A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  “Beats me. Anyway, waylaid is better than just plain laid, right?”

  I suppose he’s got a point, not that I’ll give him the satisfaction of saying so.

  “Everything okay with Kayla?”

  He puts down his backpack, tosses his keys on the counter, comes into the living room, and flops in the chair adjacent the couch. “She did get a little emotional but held it together pretty well. Probably a good thing her mom was there. That’s a nice school, by the way.”

  “Very. I hope she does well. A girl needs solid footing in a world dominated by men.”

  Eli grins. “In my admittedly shortsighted view, women hold the power, if not the wealth. You, of course, enjoy both.”

  Eli, the man.

  “I won’t apologize. I’ve worked hard for both. Oh, speaking of work, I’ve got a new project I’ll be very busy with for several weeks.” I give him a thumbnail sketch. “I’m driving over to Fallon tomorrow. Have you ever been there?”

  “Bumfuck, Egypt? Nope.”

  Eli, the boy.

  “Any desire to ride along?” Did I really just invite his company?

  He looks me straight in the eye. “If you think I can be useful. In fact, if there’s anything I can do to help with your project, I’d be happy to.”

  Eli, the man.

  “Thanks for the offer. There’s plenty to do, and not a whole lot of time to do it. Maybe you could suggest ideas for the menu.” Might as well give him something to invest a bit of energy in.

  “Hot dogs and Cheetos?”

  Eli, the boy.

  Which do you prefer?

  Eli glances at the book sitting beside me on the couch. “ Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Interesting choice.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “Of course. We had to choose classics at the Athenian, and the ones with illicit sexual encounters tended to draw me in better than those featuring whale hunts.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Does anything I do surprise you?”

  “Not really. Not anymore.”

  He leans in toward me, plants his face close enough to mine so there’s no way not to look into his eyes without appearing to be a coward. “How can I change that?”

  Before I can answer, the front doorknob rattles as Cavin finally makes an appearance. Eli retreats, but slowly, something his father overlooks entirely.

  “Sorry I’m a little late. I didn’t miss dinner, did I?”

  I clear my throat, find my voice. “No, but it’s ready. I expected you sooner. Did something happen?”

  He shakes his head. “I decided to stop by my office and go over the films for tomorrow’s surgeries so I wouldn’t have to leave too early in the morning. Then I just kind of got caught up in paperwork. But look, I remembered your French bread.”

  “Our French bread,” I correct. “Why don’t you two go wash up and I’ll put dinner on?”

  Cavin heads back to our bedroom with his overnight bag, but Eli wanders into the kitchen and uses the sink there.

  “I’ll set the table,” he offers.

  “We’ll just need butter knives and soup spoons.”

  As he removes the requisite items from the silverware drawer, I reach over him into the cupboard above for bowls and plates. When we’re mere inches apart, he lowers his voice. “Strange Dad didn’t call to let you know not to worry, huh?”

  “Men can be thoughtless sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”

  He straightens. “And some women are naive. I just wouldn’t have expected you to be one of them.”

  Eli, the man, is maddening.

  thirty-one

  T HE NEXT WEEK WILL definitely keep me busy. With the siding company promising at least two more days of noise pollution, I’m happy to invest the first one into driving east to Fallon, Nevada. Its high desert landscape belies the fact that the Naval Air Station Fallon is the area’s largest employer and home to the real-life Top Gun training academy. Farming the arid but rich land was made possible at the turn of the twentieth century by Francis Newlands, whose vision encompassed a huge series of irrigation canals throughout the region.

  Fresh for Families partners with three Fallon produce farmers, two ranchers, and a dairy farmer. Together they provide lettuce, corn, onions, melons, beef, lamb, and, of course, dairy products, supplementing the diets of families in need. The day I visit is oppressively hot, as Eli, who decided to come after all, keeps reminding me on the drive between properties.

  “It’s hot as literal hell out here. Who would want to live in this godforsaken part of the country?”

  “I’ve spent some hot-as-hell days in Sacramento. You lived there.”

  “Not by choice. Anyway, at least there’s shit to do in Sac.”

  “I’m sure there’s plenty to do in Fallon, Eli.” Not that I can actually discern much, but the town itself is rather charming, at least the historical Main Street section.

  “You mean like hunt and fish and watch corn grow. Maybe catch sight of a jet or two.”

  The words are barely out of his mouth when a fighter pops up above the scrub brush, roaring into the sky. “You have to admit that’s pretty cool.”

  “Cool. Right. Unlike the temperature.”

  “Quit griping. You were the one who wanted to come.” Which surprised me, considering he generally prefers to sleep in, and I was adamant about being on the road by eight thirty. In fact, he snoozed most of the way down the mountain and became communicative only when we stopped for gas.

