A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  “No problem. I’ll be in touch, or somebody from the department will.”

  I watch his hulking form retreat, then carefully lock the front door as he reenters his patrol car. Normally I’d flip off the floodlights, but this is a good night to keep them on. Considering the way I relied on the alarm system on Russian Hill, I’m not sure why I haven’t suggested installing one here, but it’s something I’ll remedy first thing.

  It’s a little after eleven. Cavin will probably be asleep, but I dial his number anyway and am surprised when he picks up immediately. “Oh, hey. I was thinking about calling you but decided it was too late.”

  “Ditto. But then I thought you should hear what happened tonight.”

  He is silent through the storytelling. When I wrap it up, he’s freaked-out. “Why are you still in the house? Get a hotel room and I’ll be home as soon as I can tomorrow, unless you want me to come right now.”

  “Don’t be silly. You can’t drive home tonight, and as for a hotel room, you have noticed the tourists in town? This is high season. I doubt I could find a place to stay, and besides, I feel safe enough locked in here, butcher knife by my side. Every floodlight is on. The property is lit up like a car lot. And Deputy Cross promised extra patrols.”

  “Tara, I know you’re fearless, but—”

  “Seriously, I’ll be fine. It’s a very big knife.”

  “Very funny. I don’t think you should take this too lightly.”

  “Really, I’m not. I’ll call a security company tomorrow. In addition to an alarm system, I think motion detectors connected to the floodlights would deter both burglars and bears.”

  “That, my dear, is a very good plan.”

  Let’s see what he thinks about this one. “Also, I’m looking into purchasing a protection piece.”

  “A what?”

  “A handgun.”

  Silence.

  “No comment?”

  “That seems like a decision we should make together.”

  “You have a problem with owning a gun for personal safety?”

  “On a purely philosophical level, no. But on a personal level, I do. You know my mother committed suicide. It was my father’s gun she used. He always kept it locked up, especially once her bipolar disorder kicked into high gear. But she managed to find the key to the lockbox. It was only after she died that he finally disposed of it.”

  Sobering.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I had no idea that’s the method she chose. I believe that’s unusual for a woman.”

  “Mom rarely did things like everyone else, and once she decided death was her best option, she wanted to be very sure not to wake up again.”

  Not a pretty picture. Considering Kayla’s issues, and the fact that she’s threatened suicide in the past, I’d have to be very careful to keep a weapon well hidden while she was visiting. But with luck, she might not be hanging around much anyway.

  I think a subject change is in order. “So, what time did you get to San Francisco? Why wait so long to call?”

  “Long, complicated story . . .”

  Escalade got a flat going over the Sierra, out in the middle of nowhere. Waiting on AAA. A motorhome caught fire, closing I-80 outside of Fairfield. Detour was bumper-to-bumper. So was the Bay Bridge, due to a Giants game traffic complicated by a public transportation worker strike.

  “I finally got to the house around nine,” he continues. “Charlie was here, still packing up stuff. Didn’t you say he was finished?”

  “I thought he was.”

  “Apparently, he put it off till the last minute. I’ll go through several of the boxes and bring what looks most important.”

  Suddenly, I wish I’d gone along. One, so I’d know everything about tomorrow’s move will be copacetic. And, two, so no notion of weaponry would’ve ever crossed my mind.

  “Oh, one more thing,” says Cavin. “Eli and Kayla showed up a little while ago, wanting to spend the night. I said okay. It was that or get them a hotel room. Tomorrow, after Eli drops Kayla off at school, I’ll set him up at the Fairmont. He wants to hang out in the city for a couple of days. The original plan was for me to spend two nights there with him, but once the movers are finished here I can leave.”

  “No. Enjoy the extra time in the city.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. You’ll be home on Wednesday though?”

  “I have to be. I’ve got a surgery Thursday morning.”

  “Okay, I’ll say good night, then.”

