A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  That, of course, piques Eli’s interest. “Wait. Who are you talking about?”

  “Genevieve Lennon,” replies Cavin.

  “No shit? You know her?”

  “Tara knows her. I only met her once, at one of Tara’s charity events.”

  “Lucky. Hey, I want to meet her. When’s her appointment?”

  That draws my gigantic sigh. “She’s not that special, Eli. In fact, she’s kind of a bitch.”

  “Who cares? Have you ever seen her Sports Illustrated covers? Anyway, most beautiful women are bitches.”

  “Including the one you’re seeing tomorrow?” I steer the conversation toward Cavin. “Sophia invited Eli to Reno to see her new show. He said you’re fine with that?”

  Confusion clouds Cavin’s eyes. “I know nothing about it, Tara. Why would you say that, Eli?”

  “You told me you didn’t care about Sophia and me.”

  “Wait. No. What I said was I didn’t care about what happened between the two of you in the past because what’s done can’t be undone. I never said I was okay with you continuing to see her.”

  “That’s not how it sounded to me.”

  As so often happens, it’s like the two are conversing across parallel universes or something. I can’t stand it. I require solid footing in this dimension.

  “I need a beer,” says Cavin, standing and grinding the argument to a halt. “Tara, can I bring you something?”

  “I don’t suppose you have a margarita handy?” Tequila, yeah, that’s what I need. “Just kidding. Sparkling water would be fine, thanks.”

  What I’d really like is a truth-o-meter. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to discern deception, but these two have an uncanny knack for skewing facts to support their agendas.

  “Water?” asks Eli. “You on the wagon since, like, an hour ago?”

  “Just in the mood for clarity.”

  I don’t offer a deeper explanation, and neither asks for one. Instead, silence swallows us.

  No more talk of Sophia.

  No more talk of Genevieve.

  And that’s fine by me.

  thirteen

  M Y CONFIDENCE RARELY FALTERS, but I find myself nervous as I wait to see Dr. Stanley, who managed to squeeze me in this morning, short notice, at the insistence of his colleague, my husband. “Squeeze me in,” of course, means I could sit here for however long, nothing to do but read old magazines featuring sports injuries or check e-mail via smartphone.

  Rather than do either of those things, I people watch and, when that grows tiresome, allow myself the luxury of closing my eyes to think about what transpired last night. It wasn’t big in any real way, but it was a reminder to closely examine the connotation of words exchanged across the dinner table by the men in my life. That is, if I can consider Eli a man, and I’m not sure how else to think about him. Sometimes he seems all kid, other times, totally adult. Too adult, in fact.

  The idea of Eli going to Reno to see Sophia seared into me all evening, and as Cavin and I got ready for bed, I straight out asked, “Why do you think Sophia insists on maintaining her relationship with Eli?”

  “I really don’t know, Tara. You’d have to ask her. But it seems to me like Eli’s the one driving that train.”

  I wish that’s all there was to it, but I intuited an undercurrent.

  I pushed a little harder. “Doesn’t it bother you, thinking about the two of them having sex?”

  He tipped up my chin, bringing us eye to eye. “I do my level best not to think about it—or Sophia—at all.”

  I accepted that without comment. But when he almost immediately grew erect and requested head, I had to wonder if it was the spiky-haired nymph he pictured when he closed his eyes and came.

  Conversely, what are the odds that Eli conjures images of me when he’s having sex with Sophia? Kayla? Himself? And why would that question even cross my mind? I’m warped.

  “Mrs. Lattimore?” Contemplation interruptus. “Dr. Stanley will see you now.”

  I follow the nurse, whose quite un-nursely name is Heather, back to an examining room. On the way, we stop at the scale, something I’ve managed to avoid for several weeks.

  “One thirty-two,” she informs me. “Not bad, after a two-week honeymoon cruise. I bet the food was amazing.”

  “It was, though I did try to be careful.” Regardless, and despite heavy workouts, I managed to gain two pounds. At five foot seven, 132 pounds of mostly muscle is okay. Wonder what my body fat percentage is.

