I believe that. There are a lot of things I don’t like about Graham, but the way he cares for his kids isn’t one of them. This, at least, offers him a way to save face and graciously send Kayla off to jump-start her future. Will he find some small sense of gratitude? Not that it’s a requisite. Will the tension between him and Mel ease?
The fact that she has never once admitted her marriage was anything but sitcom perfect, well, that kind of bothers me. Should the relationship dissolve after twenty years, leaving her high, dry, and middle-aged, would it have been better to confide the fact that Graham had tried to sleep with me? Would it have made any difference, or would she have discounted my words completely? Would I have achieved any sense of satisfaction in hurting him if I hurt my sister, too?
Life is complicated.
Post-cooldown and shower, I make the necessary phone calls that will assure my party is a huge success. I never leave anything to chance, and always double-check with suppliers the morning of. I do not need a last-minute surprise. When my guests arrive, I want to be cool and confident, not harried or angry. And tonight, I’ll have someone to show off.
I catch Cavin at lunch. “Can’t wait to see you. Has it only been a week? It seems like forever.”
“Aw, come on. You’ve been too busy to notice.”
“Only during the day. At night, it’s terribly lonely. My bed is looking forward to an encore performance, no hoisting me up the stairs required.”
“I thought you liked the Rhett Butler approach.”
“Tonight, all I want is the Cavin Lattimore approach. Maybe we’ll even try something other than missionary.”
“Sounds intriguing. You’d better let me go now. Don’t want to be late.”
“I love you.” The words still sound foreign.
“I love you, too.”
He hangs up and information withheld swirls around me. I haven’t as yet mentioned Kayla’s tuition, or the deception involved. I’m not sure I need to. Neither have I brought up Sophia and Eli. That, I must mention, but definitely not over the phone. I want to look into his eyes, where the truth lies in wait. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be an interesting discussion.
The afternoon is a whir of activity. Charlie arrives at four, and I leave him in charge of the flowers and food while I spend way more time than any woman should indulging my skin with expensive potions before carefully applying makeup—enough to create smoky eyes and hints of peachy blush, but not so much as to make me look like I’m trying too hard to compete with the aging supermodel who’ll be in attendance tonight. She must always be the most beautiful woman at any gathering, at least in her own estimation.
I’ve finished with the cosmetics and am halfway dressed when my cell buzzes. It’s Finn.
“Hello, Tara. I wanted to let you know I can’t make it tonight.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you unwell?”
“No, but unfortunately Hannah is, so I’ll have to take care of the babies.”
“Babies, yes. Larry told me about the twins. Congratulations, although to tell you the truth, I’m having a hard time picturing you pushing a double stroller.”
He clears his throat. “I hear congratulations are in order on your end as well. Who is the lucky fellow?”
The problem with gossip is it works two ways—for you, and against. I recite a truncated bio and add, “Too bad you’re not coming tonight. You could meet Cavin. I think you’d like him.”
“Larry said you’ll be living at Tahoe. I was wondering if you’ve given any thought to selling the Russian Hill house.”
“I have not. Why?”
“Well, um . . . uh . . . it seems like a massive waste of resources.”
He means his resources. “This is my home, Finn. There are no provisions in our agreement regarding my marrying again.”
“I understand that. It’s just, the mortgage payment is an incredible drain, and—”
“I didn’t leave you, Finn. I didn’t chase you into Hannah’s arms and make her get pregnant. Besides . . .” Insert very long pause, for maximum effect. “I’m told your company is doing very well, thanks in no small part to your evangelical investors.”
I leave it there, no stated threat, just the assertion that his finances aren’t so dismal after all.
He can’t have missed the implication, however, and immediately withdraws. “No need to dredge up any ugliness, Tara. I wasn’t insisting you list the house, only making a suggestion. You hang on to it until you’re ready. But it does seem more like a tool of ego than need, to be honest. Take care of yourself.”
“You, too.”
But he’s already gone.
Bastard! This house is irreplaceable and I will not be strong-armed into liquidating it. If I did, I might clear close to a million dollars. But then what? I could invest it, yes. However, I don’t need that much investment capital, and in this real estate market, who’s to say that’s even a possibility? Both of Cavin’s houses are gorgeous, and I’ll be happy spending time in either one. But they’re his. This one is mine. If we sign an honorable prenup, that won’t change if for some reason we don’t last.
