Skygods (Hydraulic #2)

by Sarah Latchaw

  At first, Samuel insisted on booking a hotel room in Boulder for his upcoming visit, the two nights we wouldn’t be camping on the grotto trip. I told him that was ridiculous because I had a very comfortable sleeper sofa and wouldn’t he rather spend the night with me? (Whoopsie). He groaned that I was making it extremely difficult to be a gentleman. I laughed, assuring him he’d leave Boulder Saturday evening, virtue intact.

  “It’s a little too late for that. You stole my virtue a long time ago, Aspen Kaye Trilby,” he teased. “Just don’t go to any trouble for me, please.”

  It took me two full days to finally tell him about the skydiving accident. There were no I-told-you-so’s, no recriminations of Hector. But he was upset. Very upset.

  “If you won’t think of yourself, at least consider the people who love you,” he pleaded, his voice edged with panic. “Your parents, Molly, Dani, me. If anything happened to you, we’d be devastated.”

  Despite the pain in his voice, his assurance that he’d be devastated if I died was morbidly comforting. “Would you be, Samuel?” I asked, wanting to hear it again. There was a pause, and I immediately regretted asking him to reaffirm something so horrible.

  “I’d be wholly destroyed, Kaye,” he whispered, his voice low.

  Fear rippled up my spine, triggering a memory of Caroline’s warning: You’ll destroy him and you won’t even comprehend you’re doing it.

  “I’m s-sorry,” I stuttered.

  “For what? Upsetting me or skydiving in storm conditions?”

  I didn’t know the answer to that, so I simply mumbled, “both.”

  That conversation with Samuel grounded me, for a few hours, before I was again caught up in the excitement of his imminent visit.

  Just hours before Samuel was scheduled to arrive, I sat across from Cassady at an impromptu lunch as we discussed the whirlwind that was Molly Jones.

  “So why haven’t you asked Molly to be exclusive yet?” Ever the commitment phobe, Cassady ducked his sandy head at my direct question, stabbing his fork prongs into an innocent piece of wilted lettuce.

  “Believe me, I want to, but the timing isn’t right. With her stepsister not improving and Molly hanging on by a thread, I need to hold off until things get better.” Molly’s stepsister, Holly, had recently delivered a lovely baby girl, but now suffered from debilitating postpartum depression. Her husband was reluctant to accept help, and Molly was doing all she could to hold her family together.

  “I call foul, Cassady,” I answered honestly. “Don’t you dare mess around with her heart.”

  “I really care about Molly.” He shrugged, and I decided not to push further.

  Lately, the abrupt shift my forlorn love life had taken made me overly optimistic. As the crater in my chest steadily filled with all things Samuel, I was convinced that all the world’s problems could be solved with Q-and-As, friendship vows, childhood memoirs, and sweet, sweet humor. The past few days, especially, I’d been floating like Ginger Rogers across the Front Range, counting the hours until my Fred Astaire arrived and swept me off to cloud nine. Then again, it could have been my concussion-addled brain. But hearing of Molly’s struggles with her sister hooked me, and once more, I was reeled down to earth. I set my fork aside and searched Cassady’s face.

  “Is Holly really that bad? I had no idea.”

  “The depression has gotten worse in the past couple of weeks. They thought counseling and medication was helping—she ate more, slept better, and she started focusing on the baby again. But then she had an episode this weekend, which set her back.” He cleared his throat and reached for his ice water. “She locked herself in the bathroom, screaming and crying that she wasn’t good for the baby and to get her out of the house. Molly was pleading with her to unlock the door. Derek finally got out his toolkit and took off the hinges. It was bad.”

  “So now what?”

  “Well, her doctor is adjusting her medication and increasing outpatient therapy. If things don’t improve, the only other course is inpatient therapy.”

  “Poor Holly. That’s really sad.” Usually inpatient therapy for postpartum depression meant the person was either suicidal or a danger to their family, from what Molly explained. Doctors didn’t like to split new mothers and their babies if they could help it.

