Love Lies Beneath (22 page)

“Help yourself.”

The remote is within easy reach, and images float up on the big flat screen above the fireplace. I've been largely relegated to television as entertainment for three days, so I know the channels by heart. My preferred evening news is straight-on CBS. The fringe channels can be interesting, but I question the veracity of their journalism from time to time. Mainstream network news, at least, competes among the Big Three for viewers. Which doesn't always make the stories accurate, but at least they're more fact than opinion.

The broadcast is ten minutes old, so I've missed the threats of war and world terrorism segments. Those are of little interest anyway, because there's not too damn much I can do about the global quest for power. I catch a story about novel applications for drones, and just as Cavin returns with refreshments the newscast turns to “the Nation.” Up first, this headline:
GRAND JURY INDICTS US SENATOR JORDAN LONDON ON BRIBERY AND CONSPIRACY CHARGES
. As the story goes, the anonymous tipster whispered into the ear of the FBI, turning them on to information about mining interests funneling beaucoup bucks into Jordan's offshore accounts in exchange for favorable swing votes. A sting operation netted more than enough information to convince the grand jury of an ongoing, complex system of influence peddling.

“Phew” is my initial reaction.

“What?” Cavin hands me a glass of Syrah.

“Remember I told you about my ex-husband, the politician? Well, that's him.”

Cavin turns toward the television, where an obviously upset Jordan London tells the microphones thrust in his face, “No comment.” Now he ushers a stunning young woman, different from the last, into the same spectacular Porsche.

“Sounds like he's in trouble.”

“Yes, it does. Although he has friends in many places, including federal benches.”

“Wonder who blew the whistle.”

“I kind of think he thinks it was me.”

“Why?”

I relate how I first heard the story a month or so ago, and though I debate whether or not to mention the “Private” caller, in the end I go ahead and share that, too.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't know you quite as well then, and didn't want to scare you away. I mean, who wants to date a girl who comes with her own personal stalker? Besides, I decided it must have been a wrong number. Nothing else has happened since. I'll admit I was a bit paranoid for a while, though.” Okay, that was a lie. I still don't want to chase Cavin away, and as soon as I know for sure who “Private” is, I'll take care of the problem myself.

“But what about London? Do you really believe he thinks you're the whistleblower?”

“Maybe.”

“That makes no sense. Why do it now? And what would be in it for you?”

“Revenge.” The word slices, bayonet-edged. I blunt it some. “Served up ice cold, and a little moldy?”

His eyes register confusion, perhaps even a hint of suspicion. I could backpedal completely, cry joke, but that would sound like a pathetic excuse. Luckily, he decides it was funny without prompting. “Ha. Well, I promise to never do you wrong. Moldy revenge sounds utterly intimidating.”

I tilt my glass against his, the fine crystal chiming a toast. “I'll drink to that.”

After Caesar salad plus grilled prawns, we spend the evening drinking wine and watching a made-for-HBO show that's all the rage, though I can't figure out why. The storyline has to do with a tired detective. Nothing new in the history of television, except for the overt violence, full-frontal nudity, and nicely simulated lovemaking. During the boring parts, we make out like kids closing in on “all the way” without actual penetration.

Talk about hot.

Friday morning, Cavin is on call, and our breakfast is interrupted by the telephone, informing him of an emergency surgery. Apparently, some hotshot snowboarder was messing around and fell from the lift, first chair up the mountain. Bummer, dude.

“Sounds like I'll be three or four hours at least,” he says, slipping into his jacket. “Then I'll probably stop by the store. Anything you need?”

“A shower.”

He laughs. “It should be okay today. But wait until I get home, okay?”

“Afraid I might slip?”

“No. I want to see you naked.”

His good-bye kiss makes me believe that.

The thought of more hours sprawled on the sofa makes me crazy. Think I'll see if I can find that stationary bike. I hope it's not downstairs, but I fear it is. On this level is the great room—kitchen, living, dining. Eli's bedroom is downstairs. I remember that from when I was here before Christmas. Near as I can tell, having not been down there as yet, it's a daylight basement situation, carved into the hill. I assume there are other rooms on that level, too, and it makes sense that's where a workout room would be.

