A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  “Why? Because she didn’t get the reaction from you she was looking for?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I figured it was better to let it drop.”

  “Look. I understand the odds are decent that you’ll run into Sophia from time to time, and I’d never ask you not to have coffee with her. However, I do have concerns about you keeping secrets from me, and that’s how this feels. I’m a grown woman. I can handle you talking to your ex as long as I know about it.” Now I echo the little voice inside my head. “Lying by omission is still lying. I would never lie to you.”

  He moves closer, takes my hand, and when he bends to kiss it, brings his eyes level with mine. “Please forgive me. I promise never to withhold information from you again, even if I think it’s going to upset you. I guess I’m still working on that trust cultivation myself. How can I make it up to you? Brunch on the beach?”

  I agree it’s a good start, though privately I’m still irritated that this needs to be something I worry about. I’m not one to trust easily anyway. This rattled my slender faith quotient.

  We manage to have an exceptionally nice day, anyway. It’s an end-of-summer Saturday, so the beaches are fairly crowded, but Cavin knows a hideaway spot only a few locals are aware of. It’s down a relatively steep hillside, which proves to be quite a workout for my knee, but the tentative ligaments hold. There isn’t a whole lot of sand here, but giant, flat rocks surround the small stretch, and we spread a beach blanket and set up the folding chairs Cavin has transported down the hill atop one of the rocks.

  He climbs back up for our simple picnic and I slather sunscreen. When he returns, we sip mimosas, nibble on strawberries, Brie, and crackers, and mostly avoid talking by reading. But after an hour or so, Cavin asks, “Are you still angry?”

  A shimmer remains, vague and watery, like a mirage lifting from August asphalt. But I say simply, “No.”

  “Good. Then let’s get naked.”

  “Here?”

  “We’re all alone. And no one can see from the highway. Ever skinny-dipped?”

  “Of course.”

  But not in a long, long time. And that swimming pool was a whole lot warmer than Tahoe. Even here where it’s shallow and sun-kissed, the water lifts goose bumps immediately, and that’s before I’m even halfway in.

  “Not like that!” says Cavin. “Headfirst.”

  He demonstrates, comes up sputtering. Still, he takes hold of my hands and pulls, and we both go under. But not for long. His arms encircle me, and our bodies exchange a small measure of warmth before he lifts me out of the water. Then he lays me on a small cushion of sand, thighs and above on solid land, legs floating gently.

  I doubt he could have accomplished an erection immersed in the frigid water, but once out it doesn’t take him long. “God, you’re beautiful when you’re wet,” he says, before proceeding to make me even wetter, and in a place the lake couldn’t reach.

  Warm sun on my face.

  Cool breeze through liquid diamonds on my skin.

  Cavin’s tongue-enhanced kisses in all the right places.

  It’s a heady experience.

  I open my legs, inviting entrance. But, most unexpectedly, he flips me onto my belly, lifts me onto my hands and knees. “Let’s take a test-drive, shall we?”

  It would be the first time I’ve attempted sex in this position since I wrecked my knee. I’ve been dying to do this, but I’m a little worried. “I don’t know . . .”

  “If it’s uncomfortable, I’ll stop.”

  I don’t think he has stopping in mind.

  His initial push is a long, steady climb.

  Upward.

  Inward.

  I rock back into him until I can’t go any farther, then slowly pull away. He matches my pace, opposite stroke for stroke, but finally I urge him faster as the bend of my leg begins to feel tentative. I’m glad for the deep pillow of sand, which relieves the stress enough to allow our mutual quaking orgasm.

  But as soon as that’s accomplished, I roll onto my back, straightening my legs and flexing them gently again. “No damage done.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Odd. He almost sounds disappointed.

  He never even gave you a chance to decline.

  “Pretty sure. Guess we’ll find out when I try to make my way back up the hill. Meanwhile, is there more champagne?”

  “Would I leave you high and dry?”

  “Definitely not.”