  I go on to bed, thinking about Cavin and Eli, who always seem to be at odds here at home. Interesting that they planned to spend time together in San Francisco. Are they seeking common ground? Can they reach it in neutral territory?

  Eyes closed against the harsh shadows thrown by floodlight glare sneaking in through the blinds, it’s a toss-and-turn night. I’m sleeping on porcupine quills. Every nerve quivers, spectacularly on edge. The forest is alive with nighttime noises I usually don’t hear.

  It’s the wind, my brain understands, knocking on glass and wood.

  It’s human, my heart insists.

  He wants in.

  Where’s the knife?

  He wants you.

  Where’s my gun?

  Toss right.

  Turn left.

  Glance at the clock.

  12:18

  12:46

  1:07

  1:39

  Finally, I get out of bed, go into the bathroom, and gulp a single Vicoprofen, washing it down with long swallows of water. It’ll make me groggy in the morning, but at least I should get a few hours of decent sleep. If my head is too thick, I’ll reschedule my meeting, but I hate to look like a flake on day one of any new business relationship. Accordingly, I set my alarm for eight a.m., the latest I can possibly sleep and still have a chance of arriving on time. One thing I refuse to do is be tardy.

  Back beneath the covers, I take deep breaths and convince my body to succumb to the lure of the poppy. Rather than deny their existence, I watch silhouettes dance outside the window, knowing they belong to treetops. No corporeal being could meander there, two stories above the ground, and I’m not afraid of ghosts.

  Not really.

  Which sort of begs the question: What am I afraid of?

  Intruders? After tonight, there might be a sense of trepidation. But despite Cavin’s concern, I’ve decided to make that gun purchase. I’m determined not to live in fear of random encounters. Which leads me to strangers. One-night stands are lost to me now, and I’m fine with that. And since I’m careful about the places I frequent, the odds of that one determined creep targeting me are exceptionally low.

  Relationships? As for ex-husbands, one’s dead; one’s in prison; and the third is now free of any financial responsibility toward me. As for uncommitted partners, I’ve freed myself of worry. It’s been nine months since the last one, with no repercussions. As for my current partner, no, which could be a problem. But I haven’t turned off my spousal radar completely.

  Aging? Like most women, of course, but I’ve got the financial resources to slow the process and the internal drive to keep in shape, and my health is stellar. I’m never sick and rarely clumsy enough to damage myself. Prior to taking that fall at Heavenly, my only hospital experiences were a couple of ER visits for mango attacks.

  Each checkmark on that list earns a bit more relaxation. But now I start thinking about the things that do scare me, at least a little.

  Family. This one is weird because not so very long ago I thought I knew exactly where I stood at the fringes of the fold. Mom never mattered, and I totally lost my fear of her violent outbursts after the day I fought back and won. But I’ve always thought I understood my sister inside out, and her recent evolution is unnerving. Ditto the change in her husband. Maybe not fear inducing but definitely worth keeping an eye on.

  Parenting? Um, yeah, though what I’ve been doing could more reasonably be termed “pseudo-parenting.” I’m a total fraud when
it comes to guidance, gentle or otherwise. I’ve got so little experience that some of the kids’ actions surprise me. Sex and drugs right out in the open, no real concern about who might happen by? No filters. No discernible morals. Is it all modern teens or only those recently dropped into my lap?

  I’ve known Kayla since she was a baby. Watched her grow, though from a distance. Photos and e-mail updates can’t totally inform a relationship like that, and the longer she was under my roof, the more I realized that I have no clear idea what kind of person she is. Most of the time she seems docile enough, but every now and then I see hints of the instability mostly mitigated by her meds.

  And Eli, well, if anything scares me, he does. He’s brash. Unpredictable. Determined. Demanding. For an overprotected boy, not quite eighteen, he’s way too mature and wears his manhood proudly. Arrogantly, in fact. Why the hell do I find that so damn attractive?

  Maybe it’s me I’m really afraid of.