  Once I ease up onto the examination table, Nurse Heather takes my blood pressure. One ten over seventy. At least that’s good. Must be the red wine.

  “I’ll let Dr. Stanley know you’re ready.” Heather closes the door behind her.

  Now comes that obnoxious sit-here-and-wait-hoping-the-door-opens-soon time period that’s included in pretty much every doctor visit I’ve ever experienced. Good thing they don’t charge by the minute; at least, I don’t think they do. There aren’t even any old magazines, and a sign on the wall requests, “Please don’t use your cell phones,” so I’m very happy when it’s not more than five minutes before Dr. Stanley comes in.

  “Let’s take a look at that knee,” he says matter-of-factly.

  I’m wearing shorts, which makes it easy enough for him to decide I’m dealing with a fair amount of swelling.

  “I’ve gone over the tests, reviewed the X-rays and MRI. The ACL graft does seem to be faltering. It’s my opinion that you rehabbed too intensely and injured it. How much pain are you in?”

  “Depends. Sometimes it feels like a knife’s slicing right through it. Other times, I forget about it completely, and that can be worse because I might do something stupid like kneel on it. Then it feels like it’s coming apart.”

  “I’ll refill your pain med prescription. Other than that, since it hasn’t actually come apart, I think we should take a cautious approach and brace the knee for several weeks, give it a chance to heal on its own. I’d urge caution as far as exercise, although we do want to maintain a healthy range of motion.”

  We? What’s this “we”?

  And that’s it?

  “So, you don’t think another surgery is necessary?”

  Dr. Stanley shakes his head. “Not called for. First of all, ACL revisions tend to be less successful than the initial reconstructions. Rehab takes longer and may not produce the intended results. If you continue to demonstrate knee instability, we can always revisit the option, but for now let’s allow nature to take its course and see where we end up.”

  There’s that “we” again. “What can I do as far as exercise?”

  “Weight-bearing or swimming in moderation, and with the brace locked in full extension. Stationary cycling as tolerated. Come out of the brace a couple times each day for gentle stretching. You still have a brace at home, yes?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Let me see you again in a couple of weeks.”

  I should get a second opinion. Glad I happen to have one close by. This time when I visit Cavin’s office, his receptionist is on duty. “Hi, Rebecca. I don’t suppose my husband has a few minutes?”

  “As a matter of fact, he does. He just finished up with his last patient a little while ago and his next appointment isn’t until three. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  I wander back to Cavin’s office, where he’s doing some paperwork, face tipped toward his desk. His hair has fallen over his forehead, almost to his eyes. When I come through the door, he looks up, sending most of it back into place, but a single strand remains. I make my way over, brush the wayward lock gently away. “Good afternoon, Dr. Lattimore. I think you need a trim.”

  He smiles. “I’ll get around to it eventually. I always do.”

  “No hurry. I hear the unkempt look is all the rage. In fact, I kind of like it. It’s rather endearing.”

  “There are worse things to be, I guess.”

  He tilts his chin up and I take the hint, kissing him full
on the mouth and dipping the tip of my tongue inside. Hunger surfaces in his eyes.

  “Wanna make out?” I tease.

  “Rain check? I’ve still got two appointments this afternoon and must remain professional.”

  “Unkempt professional,” I correct. “I’ll agree to the rain check as long as it storms tonight.”

  “A regular hurricane, I promise. So, I take it you’re finished with Roger? What did he have to say?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, much as I prefer the flirty repartee. Dr. Stanley suggests I injured the allograft by rehabbing too hard. He wants me to brace the knee and play wait-and-see.”

  “Roger does tend toward caution.”

  “I was hoping you might go over the test results and give me your opinion. Not that I’m dying to have another surgery. But if it’s the best course of action, I want to know.”

  “Of course. In fact, I meant to review them already. I’ve got a little time this afternoon.”

  I glance at the file he’s working on, and of course it belongs to Genevieve Lennon. “What’s up with her? Is she going to survive?”