I don’t expect something bad will happen between us, but my experience insists it’s possible. Maybe even probable.
I’m afraid even love can’t change that.
However, when Cavin arrives, thirty minutes before the party is scheduled to start, handsome as ever in khaki pants and a flannel shirt, any thought of a future breakup dissolves in the ardor of his hello kiss. Lost in the moment, we barely notice the activity swirling around us—Charlie placing bright spring bouquets as the caterer arranges colorful trays of food and the hired bartender opens bottles. And when Cavin goes upstairs with his suitcase, his presence in my house is noticeable, even though he’s not in view. He’s in my bedroom. No, our bedroom, regardless of whose name is on the deed. (Or who’s paying the mortgage.) Guests begin to fill the living room, spilling onto the patio, despite the evening chill, and Cavin still hasn’t reappeared. When he finally does, he’s traded his casual clothing for a striking silk suit. Every head turns. Cavin sweeps past them all, across the room, taking his place at my side.
“Sorry I took so long,” he murmurs into my ear.
“That’s okay. You made quite the entrance. Everyone seems quite impressed, including our lovely supermodel.”
Cavin turns to study the woman in question. “Hey, that’s Genevieve Lennon.”
“Yes, I know. What do you think?”
“That’s she’s very tall, wears too much makeup, and quite likely has an eating disorder.”
“The supermodel model.”
He lowers his voice even more. “Just so you know, you are much more beautiful than she.”
I pivot to face him, slide my arms up around his neck, dive into his eyes. And for the first time, real time, I promise, “I will always love you.”
Always is a murky concept.
Forty-Nine
The house party is a barn burner, as they used to say in Idaho, although this is about as far from rural America as you can get. Perhaps it’s because of the news Cavin and I share, as a lead-in to introducing him. Perhaps it’s strictly because of the heartwarming video Lost Souls Found has produced, with the help of a few lost souls, who have learned to script-write and edit. Perhaps it’s simply because of the bottomless glasses, expertly poured for maximum benefit. (Tip that bartender well!) Whatever the reason(s), we manage to raise sixty-three thousand dollars.
That includes a most generous five-thousand-dollar gift from my fiancé. Not to be outdone, Genevieve Lennon doubles the amount. She also flirts obnoxiously with Cavin, who is keenly aware of the fact that I’m observing every move. He doesn’t falter.
“Orthopedic surgeon, huh?” clucks the aggressive woman, who is totally unconcerned about my reaction. Why should she be? She just cut a major check. “Guess I’ll have to go sledding or something. I don’t ski.”
“You know, I have yet to see a sledding injury t
hat demanded a trip to Barton. But should you be able to manage that, we’ll take very good care of you.” He is careful to use the plural “we.” “Of course, there’s always mountain biking once the snow melts. That won’t be long now.”
He is completely charming, and not just to Genevieve. People keep pulling me aside to congratulate me, or joke about bedside manner, or comment about how it must have been fate. Three or four ask if I’ll be keeping my house in the city. Each receives an enthusiastic “Of course!”
Cavin mingles, and so do I, but we don’t stay apart very long, and I think it must be obvious that the key to our relationship is affection. I would say love, but most of the people here are connected to one another by need, or familiarity, or carnal attraction, and I’m not really sure the word “love” means more to any of them than it did to me just a few weeks ago.
Duty done, people start to wander off around ten. The last is gone at half past the hour, and the cleanup begins. Cavin tries to help, but I waylay him. “The crew is still on the clock. I’ll leave Charlie in charge and we can go to bed. That is, if you’re ready.”
“A whole week without you? Dear lady, I’m way beyond ready.”
That makes two of us. I hope sex with Cavin doesn’t become something to get over with as quickly as possible. Considering we haven’t had the chance to experiment yet, and it will still be a while before we can move all the way into the “wild” category, I think I’m happy this is how we started out.
I give envelopes to the caterer and bartender. Both contain generous tips on top of the invoiced amounts. Then I instruct Charlie to make sure everything is in order before they leave, and to lock up behind them. I pay him in cash, and he is very pleased.
“You tired?” he asks.
“Exhausted. But not quite ready to sleep.”
