Love Lies Beneath (13 page)

She watches the dogs push their emptied bowls around the patio. “Makes sense, I guess. Have you asked her about it?”

“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. What about Graham? Will he get upset?”

“Considering the way Kayla's been moping around the house, I doubt it. But what about once you're home? You'll need some help, at least for a while. Why don't you consider hiring someone to do errands and steer you up and down all those steps?”

“Great idea. I'll look into it.”

I'm too old for a nanny, and I cherish my privacy. But come to think of it, there are a lot of college students looking for part-time jobs. And some of them are men.

Turns out, Kayla's happy enough to escape, and surprisingly, Graham is agreeable to the plan. Maybe he figures spending a couple of days in my company will make her hate me enough to refuse any offer of money. I've been thinking about that, too, and might have come up with a workable solution.

The one thing Kayla isn't so happy about is my insisting we leave first thing Monday morning, meaning no later than nine o'clock. Teens and their sleeping in! But I've never actually ridden in a car she was driving before. I'd hate to see us stuck in anything like traffic, especially when she settles behind the wheel of the Escalade and says, “Whoa. This vehicle is huge. Does it actually fit in one lane?”

My jaw unhinges a little. “I do hope you're kidding.”

She laughs. “Uh, yeah, Aunt Tara. I've got this. No worries.”

Kayla drives almost overcautiously, like most young drivers, at least when they have an adult supervisor riding passenger. Once we reach the freeway, this becomes too obvious. “It's okay to drive a little over the limit,” I tell her. “Especially out here. Go sixty-five, you're liable to get run off the road.”

“I just didn't want to scare you.”

“That isn't easy to do. I decided a long time ago to swiftly and completely excise scary people from my life.”

“You mean people like your mother.” It's a statement.

What has Melody told her? “Exactly.”

“I wish Mom was brave enough to do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“June calls sometimes—she insists we call her June, says she can't stand the name Grandma or even Grandmother—and I swear, Mom turns into a mewling little kid.”

“Really.” It's news to me. “I don't suppose
June
asks for money.”

“What else? Doesn't she ever ask you?”

“She wouldn't dare. Anyway, I doubt she even knows my current last name, let alone how to get in touch with me. And that's the way I want to keep it. You haven't said anything, have you?”

She shakes her head. “Not me. What
is
your current last name, anyway?”

“Very funny.” But we both laugh.

We are driving through Fairfield when I finally venture, “On the Art Institute thing, something your mom said the other day sparked an idea. What if I hired you as a kind of a girl Friday? Part-time, of course, with a highly inflated salary. Graham can't say no if you're working for your tuition, do you think?”

“Work?” It's a whine. “What would I have to do?”

My first thought is to dismiss both the invitation and the offer of money. But then I remember she's still a kid, and a privileged one at that. “Run errands. Help me plan parties. Nothing that might ruin a manicure.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

I appreciate instant contrition. “Apology accepted. Should we give it a try?”

“Why not? I'd do practically anything to get out of that house and into this school. Maybe even mess up my nail polish.”

We manage to make it home, fingernails intact. I instruct Kayla to pull into the garage, and when I open the door, she whistles. “Three cars? Are you kidding? Hey, can I drive the Corvette?”

I smile. “Not today.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I'll think about it. Right now, will you please carry my suitcase upstairs? My bedroom is on the third level—it's the big one, with the fireplace. You can choose any of the guest rooms. I'm parking myself on the second floor for now. It's going to take me a few to get up the stairs. Make yourself comfortable.”

It takes six or seven minutes to crow-hop up two long flights of stairs, and when I finally reach the living room, it feels as if my left leg took the brunt of the climb. Mostly because it did. Mel was right. I'll need to find some temporary help. Kayla's only staying two days.

I wiggle out of my jacket, hang it next to the door, and am immediately sorry. It's cool in the house, so I hobble over to the thermostat, dial up the heat, and turn on the gas fireplace, if only to fool my psyche into believing it's warm.

