Authors: Ellen Hopkins
“Pretty good, I'd say. It's not the easiest school to get into, but it isn't the toughest, either. I scored 2230 on my SAT. I think that qualifies me.”
It probably overqualifies him for a cooking academy, but so far anyway, I haven't seen his ambition catch up to his intellect. Then again, the program he mentioned sounds like a good direction for him. Maybe we can talk him into living on campus instead of commuting. The bigger issue is what school he'll attend for his senior year.
“We can certainly look at Sierra Nevada College. But now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some calls to make.”
“I'll bet you do. At least one, anyway.” He glances at his watch. “With luck, Dad will be at lunch.”
It actually takes me an hour plus to reach him. I should have cooled off by now. Instead, I'm livid. “Can you spare a minute?”
“Of course. What's wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. Except somehow, sometime, apparently you and your son decided he could stay here and go to Whittell next year?”
“Calm down, Tara. Who told you that?”
“Who do you think?”
“Sweetheart, I haven't given him a definitive answer, and wouldn't without consulting you first. Obviously, Eli enjoys yanking your chain. I really wish you'd quit listening to him.”
My blood pressure drops, but not much. “That's hard to do with him in the house all the time. And speaking of that, are we really leaving him alone here while we're off on our honeymoon?” We had planned the Alaska cruise before Eli moved in.
“He's pretty self-sufficient, and I'm not sure what else we can do. He's a bit old for a babysitter. Unless your sister wants a nice summer vacation at Tahoe?”
“That's a thought. Except, she'd probably want to bring the girls, which would not be the best idea.” Come to think of it, Eli just might try to put the moves on Mel, or at least wheedle information out of her.
“I wouldn't worry too much. He hasn't made a whole lot of friends here yet, at least I don't think he has, so there won't be blockbuster parties. He can feed himself, and wash his own clothes. He'll be fine alone for two weeks.”
Sixteen days, actually. And it doesn't take friends to party. All it takes is money, and according to Eli, he's got plenty of that. He's also got balls, plus he's a brilliant liar. Nope. Nothing to worry about.
Except when Cavin gets home, all hell kind of breaks loose. He arrives, already grumpy from a long, irritating day filled with patient complaints and a problem with an ER nurse. My earlier phone call only exacerbated his mood. The truth is, I've rarely seen him this distant.
Eli sits at the dinner table wearing headphones with music pumping loudly through them. Cavin gestures for him to remove them, which Eli does reluctantly.
“That's rather rude, don't you think?”
“Look, it's not like the conversation is so stimulating, you know?”
What happened to him? He's usually happy to monopolize the small talk.
Cavin overreacts to his blunt dismissal.
“Are you just trying to cause trouble? Because I won't stand for it.”
Eli brings his gaze level with his father's. “What the fuck did I do?”
“Do not talk to me like that.”
“Then don't be a dick.”
Cavin's face flushes, visibly red from chin to ear tips. “You have no right to call me a dick, and if you plan to continue living here, I'd better never hear that word again, at least not in reference to me. And speaking of living here, did you tell Tara we'd agreed to let you go to Whittell next year?”
“We did, Dad.”
“We absolutely did
not.
”
“Dad, you said it was probably the best option.”
“Which is
not
the same thing as making a concrete decision.”
“Fine. If you don't want me here, I'll find somewhere else to live!”
He starts to get up, but I put a hand over his arm. “Wait. First of all, both of you need to calm down. It's obvious this is a miscommunication, and I'm sorry for the part I seemed to have played in it.”
Did I just apologize? I guess it worked because Eli relaxes and Cavin's face slowly returns to its normal color and we manage to finish dinner without another blowup. But why did
I
apologize?
And does this mean Eli has become a permanent fixture?
After dinner, I leave the boys to decide on dessert, which I skip in favor of checking my e-mail and escaping any chance of yet another argument. I don't care if the two can't agree, as long as I'm not inserted between them and expected to moderate. I didn't sign on for that, nor for the stress their quarrels initiate.
