Love Lies Beneath (32 page)

That's awfully detailed for a total fabrication. If he made it up on the spot, the boy is a talented liar. I'm extremely good at catching lies, and I never read his story as fiction. And why go to all that trouble?

On the flip side, what would Cavin have to gain by denying the incident ever happened? No matter how long I linger here, just this side of slumber, I can't for the life of me figure out a good reason why. One word becomes my mantra.

Why.

Why.

Why.

in little things:

the murmur of a sparrow's

wings, questions

asked of wind and seed

lost in autumn grass;

the stubborn reach

of surf, intent on whittling

beach and arranging

curls of seaweed

on driftwood statuary;

the copper scent

of rain on prairie shoulders,

bent by drought,

slivers of creation, wet

in shallow reflection.

Why look for meaning

in a lie:

the mosaic of a chameleon,

riled by passion into beauty,

exquisite, but destined

to retreat into mediocrity;

the painted face

of the dune, its inconsistent

features ever redrawn

at the whim

of temperamental wind;

the comely mask

of the monster, a disguise

deftly worn to soothe

suspicion, an open invitation

to love, quite unique.

Cavin returns to the lake on Sunday morning. I send two suitcases of clothes, three boxes of personal stuff—books, business files, candles, toiletries, favorite glasses, and kitchen gadgets—and five cases of wine along with him. I haven't been down to the cellar in weeks, and I take careful inventory. Everything appears to be in order, but I want to leave nothing to chance, in case my phantom visitor returns with an oenophile in tow. The wines that Cavin takes home would be hard to replace.

The Audi is stuffed—wine in the trunk, the rest on the seats, including a box riding shotgun. “It'll make a good armrest, at least,” jokes Cavin. Then he turns serious. “Promise you'll only be a couple of days? I sort of despise being without you.”

“Promise. But you'd better clear some wall space. I don't want to leave all my art behind.”

“You're not really worried about a break-in, are you? Why don't you hire a security service?”

“I'll do that first thing tomorrow. But there are a few pieces I'm very fond of. I'd rather they move to the lake than I have to visit them here.”

Cavin and I did discuss some pertinent questions yesterday. How many homes do we need? What are the relative merits of each? The Tahoe house is a given. But two more come into play. Do we want to maintain two near the ocean? Does Carmel trump San Francisco? If it's important to me to maintain a property that is completely mine, how important is it to keep this one? Would it be better to divorce myself completely from Finn and invest in something else? Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, we did not come to definitive conclusions in that one conversation.

The prospect of marriage, I'm discovering, is simpler when love does not interfere.

After Cavin leaves, Charlie comes over to help me crate the art. He's not particularly happy about my plans to largely relocate to the lake. “Tahoe is nice and all, lots of recreation and everything, but you're a cultured woman.”

“The implication being culture is largely lacking in the High Sierras?”

“Well, yes. I mean, what's up there? Sports betting and chili cook-offs?”

I don't say, compared to Vegas—not to mention Idaho—Tahoe is a hotbed of culture. “What's wrong with chili? Besides, there's plenty to do. Renaissance Faires. Shakespeare on the beach. Music festivals. And if I need more, Reno is only an hour drive.”

“Reno is a cow town.”

“Well, I can always visit San Francisco anytime I like.”

“So, you're keeping this house?”

The question of the week. “That's currently under discussion. For now, yes.”

“Will you still need me to check on things here?”

“From time to time, although I'm hiring a security service, so probably not as often. What I will do for you, however, is put in a good word with a few busy people I know. You're a treasure.”

He grins. “That's right. Be sure to mention how
valuable
I am.”

Charlie demonstrates his value with the care he puts into packaging the art, sleeving it in cardboard before bubble-wrapping it. He carries each piece down to the Escalade, so I won't have to do it on Tuesday, when I plan to leave. After his final trip, I invite him to stay for dinner.

“My friend Cassandra is coming. I'll introduce you, and tell her how valuable you've been.”

“I'll help you cook.”

By the time she arrives, we have concocted a fabulous minestrone and Caesar salad. Charlie makes himself useful, mixing drinks and setting the table, while Cassandra and I chat in the living room.

“Sorry I couldn't make your party on Friday,” she apologizes. “Taylor was home on spring break, and I didn't want to leave him there by himself.”

“Why not? He's going on eighteen, isn't he?”

“Exactly.”

I think about leaving Kayla or Eli alone here in my house and understand what she means. “That's okay. You missed a great evening, though, and you could have met Cavin.”

“That almost swayed me. But the truth is, Taylor's gotten into some trouble at school. He's smoking. Drinking. Who knows what else? Oh, and there have been some cyberbullying incidents. They suspect Taylor, who denies it, of course.”

“Cyberbullying? You mean like threats, or what?”

“Not overt threats. I guess someone set up a fake Facebook page on Taylor's computer at the school. Whoever that was posted on one of the younger students' timelines, saying he was a fat pig and he'd better watch out or he might end up bacon. There were other things, too, of a similar nature.”

“So if the page was set up on Taylor's computer, they have good reason to believe he did it, right?”

“Yes, except other people have access to it. It's in his dorm room. That room is never locked. Anyone could go in there and do it. And if that person's real target was Taylor, well, this would be one very sneaky method to get to him. Either way, there's no proof.”

“God, kids are cruel nowadays. Not only that, but devious.”

“Kids have always been cruel. Think back. Our generation wasn't much nicer. The difference was, we actually had to look into the eyes of whomever we wanted to call a fat pig. Now, social networking allows a sense of anonymity. That, plus privilege, is a deadly combination.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Either. Both.”

