Seriously?
“Couldn’t you just okay that from here?”
“I don’t like to prescribe without seeing blood work.”
I hold up the bottle of Percodan. “You did for me.”
He grins. “I’ve been known to make exceptions.” He comes over, refills my glass, lifts the ice pack from my leg, and examines my knee. “Swelling’s down. How’s the pain?”
“Percodan with a wine chaser? What pain? Seriously, though, I think I just overworked it.”
“Well, take it easy for the next couple of days. I’ll make an appointment with your orthopedist for you when I get back tomorrow. You sure you’ll be okay? As I recall, those Russian Hill stairs are steep.”
The plan is to fly into San Francisco tomorrow. From there Cavin will go on to Reno and pick up his car at the airport, where we left it two weeks ago. I’ll stay in the city a couple of days, then drive my BMW to its new garage in Tahoe, with a quick stop at my sister Melody’s house in Sacramento to drop off the Alaska trinkets we bought for her family.
“I’ll be fine. To be honest, I miss the city.”
“Enough to make you change your mind about selling the house?”
I’ve considered and reconsidered, so the answer comes readily. “No. I love it, of course. But it’s a possession rooted in my past, and that’s where it belongs. When I crave the Pacific, there’s always your place in Carmel. I’ve been considering where to reinvest my equity. I was thinking Park City, or maybe Jackson Hole.”
Cavin smiles. “Some place to ski other than Heavenly?”
“Yes, but both are beautiful in the summertime, too. And who knows? Maybe one day you’ll get tired of Tahoe. Either location would have the need for a sports injury expert.”
He doesn’t comment, and I don’t mention the fact that, other than possibly the online type, gambling isn’t available in either place.
And neither is Sophia.
three
I ’M IN THE BACKSEAT of a limo, and when the driver exits the freeway into familiar neighborhoods, the barest hint of nostalgia threatens. It isn’t the coast that I’ve missed—I’ve had my fill of ocean recently. But there is something about the opulent Americana that satisfies some appetite. I can manufacture happiness anywhere, but it comes easily here.
At least until I arrive home and find the garage doors are open. Apparently the real estate agent is showing the house. Yes, that is Carol’s job and I asked her to do it, but I’m displeased to come across strangers traipsing through my rooms.
I pay the driver and make my way up the precipitous garage stairs. Passing the wine cellar door, I make a mental note to compare what’s left in inventory with the list I made after a break-in convinced me extra caution was required. I’ve done everything I could externally—updated the alarm system and hired a security service—but Carol does have access. So does Charlie, the university student I hired to play boy Friday after my accident. He still checks on the house from time to time, and will until it sells.
That possibility seems more concrete when I crest the main floor landing and overhear the current prospects and their agent talking bottom-line price. “I work for the seller,” says Carol, stating the obvious. “The best I can tell you is to put in an offer. But properties like this are few and far in between, and what she’s asking is more than fair, so I don’t think she’ll budge much.”
“Ahem.” I announce my presence. “I won’t budge at all. I’m quite fond of this place, and in no hurry to sell.”
“Oh!” Carol startles. “I, um . . . didn’t expect you.” She is cool, and likely displeased with my frankness.
“Just a short visit.” I redirect the dialogue toward the potential buyers, a thirty-something couple, couture-dressed and quite obviously showing off expensive jewelry. Silicon Valley is my guess, old money or tech-built new. Either way, I’m not impressed. “Hello. I’m Tara Lattimore. I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.”
Carol introduces the couple—Peter and Julie Baird. They follow me into the living room, tossing out relatively benign inquiries. How long have I lived here? What about the neighbors? Why do I want to sell? Now Julie asks, “Who did the interior?”
“My decorator was Sandra Bloomberg, but I did the actual design work.” I glance around the room, which looks a bit naked sans my favorite artwork, already hanging at the lake. Still, my ego inflates. I love the look we created.
“Ah. I see.”
Hardly the compliment I expected. “Would you like Sandra’s number?”
