Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  “Seven years’ worth of stockpiled gunpowder.”

  I grew serious. “No matter what Hector, your parents, my parents, or anybody says, don’t doubt me. I mean it.”

  He held my arms with gentleness, so different from the way Hector had grasped at me a short time ago. “I won’t. But do something for me?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t doubt yourself, either.”

  Just as we turned back to the courthouse, someone shouted my name. My father jogged toward us, his old fashioned sports coat thrown over a faded tie-dyed shirt.

  “Dad?”

  “Tom,” Samuel said at the same time.

  As I hugged my father, I mouthed a silent thank you to my almost-husband, knowing he’d somehow been instrumental in getting my dad to the wedding.

  Dad hugged me back. “Are you already married? Sorry Samuel, I tried to be on time.”

  I inhaled the weedy and admittedly sentimental smell of my father’s coat. “No, you’re just in time.”

  The courtroom was the beigest beige in the history of beiges. The only spots of color in the room were the Colorado and United States flags on either side of the judge’s bench, where he reviewed our paperwork. The judge himself was also beige, kind of like a Ken doll in a neck-to-ankle black robe and a suspicious goggle-like tan line that circled his eyes. He probably spent his Fridays on the ski slopes. Only in Boulder.

  Sniffles cut through the echo of shuffling papers. My toes felt swollen and pinched in my narrow shoes, and I shifted my weight. Phew, was it hot in here? My head grew fuzzy and my knees began to tremble, so I locked them before they gave out. Another sniffle from our wedding party, this time masculine, had me turning around. It was my father. Sofia too, as well as Molly, Angel, even Danita. The monumental importance of what was happening sank like a stone in my stomach, and nothing good ever resulted from stomach stones. Oh man, I was going to throw up.

  Samuel gripped my hand. I glanced up to find his gaze upon me. “I’ve got you,” he mouthed.

  He did have me, weak stomach and all. Ah, there was color in the room—Samuel’s eyes were a vivid blue, so I zeroed in on them until my stomach stopped flipping.

  The judge cleared his throat. “Alright, shall we begin?”

  Samuel stepped forward and I followed, my hand holding his for dear life.

  We repeated our vows and slid rings onto each other’s fingers, just as we had before. But now, those words were not a blur in a whirlwind day. “I, Aspen Kaye, take you, Samuel Caulfield, to be my wedded husband to have and to hold from this day forward.” All other fancy debris, paper white petals and satin-covered heirloom Bibles, circled that vortex.

  I looked Samuel straight in the eye. “In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death do us part.”

  I watched as the blue shone and gathered, until a drop rolled down the crease of his nose, then became lost in the corner of his mouth. But his voice was strong and steady as he placed a ring on my finger, just as it had been all those years ago when he’d barely left boyhood behind. “Kaye, I give you this ring as a symbol of my vow, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  I waited for the judge to pronounce us husband and wife, but to my surprise, Sofia stepped forward and handed Samuel a small, ornate box. He emptied the contents in his hands and out spilled thirteen shimmering gold coins. Until now, only by the grace of God had I maintained my composure. But when my husband took my palms and reverently poured the arras between them, a sob escaped my lips.

  He spoke in lilting Spanish. “I, Samuel, give you, Kaye, these thirteen coins as a symbol of my unquestionable trust and confidence I place in you as my beloved wife...” He put the arras box upon the coins.

  I accepted the coins and rested my crumpling face against Samuel’s shoulder, the gift between us. It wasn’t about the arras themselves, or even the material comfort they symbolized. In this single act—literally placing his heritage in my hands—he brought me into his familia, wholly and lovingly, for better or for worse, a place he’d never granted me until now because he’d never fully accepted it himself…until now.

  “Shall we finish?” The judge lifted an eyebrow, signifying he’d performed too many weddings and divorces to be affected by sentimentality. “By the power vested in me by the State of Colorado, I hereby pronounce you husband and wife.”

  I threaded my fingers behind his neck and pulled him down to me, but instead of meeting his mouth, I whispered in his ear. “If I kiss you, will you kiss me back?” He grinned and sought my lips, his eagerness my answer.

