By the time I get home, I’m a downed live wire, sparking irritation. The feeling subsides a little when I turn off the highway and onto the road that winds up the hill opposite the lake, snaking through tall Douglas firs and sugar pines. I roll down the window and inhale the sharp sweet scent of conifers, signaling I’ve arrived.
This is definitely not San Francisco, a shiny, diverse city that can’t be ignored when you’re there. Its storied history surrounds you, enfolds you. Sometimes it swallows you.
Each neighborhood wears it differently but reflects the influx of immigrants and American settlers drawn to California opportunity.
Some of those people passed by here, crossing the Sierra on their migrations. Few enough stayed, and those who did were tough. Today, Lake Tahoe boasts no real cities, just small towns dotting its shores. Tourists flock to the area seasonally for winter and summer recreation, which is why the locals prefer spring and autumn.
We live in Glenbrook, which is more neighborhood than town. It’s so not Russian Hill, where the houses are tall, relatively narrow, and sandwiched closely between the neighbors. Our home is wide, with street-level parking on the top floor of two, rather than at the foot of three. Its sprawl is probably close, square-footage-wise, to what I enjoyed in San Francisco. But rather than modern, this place defines “Tahoe chic,” with log pillars, cedar siding, river rock accents, and windows that look through the forest down to the lake on the south side, away from the road. And the wooded property offers plenty of space between the people who live in either direction and us. I enjoy the breathing room.
I pull into the driveway, where Eli’s Hummer is carelessly parked too far toward center. I manage to wrangle the Beamer into the narrow slot he left for me, but I can barely squeeze out the door. We’ll have to come up with a better system. Oh, I know. Eli can park on the street.
Good thing I’m not expecting a fancy welcome, because no one greets me at all. “Hello?” I call once I’m on the far side of the threshold. “I’m home.”
Nothing.
I can hear the bass of Eli’s music downstairs, too loud for him to have heard the meager sound of my voice. And if he and Kayla happen to be “busy,” I’m sure I’d be ignored anyway. “Cavin? Andrew?”
Zilch. No response from my husband, nor from his dad.
Annoying.
I carry my purse back to the master bedroom, find it neat and the bed made, but no sign of Cavin, who’s not in his office, either. Or outside, at least not anywhere I can see from the deck. I go to the head of the stairs, yell down, “Is anyone here?”
No answer.
So, fine. I’ll check the lower level, even though I hate going down there. It’s so . . . so . . . boys-in-the-basement, with Eli’s room, the game room, and two guest rooms, which have only housed Andrew as far as men go, all below. The music grows louder as I descend, some dubstep mix that wouldn’t be so bad at a lower volume. I knock on Eli’s door. “You in there?”
I expect some response. A slow shuffle across the floor. The creak of bedsprings. Something. Anything. But no. Is he (are they) asleep, this time of day? Mid-act? Wearing earplugs? Should I go ahead and peek inside? Oh hell. Why not?
Empty.
Unreasonably, anxiety prickles. The paranoia of a few months back, when I was getting threatening anonymous messages, dissipated once their source—my crooked politician ex-husband—was discovered and sent to prison on an unrelated charge. I have nothing to be afraid of. So why the sudden trepidation?
I explore the floor. Every room is devoid of human presence, though it looks like someone was enjoying the pool table earlier. Mostly drained beer bottles trash the wet bar, along with paper plates littered with cracker crumbs and bits of cheese. Okay, obviously some alien spacecraft happened over and decided this totally dysfunctional family was worthy of probing. Screw it. They’ll either beam back down intact or I’ve got the house to myself.
Back upstairs I trudge. It’s wine time for sure. I’m in the kitchen, opening a bottle, when Cavin and Andrew come through the front door, carrying groceries. “You’re home,” says Cavin. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“Thought I’d surprise you.”
“Not a bad thing,” comments Andrew. “Good to keep a man on his toes.”
Indeed.