I wander room to room, making sure everything's in order, and it seems to be. The effort is taxing. Time to quit feeling sorry for myself and take charge of my recovery. Rehabbing the knee is going to suck. But it's necessary.

By the time I flop onto the sofa, Kayla bustles into the room. “God, this place is beautiful! How come you've never invited me for a visit before?”

“I don't know. Guess I never thought you'd be interested in hanging out with your old aunt.”

“Can I see what there is to eat?”

“Of course, but there won't be much in the fridge. We'll have to order in. You like Chinese? There's a great little place right around the corner.”

“Chinese is amazing, as long as it's spicy. Do they do Szechuan?”

“Of course. Bring me my phone, please? It's in my jacket pocket.”

I order the food—Szechuan chicken for Kayla, double-hot twice-cooked pork for me—give her directions to Kung Pow Jack's, send her on her way. She's a bit reticent about walking in the city after dark. “Don't worry,” I tell her, “this neighborhood is totally safe.”

“If you're sure . . .”

“I am. Listen. I might chance the shower while you're gone. Be sure to lock the side door behind you. Grab a garage-door opener from one of the cars and come in that way.”

“Okay.” Off she goes.

I take a few minutes to go through voice mails and text messages.

From Melody:
You home yet? Call and let me know you arrived safely.

Also from Melody:
Kayla forgot her meds. You don't happen to have any Abilify, do you? I'll have her doctor contact a pharmacy near you. Which one do you use?

Wonderful. Mental note: Call Melody back right away.

From Cassandra:
Uh, Tara? Where are you? That guy didn't kill you and toss you into the bay, did he?

From Barton Memorial Hospital, an automated
We want to know how we did. Please visit us online and fill out a short survey.

From someone named Larry Alexander:
Finn gave me your number regarding your niece's admission to the San Francisco Art Institute. Please call me at your earliest convenience to discuss.

Finally, a text message from Private:
You shouldn't have fucked with me. Expect an unpleasant surprise.

I take a deep breath. If somebody really wanted to hurt me, he wouldn't have issued a warning, which means he just wanted to scare me. And that is something not easily accomplished. My only real concern is I'm still not very mobile, which makes me question the timing. Only a few people know about my knee. Does the person behind the text? Why am I assuming it came from a man?

As for guessing who he might be, there's a decent list of suspects, none of whom seem capable of overt violence. Regardless, I keep culling the roll, and three possibilities remain near the top: Ben, who doubtless had some explaining to do when he went home to his wife; Nick, the disgusting little sidewinder who I poked with a very long stick; and Graham.

I'm pretty sure Ben is clueless about how to reach me. I keep revisiting that night. Did I tell him my name? Tara, yes, that much I remember confiding. But Tara isn't an uncommon name. Tracking me down wouldn't be impossible, but would it be worth the effort? Doubtful.

Nick is more likely, but why would he go to the trouble of making his number private? He's not that smart, anyway, and if he was pissed enough to threaten me, he wouldn't think to do it in such a covert manner. Besides, for all his vociferous bravado, that man is a coward at heart.

Which leaves Graham. But I can't think of one good reason why he'd attack me like this. I've been plotting a backdoor approach to the tuition, but he isn't privy to that information, and even if he was, that wouldn't rate an “unpleasant surprise.” Unless he blames me for his diarrhea?

There is a fourth possibility, actually—wrong number. My voice mail greeting is an all-purpose “I can't take your call, please leave a message,” spoken by a generic female. The logical side of me says this is a reasonable explanation. My instinct, however, insists on caution.

Said prudence makes me a bit overprotective of Kayla, and that worry, combined with her missing medication, prompts me to send her home early. The last thing I need to deal with right now is a major depressive episode.

Kayla is not especially happy about leaving when I break it to her the following morning. “But I didn't get to drive the Corvette.”

“Next time.”

“What about shopping? Your cupboards are pretty much bare.”