  Chapter 4

  Send It

  Slang for doing a challenging maneuver with panache. “You send it, TradMan.” The most overused phrase in mountain climbing culture, probably because it’s fun to say.

  Denver Airport

  November, present day

  As I reminisced about our wedding day, I twisted my ring around my finger, a nervous habit.

  Today was our third wedding anniversary. I’d hoped to arrive in L.A. early enough to celebrate in his hotel room, but the flight attendant at my gate had just announced another half-hour delay, so the likelihood of getting out of Denver before ten p.m. was slim.

  It wasn’t flying that made me gnaw my nails to the quick. It was being trapped in a box. I never reserved a window seat now because the feeling of entombment was too much. I’d lose my air. So I’d close my eyes and concentrate on rolling the ball of my foot on the ground as my therapist suggested, feeling its solidness. Roll…inhale…roll…exhale…roll…

  Any small enclosure or device that constricted my body, like skydiving harnesses and roller coaster bars, caused problems. The ‘why’ wasn’t a mystery. This time of year was always rough since that wretched avalanche, and I found I’d developed a whole host of nervous fidgets. Normally Samuel was next to me, but his trip to L.A. couldn’t be avoided and I’d insisted he go ahead of me, that I would be fine flying alone.

  I closed my eyes and channeled a different dream, one that brought immeasurable peace.

  A tiny head resting on my chest, no bigger than my combined fists. Humid breath against skin.

  The slow and steady rhythms of sleep. Breathe in…breathe out…Breathe in…breathe out. The sleep of one who is wholly content, safe, secure…

  “Ben Dover and Mike Rotch, please come to the Information Center…Ben Dover and Mike Rotch…”

  My eyes popped open. Good lord. Someone would be detained by airport security tonight.

  Sighing, I packed away my dream and watched passengers mill about. Two young children ran circles around a pillar until one of them became dizzy and flopped on the stained carpet. I chuckled, though his zonked mother was not in a laughing mood. The couple next to me canoodled, all secret smiles and words. Newlyweds, I’d bet. I decided to be social.

  “Are you off to L.A. for your honeymoon?”

  “Oh no, we live in L.A.,” the woman explained. “We actually spent a week honeymooning in Colorado.”

  I twisted my ring again. “Wonderful! Did you enjoy your trip?”

  The man grinned, and feeling like an idiot, I realized they probably hadn’t ventured much out of their hotel room. His wife smacked his arm. “I absolutely adored Estes Park. We stayed at The Stanley. Are you familiar?”

  “Oh, absolutely. My husband and I spent our wedding night there. Gorgeous old place. Did you do the ghost tour?”

  “Sure did. Though once I heard all of the old stories, my neck kept prickling like someone was watching me.” She shivered.

  I didn’t mention that guests often experienced an eerie feeling, whether they’d done the ghost tour or not. With a last friendly nod, I leaned back in my uncomfortable airport chair and closed my eyes, my own wedding night of three years ago reeling through my mind like a favorite home movie…

  Estes Park, Colorado

  November, three years earlier

  The Stanley Hotel in E
stes Park was the very place that sparked my love of a good ghost story, not long after my sixth birthday. Halloween had always captured my imagination, with its spider webs and stockpiles of candy. But hearing about the ghosts that inhabited the stately neo-Georgian hotel scared the crap out of me.

  When I was a child, my dad picked me up Saturday mornings for breakfast at a pancake house. As I watched snowy peaks give way to Estes Park through the frosted car window, I spotted a sprawling white building nestled in the base of a mountain, red-roofed, dormers and a portico so grand, it could only be a palace.

  “Oh, that? The Stanley Hotel, flower. Hasn’t anyone ever told you about it?” Over banana pancakes and orange juice, my father weaved tale after tale of phantom footsteps and tinkling pianos, paranormal partygoers and foul odors, and the infamous Room 217, with its mysteriously unpacked luggage. “Not just spooky stories, either. There was a horror writer who spent the night there, back when they didn’t get much winter traffic, and he was so creeped out that he wrote a book about it. I’ll let you read it.” He frowned across the table at my wide hazel eyes and gapped teeth. “Er, maybe in ten years.”