  “Cassady, if you and Molly don’t feel up to the caving trip this week, I can find a couple of replacements. Santiago and Hector could shuffle their work schedule around.”

  He shook his head. “No, it will be good for Molly to get away for a bit.”

  When I returned to the office I picked up the pile of mail on my desk and sifted through it, then hit my phone and email messages.

  After hearing of Holly’s mental health struggles, the turmoil with Samuel suddenly seemed not so bad—at least we were on the downhill slope after scaling our pile of problems. Yet, with the eeriness of a fleeting bout of déjà vu, panic palpitated in my chest as I recalled pounding on the door of Samuel’s bedroom in New York, just as Derek had pounded on their locked bathroom and cried for Holly. Cried, pleaded, nauseous with the fear and knowledge that we were powerless to save our spouses from the Stygian thing that had captured their minds. I shook off the dreadful memory and delved into my work.

  I found Molly in her office later that afternoon, weeping over her file cabinet as if it contained Saint Helena’s holy relics. I had a hunch her visit with Holly had not gone well.

  “There’s no way Holly and Derek can afford these medical bills,” Molly choked out. “And they’ll only let me help them so much.”

  “What about my alimony money?” I reminded her. I’d just received another huge check in the mail last week, this time with a sardonic: Mickey, In Memorium in the memo line.

  She shook her head. “Derek won’t take it. He’s too stubborn and prideful. I swear he’s in denial.”

  “We can try funneling it through a not-for-profit, one that Holly’s center works with. Could they recommend somebody?”

  Molly sniffed and blew her nose, dabbing at the mascara running down her cheeks. “I can ask tomorrow afternoon when we take Holly for therapy.”

  I soothingly scratched my nails across Molly’s back as her sobbing subsided. “Hey. We’ll do whatever it takes to get your sister better, okay? You and me—right?”

  Molly nodded and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Thank you, Kaye. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  I was completely furious with Derek for refusing a financial gift that could help his wife get better. Yes, it’s hard to take charity; anyone with an ounce of pride understands that. But would he do it for Holly? His kids? Or perhaps he was frightened to the point where he’d deny the seriousness of Holly’s illness. If I were in his shoes, I’d have a difficult time accepting it, too. I’d want my old life back, before the tears, the suicide threats, the extreme behavior like having your spouse lock herself in the bathroom to keep from hurting your children. I hoped with all my might that Holly’s doctors, and therapy, and medication could work a miracle.

  When I left work that evening, I darted out the door, intent on a run to the grocery store for a last minute cake mix before Samuel arrived. I stopped dead in my tracks. A roadster rental was parked along the side street, its engine still clicking and cooling. I squealed, ditching the grocery store plans, and tore around TrilbyJones’s backyard, wobbly heels, pencil skirt and all.

  Samuel sat at the top of my staircase, looking utterly delectable in a travel-rumpled dress shirt open at the collar, blinding white against the brown of his neck. He hadn’t bothered with a hat and sunglasses, not caring whether someone photographed him lurking outside my door. His feet were propped on a small carry-on bag and his head rested against the rail, eyes closed. How could he possibly nap at a wonderful, glorious time like this? I squealed again and eyes as clear as ice flew open, then filled with delight as I dropped my satchel and scrambled up the staircase, into his waiting arms. Tight arms wrapped around me and I felt my feet lift fro
m the stairs as he stood and pulled me to him.

  “You’re here! And you’re early!” I laughed into his neck. “How long have you been waiting?”

  He chuckled. “Just ten minutes. I very nearly stormed your office but I didn’t want to cause a scene. How’s my woman?” He lowered me to the ground and inspected the four stitches along my hairline, his smile turning to a frown.

  “I’m fabulous, thrilled, and ecstatic now that you’re here. How are you?” I tried to tug him toward the door, but he held me firm. His lips lowered to my forehead, and he gently kissed the stitches there, then the bruises surrounding them. Lastly, his mouth ducked to mine and he softly, tentatively kissed me.

  “I’m relieved to find you in one piece.” Serious eyes met mine. “I mean it, Kaye. Please don’t ever do something that reckless again. The thrill isn’t worth your life.”

