Authors: Ellen Hopkins
I turn up the heat under the Dutch oven. “You met Sophia, then?”
“Oh, we absolutely met. She's hot.”
It feels like there's a subtext. That piques my interest. “Cavin says she's in New York, producing a play off Broadway.”
“Huh. For some reason, I thought she was still around. I ran into her at Heavenly not too long ago. But then, she does love to ski, and the East Coast hills pretty much suck.”
He seems to know an awful lot about Sophia, whom I don't want to talk about anymore. Fragrance blossoms as I sauté the onion and garlic, add the chili and cumin-spiced meat to brown. “Tell me about your mother.”
“What about her?”
“I don't know. Do you get along?”
“Guess so, at least when she's around. I don't see her all that much.”
“Cavin says she travels a lot with her husband. Do they ever invite you to join them?”
“No.” His tone says end of conversation.
I go into the pantry to look for ingredients. Kidney beans. White beans. Both within reach. But the canned tomatoes are on a shelf above my head, and I can't chance a step stool. “Eli, can you please help me for a second?”
I hear the bar stool scrape tile, his heavy-footed approach, and when he comes into the pantry behind me, I become fully aware of his height. “What do you need?”
“Tomatoes.”
He is opportunistic, maneuvering his body very close to mine. When he reaches around me, his arm brushes my cheek and I can feel the muscle, not sculpted but sinewy. I wonder if the contact was on purpose.
“These?”
“No. Those. The ones that say Mexican style.”
He brings down two cans, gives them to me, and as he backs away, his hand brushes my hip. Okay,
that
was not accidental. But there is nothing more, and I ignore the gesture, pretend it was harmless.
Eli returns to his stool and I go back to my chili, feeling the heat of his gaze as I open the tomatoes, add them to the Dutch oven along with beef bouillon and a can of beer. He observes for a while and finally says, “I asked Taylor Andaman about you.”
“Really. And what did he say?”
“He said his mom wishes she were you and his dad thinks you're a cunt, but he thinks you're fine. He said you live on Russian Hill, and he's been to your house, and it's fucking awesome.” He pauses, gauging my reaction.
I cover the chili, lower the heat, and leave the pot to slow simmer. Then I turn toward Eli, stare him down. “I'd say that's an accurate assessment. But why did you ask him about me?”
“When my dad came to school to bail me out of trouble he mentioned he was going to see you before he went to Carmel. He was kind of salivating.”
“Did you know he planned to invite me to Carmel?”
“I kind of figured.”
“So you weren't surprised to find me here, then.”
“Not really.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Why should it? It's his house. Anyway . . .” He eyes me like a cat toying with a rodent. “There are perks.”
Before I can respond, the front door opens and in comes Cavin. “Hey. Something smells amazing. Is that chili?” He heads straight for the kitchen to give me a kiss.
“I felt like doing something creative. Hope you didn't have other plans for that chuck.”
“Pot roast, but no worries. This is better. You two getting acquainted?”
I nod. “Eli helped with dinner, in fact.”
Cavin looks bemused. “Really?”
“Yep,” says Eli. “I fetched cans.”
“He's an extremely talented can fetcher,” I add.
“Well, thanks for the help, son.” Cavin slides an arm around my shoulder, tugs me close. “And what do you think of my lady?”
Eli smiles. “I think you've got your hands full.”
Dinner is vaguely uncomfortable. I catch Eli staring from time to time and wish I could interpret his expression. Cavin doesn't seem to notice. Conversation centers around the two boarding together on Sunday, the state of the mountain, and whether or not Motts and Killebrew will offer enough untracked terrain by then to make them interesting.
Cavin does detect a hint of consternation. “You don't mind if I desert you on Sunday, do you?”
“It's not that you're going,” I answer, “or even that you're planning on testing the canyons. I'm just jealous that I can't go, too.”
“I'm sorry. But there's always next year.”
“I know, but that seems like a long way away.”
Patience isn't my best thing.
Postblizzard, elongated fingers
of light poke through the sugar
pine fringe, stretching shadows
across the ermine meadow.
They reach long, and as the sun
lifts, draw back again, scratching
the pristine white, luring
my attention to the fresh fallen
facade. Untracked. Unspotted.
Untouched, but by the scattered
radiance. I am coaxed from
the warmth behind the window
glass, out into the snap of winter
day, tempted by an irresistible
desire to smash footprints into
the diamond crust. Mark territory.
I don't see Eli on Saturday morning. He doesn't bother with breakfast but heads to the mountain fueled by grab-and-go snacksâprotein bars, bananas, and Red Bullâclaiming he's good till midday and lunch. Ah, youth! He plans to snowboard all day, pop leftover chili in the microwave for dinner, and eat it solo. Glad I made a big pot.
None of that changes our Valentine's Day plans. Cavin sneaks out of bed early. When I wake to cooling sheets, I think he must have gone to say good-bye to his son and allow myself to doze off. The scent of strong coffee nudges me and I stretch awake again.
“Morning. Happy Valentine's Day. Here, hold this.”
Cavin has brought a tray of French roast and scones. He places it across my lap, props pillows behind my back, then climbs into bed beside me. We slather butter and jam on the hot bread, sip coffee, and watch the morning news, which informs us there's a rose shortage this year, explaining the high prices.
“That's the excuse every year,” I say. “They should get creative. Like a rogue group of anthophobes loosed armies of spider mites into greenhouses across the country. Much more dramatic, don't you think?”
“Much. But what's an anthophobe?”
“Anthophobia, the fear of flowers. Not to be confused with anthrophobia, the fear of human relationships.”
“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 menâokay, a few men, but not
that
many menâhave 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.
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 affordâ”
“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 andâ”
“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.