“That’s what you wanted to ask?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” I reach around him to turn down the burner, add fish stock and white wine to the pot, along with fresh fennel, saffron, and thyme. “What I want to know is why you changed those grades.”
He turns to face me. “Entertainment.”
I had hoped Charlie was wrong. “What?”
“Not really. Look, the first time was just to see if I could do it. It was easier than I expected. A friend and I were drinking one night and in a drunken stupor, I mentioned I’d managed to hack in. He asked if I could ‘fix’ his algebra grade. I did, and then he told someone who told someone else, and pretty soon people were paying me to upgrade their GPAs. I know Dad thinks I did it for the money, but no way. I mean I took it. But I didn’t need it, obviously.”
“But didn’t it occur to you that someone might turn you in?”
“Well, yeah, it crossed my mind, but I didn’t really expect it to happen. And even after it did, I thought it would just blow over. Who knew they’d get so serious about a practical joke?”
“Well, that combined with the cyberbullying kind of indicated a pattern.”
“Hey,” he huffs. “I did not set up that Facebook page. I’m not a pussy like that. If I wanted to pick on Fat Boy, I’d do it straight up in his face.”
Interesting. “So who did set it up then?”
He shrugs. “It was Andaman’s computer. My guess is he did it. What else can I do to help with dinner?”
Subtle subject change, one I’m not quite ready to accept. But first I give him directions for making the rouille while I go about preparing the fish and seafood. I’m deveining shrimp when I mention, “Taylor’s mom said they think whoever created that fake Facebook page was actually targeting Taylor.”
Eli thinks about that for a minute. “You mean to make him look like a bad guy. Who would go to all that trouble? Taylor doesn’t need any help in that department. He’s a total tool all on his own. But it definitely wasn’t me. Tool or no, I’ve got no personal problem with him.”
I’ve only met Taylor a couple of times. He seemed nice enough, but most kids do in strange settings, especially under parental supervision. Who knows what he’s like when he’s off on his own? And as for Eli, I’m leaning toward believing him, although I’m determined to keep my guard up.
“Thanks for sharing KP duty with me. We’ll leave the broth to simmer until Cavin gets home, then toss in the seafood to cook. Oh, I will need those tomatoes chopped, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“No problem.”
I will now attempt small talk. “How’s school?”
“Piece of cake. I’m so far ahead, it’s crazy.”
“Your dad’s been looking for another private school. Apparently, there’s a great one nearby—Squaw Valley Academy. Have you h—”
He slams the knife on the cutting board. “What? No! That’s a boarding school.”
“I know, but it’s close, so he thought it might work out well. I guess if you maintain a decent GPA, they let you ski or ride every day in the winter, too. It seems perfect for you.”
He picks up the knife again, begins to cut the tomatoes. Slowly. Methodically. Finally he says, “Why can’t I just stay at Whittell next year?”
What am I supposed to say? That Cavin doesn’t want to deal with his son on a daily basis, and really, neither do I? That we’re both used to ordered lives and are already working overtime to establish a mutual rhythm? That we’re not even officially newlyweds yet, so how could we possibly commit to full-time parenting a teen—any teen, let alone this one?
I’ll lay it on Melissa instead. “I don’t think your mom will agree to you living here. She’s afraid of your dad’s influence.”
“Fuck Mom. She doesn’t want me, either. You know what I feel like? A dog, dropped off at a shelter because I’m not a cute puppy anymore.” He scrapes the chopped tomatoes into a bowl, rinses the knife, turns to face me. “The thing about shelter dogs is some of them get mean.”
I look at the blade in his hand.
Eli laughs and puts the knife on the counter. “Not me, of course. I’m totally placid.”
That switch flipped awfully quickly, but before I can consider the implications of that little scene, Cavin comes in the door. “Honey, I’m home. Hey, what’s that incredible smell?” He sweeps up the hallway, into the kitchen, kisses me on the forehead before noticing the pungent air of tension between Eli and me. “What’s going on?”
Eli responds first. “What does it look like? We’re making bouillabaisse and talking about dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“And schools,” I add.
“Ah, schools.”
“Yes,” says Eli. “And since that discussion has everything to do with my future, you might consider including me in it. Jesus, Dad, I’m almost eighteen. Don’t you think my opinion about where to spend my senior year should count?”
Cavin throws up his hands. “Of course. But it’s not like we’ve made any decisions yet. We’ve just been looking at options.” Anger shimmers in his eyes, and I believe it’s directed at me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply we’d settled on Squaw Valley. I was just excited by the prospect, and thought you would be, too, Eli.”
“Oh, really?” Sarcasm infiltrates his voice. “And here I thought you were celebrating dumping the pup at the kennel.”
“Ah, dogs,” sighs Cavin. “Look, can we adjourn to the other room to have this conversation?”
He locks eyes with mine and adjusts his jaw, and I understand his meaning.
“You two go talk in private. I’ve got work to do here. Dinner’s in a half hour.”
Obviously, he thinks I overstepped, and maybe I did. But this is indicative of a larger problem. Exactly where does that boundary lie? And if we’re getting married, should there be boundaries at all?
