And blackmail should always be a last resort.
Thirty-Seven
As fabulous as Chef Christopher’s Valentine’s Day dinner was, I find myself looking forward to the plebeian cheesesteaks and sweet potato fries we’re scheduled to enjoy Sunday, postskiing. I don’t ski, of course, but I do ride the gondola to the top of Heavenly and sit in the lodge midmountain, enjoying the fire and a book. It’s a hassle getting there, but worth the effort to enjoy a day of people watching. The isolation has grown tiresome.
One great thing about loitering here with a knee brace and crutches is the sympathetic glances that keep passing by. There but for the grace of God, and all. Sometimes they come courtesy of quite attractive gentlemen, not that I’m interested in playing the sexual conquest game. It’s just good to know that I could if I wanted to, and that I’d likely win.
Toward the afternoon’s end, I’m sipping a hot toddy when Eli comes stomping into the lodge, kicking snow from his boots. He flops onto the chair adjacent to mine, face red from exertion, or cold, or both. “Why does he have to be such an asshole?”
“Who?”
He shoots me a What are you, brain dead? look. “Who else? My dad.”
I’m afraid we’re headed toward a conversation that should not involve me. So why do I engage him? “What happened?”
“Nothing much.” Anger frosts his voice. “Except Dad told me that he doesn’t plan to pay for my college.”
“I don’t understand. Surely he can afford—”
“It’s not about finances! It’s about me.”
Suddenly, the passersby stares tossed in our direction are more concerned than come-on. “Take it easy, Eli. What, exactly, did he say?”
“He said he wouldn’t piss away his money on a motherfucking loser.”
I’m speechless. I’ve never witnessed a hint of ill temper in Cavin, let alone that kind of language. “What did you do?”
He slumps forward. “Nothing.”
Which, I guess, in teen speak means, I don’t want to talk about it. So be it. Whatever the problem is, it’s between Cavin and Eli, anyway. “Look, I have no idea what this is about, but your father is a reasonable man and—”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
“That he’s a reasonable man.” He straightens again, brings his eyes level with mine. “How well do you know him, really?”
Fair question, and it strands me midthought. I’m considering my answer when my cell buzzes a text-message warning.
From Cavin: Have you seen Eli?
My reply: He’s with me.
Back again: Be right there.
Eli has watched the exchange. “I take it that was Dad?”
“Yes. He said he’s on his way.”
“Great. I’m going to board down Gunbarrel. I’ll meet you at the car.”
Off he slinks, determined to leave before his father arrives. I watch him go, physically mature but mostly kid within. It’s been a long while since I’ve tried to relate to a masculine someone his age. The last time had to have been high school, and even then I didn’t try to maintain prolonged relationships with my male classmates. I dated a few, but not in a serious way, unless you consider having sex serious. I certainly didn’t.
The struggle to cast off the vestiges of childhood isn’t gender-specific, of course. Kayla is going through a similar phase, and she’s no easier to deal with. Certainly, at seventeen, I had wrested complete control of my young life from my mother’s grasp, not that she tried very hard to hold on. But had I come from a home with parents who cared, and who gifted me with affection and possessions, would I have acted out in the same way that Eli and Kayla are? Who knows?
Now it’s Cavin whose he
“He decided to take Gunbarrel down. He said he’d meet us at the car.”
“Oh.” His voice is impassive, his expression unreadable.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“What’s Eli’s take?”
“He said you’ve decided not to pay for his college and that you said, and I quote, you wouldn’t ‘piss away’ your money on ‘a motherfucking loser.’ ”
Now he looks confused. “Tara, that’s not even close. We were on a lift, and to make conversation, I asked about his grades. He admitted they probably don’t look very good. So then I asked if he knew what he wanted to do, going forward—had he decided on a career path? He told me he wasn’t sure. So then I asked if he’d considered a community college for his core classes, since Stanford isn’t exactly looking for kids without clear goals, not to mention outstanding GPAs, and perhaps it would be a wiser investment of his time and college fund. And then he went off on me. Demanded to know how much money is in said college fund, and if I had other plans for it.”