  “For quite a while, I’m guessing. Can’t say more than that. Doctor/patient privilege and all. Oh, I gave her the phone number at home. Hope you don’t mind. She said she tried your cell but you never returned her call, and she wants to talk to you about the Shakespeare Festival at Sand Harbor.”

  Irritation sizzles. “I wish you wouldn’t have done that, actually. I was hoping to avoid her company.”

  “Really? I thought the two of you were close.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He shrugs. “She just mentioned that you used to . . .”

  She wouldn’t.

  She might.

  “. . . spend a lot of time with each other. Take vacations together and such. I guess I didn’t realize that the first time you introduced us.”

  His tone is hard to read. Surprised? Hurt? Indifferent?

  And how to respond?

  With humor, that’s how. I smile. “Life in the fast lane. Back when I was geared for speed.”

  He winks. “How fast were you, exactly?”

  “Not nearly as fast as Genevieve. She was hard to keep up with. Exhausting, in fact. Eventually I stopped trying, especially after I married Finn, who was pretty much the tortoise to my hare. Not to mention Genevieve’s cheetah.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone outrunning you, with or without a bum knee.”

  “Bum? Ooh. Love that country-boy doctor-speak.”

  “You do?”

  “No.”

  “Regardless, I think Genevieve has probably slowed down quite a bit, too. Don’t you?”

  “I think that’s likely. Still, I had my reasons for allowing our friendship to cool.”

  The main one being that at one point she confessed she was in love with me. My marriage to Jordan was crumbling into oblivion. I hadn’t met Finn yet. I wasn’t in the market for love, especially not with a woman. Men are malleable; love makes them more so. Women are manipulative; love doesn’t mitigate that.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. She made it sound like you were anxious to see Taming of the Shrew, but you were worried about tickets for all of us. She said she scored four for this coming weekend and asked if we had other plans.”

  What part of “I’m really not sure” did she not understand? I would’ve sworn the implication was crystal clear. One of the problems in our enhanced friendship was always that we both insisted on taking charge. I had the talent; she had the clout. Even, but not.

  I’m used to getting my way. Too often she was able to circumvent that. She enjoyed the game. I thought it tedious and I’m really not interested in playing it again.

  “I don’t suppose you said we did have other plans.”

  “No, because we don’t.”

  My body stiffens and I draw it up very straight. “True.”

  “Tara, if I’d realized it was going to upset you, I would’ve happily lied. Genevieve Lennon means nothing to me.”

  Not his fault I may or may not be a little jealous of Ms. Supermodel, and I don’t suppose spending one evening with her will ruin my summer. In fact, what I need to do is figure out how to leverage our relationship. “It’s okay. I’ll survive. Which night are we looking at?”

  “Sunday.”

  Sunday. Good. Hopefully Kayla will be home by then, negating Eli tagging along.

  And why the hell does the idea keep surfacing that he might somehow become involved with Genevieve? Like a thirty-something waning star would hook up with the seventeen-year-old son of a married doctor who she may or may not have set her sights on? Ridiculous. And even if it did happen, why should I care? The Eli part, not the Cavin part.

  “Hello?” Cavin forces me back into real time.

  “My turn to be sorry. I was just thinking about whether or not Kayla will be back from California, which would either require an extra ticket or omitting them.”

  “We could always buy a general admission ticket. Eli and she could sit in the back.”

  “Good point. Okay, then, I’ll plan on Sunday. Do we need to pack a picnic?”

  “Not with Genevieve’s seats. Row one Adirondack chairs. Food and drinks arrive by waiter. All we have to do is choose our menu before Sunday.”

  Privilege has its perks.

  fourteen

  W HEN I ARRIVE HOME, the first thing I do is check the mail. In addition to the massive amount of junk and minimal amount of actual paper bills, I find a couple of letters addressed to me. Very expensive letters, as it turns out.

  The first is from Larry Alexander:

  Greetings, Tara. I have arranged for your generous tax-deductible donation to the San Francisco Art Institute to accommodate the tuition of one Kayla Schumacher. Your niece’s first semester fees are currently due. Please send a check at your earliest convenience.