One thing I do know. I’m not going to dance around Eli.
After dessert, and once the men have retreated to their separate rooms, I go into the study to check my e-mail. There’s a message from Mel: Mom’s in the hospital. She had a major allergic reaction and didn’t know what it was until it was almost too late. Luckily, Will had the presence of mind to call 911 right away. The paramedics shot her up with antihistamines and got her to the ER in time. Guess she’ll be okay. Looks like you inherited your mango allergy from her. In other news, Graham won’t be coming to the wedding. His band has a gig that day. I asked him what was more important. He said fourth weddings don’t count. Sorry.
I e-mail back: No worries about Graham. I’d just as soon he stays away. It’s supposed to be a happy day. As for Mom, it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person. Just think. If they had more mangoes in Idaho, there might not have even been a Graham! Of course, we both might be married to ranchers. Or Mormons, God forbid. Can you picture me with six kids? Ha-ha. We’re still on for trousseau shopping and (a mango-free) lunch, aren’t we?
Fifty-Three
My waltz-around-Eli moratorium proves nearly impossible. For one thing, he’s home a lot. And when he is, he spends an inordinate amount of time in my vicinity. Don’t all teenagers want to waste their off-hours playing video games or watching porn or something? I expected he would hang out in his room, harboring resentment, like when he was here before I moved in. Instead, he volunteers to help in the kitchen, or make lists of things to accomplish before the wedding. What I can’t tell is if he’s trying to be useful so we’ll let him stay in public school, or just wants to irritate me.
I’m also vaguely uncomfortable about the way he so obviously ogles me. The weather is warming, so I’ve taken to wearing shorts or simple thigh-length shifts. Both show off the accomplishment of my regular workouts. Other than my knee, which is still slightly swollen and wears the scars of the incisions, my legs are toned and pretty. I’m hoping a little sun will help conceal the flaws, so I spend some time every day outside on a lawn chair. Too often I glance toward the hou
se to find Eli spying.
Today when I get home from the gym, his Hummer is parked on the street, so I know he’s back from school. When I go inside, however, the house is eerily quiet. Usually I can hear the bass from his stereo up here on the second floor. As I start down the hall toward the bedroom, I notice the door to Cavin’s study is open. “Eli?”
“In here,” he calls.
I poke my head inside the room. Eli’s sitting in the big office chair, and on the desk in front of him are two things: my laptop, which appears to be on but sleeping; and an open file. With Eli here I’ve been using the study to work. I might have left my laptop open; I often do. But the rest of the desk was clear when I left. I’m positive about that. “What are you doing?”
“Rereading some of this stuff.” He looks up at me and grins. “Your history is fascinating.”
My temper flares. Cavin was supposed to dispose of that. “Really? Like what part?”
“I never would have guessed you were from Hicksville. I don’t see much Idaho in you.”
“We moved to Vegas when I was a kid. I barely even remember Idaho.”
It’s a lie, and he must know it.
“No mention of your father anywhere. Do you even know who he was?”
“That’s a personal question, one I’m not required to answer. But I have a question for you. Why are you doing this?”
His shoulders twitch. “I was bored, so I decided I want to get to know you better. In fact, I want to know all about you.”
I point toward the desk. “That isn’t the way to do it.”
“Maybe not. But what if it’s the only way to get to the truth?”
“As I told you, I prefer honesty to deception, except in certain circumstances. You can always try the direct approach first.”
“Would you tell me what your net worth is, if I asked?”
“Probably not. But why would you care about that?”
“Just looking out for my own interests.”
“You’re safe.”
“I know. In fact, I think you’re the one who needs to be careful.”
“What do you mean?” Again, the game ages quickly.
“I’d suggest a prenup, and a carefully worded prenup, at that.”
Okay, I’ll bite. “Why?”
“Did you happen to notice the date on this report?” He swings the file so it faces me, pushes it to the edge of the desk.
I have no choice but to take a look. December 31. “And?”
“If memory serves, I first met you a few days before Christmas. We shared crème brûlée after your date with my dad. The two of you had just met, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“So why did he put Caldwell on you then? He couldn’t have been serious about you yet. Could his sudden interest have had anything to do with your money?”
“What are you talking about, Eli? Your dad doesn’t need my money.”
“If you say so.”
He retrieves the folder. Closes it. Puts it away.
The little shit, planting seeds of doubt where none need to be sown. But now that he’s done it, they’ve sprouted already. The timeline is, in fact, suspicious. I turn on one heel, go into the bedroom I so happily share with Cavin, lie down, and close my eyes to think.
I did not shut the door and I hear Eli pause on the far side of the threshold.
“Whatever Dad’s reasons, I’m glad you’re here.” Off he goes.
Whatever reasons. And what was my reason for not doing a background check on Cavin, even though I promised myself I would? Love. Yeah, that’s it. How many women have been screwed over in the name of love?
Now my thoughts ping-pong.
Cavin’s a surgeon, with a thriving practice.
How much is malpractice insurance again?
He’s got two beautiful houses.
With dual mortgages, and hefty property taxes.
Speaking of taxes, is he current with the IRS?