Charlie informs us that dinner is on the table. He pours a spicy zinfandel, and I raise a toast to friends, old and new. “I'm hoping the two of you might form a mutually beneficial relationship. Or maybe you know someone who could use Charlie's help, Cassandra? He's been impressive. Not cheap, but worth every penny.”

“You're really getting married again, aren't you?”

I shrug. “Looks that way.”

Now she lifts her glass. “To beginnings.”

Which also means to endings. Maybe I should seriously consider selling this house, excise Finn and his family from my future completely. Who needs old complications when new ones are inevitable?

As we start on our soup and salad, a question pops into my head. “Has Taylor ever told a lie so blatantly untrue that you couldn't understand why he invented it?”

“You mean like the time I smelled smoke, found him holding a lighter and a big burn hole in the curtains. He told me a burglar lit them on fire, handed him the lighter, and ran. He was about ten.”

“Something like that, I guess. Only this just happened, and Eli is seventeen.” I share his story about Sophia, and Cavin's absolute denial. “Why would Eli make that up? What's the point?”

“Shock value?” guesses Cassandra.

But Charlie has a different theory. “Entertainment.”

As much as I loved my time in the city, my home on Russian Hill was missing one very important thing. Cavin. The day before I returned to Tahoe, I did accomplish three important tasks. The first was to hire King Security Services to do random mobile patrols past the house several times a day. The second was to visit my accountant and discuss the financial implications of my upcoming nuptials. Finally, I talked to a high-end real estate company about possibly listing the house.

The agent was quite excited by the prospect, and why wouldn't she be, considering the possibility of a very large commission? She assured me properties like mine are rare and highly sought after. Despite the sagging market, the recession didn't dampen certain areas, and upscale San Francisco is one of them. Comps have recently sold for upward of $5 million. She urged me to sign the listing documents right then and there. But I'm still weighing the pros and cons ten days later.

The Glenbrook house wears my artwork well. It surprised me, actually, although we either need to install track lighting or find a way to let in some natural light. I talked to Cavin about removing a few evergreen branches closest to the place. There are strict rules about cutting down entire trees—something about erosion and Tahoe water clarity—and this, plus skylights, would be a decent compromise. Anything to fight the slight sense of claustrophobia living in the woods initiates.

I do love waking up in the morning and cracking the sliding glass door to let in the frosty, pine-scented air, and the cacophonous call of the Steller's jays. I'm usually up before Cavin, unless he's got an early surgery, and I'll have coffee ready when he comes stumbling into the kitchen, hair tousled and hanging, too long, over his eyes. He looks more woodsman than doctor that way, and it's sexy as hell.

Primitive.

Masculine.

Arousing.

Love crashes into me then, a megawave engulfing me until I think I just might drown in a tide of longing. It's ridiculous, really. I'm glad I've got the time and energy to invest in this experience, not to mention perspective. One thing I'm sure of. This isn't infatuation that I've indulged in before, and this is something completely different.

It hasn't, however, totally disintegrated my flirtatiousness. Cavin recommended a local gym, and I chose a personal trainer based on (1) his familiarity with rehabbing sports injuries, and (2) his rather striking physique. I have no need for “outside services” but don't have a problem admiring a little eye candy while I work out. Between physical therapy and the stationary biking I'm doing at home, I'm exercising an hour and a half every day. By June, I'll probably still limp a little, but I should be able to dance at our wedding.

I finish up at the gym around three, and by the time I get home, Cavin's car is already taking up space in the driveway. He's earlier than expected. I go on inside, but before I can call out a greeting, I hear him talking on the phone.

“A year? Goddamn it, Melissa! Can't you take him with you?”

I can't hear her reply and have no idea what this is about, but a name materializes in my brain. Eli.

“Well, do you have any ideas about another school, then? I guess he can stay here for the summer, but we have to do something with him in the fall.”

Definitely Eli.

“Fine. I'll look into it. When do you leave? I'd like to reach an agreement before then.”

This sounds like a problem requiring hard liquor. I go to the bar, pour a couple of sidecars, and hand one to Cavin as he hangs up the phone. “Thought maybe you could use this.”

“Hope you made it strong.”

“What's going on?”

“Eli got expelled.”

“Oh.”

“Well, technically, he's been asked to withdraw. Expulsion would make it almost impossible to enroll him in another school. Melissa and I convinced them it was to their financial benefit for him to leave ‘voluntarily.' ”

“I see.”

“Yes, well, to complicate things further, Melissa will be heading to Dubai next week. Her husband was appointed to the embassy and they'll be gone for at least a year.”

“Meaning Eli is moving in here.”

“Through the summer, yes. We're looking into another boarding school, but he'll have to finish this semester at Whittell High School.”

“Kind of late in the year to start a new school. Can't he finish up online or something?”

Cavin looks at me like I've lost my mind. “And have him
here
all day, every day?”

Good point. “May I ask what he got expelled—er, asked to withdraw—for?”

Cavin takes a big gulp of his drink. “Remember the thing about someone hacking the school computer and changing grades? Turns out it was a fairly lucrative business, and one of Eli's customers had a change of heart. After that, there were some incidents of cyberbullying. Do you know what that is?”

The Athenian is, indeed, a very small community. “Actually, yes. In fact, I heard about the incident from my friend Cassandra, whose son goes to school there. Eli was responsible?”

“They believe so. Can't prove it because it was someone else's computer, but the kid who was picked on the worst is the one who turned Eli in.”

“None of what happened was considered criminal, though?”

“Fortunately, no, or at least not prosecutable. Apparently cyberbullying is only a crime if it involves overt threats of violence, posting sexually explicit pictures, or taking photographs of a person in a place where privacy would be expected. Whoever set up that fake Facebook page, and I have no doubt it was my son, was informed enough to not do any of those things. As for the grades, the headmaster just wanted the problem to go away.”