Good point. I could probably get myself to the store, but no way could I carry up bags. “Okay, fine. We'll go to Trader Joe's together. But after we get back, you're out of here. What I will do for you, however, is set up a time to go tour the Art Institute, maybe over your spring break. I got a call from one of their directors. I'm pretty sure you're in.”

“No way! You're amazing!”

“I take care of my tribe.” No one else really matters.

Descending stairs is even harder than climbing them. This is ridiculous. Kayla waits for me at the bottom, looking up anxiously. “Can we take the 'Vette? Please?”

There's room in the backseat for shopping bags, but it's a lot harder to load them in and out. Still, why not? “I guess. As long as you don't mind the grunt work in addition to chauffeuring.”

As she backs carefully out of the driveway, I notice a strange car parked across the street—a well-used sedan, dark gray with obvious patches of primer, that's out of place in this neighborhood. Normally that wouldn't bother me much, but I'm a little suspicious right now, especially because there's a pudgy man sitting in the driver's seat. He seems to be writing. Maybe he's a Realtor and my neighbors are listing their house. Maybe he's an assessor, or canvassing. Maybe he just parked there randomly. Whoever he is, a sharp whisper of paranoia tells me something about him is off. We are four blocks away before it hits me: he never even glanced in our direction. Who doesn't look at two attractive women driving in a Corvette?

The grocery run takes forever. Even with the cart to lean on, my knee starts to feel loose around ten minutes in. At twenty, it throbs from the effort of trying to hold together while moving in a forward direction. I know I'm supposed to walk, but that's easier said than done. I'm glad I have a stationary bike as well as a treadmill at home. Weight-bearing exercise will be problematic. I definitely want to schedule that surgery as soon as possible.

We stock up on things that can go into the freezer. Fresh fruit and vegetables will be hard to keep, so I choose resilient produce like apples and carrots over quick-to-overripen things like bananas and broccoli. “Ice cream?” asks Kayla.

“Better not. That will go to my butt faster than pizza.”

“Yeah, but how else will you celebrate New Year's Eve?”

“I almost forgot about that. Thanks for reminding me. Let's go find the champagne.”

Eight bags and $346 later, I watch Kayla stuff the backseat. “The limo isn't coming for you until two. That gives us almost two hours. Do you want to hit the freeway for a little spin? Surface streets aren't really a fair test of a sports car.”

“Hell yeah! But what about the groceries?”

“They'll be okay for twenty minutes, especially since I vetoed the ice cream.”

It's the perfect time of day to put the 'Vette through its paces without much interference from traffic. I don't let her go very far, but she's pedal-to-the-metal long enough to get a feel for the big engine's power. The weather is beautiful, cold steel blue, and by the time we head back into my neighborhood, I'm starting to dread cooping myself back up inside.

The beater sedan is gone from across the street, and there's no
FOR SALE
sign up in the yard. Not sure why that nagged at me so much. It wasn't Ben, or Nick, and certainly not Graham. Nor was it anyone I've slept with or blown off. All must be copacetic. I do my best to shrug off the lingering worry.

By the time the car service arrives for Kayla, the pantry and freezer are well stocked, the reusable shopping bags neatly folded and put away. “I won't walk you downstairs,” I tell her. “My knee's finished for today. Would you please lock the side door behind you?”

“Of course. Thanks for everything, Aunt Tara.”

“You're most welcome. I'll be in touch about that school visit. Keep your grades up. I'm in your corner, but we want everything leaning your way.”

I walk her to the head of the stairs, and as she descends I remind her again to lock the door. Then I watch out the window as the driver helps her into the backseat, as a good chauffeur should. He goes around the Lincoln, slides in behind the wheel, closes the door, signals his desire to pull away from the curb.

He has to wait for the automobile cruising slowly past, too slowly for someone focused on going to or from home. It's the same sedan that was parked across the street earlier, at least I think it is. Same color. Same general model and age. I can't see the driver, but a tremor of nerves brings sweat to my upper lip.