  It’s a nice afternoon, mellowed by wine, but I remind myself to quit well before I attempt the return hike to the car. That proves harder than coming down was, but I manage it with care, and feel even more hopeful that I made the right decision regarding another surgery.

  We arrive home late afternoon and I don’t bother to change before going to the kitchen to start dinner. That means when Kayla and Eli come in from wherever, I’m wearing a bikini beneath a short, sheer cover-up. I realize my mistake immediately.

  “Wow!” exclaims Eli. “Not many guys are lucky enough to have moms who look like that! You should wear a bikini more often.”

  “Shut up, Eli,” demands Kayla.

  “First of all, I’m not your mom. And, second, would you mind cutting up these vegetables for the grill basket? I’m going to take a shower and we’ll fire up the barbecue in about an hour.”

  I don’t wait for his answer. But I do hear Kayla complaining, “Do you always have to stare at her? It’s creepy.”

  And I can’t help but note Eli’s response. “Like she said, she’s not my mom, so it’s not that creepy. Besides, it’s damn hard not to stare at her. Too bad my dad doesn’t appreciate what he’s got. Hey, are you going to help me with the zucchini or what?”

  Cavin is just getting out of the shower as I’m on my way in. I watch him towel off, thinking about Eli’s words. It seems like my husband appreciates me. He’s quick to compliment, rarely short-tempered, and seems happy enough to relinquish control. But he isn’t always forthright, and that is worrisome, despite his ready excuses.

  And Eli’s truthful?

  Now that is a question I’m not able to answer. My instinct insists he is, but maybe it’s just that his straight-in-your-face manner belies deceit. Either way, I’m wary of trusting him too far.

  “The kids are prepping vegetables for the grill,” I inform Cavin. “Whenever you’re ready, please go ahead and light it. I put the chicken in marinade before we left this morning, so it’s ready to go. I won’t be long.”

  “Whatever you desire, my darling. Personally, I’m starving.” He winks. “All that beach action.”

  He goes to dress and consider the barbecue while I slip out of my skimpy clothing. I suppose I should be a bit more demure, but that is not an adjective I’ve ever applied to myself in the past. Postshower, with evening falling, I choose capris and a gauzy blouse, with plenty of support underneath it.

  Almost demure.

  Demure enough so Kayla reacts with a smug grin when I join the crew on the deck, where the barbecue is starting to smoke. “What? You’ve never seen capris before?”

  “Not on you. They look nice, by the way.”

  “Not as nice as a bikini,” comments Eli, souring Kayla’s expression.

  “I’m going in for the chicken,” says Cavin. “May I pour you a glass of wine?”

  “I’ll do it. I need some water first.”

  I follow him inside, but before I reach the kitchen, the phone rings. Caller ID says it’s Mel. “Hel—”

  “Why? Didn’t? You? Tell me?”

  Each.

  Word.

  Is a dagger.

  I’m punctured. And I have no clue why.

  “Tell you what?”

  Hugely pregnant pause, and Cavin’s eyes cloud with concern. What is it? he mouths.

  In answer, I just shake my head, waiting to understand.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you and Graham had an affair?”

  “What? Who told you such an incredible lie?”


  “Who do you think? Graham! And why would he lie to me about something like that?”

  “I have no clue, Mel. But Graham and I never had an affair.”

  A one-night stand doesn’t qualify as an affair.

  Says who?

  On the far end of the signal, my sister is breaking down. Why would Graham bring up that short encounter now? It happened twenty years ago. He came into the pawnshop several months after Raul died, looking for a set of drums. He made excuses to hang around, and I figured he was interested in seeing me. As far as I knew, he was just a cute guy, a year or two older than me, who was in med school and looking for fun. I was twenty-three, widowed, and tired of people tiptoeing around me. I was overdue for a little fun myself.

  Yes, Graham was dating Melody then, but I didn’t know it when I accepted his offer of a concert and dinner.

  Yes, we had a great time.

  Yes, sex was involved.

  And the very next day, Mel introduced us at an impromptu lunch. It was one of the most surreal coincidences I’ve ever experienced. In fact, it threw me off balance. I never let him touch me again, only accepted one call from him afterward, and that was to ream him good for messing around on my sister. With anyone. We’ve been awkward with each other ever since.