Still, this floor demands exploration, even on crutches. First, I open the door to the master suite, which shares the great room's evergreen filtered view of the lake. It's tastefully done, or likely redone, in masculine shades of teal and brown. The room is spotless. Not a single sock litters the beige wool carpeting. The king bed is made, its geometric patterned quilt tucked neatly with even hospital corners. After three nights on a futon, albeit a comfortable futon, the thought of crawling between these sheets, inhaling the scent of Cavin's slumber, makes me antsy, though the idea of an accidental dream-fueled kick makes me understand his insistence that I sleep alone for several nights.

The furnishings are simple mahogany, and beautiful, if spare. There's a highboy, maybe six feet tall, on one wall, with a matching long dresser adjacent.

Above it hangs a huge painting of Tahoe at sunset. I wander over to look at the series of framed photographs. One is vintage—the cars tell me circa the mid-1950s, so if the people propped against the hood are relatives, they must be Cavin's grandparents. There are a couple of photos of who I think must be his parents—one a little dated and one more recent. In the second, the man is alone. Did they divorce? I suppose I should ask. He knows more about my background than I do about his, and he's been privy to only the most basic information.

There are several pictures of Eli. Cavin shares most of them, mementos of special days—on the mountain, at the ocean, camping somewhere wooded. One draws my eye more than the rest. It's Eli as a small child, holding a pretty woman's hand and looking up at her with such adoration that I know it must be his mom. She is petite and wears her pale hair long, with no bangs or layers or embellishment. And she is here on Cavin's dresser still. The thought gives me pause. Divorce for me meant divorcing myself from framed memories. I don't even keep them in boxes. Of course, I never had children to remember my exes by.

From soap fragrance to accoutrement, the sprawling bathroom carries no hint of woman. There's a jetted tub and an immense shower with endless glass in place of doors. I'm dying to situate myself beneath the brass shower head, turn the water hot-hot-hot, and let Cavin watch me soap myself head to foot, inch by inch, with the exception of one knee. That, I'll still have to keep dry somehow.

Master-suite circuit complete, I wander across the hall. The room beyond the carved oak door is Cavin's study. As offices go, it's expansive, with more than enough space to accommodate the massive teak desk and chocolate suede massage chair. A pair of tall, narrow windows look toward the road. Cavin keeps them shuttered, but a skylight allows a cascade of illumination. Bookcases cover two walls, floor to ceiling, and there is little space left for new editions. Two cubbies, however, hold nothing but photographs. I move closer to see who might occupy such obvious places of honor.

The woman is no more than thirty, and stunning, her sharp features (Italian? Greek?) accentuated by spiked black hair, tipped platinum. She prefers form-hugging clothing that shows off her slender figure—short skirts, leggings, leather jackets. Not someone I'd picture as Cavin's type.

Too hip.

Too BDSM.

Too young.

But she must have been (is?) his type, because he's in three of the six featured photos, and their intertwined poses leave no doubt they were (are?) crazy about each other. I'm confused as to tense. These pictures can't be very old, because Cavin hasn't aged since they were taken—several months, maybe? There are no other signs of her here. He swore he maintains no allegiance to other women. Surely, he wouldn't have invited me to stay if she were still deeply ingrained in his life. So, why house these on his bookshelves, where she can watch over him as he works? A sobering thought rises like smoke. Maybe she died?

Uneasiness begins a slow churn in my gut. Half of me wants to dig through Cavin's personal stuff, seek out clues. The other half wants to escape, go home, shed myself of lies. But I can't leave on my own, and even if I could, I don't want to exit his life without knowing what the truth is. Don't want to vacate his life at all, because I really have no idea what love feels like. But this, I believe, is the closest I've come, and I deserve the experience.