  Since then, I’d done the ghost tour countless times and even had The Stanley on my client list. But not once had I spent the night. It was on my bucket list, I’d just never got around to booking a room. So I practically dragged an amused Samuel out of the car and into the main lobby after our wedding, my impatient heels tapping across the glossy wooden floor.

  “If I’d known you’d be this anxious to get me naked, Mrs. Cabral, I would have reserved a suite here years ago.” His voice carried through the lavish lobby with its high ceilings and dark wood paneling, and curious guests.

  “I don’t want to miss the next ghost tour. See? They’re about to leave.”

  Samuel’s face fell into a weird amalgam of disappointment and restrained graciousness. He scratched the back of his head. “Oh, sure. We can definitely do a ghost tour, if that’s what you want. Let me just drop the luggage…”

  The laughter I’d repressed burst out, and I couldn’t torture him anymore. “Oh Samuel, I’m just screwing with you.” I tugged him toward the grand staircase. “C’mon, let’s get naked.”

  A chilly draft ruffled my hair. I pulled my wool coat together while Samuel fiddled with the room key. A feeling of claustrophobia crept over me and suddenly I wanted out of the opulent, empty hallway and into the open sky. Maybe it wasn’t claustrophobia. Maybe it was ghosts. Any minute, twin girls might appear at the end of the hall.

  Or maybe it was nerves. Because, (drumroll), we were going to, as Samuel used to call it, ‘rock the casbah.’

  There’s something to be said for spontaneity and sex. It certainly helped eradicate performance anxiety, along with time spent questioning whether Samuel would notice my butt wasn’t quite as pert as it was when I was twenty. While my body was in decent shape due to my adrenaline junkie lifestyle, that same lifestyle also littered my body with some serious scars. And the wrinkles—the price of a life lived in the sun.

  “Your skin is so soft.” Samuel’s nose traced the line of my neck and warm air tip-toed over my flesh, raising goosebumps. He didn’t seem to be aware of the scars. Or if he was, he didn’t care.

  I brushed his stomach, felt the muscles clench beneath his shirt. “Aren’t you nervous?” My voice quaked like an over-tight guitar string. He fumbled with our room key, swiping it twice and jiggling the knob before it clicked. He ushered me through the door, let it swing shut and didn’t even turn on a lamp before he had me against the foyer wall, the light switch digging between my shoulder blades.

  “A little,” he admitted between kisses. “Why, are you?”

  “A little.”

  He paused and explored my mood, and saw I was more than ‘a little’ nervous. He eased me down. “Kaye. We don’t have to have sex just because it’s our honeymoon. After the last time, in New York …”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I want to.”

  When we’d slept together at the New York apartment, in the throes of his manic episode, the sex hadn’t been an expression of love. It was a desperate attempt to ground his mind, to tie him to me somehow before he slipped away. Fear and desolation had driven me to Samuel’s body, and neither should have a place in our bed.

  He groped behind me and found the light switch. A string of lamps lit the room like hundreds of candles and I squinted. Argh! Bright! Samuel muttered an apology and turned off all the lights but one. But I’d seen the doubt creeping across his face. He was mentally talking himself out of sex (oh Samuel). Seven years of doing just that had become an ingrained habit.

  Open him carefully, Kaye. Quit being such a bumbling amateur.

  As my eyes adjusted to the low light, numerous gestures leapt out like a hidden picture puzzle. Flower bouquets (as in plural) were placed on tables and a bureau, from brilliant roses to delicate mountain columbine. I rolled a sprig of green between my fingers. Aspen leaves. A tin of pricey hot chocolate rested next to the percolator, along with my favorite red mug from the apartment (I’d wondered at its absence). My droid docking station was on the desk. A lingerie box rested next to it and I peeked under the lid.

  “Open it,” Sam encouraged.

  Something silky and indigo slithered through my fingers…he’d really gone all out.

  Red crept up his neck. “It’s cliché, I know. But I wanted this to be special. It’s not our first time or even our first honeymoon…”

  “I know you’ll treat me like a queen, Sam. You already have.” I hadn’t been romanced like this in years, and I felt like the Algebra student who’d been handed a Calculus book with instructions to solve for ‘x.’