  It was all I could do not to open my mouth and demand he kiss me soundly, deeply. But I’d set the rules and now I had to live with them, darn it. I sighed, simply enjoying the feel of his warm body.

  “Welcome home,” I murmured against his neck, thinking those words would become a lovely tradition. Every time he came back to me, I’d say them.

  He smiled and brushed my lips again. “It’s good to be home.”

  Chapter 3

  Float or Sink

  Rising or falling in relation to another vertical diver, when both divers are in free fall.

  HAPPINESS; WHY IS IT THAT we frail beings turn happiness into something so unattainable? Happiness can be as simple as discovering the asparagus you hated as a child is quite tasty once you reach adulthood. It can be a shared, secret smile with a complete stranger in a grocery store line when they place chocolate, strawberries, and candles on the conveyor belt. Being grateful simply for a rain-soaked breeze cooling your face, soft grass under your feet, intricate veins weaving through a leaf. Or reveling in a strong, secure arm around your shoulders and just knowing, even though he hasn’t voiced it, that you are completely and utterly loved.

  This was the form my happiness chose as Molly, Cassady, Samuel, and I journeyed west into the mountains to Cloud Lake and the glorious chimneys and squirmways awaiting our exploration. I had Samuel almost all to myself for two more days, before we’d return and spend Saturday with his parents in Lyons.

  We left Boulder before the sun was up, and thankfully, after a restless two nights’ sleep, I didn’t have to drive. Cassady steered our company SUV with Molly in the front. In the back, Samuel had situated himself in the middle and pulled me flush against his side, his seatbelt discarded for the moment. I knew for safety’s sake he should put it back on, and he said he would when we neared city limits. But for now I relished my happiness and could only pray there wasn’t a box trap propped above my unsuspecting head.

  “What’s running through that mind of yours?” Samuel whispered, toying with the curl tucked behind my ear.

  I smiled. “I’m thinking about how happy I am right now.”

  “Do I make you happy, Kaye?”

  “Yes,” I whispered honestly. Because right now, nothing could overwhelm the contentment I felt. “How about you?”

  He brushed his lips across my temple. “So very happy.”

  “I meant, what’s running through your mind?”

  “I was remembering the summer you literally broke the bank to buy us soft-serve ice cream cones from the corner station. I think I had just turned eleven, so you must have been eight.”

  I laughed. “I remember that! I counted out one hundred pennies and put them in a sandwich baggie. The cashier was so pissed.”

  “She stood there, sliding pennies into her hand one at a time and grumbling about how we should ride our bikes over to the bank teller and exchange the pennies for a dollar.”

  “But I had exact change, of course,” I said proudly.

  “No, you were off by two. I had to toss in a nickel.”

  “You did not! I had exactly one hundred pennies.”

  “Ninety-eight pennies,” he corrected.

  I lightly jabbed him with my elbow and he squirmed. “We sound like a couple of kids, bickering over pennies. Molly and Cassady will think we’re dorks.”

  “I thought you were dorks back in college,” Molly quipped, pushing her sunglasses up her nose. “Nothing new here.”

  “Says the girl who hosted Risk parties in our dorm room to meet guys,” I said dryly. Samuel buried his face in my hair to stifle a laugh as Molly flipped me the bird.

  I gazed at his face. Despite his obvious contentment, tired lines crisscrossed the corner of his eyes, around his mouth.

  It had been like this Tuesday night and all of Wednesday—this mercurial shifting from serious to playful to serious. I loved seeing Samuel laugh and smile. I hated seeing him even more tired and strained than the days leading up to Danita’s wedding. I hoped, no matter what secrets Samuel and I shared with each other—namely, the other people who’d warmed our beds—we could take them in stride without our feet sticking in the bog.

  I’d slept restlessly the past two nights. Every single time Samuel turned, or moaned, or even flinched on the sleeper sofa, I heard him. Naughty, rash Kaye hoped that the quiet thud of footsteps would sound and the empty space on my mattress would sink with the weight of the handsome man who wanted me, who thought I was lovely. But I knew Samuel. He would rather be strapped down and forced to watch a Dawson’s Creek marathon than presume to violate the sanctity of my bed without an invitation.