Cavin deposits four shopping bags on the counter before welcoming me with a kiss. “Meant to get to the store earlier, but there was a Yankees game on, and Dad’s a fan, so we watched downstairs while we shot some pool.”
“Hard to be a Yankees fan some days,” complains Andrew as he sets his own bags down and starts to empty them. “Which is why I’m also a Padres fan.”
Why did I assume both my SUV and Cavin’s Audi were parked in the garage? I never even looked. Sloppy detective work. I’d make a terrible PI. “Can I pour either of you gentlemen a glass of wine?”
“I’ll handle it,” offers Cavin. “You relax. How’s the knee?”
“Could be worse.”
“Roger managed to squeeze you in on Wednesday afternoon, and I scheduled a preappointment MRI, CT scan, and X-rays for Tuesday, so we’ll have some hard data back.”
A sigh escapes. “I’m seriously not ready for more poking and prodding.”
“Don’t blame you. But let’s take the cautious route.”
I sit on a bar stool at the kitchen island, where I can watch the men work. As Andrew replenishes the refrigerator, Cavin fills three glasses and puts one in front of me before starting dinner. Steaks, it seems. “Where are Eli and Kayla?” I ask.
Cavin doesn’t even inquire how I know she’s here. “Downstairs, I think. Sounds like it, anyway.”
“They’re not, actually. When I got home and no one seemed to be here, I went looking for signs of life. I didn’t see them.”
“Strange. Pretty sure they were here when we left.”
“They were,” says Andrew. “When I changed my shoes I could hear them talking. It was a rather heated discussion.”
“Hope he isn’t out hiding her body in the woods,” jokes Cavin.
“Or she isn’t hiding his,” Andrew counters.
“Touché.”
“Before they get back from wherever, would either of you like to explain why she seems to be living here?”
“Not living, exactly,” says Cavin. “Just hanging out for a few weeks.”
Andrew blushes. “My fault completely. Eli told me you knew about their relationship and didn’t have a problem with it.”
“No, it’s not your fault,” argues Cavin. “You know how convincing Eli can be, Tara. Dad didn’t have a chance.”
“And no one thought to inform me? I had to find out from my sister.”
“I didn’t know myself until this morning. By the time I got home last night everyone was already in bed.”
“Really. And what time was that?”
He eyes me warily. “Around two.”
Clearly, this conversation could deteriorate quickly, so Andrew says, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll clean the grill.”
Once he’s out of earshot, Cavin asks, “You’re not angry because I went out last night, are you?”
Am I? Why should I be? If I wanted to go out, I would. Why should it be any different for my husband? I soften. “Not unless you mortgaged your soul to cover your blackjack chips.”
“My soul remains debt free.” He offers an awkward grin. “ Except to you, of course. On a scale of one to ten, how mad are you about Kayla?”
“Maybe seven. I realize it’s a temporary arrangement, at least if she follows through with school, and if she doesn’t, I’ll probably bury her myself.”
“You almost sound serious.”
“I almost am. I value my privacy and dislike sharing my possessions, except by explicit invitation.”
Generosity isn’t my best thing.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Cavin is lighting the grill when Eli and Kayla come wandering up through the trees. They’re hol
ding hands, but her body language tells me she hasn’t exactly forgiven whatever his infraction was, and when they climb the back stairs to the deck, I can see her eyes are puffy and red.
Eli spots me on the lounge chair and disengages from Kayla. He stomps across the deck, and for about the hundredth time I wonder how someone that slender can weight his feet so heavily. He bends and his lips whisper across my forehead. “Welcome home.”
The gesture catches my breath. “It’s good to be here.” As he straightens, I can’t help but notice my niece’s icy glare. “You all right, Kayla?”
“Fine.” But she stares at her feet, which I interpret as a signal that she isn’t okay at all.
“You want to talk?” I nudge.
“Not really.”
“I think we should. Let’s go inside.”
“Take it easy on her,” says Eli. “She’s fragile right now.”