  He nodded to the box. “We’ll save that for later.”

  As he eased the coat from my shoulders, I screwed up my courage. This was Samuel. Heck, in college we’d gone after it like champions despite a three-day exam cram. A memory flitted through my head, one that involved a black beehive wig and the best night of sex ever. I smirked.

  Yes, that would do to lighten up this party.

  I pointed to the edge of the mattress. “Sit here, please.”

  Samuel slowly sat and watched my movements with wary eyes. Embarrassment settled into my stomach like a brick, but I pushed it aside because now was the time to remind him what he’d been missing in his sex life for the better part of his twenties. Casting a sultry look over my shoulder, I leaned over and docked my phone.

  “Kaye?” Husky voice, good sign.

  “Just a sec.’”

  I scrolled to the E artists. When Samuel was a teenaged music snob, he used to say Elvis’ charm was all exploit-expertise, but then I’d busted him curling his lip in the mirror. I knew his secret kink. Now, piano chords pounded from the dock speakers and EP’s rich voice warbled a ‘Lord Almighty.’ Samuel threw back his head and laughed. I placed my hands on his knees and leaned into him, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Girl, girl, girl, girl, you gonna set me on fire…” he sang quietly, resting his forehead against mine.

  “Samuel Caulfield Cabral, you know this song?” I brushed my fingers through his thick hair, gently tugging at his roots.

  “Yes. You’re feisty tonight.” His hands slithered around my waist and drew me closer. Our mouths met in slow, playful kisses that quickly became more as we realized, holy cliff-hucker, we were going to get— Oh yes. Elvis is the King.

  He gripped the hem of my black slip and lifted it, carefully working it over my head and hair, and threw it behind me. Huh. I’d agonized over that lingerie dearth, but Sam had been right.

  It hadn’t made much difference.

  He dragged me to him until his face rested against my sternum. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he crooned to my cleavage. I smacked his shoulder and he laughed. This. This was what I’d missed in those few sexual encounters, those tragic blurbs on my sex life timeline. Warmth. Laughter. Love. Simple delight in each other…not just our bodies, but the hearts that be
at within these flesh-and-blood frames.

  My conscience was still tinged with shame over our fear-driven sex at Samuel’s New York apartment, but he tenderly wiped it from my mind with every caress, every smile, every whispered ‘mi vida’ My life. I did live for him, and that choice didn’t overwhelm or trap me. I felt liberated. Adoration welled in my chest, and I was pleased to see it reflected.

  “If you can remember the last time Elvis serenaded us,” I whispered into his ear, “I’ll break someone out of the jailhouse.” Terrible line, I knew. But Samuel loved that kind of stuff.

  “Halloween, the year after we married. You made me dress like a lounge singer, complete with white blazer and blue suede shoes, and that horrible black hair gel. The stuff got all over you and our sheets after Danita’s party…Oh Kaye, right there.”

  He still remembered how my Priscilla beehive wig caught in the links of his watch— though he struggled with other memories. His kisses never forgot the crook of my elbow, the skin beneath my knee, the white-ink trilby hat tattooed over the delicate bones of my foot.

  A single song, annoying with its lord almighties and burnin’ love, looped for the fourth time.

  Samuel froze, his arms shaking. Wait, where was he going? He stalked across the room and, if looks could fry electrical devices, my smartphone would have been a pile of ashes. The room fell silent and he lunged back into bed.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Happy?”

  “Elvis has left the building. I’d much rather be the only man rocking your world.”

  “That may be the worst line on the books.” But it worked. He tangled his hands in my hair and he showed me why he was the only man who had ever and would ever “rock my world.”

  “I belong to you,” he whispered some time later. He pressed his lips to my earlobe. “Do you know that?”

  “Mmm, I do.” That’s why I’m holding you, silly man.

  We lay there on the white duvet, limbs tangled. Breeze from the air vents in the ceiling wafted over our skin and cooled it. I was too relaxed to move. And honestly, I didn’t think Samuel could twitch a pinky if he’d wanted to. I lifted his jelly arm and let it drop across the bed, confirming my theory. Finally, he rolled to his side and cocooned us in the duvet.