“Oh, no. I’d bring in my own person, someone intelligent and quirky. But thank you.”
I hate her. Instantly. Sincerely. Would strangling be too severe?
Peter seems to intuit my reaction. “You’ve got a beautiful home. We’ll definitely talk it over.” He tugs his wife toward the kitchen, where the two real estate agents have been conversing quietly.
The idea of Julie defacing my house makes me livid. If she wants the opportunity, she’ll have to pay for it. I reach for my phone, send Carol a text: Tell the Bairds we just got a full-price offer.
I hear the chime of her cell in the next room. It takes a minute to get her response: We did?
Back at her, a straight-out: No.
Game on, Julie.
I wait for them to leave, then claim my kitchen. Charlie has diligently scouted the farmers’ markets for me, delivering everything I need to make eggplant parmigiana, plus a loaf of bakery-fresh bread. He also left a couple of bottles of a lovely Sangiovese sitting on the counter. I open one, pour a glass, and consider dinner.
The dish must be served straight from the oven, but I can do the prep work now. As I slice Spanish onions, I’m reminded of the first time Cavin visited here, just a few days beyond the dawn of this year. We’d had two dates at Tahoe after my accident. He’d been called into the city to deal with Eli’s headmaster, and stopped by. It was the first night I cooked for him. He brought Cristal champagne and ended up spending the night. We hardly knew each other then. How much do we know each other now?
Once the tomatoes, onion, carrot, and garlic are simmering, I slice the eggplants, arrange them in a baking dish, and grate fresh Parmesan. And now a low pulse in my knee signals it’s time for another painkiller. Cavin left me with Percodan, but I opt for ibuprofen instead. The last thing I want to encourage is dependency.
Cassandra and Charlie arrive a little after six. When they ring the intercom, the security camera shows them all over each other and giggling about it. Interesting couple, my socialite best friend and the cash-strapped college kid who originally struck me as gay. I buzz them in, and up they come, bringing the party with them.
“Sidecars?” suggests Cassandra, who holds a bottle of Prunier cognac, to pair with Charlie’s Solerno blood orange liqueur.
“Why not?” I amble over and give her a hug. “Charlie, would you mind bartending? Oh, and could you please sprinkle the bread crumbs over the eggplant and put it into the oven? Twenty minutes on the timer.” I take Cassandra’s arm, steer her into the living room. “I see you and Charlie are still, uh . . . enjoying each other.”
She plops onto the sofa and I sit on the adjacent chair. “Oh yes. Such youthful enthusiasm! How about you? I take it your honeymoon was enjoyable?”
“Major understatement. Have you ever been to Alaska?”
“Um, no. A nice, mellow Caribbean cruise would be my style. But then, you’ve always been more the rugged adventurous type.”
That draws an amused chuckle. “Yeah, rugged. But even if that’s true, I’m afraid my adventurous days are over for a while. Seems I might have reinjured my knee.”
“Oh, shit. Too much rough sex?”
She’s joking. So why do I feel like she’s been peeking in my bedroom windows or maybe through a bike helmet viewfinder? I parry, “No, nothing as fun as that. Most likely I pushed the rehab a little too hard.”
“You’d better slow down, girl.”
I roll my eyes. “I just got married.
I’ve already slowed down considerably.”
“Yeah, and how has that worked out for you in the past?”
Depends on how you look at it. My first husband, Raul, hit a tree skiing. Despite my accidental role in his death—spiking his cocoa so he’d nap rather than flirt with his young ski instructor—I’ll always value the leg up he gave me. Without his intervention, I might still be stripping in Las Vegas. Instead, he gifted me with a college education and an extremely large trust fund, plus the knowledge to invest wisely and form a long-term financial plan that continues to suit me well.
Jordan, husband number two, is currently serving federal time for some underhanded deals he made as a US senator. Glad I divorced the cheating rat well before I might have been implicated. Instead, I turned him in. He should’ve known better than resorting to blackmail to try and force my silence. I’m only vindictive when cornered.