  But trying to explain any of that to Melody would be meaningless at this moment in time. Better to simply deny.

  My husband stares at me, waiting to see where this goes, and I know he’s more than curious. He’s questioning my character.

  “Melody Ann, what brought this on?” Purposely using her middle name, hoping it’s evocative of our mother’s favored method of demanding a response.

  It works. Sort of. “Don’t you dare talk down to me, Tara Lynn. It doesn’t matter what brought it on. I want to know if you’ve ever slept with my husband.”

  My first thought is to go ahead and confess. Tell her the story, start to finish, exactly as it unfolded. Honesty is almost always my preferred course of action. But, all things considered, denial seems the better way to go, especially with Cavin sitting here listening in. “No.”

  “Really? Then how did he know about the birthmark on your lower back?”

  Damn.

  Straight into the middle of a shit storm. Scratch that. A regular shit tornado. Why the hell didn’t I just go ahead and confess? Instead, I’ve become snared in the lie, and how easily I fell into that trap, which snaps shut now.

  “Well?” she demands.

  “One minute.” I turn my back on my husband, take the phone down the hall to the office, and shut the door behind me. Safely shielded from eavesdropping ears, I confide the details, finishing with a sincere apology. “I’m so sorry, Mel. I truly had no idea it was Graham you were dating, and besides, he came on to me.”

  I swear I can hear my words churning in her head.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you think I had the right to know?”

  “In retrospect, of course. But at the time—God, I was only twenty-three—I believed slamming the door in his face was good enough. You were so happy being with him, and neither you nor I had previously enjoyed a whole lot in the way of happiness. I didn’t want to take that away from you.”

  “What about after?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what about the other times?”

  “Melody, I have no clue what you’re talking about. We were only together once.”

  “Stop lying to me!”

  Before I can respond, she cuts off communication. I try to call her back, but when she doesn’t answer, I go to the filing cabinet, locate a business card, and text Mel: The PI I mentioned is Blaine Pederson. It’s his job to prove or disprove your suspicions have a basis in fact. Here’s his number. For the love of god, please use it. . . .

  I sit in silent confusion for several minutes until, finally, there comes a small tap on the door. When I open it, Cavin hands me an extremely large glass of very purple wine.

  “Want to tell me what that was all about?” he asks. “You don’t have to, of course. But it would eat at me.”

  “Look, it happened a long time ago, and I’ve tried, mostly successfully, to forget about it entirely. I met Graham . . .” I relate the sordid tale. “I never mentioned it to Melody because she was completely smitten and I didn’t think it was my place to burst her balloon, especially since there was no way in hell I was going to come in between them. Graham did call me afterward, and I told him if he ever cheated on my sister again I’d kick his spindly ass. As far as I knew, up until maybe a year ago, they had no marital problems other than the ordinary lust-faded-to-boredom, so it seemed the proper decision.”

  “Obviously he never felt the need to confess. Why would he bring it up now?”

  “I wish I knew. Maybe Mel can shed some light on that, if and when she ever talks to me again.”

  “She’ll come around.”

  “I hope so. Carrying grudges long-range is a family trait.”

  “Are you okay for now? Should I put the chicken on the grill?”

  “Oh, of course. Eli and Kayla are probably hungry. I’m right behind you.”

  I trail him down the hall, wondering what, exactly, Graham said. Surely he didn’t concoct some elaborate line of bullshit?

  Or has Melody spun a big web of dishonesty inside her head?

  twenty-six

  I ’M UP EARLY ON Sunday to put in some time on the stationary bike before seeing Cavin and, separately, the kids off to San Francisco. Preworkout, I work out my husband in bed, since I won’t see him for a couple of days. Though it produces the intended result, our lovemaking isn’t exactly hot, and as always when tenderness trumps fervor, I wonder if all marriages wind up devoid of passion eventually.