  My limbs feel weighted, and I know I’ll tumble toward sleep very soon. I close my eyes against the spectral waving outside the window, listen to the chant of the wind. It’s got rhythm . . . soul . . .

  twenty-eight

  A N INSISTENT CHIME DRAGS me into the light of morning. I curse but open my eyes. Eight a.m. and I’ve got somewhere to be.

  Hopefully the sting of a cool shower will thin the porridge inside my skull. I start the water hot, the correct temperature to shampoo with. After I rinse conditioner from my hair, I gradually turn the faucet toward cold and, once my skin is covered with goose bumps, assess. I’m totally awake, mostly aware. Hopefully caffeine will finish the job.

  Naked, hair dripping, I hit the kitchen and start the coffeepot, then remember the floods, needlessly lit in the daylight. I go to the front door first, flip off the upper lights, then make an about-face toward the sliding glass door. As I reach for the switch, movement just beyond the tree line catches my eye.

  I stomp out onto the deck and loudly demand, “Who’s there?”

  The sound of my voice shocks the interloper into action. The boy, who’s maybe ten, moves into the open. “Sorry. I, um . . . We are staying over there. . . .” He points down the hill. “Our dog got off the leash and I was trying to catch him, but he started chasing a squirrel and he ran up here and wouldn’t come back and . . .”

  The kid is nervous.

  Uh, as well he should be, considering I’m standing here in the buff, something I might not have noticed except the chill morning air has sharpened my nipples into taut peaks. Still, no use making him think the female form is anything less than art. I make no move to cover up. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m sure your pup will come back to you. Meanwhile, my woods are your woods.”

  I turn away, pausing long enough to reward him with a decent rear end snapshot and wishing it were possible for us to fence our perimeter. But the Glenbrook Design Review Committee has definite rules about fences, walls, and hedges not delineating property lines or blocking the neighbors’ views. Wonder how they’d feel about random vacationers reviewing my design.

  Inside, I pour coffee and take it back to my bedroom, where I dress to impress in a turquoise silk suit. Unfortunately, I’ll have to skip the pumps I prefer to wear with this outfit. Five-inch heels and knee injuries are mutually exclusive, as are business meetings and excessive makeup. Don’t want to look sexy, just terribly attractive. Despite the relative lack of sleep, with hints of foundation, blush, and mascara, I think I manage to accomplish that.

  Three cups of joe and two scrambled eggs, no toast, chase away most of the cobwebs, so I’m raring to go. I’ve come up with what I believe will be a brilliant late-spring fund-raiser, and I’m anxious for feedback. In fact, other than my honeymoon, I haven’t looked forward to anything quite this much in a long time.

  I arrive at the Parasol Foundation at ten before the appointed hour, which gives me plenty of time to run a brush through my hair, apply a pale sheen of lip gloss, and swallow an ibuprofen to ward off the vague headache threat I’m suddenly feeling.

  Maryann greets me at the door and ushers me back to a sedate boardroom, where one seat at the long table is already occupied.

  The man who stands is in his early fifties and not a whole lot taller than I am. His casual dress and collar-length silvering hair belie his CEO title but are admirable. This is a man who’s comfortable with himself and the job he does, and that in itself is remarkably attractive.

  Maryann makes the introduction. “Tara Lattimore, meet Jason Cunningham. I’ve filled him in on your background and forwarded the references you provided.”

  “Very happy to meet you, Mr. Cunningham.”

  “It’s Jason, and I hope it’s okay if I call you Tara. Too much formality gives me hives.”

  I smile, at ease already. “Mangoes top my list of hive givers, but formality runs a close second.”

  “You’re in luck. Mangoes can’t be produced locally, so we don’t deal with them at all. Shall we sit?”

  He and I do. Maryann excuses herself. “Let me know if you need something. I’m just next door.”

  “How familiar are you with Fresh for Families?” Jason asks before our butts are fully planted.

