Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  “Wow,” I said after ten minutes. “We needed that.”

  “We didn’t last very long, did we?”

  “We have all weekend.”

  “Oh firecracker, we have much more than that.” His mouth curled. “Next time we should see how long we can hold out.”

  “I’m not waiting another seven years for a repeat performance.”

  He laughed—heartily, fully laughed—and nothing was more exquisite than the sound Samuel made when he was happy.

  “This is Guzman. Don’t bother with a message unless it’s business-related. Just try again in an hour…”

  I frowned and tossed my phone on the hotel bed, where Samuel scraped the last bit of frosting from a room service plate. We’d foregone a wedding cake, but the Stanley Hotel was nothing if not accommodating, and they’d sent up complimentary plates of petit gâteau, thus making my fantasy of wedding cake, a bed, and Samuel a big whopping reality.

  “Kaye, let it go. I know you want to believe that underneath Jaime Guzman’s Rottweiler exterior is a cuddly puppy, but she isn’t a nice person. Jaime overflows with bitterness and hatred. Today she turned it onto you, and I won’t be silent while you beat yourself up trying to justify her actions at our wedding. Hers and Hector’s.”

  I tightened my new robe and leaned against the window frame, watching the mountains fade into the deep blues of dusk. “Hector’s just…he doesn’t understand. And he’s hurt.”

  “No, Kaye. He’s dangerous. Please don’t think I’m being patronizing when I tell you I’ve known people like him, befriended them only to find they’re the type of person who keeps his buddies in addictions to justify his own destructive behavior.”

  “You’re referring to Lyle Togsender.” Togsy, who’d only just begun to rake in the profits of his tell-all book lambasting Samuel and other New York artists. Last I checked, it had cracked the Amazon Top Five Hundred and was rapidly climbing the hill toward a bestseller’s slot.

  Caroline Ortega, who’d also sold out Samuel, had timed the book release perfectly. When the Water Sirens movie hit theatres in two weeks, Togsender’s book would be battling for a number one ranking.

  He continued. “I’m sorry for the things you saw in that avalanche. That woman…” He shook his head. “But I’m relieved it wasn’t you. And I’m certainly not sorry you had a wake-up call. If that makes me seem calloused, so be it.”

  The sun dropped behind the mountains. As a moonless night crept in, only the absence of electric lights marked where the Rockies towered over the city. I shuddered. “Well, you don’t need to worry about Hector dragging me down. There’s no way I’m going up a mountain again, on foot or skis.”

  “That’s not what I want for you, either.” Samuel watched the mountains with me. His words were quiet, but they packed a mean punch. “I don’t want to bury my wife before her fortieth birthday.”

  “You won’t.” A few bricks toppled. The anguish he’d experienced before he found out our climb team survived had been intense.

  Samuel rubbed the back of his neck. “No skis, huh? Our honeymoon destination suddenly seems entirely inappropriate. We’re supposed to fly to Zermatt tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know that look. Is Zermatt that bad of a place for a honeymoon? We don’t have to spend the day on the ski slopes—just roll around in a feather bed. Maybe I should have listened to Dani and chosen someplace warm.”

  “It’s not that. It’s only…it’s Zermatt. I know what that town means to you, and I know why.” The Swiss Alps were like Camelot to Samuel. His birth mother had taken him on a ski trip to Zermatt when he was five. It was the one and only ‘family vacation’ she’d ever spent with him.

  “Honestly, I thought that spreading my mother’s ashes would be a fitting way to begin this new chapter, make new memories. But when I say it out loud, it does sound like a horrible idea for a honeymoon trip; completely self-centered. Let’s go someplace warm instead.”

  I traced swirls in the fogged glass. Light snow flurried, stuck to the windowpane and melted to glittering droplets. In truth, Zermatt wouldn’t have been my first choice, or even my fiftieth. But Samuel wasn’t just trying to please me. He’d promised to guide me down the most private avenues of his life. “Since when have we ever done anything by the book?” I pointed out. “I want to see Zermatt. Take me to Camelot, King Arthur, as long as we’re back in time for the Water Sirens premiere. Can you imagine what would happen if the Samuel Caulfield Cabral didn’t put in an appearance on the red carpet?”