“Like what?”
“That was my question, and he had no concrete answer. We were in the unloading zone by then and he just took off. I swear I have no idea why he got so angry.”
Calm. Reasonable. Every molecule the Cavin I anticipate. Perhaps Eli’s overreaction was nothing more than a surge of testosterone. I don’t pretend to understand male physiology. Psychology, I thought I had a handle on, but now I’m not so sure. Strange creatures.
“So, are we still on for cheesesteaks? My mouth has been watering for one all day.”
“Personally, I’m starving. Eli can join us or not. You ready?”
He tugs me gently to my feet, sees me safely beyond the door, where he collects his skis. The gondola line is long, but most people are willing to let me hobble to the front and take the handicapped bench. The exception is a pair of twentysomething pretty boys, whose belligerent protests smell like beer.
Jerk One plants himself squarely in front of me. “Who the fuck do you think you are? The Queen of England?”
“Absolutely not. The Queen may be old, but she isn’t crippled.”
Now Jerk Two joins in. “Yeah, and neither are you, I bet.”
Unbelievably, the guy grabs one of my crutches and tries to yank it away. Cavin is immediately in the dude’s face, stepping between him and me. “I’d let go of that if I were you.”
“Or what?”
The younger man probably outweighs Cavin, but he’s flabby, not to mention intoxicated. Cavin is taller. Buffer. When he chest bumps Jerk Two, the guy stumbles backward, lands on his butt, hitting himself in the forehead with the crutch. Someone has called for Security, and I can see a burly uniform headed this way. But there’s plenty of time for Jerk One to step up to the plate. He starts to, and I swear all it takes is one look from Cavin to make him back away again. There’s something new in Cavin’s eyes. Cold. Hard. Fury.
The situation defuses as the rent-a-cop arrives. The Pretty Boy Jerks sputter excuses and express concern for their personal well-being. Burly Uniform takes one look at Number Two (ooh, apt name), still clutching my crutch, a large knot forming on his forehead. The pseudo-cop extricates the crutch from his grasp, hands it to me. “Sorry some people feel the need to be assholes.”
I take the handicapped bench. Cavin stands beside me, and as the gondola descends I look up into his eyes, where fury has melted into satisfaction. Eli’s words rise up inside me. How well do you know him, really?
Thirty-Eight
The week starts out on an even keel. Cavin and Eli buried the hatchet long enough to make it through Sunday dinner. It was uncomfortable—bloated by silence—but they didn’t argue or even discuss their earlier issue, and it wasn’t mentioned again before Eli headed back to school on Monday morning. Hopefully he’ll find the ambition to lift his grades up out of the gutter.
Speaking of ambition, the weather gods seem to have discovered theirs. It started to snow a couple of hours after Eli left, and it’s been coming down enthusiastically ever since. We’re on an El Niño storm track, according to local meteorologists, and as of Thursday, it’s a doozy, the snowdrifts outside growing five or six feet high.
Which means no real chance of venturing outside. Last thing I need is to slip and go down. Forward, backward, or doing the splits, it would set back my rehab by months. I keep exercising, probably too much. But I push through the pain and feel myself getting stronger. Strength is what I’m after. I never cared much about being a size zero. Size four and buff is beautiful.
Cavin has several surgeries scheduled this week, so I spend lots of time alone. I am working on a fall fund-raiser when my phone rings. I reach for it absentmindedly, thinking it must be Cavin. “Hey, gorgeous,” I purr.
“Um, hello? Ms. Cannon? It’s not ‘Gorgeous.’ It’s Charlie. Sorry to bother you, but . . . oh, how are you doing?”
“Getting stronger every day, thanks. Is there a problem?”
I had left Charlie a door code and asked him to keep an eye on the place, water plants, et cetera. I never expected a call, however.