Not much in my inbox. There's a string of annoying advertisements. I hate when I end up on a mailing list. It's almost enough to set me off, especially when I can't figure out how it happened. It's not like I hang out on social networking sites designed to steal my private information and determine my buying habits.
I take the time to unsubscribe from each, then respond to Cassandra, who's written to ask if it's okay for her to bring her son to the wedding.
Of course. Eli will be there, and also my nieces, plus some kids from Cavin's side. And hey, go ahead and bring a date if you'd like.
I hit the send button and am about to sign off when a
ding
announces a new e-mail. The address is unfamiliar, and I consider writing it off without opening it, but what stops me is the subject line, which reads:
Last Warning.
And the message:
I'm not fucking around anymore. You think you hold all the cards but you're wrong. I'm not powerless. I hear you're getting married. How much does he know about you? And how safe is his car?
Enough is enough. I'm not powerless, either, and now I'm more angry than scared. But first, I've got to identify the mysterious sender. If I involve the cops, they'll wonder why I waited till now, and Cavin will be royally pissed that I didn't mention the follow-up messages. Not to mention he might want to know what some anonymous stalker has on me.
I pick up the phone and call my PI.
Nine days and counting to the big day, I drive over the mountain to go shopping with Melody. Sacramento wouldn't be my first choice of cities to scour for wedding wear, but there is a giant mall in Roseville, which is this side of the city proper and boasts several decent stores. They open at ten, so I time my trip to pick up Mel at nine thirty. Obviously, she's been watching for me, because when I arrive the door opens immediately and she barrels straight to the car.
“Let's go.” Her voice is calm but tinged with anger.
“What's wrong?”
“Can we please just go?”
Wordlessly, I start the engine and we are on the freeway before I insist, “Talk to me. Is this about Graham?”
She crumbles but refuses to cry. “Who else? He has decided to âtake some time to reconsider our relationship.' Apparently, he thinks a good place to do that is in Las Vegas, where he'll be vacationing for a week.”
“Alone?”
“You'd have to ask him.”
“I'm sorry, Mel. Do you think this is a genuine bid for a separation?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Did something precipitate this? The scholarship?”
She shakes her head. “No, not that. It's been coming for a while. I just refused to believe he'd follow through, and I'm still not sure he will.”
“You might consider talking to an attorney now. Also, I'd recommend moving some money into a personal bank account. Accomplish that before he does.”
“Oh, I don't know. I doubt that's necessary. He still cares about us. The girls, anyway.”
“Mel, trust me. If he's serious about this, he will be looking out for himself first. Be smart.”
She sits quietly for a minute, processing. Finally, she tips her chin up and straightens her shoulders. “I'll tell you what. If he walks out on this family, I
will
make him pay.” Rarely have I heard such resolve in her voice.
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“Just the one who wrote our wills.”
“I'll give you the name of a good one. And, really, don't wait. If he decides to come crawling home, you can always let him in.” My experience, however, tells me it's an unlikely outcome.
We have reached the exit for the mall, but Mel's news has put a damper on the day. “Do you still want to go shopping?” I ask, certain she'll say no.
But she surprises me. “Of course. In fact, I can't think of a better day to spend some money. Maybe even a lot of money.”
So we do. I find a killer off-the-shoulder summer dress, in white, no less. I've actually never been a bride-in-white, but why not? This wedding is very different, and somehow white feels right. Mel chooses a pretty floral and buys her girls complementary dresses in solid shades of fuchsia, violet, and lime. We will look lovely in the photos.
We move on to accessories and pick sandals with short wedges. Heels wouldn't work in the location Cavin and I finally settled onâmidmountain at Heavenly, where you can see clear across Tahoe to the mountain beyond. It's a fitting venue, if a bit ironic.