“Whose fault is that?” she snaps, and I’m almost surprised when she trails me back into the office. I sit behind the desk, and she takes the comfortable rocker. “What happened?”
Even in the failing light, her sudden blush is obvious. “He . . . he . . . wanted me to do . . . stuff I didn’t want to do. When I wouldn’t, he said he was going to drive down to Reno to see his ex, because she’d do anything he wanted, and maybe I should go with him to observe how it’s done. So then we had a big fight and I ran out the door and he came after me.”
“So you know about Sophia, then?”
Understanding dawns. “ That’s who Sophia is?”
“Yes. You still didn’t know?”
She shakes her head. “I thought maybe Sophia was . . .”
“What?”
“Code word for you.”
“Oh my God, no. Why would you imagine that?”
“One time he told me ‘Sophia’ taught him to appreciate older women. When I asked who she was he said to ask his dad.”
“I still don’t understand.”
She draws herself up, tall and stiff-backed. “You must have noticed Eli’s crushing on you. He talks about you all the time.”
“That may or may not be, Kayla, but I’m no threat to you. Sophia, on the other hand . . .” I shrug.
“So, what does she have to do with Uncle Cavin?”
I give her the short-and-not-so-sweet version.
“Seriously? That’s sick!”
“It is what it is. Look. Is it possible you and Eli simply aren’t compatible? I mean, you hooked up awfully quickly.”
“Sometimes the best hookups are fast hookups.”
“Define ‘best.’ ”
Zero hesitation. “Hot. Fun. No strings.”
“Okay, no strings. So why bother to fight? Walk away.”
“Sounds simple enough, yeah, except sometimes you fall for the guy. That doesn’t always happen to me, but when it does, he’s always the bad-boy type.”
Eli definitely qualifies.
“But bad boys generally don’t want commitment. They want no-strings hot fun.”
“Yeah, but I thought Eli was different. He’s so together for his age.”
“Together? Are you referring to the Eli who lives downstairs?”
“Uh-huh. He’s got his future mapped, unlike the other guys I’ve gone out with, and they’re all older than Eli. At least he doesn’t want to serve lattes forever, or deal drugs to get by.”
“Kayla, the last time I spoke with Eli about his career goals, he was vacillating between professional hacker and gigolo.”
A bit of a stretch, but she gets the point and grimaces. “He said you were trying to convince him to go to Le Cordon Bleu. But he’s focused on that interdisciplinary studies program at Sierra Nevada College. It sounds pretty awesome. If art wasn’t my thing, I’d consider it myself.”
“You’re talking about the one that combines ski resort management and outdoor adventures leadership, yes? But you’ve never cared about snow or winter recreation. I thought you hated cold weather.”
“It’s never too late to learn to snowboard. And with the right person to keep me warm inside, subzero outside would be okay, especially if it meant being with someone I love.”
I look her straight in the eye. “Kayla, you aren’t giving up on the Art Institute, are you? Because, even discounting my very large investment, I’d be extremely upset if you sacrificed your dreams because of a guy. Any guy, let alone one who tries to coerce you to engage in sexual activities you’re not comfortable with.”
“Don’t worry, Aunt Tara. I plan to show up for orientation right on time.” She cocks her head, perhaps listening for a spy in the hall. No sign of intrusion, she lowers her voice. “You know, if he’d been patient and hadn’t made that disgusting threat, I might have gone along with his little game eventually. Outdoor adventure may not be my thing, but I’m usually up for the indoor variety.”
“Whoa. Too much information, Kayla.”
And inappropriate, considering our relationship and the fact that we’ve had intimate conversations only a time or two.
Worse, now she’s got me wondering exactly what Eli’s little game was.
seven
I T’S A STERLING SIERRA evening, the sun just below the treetops as Cavin and Andrew put the steaks on the grill, which is fragrant with smoking hickory chips. We’ll eat outside, on the big redwood table at the edge of the deck, overlooking the forest floor. With the earlier upset settled, Kayla and Eli are demonstrably affectionate as they shuttle silverware, plates, bread, and salad from inside. An outsider looking in would think we’re the perfect extended family.