Finally, Finn, whose punishment for infidelity was the community property problem divorce brings. His generous settlement, which included all equity in this house, was stimulated by his need to eliminate controversy. He was taking his company public at the time, and having founded it on “Christian principles,” leaving his wife for a younger woman—one who happened to be pregnant with twins—wouldn’t have played well on that stage.
Twenty years of failed marriages has left me older, wiser, and wealthier, and that’s what I tell her.
“I still think you’re crazy to marry again. Marriage is like slow death.”
Charlie interrupts, drinks in hand. “Dinner’s in the oven, the bread is sliced, and the table is set. Let’s get buzzed!”
The conversation segues to Inside Passage scenery and aerial glacier landings. Charlie’s grandfather, we learn, is a stellar fly fisherman, and the two of them have long planned a trip into the Alaska interior to catch some trophy-size rainbow trout.
“I thought farmers’ markets were the extent of your outdoorsmanship.”
Charlie grins. “Never judge a man by his suave demeanor.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
The timer sounds. We move to the table and are halfway through our eggplant when I get the text from Carol: Just heard from the Bairds’ agent. They came in at 5.25M.
Little shivers creep up my spine—the thrill of upping the ante. I text: Tell them the other buyer countered, too. I’ll preempt for 5.5.
I apologize for the interruption, then explain, “That was my Realtor. I got an offer.”
“Full price?” asks Cassandra.
“Better than. Quite a bit better, in fact.”
“Aw,” says Charlie. “I was hoping it would take a while to sell this place.”
“Who says it’s sold?”
“You’re not taking it?” Cassandra is incredulous.
I shake my head. “I asked for more.”
“Jesus. How can you take a chance on losing that kind of money?”
“It’s a bluff, Charlie. You watch. They’re still at the table.”
“Remind me never to play poker with you.”
“The problem with any game of chance is you must have the ability to keep betting until you win.”
We skip dessert, unless you count sidecars, and since we’ve almost emptied the bottles they brought, I send for Lyft to take them home. Once I’ve locked up behind them, I take a moment to touch base with Cavin. Funny he didn’t call. Oh, wait. There’s a text: Arrived safely.
That’s it?
His cell goes to voice mail, so I try the home number. It’s Eli who answers, “Hey, Mom.”
“Your mom is in Dubai, remember?”
“Okay, Stand-in Mom.”
Close enough, I suppose. “May I please speak with your father?”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Nope. He was here, I guess. When we got back from the store, his suitcase was next to the door. But no sign of Dad.”
“Okay, well, tell him I called and I think I’ll be vacating Russian Hill very soon.”
“Ah. That’s too bad. I love that place. In fact . . .” He lowers his voice. “Wish I was there with you right now. I could give you a foot rub while we watched the fog licking the bay. But since I’m here instead, try to have a great night without me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The echo of Charlie’s earlier comment is a bit unsettling, as is the innuendo.
Truthfully, Eli is maddening. I’m generally good at reading people, but that kid is perplexing, not to mention brilliant at wordplay. At seventeen, he can almost hold his own with me. It will be interesting to see how he matures.
Suddenly, unreasonably lonely, I decide another drink couldn’t hurt so I finish off the cognac, with Lithium station grunge and Henry Miller for company. Still no word from my husband, so I message him: Where are you?
Rather than trek upstairs for a last night in my memory-laden bed, I settle on the couch, with the window above it cracked to let in a trickle of the mist-drenched San Francisco night.
Mist.
Fog.
Licking.
As my eyes close, it’s Eli I’m thinking about.
four
T HE ALCOHOL ALLOWED DEEP sleep, sans dreams, or at least any I remember. I must have spaced the drinks far enough apart for my body to metabolize them well, because I wake refreshed, and with no hint of hangover. It does take a minute to remember where I am and why I’m sleeping on a couch, very much alone. That doesn’t bother me. I like my solo energy.