According to the prenup, any tax debt belongs solely to the one of us who owes it. Ditto any other debts.
Will the prenup stand up in court?
Yes, says my attorney. Yes, says his attorney.
What about my insurance policies? Do I name him beneficiary?
Who else is there, other than Mel?
Besides, someone’s got to bury you.
Besides, besides. After you’re dead, who cares, anyway?
By the time Cavin gets home, my head is pounding. When he comes to check on me, I do my level best to hold the anger and confusion inside. Instead of shooting off like a geyser, they leak out like steam.
“Hey, lady,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You okay?”
“Headache,” I manage. “How was your day?”
“Same ol’. Broken tibias. Meniscus tears. Arthritic knuckles.”
“Sounds lucrative.”
“People might assume so.”
What does that mean? He reaches out to stroke my hair back from my forehead and I flinch without meaning to.
“What’s wrong, Tara? It’s something more than a headache.”
Honesty. Honesty. Honesty. Why try to make this work if I can’t be honest with him? I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the mattress. Cavin slides a hand along my upper leg. I don’t push it away. “Okay, look. Eli pointed out something, and it’s bothering me.”
“Yes?”
“Dirk Caldwell’s report—”
“Wait. Eli had the file?”
“He was in your study reading it when I got home.”
“Goddamn it. I meant to shred it. I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. Apparently, he’d seen it before. He mentioned it when he stayed with me in San Francisco. Testing me, I guess.”
“Get used to it.”
“I am. Anyway, today he mentioned the date on the report—December thirty-first, which is before we went to Carmel.”
“Right.”
“But you told me you hired the PI once you decided you wanted to marry me, which had to have been after that.”
“I don’t believe that’s what I said, although I realize the explanation was embedded in the same conversation. Sweetheart, what reason could I have possibly had, other than I didn’t want any negative surprises to derail our budding relationship? I needed to know there was no ulterior motive. I couldn’t be certain until after I got the report. Then, to tell you the truth, I felt like an irrational fool.”
Sort of like I’m feeling now. Still, I make a mental note to conduct my own investigation, so I can be certain Cavin truly has nothing but the purest of motives himself. “Sorry. It’s just, Eli can be quite convincing.”
“What have I been saying? But what was he trying to convince you of?”
I could tell him, but for what purpose? He already knows Eli’s a troublemaker. And if I do, it will paint an inelegant portrait of me.
“Doesn’t matter. You have successfully dispelled my discomfort.”
“Excellent. Now let’s make out.”
He pulls me into his lap, kisses away any residual doubt.
Well, almost.
Fifty-Four
With the wedding only three weeks away, I’ve got some substantial decisions to make. Like what to do with my house, which has little real value to me, except it’s mine. If I sell it, the proceeds minus capital gains belong to me. Should I reinvest them postmarriage, they become community property unless Cavin agrees in writing to keep the investment separate. It’s a discussion I’d prefer not to have, but it’s definitely on the horizon.
I also own three cars, which at this juncture seems excessive. Selling the Corvette makes the most sense. It’s not really a mountain car, and it’s silly to keep it garaged. Still, the idea of letting it go makes me sad. It was the best present I ever got from Jordan and reminds me of life in the fast lane. I’ve definitely slowed way, way down. But I’m not positive I don’t want to accelerate again, especially in a very fast car.
I di
d hire a private investigator to dig up information on Cavin. For the most part, he’s squeaky clean. Other than the mortgages, no major debt. No overdue taxes, though there was one bad audit a few years back, resolved. No alimony or child support to pay. Melissa’s husband is quite well off, so the decision was made to simply split Eli’s bills—tuition, insurance, college fund—down the middle. Thank God for reasonable divorces.
Some interesting facts turned up on his family. His mother’s death was a suicide, something Cavin hasn’t mentioned. His father, Andrew, now retired, was a pioneer researcher in antisense therapy—a gene-slicing technique that shows promise in treating conditions such as muscular dystrophy, arthritis, and certain cancers.
Cavin’s brother, Paul, graduated from the Air Force Academy and currently holds the rank of major. He’s married, with two children, and stationed at Edwards in California, where he’s a test pilot. Their sister, Pamela, is still single at thirty-two and living the good life in Chicago.
I will meet all of them in twenty days.
Eli is out of school for summer vacation, which means he’s even more underfoot than before. His getting a job sounds better and better, at least to me, and I corner him outside on the deck to advance the idea.
“Do you have any plans for the next few weeks?”
“No. Why? You inviting me along on the honeymoon?”
“Actually, I was thinking you might consider looking for work.”
“Work? Like, a job?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
Okay, that went well. He didn’t even bother to think about it. “Why not? Wouldn’t you like to earn some spending money?”
A grimace crinkles his face, and the overall picture reminds me of a bored cat. “Tara, I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly short on cash. My parents give me a large allowance, and I don’t have any bills. Besides, what would I do? Flip burgers?”
“There are worse things.”
“Did you have a job at my age?”
“Of course. It was that or go hungry.” Oops. Said too much. Caldwell’s report mentions where I was born and where I went to college, but a big slice of my childhood, including my teen years, is missing. Fortunately.