  On a more personal note, it has come to my attention that your ex-husband is considering moving his young wife and their twins to the East Coast, where they can be closer to his daughter (and by default, since they’re partners, mine). Were you aware of the move? Apparently they made the decision upon hearing that the Russian Hill home is currently in escrow. San Francisco loses luster with your departure.

  All best, Larry

  Well, at least he’s nice about asking for twenty-five grand. The part about Finn prickles, however. Not that he’s thinking about relocating his family. I can understand him wanting deeper connection with his grown daughter, who I never met. Seemed Claire didn’t approve of our marriage. But considering the house only just sold, how can he know it’s in escrow? Something to do with the mortgage, which I’m sure he’s relieved to be rid of? Or maybe he has a spy in the real estate office.

  The letter from my accountant is a bit more straightforward.

  Dear Tara:

  In looking at the possible outcomes regarding the Russian Hill sale, I suggest we send max quarterly contributions to the IRS. If I can find a way around the repercussions, as always, I will.

  Has anything else changed regarding income/expenditures? Will you be filing jointly with your husband for the current tax year?

  Sincerely . . .

  Wonder how far the total fifty-thousand-dollar-ish-per-this-year donation to the SFAI will go toward mitigating the Russian Hill sale? This is why I pay my accountant the big bucks, I suppose. Thankfully, his fees are also tax deductible. As for the joint filing issue . . . I’d better do a little research.

  I consider digging the brace out of the hall closet but decide to wait for Cavin’s input. Plenty of time to isolate the knee if that’s the proper path. Meanwhile, I go ahead and put in some time on the stationary bike. Not too much tension. Speed instead. I give it an hour, watching an Ellen DeGeneres show featuring kids interviewing random people at amusement parks and a woman who invests the majority of her paychecks in building tiny houses for homeless people.

  The segment reminds me I need to find a
pet project, preferably sooner than later. My portfolio investments keep me well off financially, but they don’t require a lot of mental energy, and I get anxious when I’m bored. But what kind of endeavor should I tackle next?

  I’ve already devoted many hours into projects serving the homeless, whose numbers I doubt rank high among the Tahoe population. We’re relatively isolated up here, and the weather would make too many months on the street undoable. Plus, with the high tourist count, I imagine law enforcement would find little patience for panhandlers. No, I’ll have to investigate the lake elite and where they invest their tax write-off dollars. Perhaps Genevieve has some connections, and certainly Cavin does, and if those resources fail me, someone in my address book must have Tahoe contacts.

  The workout initiates a decent sweat and stress relief, and only results in a slight ache in the patella. Maybe Dr. Stanley’s right and it will heal on its own after all. I clean up and think about dinner and am starting toward the kitchen when the phone rings.

  “Aunt Tara?” It’s Kayla’s whine. “Is Eli there?”

  Uh-oh. “Afraid not. Have you tried his cell?”

  “Of course. Over and over. He’s not answering. Do you know where he is?”

  Double uh-oh. But it’s not my job to lie for the kid. “He’s visiting a friend in Reno tonight. He’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “Reno?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “And he’s staying overnight?”

  “Yes. Apparently they’re seeing a show that will run late.”

  “May I ask who the friend is?”

  “Kayla, as far as I know, he’s only acquainted with one person in Reno.”

  “Oh.” Eloquence, in one two-letter word.

  I change the subject. “When do you expect to return? Eli said you thought Friday?”

  “I did, but not anymore. Here, I’ll let you talk to Mom.”

  The phone goes quiet for several long seconds, but finally Mel says, “Hello? Tara?”

  “I’m here. Just looking for an update.”

  She exhales, forcing an audible sigh. “It’s pretty awful. She’s doped up out of her mind, so she’s either asleep or ranting most of the time. She can’t feed herself. Can’t use the bathroom. Thank God for the hospice people, who handle all the dirty details. I’m glad I don’t have to. It will be a blessing when she’s gone.”