  “I did a little research. . . .” I outline what I gathered in two hours.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “And so am I, with the organization. It’s a cause I can happily support, both financially and with whatever fund-raising help you’ll allow me to do. I still maintain an extensive list of past supporters, many of whom I have no doubt will embrace Fresh for Families, and of course I would need access to your own donor rolls.”

  “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “I have. In fact, I had an idea for a fund-raiser. . . .”

  I outline my plan to invite potential donors to tour the properties of a couple of his growers. “I was thinking Apple Hill, since it’s close and will be producing fruit by then. That has a two-pronged advantage—one for Fresh for Families, and one for your growers. We could create a short video showing the grower-to-you process, followed by the FFF distribution process, and finish with some testimonials.”

  I let that much sink in.

  “Ambitious.”

  “Wait. There’s more. After the tour, we finish with dinner at one of the nearby El Dorado County wineries. There are several with plenty of space for the size group I’m sure will want to participate. Again, it’s win-win, and the winery can write off their costs as an in-kind donation. I’m also thinking we could entice a B and B to donate a room for a night or two as an incentive for larger donations. Other than producing the video, which should be done right, I don’t foresee major out-of-pocket expenses for FFF at all. And you can use the video for any promotional purposes.”

  He sits considering for several long seconds. “How long have you had to think about this?”

  I laugh. “A couple of days. Okay, a day, and a busy one at that.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “San Francisco, though not originally.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean, how did this connection happen? Fresh for Families needs someone like you. We could make it a paid position.”

  I start to say no. But I don’t want him to think I’m completely altruistic, and yet don’t want him to know the extent of my financial circumstances. “Tell you what. This one’s on me, and if I perform as expected, we can talk about future compensation.”

  “Sounds good, except for one thing. I’d like to do it earlier. Can you pull it together by late October?”

  I experience an unexpected rush of nerves. Two months, give or take? “If I go to work on it right away, I think I can. We’ll need to secure the venue immediately. And you’ll need to compile a list of former and prospective donors.”

  “The donor list is no problem. Oh, and as for the venue, I love the winery element. As you probably know, the area is beautiful in the fall. Are you a fan?”

  “Of El Dorado winerie
s? Truthfully, I’ve never investigated them. My real love of wine came at the behest of an ex who was a Napa aficionado. But I’m more than willing to explore.”

  “You should, and Amador and Calaveras Counties as well. They’re connected, and each has its standout vintages. Not as famous as Napa or Sonoma or California regions to the south, which means they’re not as crowded, despite the fact they’ve been planting vineyards since the Gold Rush days.”

  Ah, good. We have something in common, an excellent way to start any game. “That’s right. John Sutter himself planted grapes, yes? In Coloma?”

  “Actually, I believe you’re thinking of James Marshall, who first discovered gold in Coloma at Sutter’s Fort. He never found the mother lode and after a while decided growing wine for thirsty forty-niners was a more lucrative option. The Sutter reference is valid, in a way, however. It was his daughter who founded the Sutter Home Winery in St. Helena.”

  “You know your history.”

  “California history, anyway. And I’m something of an oenophile myself.”

  “With your permission, I’ll start laying some groundwork for the fund-raiser. I’ve used a video production company in the past, if that’s something you want me to do for you. Or if you have another one in mind, I’m happy to give them my ideas and let you iron out the details. But that’s probably where we should start. It could take a while to produce what we need. Meanwhile, you might contact some of your growers. I’d like to tour a few farms and talk to their owners if possible.”

  His grin is charming. “You are quite the dynamo. I believe I’ll leave as much as possible in your capable hands. You let me know what you need from me. I think we should come up with a title for you, don’t you?”

  “It’s good to have, yes. Makes me sound official.”

  Jason mulls it over. Finally, he suggests, “How about director of philanthropy? That sounds not only official but also quite important.”

  It has a nice ring. “I like it. So then, it’s okay if I get started?”

  “Absolutely. Here’s my card. Feel free to call, text, or e-mail me anytime.”