  Cavin decides to snooze for a while, but I roll out of bed and dutifully don a pair of shorts and a sports bra, which I cover with a tank. I grab my phone and a pair of earbuds, check messages on my way down the hall, and, of course, find none. How long before Mel deigns to speak with me again? A conversation with Graham is long overdue. But if I contact him now, Mel might believe we’re conspiring some kind of cover-up. Caution is the better course of action.

  For the fair days of summer, I had the men move the exercise equipment outside on the deck, where it’s cool in the shade and evocative of actual forest trail cycling. I find one of my new favorite playlists, turn it on, and climb into the saddle. Theory of a Deadman fires up “Angel,” and it’s an excellent way to launch my cardio and, in turn, my day.

  Eli, knowing my lean toward grunge, actually built some of this playlist for me, staunchly suggesting I could broaden my taste in music without losing my sensibility. He’s right. Some of his selections speak to me.

  Three Days Grace swears they’d rather feel pain than nothing at all, and I think I have to agree.

  Evanescence requests “Bring Me to Life,” and I understand what they mean.

  Slipping back a little, Lenny Kravitz is covering “American Woman,” and I’m pedaling inside the zone when someone taps my sweaty shoulder, startling me.

  I jerk the buds out of my ears. “What?”

  “Did I scare you?” It’s Kayla, slurping a smoothie. “Sorry.”

  “Not good, sneaking up on old ladies like me.”

  She doesn’t respond to that in the least. Instead, she says, “Can I ask you a question?”

  I slow my pedaling a little. It’s hard to talk while panting. “Sure.”

  “Why are you so obsessed with working out? You’re married.”

  “How does one thing negate the other?”

  “I don’t know, only it seems like Cavin loves you just the way you are. What are you trying to prove?”

  Why can’t I just work out in peace? Instead, I stop exerting, allow my heart rate to lower and breathing to return to at-rest speed.

  “One, I’m not trying to prove anything. Two, if I didn’t burn off the calories I consume, I wouldn’t be ‘just the way I am.’ Plus, right now it’s cri
tical for my knee to keep gaining strength so I can avoid the knife. Anyway, your mom’s working out, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t get serious about it until she and Dad started fighting all the time. I kind of thought maybe the idea of divorce sparked her sudden desire to lose weight.”

  I’d like to argue with her, but I thought the very same thing. “Well, I have no plans to divorce my husband. In fact, staying in shape seems like the best way to hang on to him.”

  Her haughty expression morphs into sheepish. “Guess you’re right.”

  “Are you worried about your parents divorcing?”

  “Kind of. Not that it really matters.”

  “It does if it matters to you.”

  “I just don’t get why people fall out of love. . . .” Her eyes glitter. “Or why people cheat.”

  Ah yes. Whether or not she forgave Eli for his last Sophia encounter, the betrayal stung. And no matter what excuse he manufactured, her trust was fractured. “Look, Kayla. I don’t want to sound harsh, but the truth is, young love rarely survives, and it isn’t always distance that makes it fail. The one thing you absolutely must not do is to surrender your dreams in favor of a relationship that’s tenuous at best. Your best shot with Eli, or any man, is to be successful. If you don’t love yourself, and what you stand for, you can’t rightly love anyone else.”

  “You’ve told me all that before.”

  “Yes, and I thought a reminder was in order. Keep your eye on the future, and hold tight to your aspirations. Saying good-bye won’t be easy, but I don’t want to see you here again until your semester break.”

  “But what about”—she lowers her voice—“you-know-who.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. But think about it. How much can he love you if he’s sleeping with her?”

  Sheepish segues to crestfallen. I decide there’s no need to mention the fact that Sophia will be living fifty miles closer than she was the last time Eli spent the night with her. Nor do I say I really hope Kayla meets one incredible guy who’ll make her forget Eli altogether.

  He comes clomping up the stairs, terminating the conversation, other than for her parting, “Thanks, Aunt Tara, for everything, especially for covering my tuition. I’d never have this opportunity otherwise. I promise to work hard. And I’ll try not to worry about the rest.”