I convince Mel to purchase a brilliant Michael Kors handbag, plus smaller (if not much less expensive) purses for her girls. Finally, we spend almost an hour picking out pricey panties, bras, and some sexy lingerie that should please Cavin very much. Overall, I'd say my sister came very close to maxing out her credit card, and that makes me happy.
We finish the day with a late lunch at the Cheesecake Factory, and I drop her off a little past three. “Aren't you staying over?” she asks.
“I thought I might, but I'm going to beg off. See you next week.”
No need to poke sticks at snakes, and Graham is a cobra. I turn up the music and head home, thinking about the impermanence of relationships. Twenty years, one wife, three kids, and two dogs, tossed aside, just like that? Yes, I've experienced the dissolution of marriage. But never a marriage rooted in love. Did Graham ever really love Mel? I know she was crazy in love with him. But how much love remains?
This turn of events could have me reconsidering the path I've recently chosen. Instead, it's got me more determined than ever to dedicate myself to keeping my marriage to Cavin intact. If love is, in fact, the difference, and I must believe it is, I will cultivate the emotion. A phrase comes to mind, as cliché as it might be: growing old together. I've never seriously contemplated the idea, mostly because I don't enjoy thinking about aging, let alone actually morphing into a senior citizen. But what's the alternative? Would it be better than solitary decay?
On that morbid note, I'll focus on beginnings rather than endings, other than the end of this trip, anyway. As I approach the driveway, I notice a strange car parked in front of the house. Friend of Eli's, perhaps? When I go inside, music rises loudly from the lower floor.
“Eli?” I call, knowing there's no way he can hear me.
I take my packages into the bedroom, hang my dress in the closet, and put my new shoes on a shelf. Then I take the lingerie down to the laundry room and start panties, bras, and teddies on a hand-wash cycle. Who knows how many strange appendages have touched them? When I pass Eli's door, I notice a female voice behind it. I consider knocking but wouldn't want to disturb a private whatever, so I go back upstairs to the kitchen for a glass of wine.
Before long, a drift of laughter precedes the approach of footstepsâtwo pairs: one heavy, the other light. I go to say hello, surprising the pair with my presence.
“What are you doing here?” demands Eli.
“What is
she
doing here?” I ask.
Sophia smiles. “You must be Tara.”
“I thought you were spending the night in Sac,” says Eli.
“Changed my mind. But you didn't answer my question.” This time I address Sophia, who is even more stunning in person, in a short yellow shift (and probably nothing beneath it), which shows off her slender body and perfect tan. “What are you doing here?”
“I bumped into Eli at Skunk Harbor. He invited me over.” Skunk Harbor is a local nudie hangout. I can guess what he invited her over
for.
“Does Cavin know you're here?”
“Why would he?” asks Eli.
“I thought maybe you were trying to provoke him.”
He grins. “Now why would I want to do that?”
“I don't know, and I really don't care. The thing is, this is my house, and I'm sorry, Sophia, but you are not welcome here.”
“Excuse me,” says Eli. “But this is
not
your house. It belongs to my dad, and I don't have to ask your permission to bring someone over.”
Sparklers ignite, hot and electric, and arc inside me. But I won't completely blow it in front of this woman. “This
is
my house, Eli. Don't make me prove it. Sophia, in my opinion you coming here was in extremely bad taste. I assume you realize that Cavin and I are getting married next week?”
“I'm aware of that, yes.”
“Obviously Eli is making a statement. Are you?”
She studies me intently for a second or two. I have a hard time reading her, can't tell if she's high or not, or if she's intent on playing some game. Finally, she admits, “I have nothing to say except congratulations. Forgive me, Eli, but I think it's best I go now. You know how to get ahold of me. Call if you like. We can hang out at my place next time.”
“Do you really think that's advisable? Technically, sleeping with a seventeen-year-old is not statutory rape. But he's just a kid. Can you not find someone closer to your age to seduce?”
Her turn to smile. “I'm afraid you're misinformed. Eli is very much a man.”
She lifts herself up on her toes, kisses him full on the mouth, then spins and leaves soundlessly.