  Now he studied the Oriental rug beneath our feet. “Ahhh…That’s the other thing I wanted to discuss.”

  Holy fish buckets. He wasn’t going. “No. Are you serious? Sam, you can’t miss your movie premiere! That’s…that’s like skipping prom, or worse, missing your wedding reception.”

  “You’ve actually made my point.” He held up a finger. “One, we both hated prom because there’s only so long you can bop around to Top Forty hits in tuxes and heels. Two, as we speak, our wedding reception is happening…without us.”

  “At least we made an appearance,” I weakly countered, but he had me.

  “Water Sirens has become a creature of its own. It’s grown up, moved out, and shacked up with Hollywood. The publicity hype? The red carpets and screaming fans? I’d rather have a quiet book signing with twenty readers.”

  “I know.” I rested my head against his shoulder and relaxed into the familiar scent of cardamom and juniper. “How did Patrick and Nat take it?”

  “They advised against missing the premiere and then told me they’d back me one hundred percent. I promised them, if the movie was a hit, I’d walk the red carpet into the sequel…Are you…are you smelling me?”

  “Yep. And you’re absolutely sure this is what you want?”

  “Absolutely.” He chuckled as I sniffed and sighed.

  “Okay. We’ll go to the hometown showing like normal people, and that I insist upon. We have to celebrate somehow.”

  He raised a single brow, leaving no doubt how he’d like to celebrate.

  Los Angeles, California

  November, present day

  Half an hour to midnight on my third wedding anniversary.

  Three years later, Samuel was finally making good on his promise to Nat and Patrick.

  The movie was a hit. Then the sequel was a hit (though he didn’t attend the premiere to that one, either.) Now, his third blockbuster was set to hit screens, and Samuel could no longer avoid the inevitable. We were attending his movie’s red carpet premiere in L.A. tomorrow night.

  My taxi pulled into the circle drive of the Hollywood Roosevelt. A bellboy rushed out to take my luggage, but I only had a garment bag. I trudged across the lobby to the front desk, weary. The attendant politely smiled at my travel-rumpled tee shirt and jeans, dismissal flickering in her eyes.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “My husband left a room key for me. Samuel Cabral?” She lifted an eyebrow and I mentally kicked myself. “Sorry, that’s Mr. Calvino.” We rarely had problems with the photogs now, and only the occasional uber-fan found their way to our home. But social media was a little stirred up by the private author’s re-entry into the limelight, so better safe than sorry.

  She slid a key envelope across the granite counter. “Please enjoy your stay with us, Mrs. Calvino.”

  I thanked her and crossed the empty lobby for the elevator bank, half-collapsing against the rail as the doors closed. I’d worked nearly seventy hours this week at TrilbyJones to cover the time I was taking off. The holiday gear-up was an insanely busy time in the world of nonprofits and tourism, but Samuel needed me here. He was as nervous as a high school freshman about this very public appearance, especially since it came on the heels of his derided Sea Rovers book.

  I swiped the key and cracked open the door. Darkness.

  He’d wanted to pick me up from the airport, but I’d insisted he get some sleep. Honestly, he’d looked rather wan this week
. His stress levels were elevated and though the fresh air of the Pikes Peak trip helped, we had to be careful and watch for shifts in his mood.

  I patted my way through the dark until I hit the edge of the bed. As my eyes adjusted, I peeled off my travel-weary clothing, sticky with airport grime and L.A.’s acrid air and slipped beneath covers already warmed by my sleeping husband. He rolled over and pulled me against him.

  “What time is it?”

  “After midnight.”

  “Mmm. How was your date with el changuito?”

  The little monkey was my boisterous two-year-old nephew, the spitting image of Dani. “We played Candyland for all of ten minutes, read a few books, and then I let him run laps around your folks’ backyard until bedtime. Go back to sleep.”

  He buried his face in my hair, puffs of air tickling my scalp. “Mmm. Happy anniversary.”

  “Happy anniversary.” Content in Samuel’s embrace, I gave in to exhaustion.

  That night, I dreamed of a baby boy.

  Chapter 5

  Cams

  When fitted into a crevice, the spring-loaded camming device will expand or contract until it is secure. Climbers may then fasten their rope to the cam and continue on, trusting the cam to catch them should they fall.