We are all well practiced at disguising dysfunction.
I have to admit the small gathering is kind of nice—too many people to accommodate bickering, but not enough to make conversation impossible. I rarely experience this particular dynamic and it’s so comfortable that I’m pretty sure it won’t last long.
The meat cooks quickly, and when Cavin sets a sizzling platter midtable, Kayla remarks, “God, those smell good. Glad I gave up on the vegan thing.”
“How long did you go?” asks Andrew.
“Two weeks. Did you know veggie burgers stink?”
“I could never go without meat,” says Eli. “I am a carnivore. . . .”
The word flashes me back to Stanley Park and the twisted game of hide-and-seek. Is cannibalism genetic?
A weak howl lifts me from my reverie. In real time, Eli has proven his appetite for meat by biting Kayla’s neck hard enough to draw her vocal protest, which he discounts. “Yum,” he says. “Delicious.”
Cavin flashes a disapproving frown. “If you must eat your girlfriend, please do it in private.”
Everyone freezes, not quite sure if he’s serious or not, or if the double entendre was purposeful. But then he laughs, freeing us to follow suit, and I change the subject.
“Kayla says you’ve decided to apply to SNC for sure, Eli. Have you given any more thought to Squaw Valley Academy?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Just seems like a better choice for senior-year college prep.”
Not to mention it’s a boarding school.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got it handled. I talked to my counselor before Whittell let out for summer. You’ll approve of my schedule because it will keep me very busy next year. Calculus. Forensics. AP English. US government. And psych.”
“Psychology? Still doing research?”
Before the honeymoon, he loaned me a book he’d been reading: Confessions of a Sociopath.
He smiles at the inside joke. “Self-help, remember?”
Eli and I chuckle, mystifying the rest of the table, if I’m reading their faces correctly. “Anyway,” I interject, “we have some time to talk about school. The next few weeks will be jam-packed, though, between doctor visits and tying up loose ends in San Francisco.” I turn to my husband. “Oh. Forgot to tell you. Russian Hill sold. I signed the offer this morning.”
Cavin congratulates me, then adds, “I expected it to
take longer.”
“Me, too.” This is not the time or place to discuss the details.
“But it will still be yours for a month or so, won’t it?” asks Eli.
“Something like that. Why?”
“I was hoping Kayla and I could spend a few days there before she starts school. Any chance of that?”
“Doubtful. Even if the timing worked out, I couldn’t take a chance on you calling up some of your old Athenian friends for a party.”
He might have gotten kicked out of the Bay Area academy, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t connected to some of his former classmates. In fact, I know he’s still in contact with Cassandra’s son, who was in trouble at the same school for drinking and cyberbullying. Taylor even came to our wedding.
“Like I would?”
“Eli, if you trashed the house preclosing—”
“You really have to learn to trust me.” He reaches across Kayla, resting his wrist on her forearm as he strokes my hand in a quite intimate way.
She tosses her arm, effectively flinging his hand away from mine. “Don’t throw that word around, Eli. Trust is something you earn.”
“Trust is something you cultivate,” Cavin corrects. “You can earn it short-term, but maintaining it takes dedication.”
“Ahem. Please pass the salad,” I say, mostly as a way to keep everyone’s hands in their proper place. Around it comes, and as it does, I continue, “Anyway, I have to figure out what to do with the furniture. Storage for now, I guess.”
“What about the ’Vette?” asks Kayla eagerly.
“She’s giving it to me,” answers Eli.
The smile falls from Kayla’s face. “No way. You already have a nice car.”
“I am absolutely not giving the Corvette to Eli, or to you, either.”
“But I need a car.” Kayla actually tips her lower lip into a pout.
“Not in San Francisco. It’s a hard city to drive in. But even if you did, it wouldn’t be that one. No, I’ll have to sell it.”
A Sin Such as This Page 4