“I’m not sure. It’s just . . . well, it appears someone has been in your house.”
“Why do you say that? Does it look like there’s anything missing?” Anxiety shimmers. Except for the artwork and wine cellar, my valuables are locked in a wall safe, and my valuable valuables kept in a safe deposit box at my bank. A TV or computer I can replace.
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I mean the art is still here and all. But there’s stuff on the counter and coffee table. Glasses and bottles. Like someone has been helping himself, and maybe a friend or two, to your liquor.”
The place was spotless when I left. “Anything else?”
“Well, why it seems weird is because there’s no sign of a break-in, like whoever it was knew how to get in.”
“Was the alarm on when you got there?”
“No, and that’s the thing, I’m sure I activated it before I left last time. Should I call the police?”
“Have you been through the whole house?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing seems to be missing except alcohol?”
“Not as far as I can tell.”
“Don’t worry about it, then.”
“Are you sure?”
I am, because suddenly it comes to me that Kayla went missing a couple of weekends ago, and she knew I’d be here with Cavin. She has since returned home, but I’ll bet she and Cliff spent those days in my house, smoking it up and helping themselves to my pantry and liquor. I hate to consider what they might have done in my bed.
But how would they have gotten in? Wait . . .
“Do me a favor and go look in the ’Vette and BMW for garage-door openers.” I’m sure there’s one in the Escalade because I used it to shut the garage door when I embarked on this adventure.
Charlie isn’t gone long. “I found one in the Beamer, but not in the Corvette. Does that mean something?”
Obviously Kayla didn’t return it to its proper place, but whether that was purposeful or simple neglect, I don’t know. “Yes, I have an idea who it was. I’ll change the access from here and let you know how to get in later.”
“Okay. Hey, are you coming home soon?”
“Not for a couple of weeks at least.”
“Oh.” The disappointment is obvious in his voice. “You’re still going to need some help, right? That extra money sure comes in handy.”
I promise his position is safe, and it is, at least for now. I had planned on turning it over to Kayla, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t trust easily and, relative or not, once you chew a hole in that thin veneer, I will write you off completely. Punch one, I’m liable to retaliate.
But dirty dishes and bottles are more like a nibble, so I’ll recode the system remotely and let this one go for now. “Do me a favor and tidy up? Th
He agrees, and I promise to send him a check for his trouble. I try to return to my busywork, but this is bothering me, so I put in a call to Melody. We spend a few minutes on chitchat—knee rehab, kids, blizzard, and dogs—before I finally ask, “Did you ever find out where Kayla disappeared to?” I know she was gone three days without permission, and Graham had threatened to have her locked up.
“Not exactly. She told me they were over at Cliff’s, but later I found out he’d been evicted from his apartment. I’m not really sure where they landed, and she hasn’t exactly come clean. Why?”
I mention the call from Charlie.
“Oh, I don’t think she’d do that, Tara. She respects you a lot, and I know she’s counting on your support to get into school next fall. I sincerely doubt she’d jeopardize that.”
“Perhaps the marijuana clouded her judgment?” Not to mention trying to impress her loser boyfriend, especially if they had nowhere else to go to catch a buzz and engage in sexual activities.
“I suppose it’s possible,” she admits. “I’ll have a talk with her as soon as she gets home, okay?”
“You’re not allowing her to see Cliff anymore, are you?”
She is quiet for a moment. “I’m pretty pragmatic about it, Tara. You tell a kid no, they’ll be that much more determined to keep right on doing whatever it is you don’t want them to do. That’s especially true when it comes to dating. Of course, Graham doesn’t feel the same way. He put his foot down, demanded they stop seeing each other.”
Oh my God. He and I actually agree on something? “And how’s that working out?”
“About like you’d expect.”
“What about Kayla’s grades?”
I can hear her shrug in the silence.
“A couple of months ago, she was worried about a single B,” I pursue. “Have you checked in with her teachers lately?”