He laughs. “Gotcha. I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”
At the top of the stairs, Cavin and I go to different bathrooms. I take the master, ask him to use the one in the hall. I remove the makeup, so carefully applied just a couple of hours ago. Moisturize every inch of skin with delicately scented lotion. Brush my hair, and the appetizer crumbs from my teeth. Once all pretense is gone, the mirror reveals a fortysomething woman who, thanks to good genetics, plus a little work and a whole lot of expensive potions, appears to be a few years younger. She is healthy, her body athletic, muscles taut. Those things aren’t new, but there is something different: contentment in her eyes.
By the time I finish, Cavin is already in bed, and his presence warms the room. I turn off the lamp and he lifts the covers. I slip underneath, into his arms, where his scent swallows me. This, I’ve missed: the cologne of hot skin; the taste of mint in the mist of his sigh; the embers of desire, awaiting the wind of touch.
He touches me now, in a rush of need. I struggle to keep up with him, but he urges me to lie still. “Don’t move. I want to make you wet.”
He lifts himself above me, kisses my face. My neck. My shoulders. Right. Left.
His tongue traces my lips, the circumference of each ear. Left. Right.
Licks my collarbone. Right. Left.
Down between my breasts, to my stomach. Circles my belly button, then up again.
His lips pluck at my nipples as if they’re berries he’s lifting from a vine. Left. Right.
I’m moaning now, and he smiles at that. “There’s my lady. Now let’s see how well I’ve done.”
He throws back the blankets, moves all the way to the foot of the bed, puts his hands together in an open V, which he slides between my thighs, prying them gently apart. His fingertips keep moving inside of me, as far as they can reach.
Enter. Exit. Enter.
“Oh, yes. You’re wet. But I want you dripping.”
He accomplishes the deed with his mouth and tongue, teasing in less than elegant fashion, bringing me oh so close to orgasm. But I slow myself. Slow him. “Easy, big guy. Let’s try something different.”
I turn onto my side, coax him behind me. Completely engorged, his cock crawls up the backs of my legs, and when it thrusts between them, I am very happy to be dripping. The angle of entry brings him full stop against my favorite spot, and the pressure is divine. Push. Pull. Again. Again. Harder. Deeper. Again. Again. He’s all the way inside me, and I feel him tense, then start to withdraw, as if to delay.
“Don’t stop!”
I maneuver myself so I can help with the motion, urging us both to the point of no stopping now. Orgasm is mutual, extended, intense.
He rolls onto his back and, still inside me, pulls me backward so I’m lying on top of him. “Holy Christ!” It’s a rough whisper. “You are one hell of a woman.”
“And you are the man I love.”
We lie this way until our breathing calms and our hearts slow their drumming. Then we turn sideways again, and he cradles me tightly. I close my eyes, but all hope of sleep is lost in a silent tumble of words. The man I love. Always. Passion cools. Talk is cheap. You might want to remember that.
Now I’ve got Eli on my mind. I hear his voice. I love older women. Smell him, wearing my soap. Admired many. See his eyes, the exact same gray over jade as his father’s. Sexual relationship with one. Hear his heavy-footed approach. You starred in one or two. Feel his hand brush my hip. Are you a liar?
“Cavin?” I keep my voice quiet in case he’s drifted off.
“Huh?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Eli and Sophia?”
His arms, still cradling me, tauten. “What do you mean?”
Now my body stiffens. I extricate myself from his hold, turn so I face him. “About them having sex.”
He rolls onto his back, sits up, turns on the light. “What are you talking about?”
I sit up, too. “Eli told me, Cavin.”
“Told you what?”
“That Sophia seduced him, and they had an affair.”
“What?”
“That your PI discovered it, informed you, and you caught them together.”
“Tara, I . . .” he sputters. “None of that is true. I mean, if he was having sex with Sophia, I never even suspected it, and I certainly never witnessed it.”
I did not expect denial. “But . . . why would he make something like that up?”
“To impress you? Interest you? I have no idea. Come here.”
He opens his arms, and I accept the invitation, burrowing against him where it’s cozy and safe. A click of a switch and the room goes dark again. Cavin strokes my hair as I listen to the march of his heart and the regular beats of his breathing. Both slow as he sinks into sleep, a place where I will not be able to join him for a while.
I revisit my conversation with Eli—the one that turned into a revelation about Sophia and him. There was more to it than the basics I reported to Cavin just now. What did he say? Something about holding her until he finished . . . Cavin slamming the door . . . asking his father later what he would have done in that situation and Cavin calling him morally bankrupt.
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.
Why Look for Meaning
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;
t
he 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.
Fifty
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.