  Jolts of longing had tingled through me Tuesday night as he’d grinned over his plate of salmon, brown rice, and sautéed veggies, exclaiming that I always was much better in the kitchen than him. He beamed with pride as I unveiled my complete first edit of our draft memoir and placed it in his lap like a Christmas present. My stomach flipped. And my heart—oh traitorous heart!—pulsed out of my chest when he tugged me to his side so we could read through my comments together. He had to hear how loudly it pounded, because it was deafening to my ears.

  “Is this okay?” Samuel had asked, smoothing hair from my face as he flipped open the much-abused, much-loved hard copy of our story.

  “Mmhmm.” More than okay. “Are you sure you aren’t tired?” I asked, dubiously examining his drooping eyes, his subtly shaking hands.

  “I’m tired,” he admitted, “but I’m not going to waste our time catching up on sleep. I’m more concerned about you and this.” He lightly tapped the stitches on my forehead. I once more cursed my stupidity.

  Samuel read through my first page of comments and his forehead immediately furrowed. “What do you mean ‘why is Molly mentioned here?’ She used to play in the creek with us, correct?”

  I shook my head, smiling. “See, this is why you need me. Molly moved to Lyons after the creek games, so she shouldn’t show up until chapter four or five.”

  “Well, who was your little friend that tagged along?”

  “Are you thinking of Jennifer—cherry ChapStick girl? She played occasionally for Danita’s sake, until she said it was a stupid game and she’d rather be inside with her Barbie Dream House. Then Angel made Jennifer cry because he said Barbie was a ‘hoochie mama.’ It was the first time I’d ever heard that expression. Angel got in big trouble when I asked Sofia what it meant.”

  Samuel scratched the back of his neck, completely puzzled. At last his face softened. “Huh. I’d forgotten about that. I’ll have to rewrite it.”

  For a solid two hours, I’d listened to the smooth timbre of his melodic voice as he read his manuscript to me, occasionally pausing to make note of ideas or ask questions. Finally, my body betrayed me and I slipped under, conscious only of his warmth, the strength hidden beneath layers of flannel and cotton and skin, and a subtle whoosh of air as he lifted me in his arms and carried me to my bed. And even though he’d left my side, I was hyper-aware of him just strides away, on my sofa…in my apartment…in Colorado…all for me.

  And I knew, because he’d do the same, it was time to hum
ble myself and give him the dossier.

  I’d sprinted from my office at precisely 11:29 a.m. Wednesday, anxious to see Samuel and anxious to excavate the dossier from my underwear drawer.

  He was settled in my big leather armchair, his glasses perched on his nose, dark hair sticking up like a ruffled tomcat. He diligently worked on his laptop and seemed so comfortable in my home, it was as if he’d come with the living room set. His eyes flew up as I whirled through the door, taking in my restless appearance.

  He smiled. “Miss me?”

  I nodded and hurled myself at his lap, allowing him just enough time to move his computer to my coffee table before I pounced. I flicked a charcoal tendril from his forehead and pecked him there. I wasn’t buttering him up before I gave him my dastardly file of revenge and blackmail material, oh no.

  “Give me a minute to change and I’ll whip together lunch.”

  “Already taken care of.”

  “Oh?” I uneasily sniffed the air for burned food. He gave me a shake.

  “I picked up chicken salad from the deli across the street and chopped veggies and fruit. Don’t worry your pretty little head about choking down burned or lumpy stuff.”

  “I wasn’t,” I lied through my teeth. As I shed my work attire for jeans and a top that cried whore-nun complex, Samuel called to me from the kitchen.

  “Hey, Kaye, where are the napkins?”

  “In the cabinet above the refrigerator.” I flipped my head and tousled the wavy layers of hair. Then, like a crashing organ chord in a horror movie, I remembered what I’d hidden in that particular cabinet. “Crap,” I muttered, sliding across the wooden floor in my sock feet.