  Warm Los Angeles sun spilled through the open curtains of our hotel room. Samuel was already gone for the morning, so I stretched, groaned, and enjoyed a leisurely sprawl in the middle of the bed. Then I recalled my dream.

  In the two-and-a-half years I’d wiped clean my baby nephew’s leaky orifices, scrubbed spit-up out of my shag area rug (very difficult), and looped trippy Baby Einstein episodes on my tablet (who needs ‘shrooms?), I’d never handed him back to his mother with a strong “gosh, I want one of these” urge in my uterus.

  Not even when I held Gabriel Angel Valdez, aka “changuito”, for the first time, his red, wrinkled hand curling around my gigantic index finger, did I pine for the fjords of “Mommydom.” Dani had been half-blitzed on gas in her hospital bed, telling me, “It’s way more fun going in than coming out.” (Angel informed me that, during her delivery, she bellowed at the O.B. team to keep “those giant salad tongs” away and then wheedled Sofia into fetching a grilled cheese from the cafeteria. Danita and Entonox don’t mix).

  It had been difficult for her, being pregnant while Angel flew back and forth to the Middle East. Active duty Air Force pilots were called up at any time for one-off missions, and Angel frequently was, especially since he’d switched planes. Dani did what military wives do— took care of the home front. They relocated to a low-maintenance townhouse. Sofia and I went to doctor’s appointments with her when Angel couldn’t. We spent a weekend putting together the nursery, Samuel and Santiago hunched over crib assembly instructions while Dani and I sanded an old chifforobe.

  When I first saw the sweet, crumpled face of our changuito, love surged for this tiny being. No desire to have one of my own, though.

  That is, until the Baby Dream.

  I’d had dreams that knocked around my brain, remnants of stress that surfaced in the midnight hours. Dreams of the long-ago New York brownstone and Samuel’s cocaine-fueled affair. The monster-like “Other” of Samuel’s books. More recently, mangled limbs packed in avalanche snow. But this dream wasn’t horrific. It was gentle. Pure bliss, as if I’d zipped into a feather-down parka I’d never known I’d wanted, and it fit me to a T.

  The first time I dreamed of the fragile infant was several months ago, and he lingered in my thoughts until breakfast.

  The second time I dreamed of him, he hung around past my morning meetings.

  The third and fourth times, I couldn’t let him go until afternoon. I pushed him from my head, but during our sunset run, as we heaved and panted up a mountainside, I mused that the infant’s dark locks and long lashes were a lot like my husband’s.

  The sweet smell of baby powder clung to my pillow. Sighs and coos echoed in my ears. Baby fingers clutched my sleep-tangled hair and retreated into hazy memories as I pushed through real life. Every time I dreamed of him, my heart pulsed in my chest and I felt the heaviness of a feather-light head resting there, downy hair tickling my neck, breath warm and humid on my sternum. I realized, with life-altering clarity, that Samuel had been right.

  One day, I’d want this.

  “One day” was now.

  That evening, I ran a flat iron through my blonde kinks with the gentleness of a chainsaw. Guilt crept, painted my mood purple. Wasn’t Samuel enough? Lord, how I loved him, almost to the point of ridiculousness. We could be perfectly happy, just the two of us. Telling him now that I wanted a baby, changing the game, would be unfair. He’d be devastated he couldn’t (wouldn’t?) give this to me. (No, couldn’t.)

  Heck, it had been hard enough for him to approach me about something as simple as his aversion to my carb-loaded meals, for fear of disappointing me. He had sat me down at our kitchen table, all sober-eyed and serious.

  “I have a confession.” His eyes had darted down, across the room, anywhere but my steady gaze.

  “Oh?” Ghastly scenarios spun through my head like a roulette wheel, before landing between ‘I’m using again’ and ‘I hate this shirt you bought for me.’

  He took a deep breath. “I don’t eat bread anymore. Or dairy. Or caffeine.” My eyes widened. The bread and the dairy, I could deal with. But coffee? Hot chocolate? “I should have told you sooner, but you’re such a foodie, I wanted to enjoy it with you.” He gestured to my mountain biking gear, piled at the door where I’d left it before I’d hit the shower. “You’re so active, you burn off anything you put into your body. But it’s not so simple for me. Healthy food keeps my mind healthy. You know? I need to get back on track.”