The morning brings the expected news, and better. Not only did the Bairds say okay to the 5.5 million, but they also agreed to handle the closing costs. This brings both a sense of immense satisfaction and a “holy crap” moment when I consider the implications of letting go.
It lets Finn off the hook for this mortgage, and we can cut ties completely, something that benefits him and his barely beyond-adolescent wife.
I’ll likely never again live on Russian Hill.
The only real property I’ll own will be the community property Cavin and I will share.
The last makes me a little queasy. Regardless, I told Carol I’d preempt for that price; they matched it and then some. The one thing I won’t do is renege.
I wander through the house. What will I do with the furniture? Store it, I guess. Funny, because as much as I would have thought I cared about this stuff, I don’t really, despite the fact I picked it out personally. It suits my taste, but I’m not attached to it at all. Something shifts inside me, and in a sudden unsettling instant, I am a stranger here. I want to leave today.
When I reach for my phone to call Carol, I find Cavin’s response to my message last night: Grabbed drinks with a friend. Night got away. Love you. Time-stamped: 2:22 a.m. The night got away, indeed.
A question crosses my suspicious mind. Two, in fact. Where did the night get away from him? Tahoe or Reno? And was this friend of his male or female?
I consider an interrogation but decide against it, and also against informing him that I have changed my travel plans. I’d rather surprise him. I stash my irritation, dial the real estate office, and ask for Carol. “I decided to go on home today. Can you have the paperwork ready this morning?”
She says she’ll be over before noon. Hungry for that commission, and even splitting it with the other agent, it’s going to be major, as will the capital gains tax. Better put in a call to my accountant.
Charlie arrives at ten o’clock sharp, as we arranged last night, to box the best of what’s left of my cellar. He comes upstairs for the inventory list. “I brought six cartons. Think that’s enough?”
“The BMW’s trunk wouldn’t hold much more than that. I put asterisks by the ones I’m most concerned about. Oh, FYI. Not only did the Bairds remain at the table; they also sweetened the pot.”
“You’re kidding me.” He studies me long enough to realize I’m serious. “Remind me never to play any games with you.”
“You have learned a valuable l
esson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a shower.”
Charlie heads down to handle the cellar and I enjoy lathering with familiar fragrances in the guest bathroom. When I step out of the shower, I discover I left my overnight case in the other room, so I wrap a big bath sheet around myself and go in search of clean clothes. Towel dropped on the floor, I’m just stepping into lacy panties when Charlie reappears.
He gives a low whistle. “Wow. Nice picture.”
I don’t really care if he sees me in the buff, so I dig for a bra and present him with a simple question. “You’re all finished with the wine?”
“Six cases of vino in the trunk.” He watches me fasten the hooks and eyes with undisguised interest.
Vaguely troubling. I try to divert his attention. “Tell me about you and Cassandra. You love her?”
He snickers. “Nah. I mean, I don’t know. I like being with her. She’s fun and hell on wheels in bed.”
“Is that so?” I slip a peasant blouse over my head. “Well, I’m glad she hooked up with a nice guy.”
“Nice guy? Kill me now.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“A nice guy is roughly the equivalent of a decent girl. They’re like comfort food. Satisfying, but in all the wrong ways.”
My response is laughter, something he seems to take wrong. He crosses the floor and words materialize: “I just want to eat you.”
“What are you doing, Charlie?”
He stops only inches away. “Hopefully what you want me to?”
“What made you decide that?”
“Well, Cassandra said you sleep around, and I think you’re hot, and you did let me see you naked, so . . .”
Cassandra? Really? Why would she feel the need to discuss my sex life with Charlie? I’ve never revealed her secrets. What else has she said about mine?
I look him straight in the eye. “Charlie, when I was single, I absolutely slept around. But never while married, at least not without tacit permission, and one of the few requirements I’ve ever had of lovers was that they weren’t emotionally committed to someone else. I value morality, at least my definition of the word. My moral sense won’t allow me to sleep with you, both because of Cavin and also because you regularly fuck my friend.”
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