I take one last glimpse of the photographs, imprint them in my brain to try to make sense of later. My knee pulses pain from the morning's effort, and I opt for pharmaceutical relief, the kind ibuprofen can't bring. Before it kicks in, I decide to make some hot tea. Not sure why. It's generally not my thing. I've yet to actually use the kitchen, so it's work to locate the simple things I need—kettle, mug, honey, Earl Grey. Luckily, Cavin is the well-organized type. I put water on to boil, and when I finally find the stash of teas, all requiring a strainer, it occurs to me that I've never seen Cavin drink any caffeinated beverage but coffee. So whom does the tea belong to?

Jealousy strikes, sinks its fangs. I want to believe I'm the only woman in Cavin's life, but logic claims that's a ridiculous notion. Monogamous men tend to fall into a couple of categories—overtly religious, or clearly unsuitable for sex, period. Neither guarantees complete faithfulness. That's why they invented Internet porn.

Tea brewed and pill kicking in, I settle back onto the sofa, pull out my laptop, and try to work. Not easy, floating on opiates. Not easy, with pictures of a spiky-haired woman flickering into and out of internal view. Not easy, as morning creeps beyond twelve o'clock and on toward deep afternoon.

Where the hell is he?

The thought is tumbling when my phone rings. Caller ID informs me it's Melody. I debate inviting her drama until the third ring. Ultimately I decide it's better than the internal conflict. “Hey, Mel. What's wrong?”

“How did you know something's wrong? Did she call you?”

“Who?”

“Kayla. She and Graham got into it this morning. I think . . . I think she ran away.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Apparently, when I took Suz to the orthodontist, Kayla packed some clothes and left. I assume, with that Cliff person.”

“I haven't heard a word from her. But I wouldn't worry too much. Where would they go? She'll cool off and come home.”

“I hope so.” She sounds unconvinced. “Kayla's been heading in the wrong direction for a while now. I'm afraid she's lost all sense of reason.”

I've heard marijuana can do that to a person, and what if it's become a gateway to harder stuff? I should probably leave that alone. “What were she and Graham fighting about?”

A long, soundless pause. “You.”

Maybe it's the pill, or maybe I just need a good laugh, because that's what I do. “Me? What about me?”

Another bloated second or two of silence. “Graham's trying to plan our summer vacation. At breakfast, he took a vote—Hawaii or Disney World. Kayla said she didn't care, as she'd be spending her summer with you, working as your personal assistant. Did you tell her you'd hire her?”

It takes a minute to remember the conversation I had with Kayla. “Yes, I guess I kind of did. I told her she could work for me as a way of repaying her tuition. But I never said anything about summer.”

“Well, apparently she thinks she's moving in with you right after graduation. Graham, however, does not agree.”

How did I become this embroiled in my sister's family? I've avoided it forever, and now suddenly, I'm at the root of most of their problems. Not really, of course, but I'm sure that's how Graham sees it, and maybe my sister, too.

“Look, Mel, I was just trying to help out. If your husband can't conquer his pettiness, there's no one to blame but himself. But I've got enough problems of my own without creating a whole new subset involving Kayla. Tell me what to do and I'll try. And why are you mad at
me
, anyway?”

On the far end of the line, there's a massive sigh. “Sorry. It's not your fault. It's just that Graham has been impossible to get along with lately. It almost feels like he's purposely picking fights so he has an excuse to leave.”

“You mean, leave for good?”

“I'm not sure. All I know is, the band's gigs seem to push later and later into the night, and once or twice he's called to let me know he wouldn't be home until the next morning.”

Like father, like daughter? “Have you confronted him?”

“What for? It wouldn't change anything.”

Her passivity annoys me no end. If there's one thing I've learned it's that a woman's intuition about such situations is rarely wrong. Once suspicion surfaces, an aggressive response is required.

Besides, sometimes aggression just feels good.

I'm dozing when Cavin finally comes in, carrying pizza (pizza again?), wine, and a bouquet of flowers the approximate size of a small tree. I glance at my phone, which tells me it's a little past four. Two dozen amber-colored roses can't change that.