  “Oh. Well, what do you eat?”

  “Mainly green and sprouted things.” He laughed and nudged my stiff shoulder. “Relax, firecracker. You can keep your sugary breakfast cereal.”

  “No no, I can do this with you. We can eat the same things.”

  Cinnamon rolls. Cream cheese. Bacon. I bit my lip to stifle a sob as I realized I’d have to learn how to cook all over again. I’d known my lifestyle would drastically change when I’d married Samuel because he needed structure like a tree needed roots. But no ciabatta? No tortellini? No, no, Kaye, you unsupportive glut. Your husband’s health is more important than a cheeseburger.

  “Fudge, that means I’ll have to ask Dad for his hippie recipe book.”

  “Hmmm. I’ve tried his brownies. Best consult your mom’s organic farmers collaborative instead.”

  It had been good for us. I lost a few pounds and he gained a few. His routine kept me organized and, as long as he didn’t try to sell me on his noxious bulgur wheat bowls and I didn’t shove my tuna melts in his face, we were solid.

  If only our honesty extended as easily to heavier things. I was still afraid he’d go manic and leave, and he was still afraid I’d serve him with a second set of divorce papers if the waters roughened. Hopefully, as time passed, trust would outplay our fears.

  I glanced at the clock above the hotel room door—fifteen minutes until the car arrived. I tugged my flat iron through another strong-willed curl. It sprang back the instant I released it and I waved a white flag. My hair was not meant to be straightened. Ever. It wasn’t in my genes. Not part of my life plan. Straight hair was not a possibility for me.

  Crud. I would not think of that baby again.

  “Problems?” Samuel was already buffed and polished in a classic black tuxedo. His gaze darted to my discarded flat iron, then my hair. “Huh. I wondered what that thing was for.”

  I flung a defeated hand over my mess. “I should have made an appointment with a stylist like Nat suggested.”

  “You look amazing.”

  I began the tedious task of pinning up my hair. “You have to say that.”

  “Fishing for another compliment?” He caught a stray blonde curl and twisted it around his index finger, humming a familiar tune.

  �
��‘Sister Golden Hair’? Really?”

  “You like the song.”

  “I do,” I admitted. “But you hum it so much, people will think you’re a serial killer.”

  Samuel snorted. “Hey. It’s hard to find good lines you haven’t already fallen for.”

  As we hammered out a life together, I saw the wisdom in Samuel’s choice not to attend his first movie premiere, three years ago. His very public manic episode lent his fame those few extra letters in ‘infamy’, and it reached frenetic heights just before the movie hit theatres. Every ‘Cabral siting’ only fed the insatiable beast.

  Wild headlines about our elopement (Shocker: Water Sirens author weds real life Neelie! Indigo Kingsley in tears!!!).

  Death threats from the zombie faction of Indigo’s fan-base (UR a #manstealer #homewreckingbitch i hope you die die dieee!!!), all of which the O’Malleys documented ‘just in case’ (in case of what, my grisly murder!?) Hermetic life looked pretty good.

  But as hullabaloos do, it died down. Now it was time to step out for an honest-to-goodness Hollywood premiere.

  A bobby pin fell out, and another, then my up-do collapsed.

  “What are you doing to your hair?”

  “Not helping, Sam.”

  “You don’t usually fix it that way.”

  “That’s because it’s a red carpet event.” For a man who’d once lived in the limelight, you would think he’d know this.

  “You should leave it down.” I fixed him with a glare that could wither a still-life painting. “Okay, not my area of expertise.”

  I sighed. “Yet you still manage to be correct.” Yanking out all the pins, I twisted back a few strands and called it good.

  I’d probably be the most inelegant attendee walking the red carpet at Samuel’s movie premiere and that was fine. Been there, done that, had the ridiculously expensive, out-of-style Thakoon dress in the back of my closet to show for it. Tonight, a simple, desert-hued cocktail dress hung on the shower curtain rod. Samuel said it played up my freckles, and he really, really liked my freckles. (For years, I’d loathed my freckles because they kept me in perpetual tomboy status.)