  “I figured the drive would let us talk.”

  “About what?”

  “To start with, school. I’ll have enough credits to graduate at the semester break. Then I thought I might take the spring semester off and start SNC the following fall.”

  “I guess that’s up to you. Why talk to me about it?”

  “I need you to run interference with Dad.”

  “You mean he’s not supportive of your plan?”

  “I haven’t even discussed it with him.”

  Sounds like an end around. “First of all, I’m not sure what you’re worried about. And secondly, what exactly are you planning to do between January and August?”

  “Ski bum while there’s snow, and beach bum after. I’m hoping you guys will let me chill in the Carmel house for a couple of months.”

  “Alone?”

  He answers with a shrug.

  “Eli, you’ll barely be eighteen. I’m not sure . . .” It strikes me that, strangely enough, I’m not sure I want to have him gone. Which makes zero sense at all, considering how little I wanted him with us when he first moved in.

  “You could always come supervise,” he coaxes.

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “I thought you thrived on danger.”

  Before I can respond, my GPS beeps. “ You have reached your destination on the left.” It’s a welcome interruption.

  We spend several hours perusing cantaloupes and cornfields and talking with owners about their operations. We learn that farmers routinely grow more than they can sell to their primary markets. Sometimes as much as fifty percent of their produce gets turned back under, which is more efficient than it might seem. But for some the waste is unacceptable. Fresh for Families sends volunteers out to collect and distribute excess crops, making it a win-win situation, especially with the write-offs available to the farmers.

  Our final stop is a dairy farm. “Holy shit,” exclaims Eli when he opens the passenger door. Let’s just say bovine excrement carries a very unpleasant smell when the temperature hovers close to one hundred degrees. We’ll have to arrange the video shoot for a cooler day if possible.

  Despite the odor, the property is beautiful, especially the pasture where at least some of the black-and-white cattle graze. Plenty of fodder for a camera crew. It’s a medium-size operation, we’re told, with 125 cows each producing an average of seven gallons of milk per day, so many are in the barn, giving to the cause.

  Troy, whose
father established the place twenty-eight years ago, explains, “There isn’t a lot of money in dairy farming, unless you’re a huge operation. We treat our animals humanely and can rightly stamp our milk ‘organic.’ And that cuts into the bottom line. All we can afford to donate to the program is fifty gallons a week.”

  “So, why do you do it, then?” asks Eli.

  “I do my best to live a God-fearing life, and if I can fill a few kids’ bellies, I figure when my time comes I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Eli and I are back in the car before I comment, “Altruism. Imagine that. It’s a rare concept these days.”

  “Are you altruistic or are you getting compensated for this work?”

  “Not for this project, but if I decide I want a paid position, one’s been offered.”

  “Really? You can make money in fund-raising? Because I might be good at it.”

  My first reaction is no damn way, but on second thought, it just might be something he could do. God knows he has a knack for persuasion. “Maybe so.”

  “But if you’re not getting paid, what’s in it for you?”

  “It’s a game.”

  “How do you win?”

  “By convincing people to open their—”

  “Don’t tell me. Hearts?”

  “No, their checkbooks. The bigger the check, the bigger the win.”

  He considers. Grins. “Sounds like fun.”

  Exactly.

  Armed with lots of ideas for whichever production company I choose, we embark on our journey home and are almost to Carson City when Eli drops a bomb. “So I hear you’re sleeping with Kayla’s dad.”

  “I most certainly am not!”

  “But you did.”

  Okay, this is so none of his business.

  But someone has managed to make it that.

  How do I respond?

  In this case, since he just might be reporting back to that someone, the truth is probably my best choice. “Eli, I don’t need to defend myself to you, but since you’ve somehow become involved in this discussion, I will tell you the same thing I told Melody, and your father is privy to it as well. I met Graham twenty years ago while he was still in med school. We went to dinner and a concert and, yes, we slept together exactly one time. I had no idea he was dating my sister, but as soon as I discovered that, there was no more ‘Graham and me.’ End of story.”

  “I believe you. And just so you know, I told Kayla I totally doubted you were having an affair with her dad.”

  “Wait. How does Kayla know?”

  “I guess I told her. I figured if your sister was crying to Dad about it, it wasn’t exactly a secret, and I wanted her to understand I think it’s bullshit.”

  I really have to deal with this, don’t I?

  Yes, and very soon.

  But for now, let’s divert the conversation. “Speaking of Kayla, I haven’t had a chance to ask how you feel about her being gone. Will you miss having her around?”

  “Some. It’s nice to have sex readily available, you know? Especially when you don’t have to be married to get it when you want it.”

  “Easy sex is the only reason you’ll miss her?”

  “Look, I’m not in love with her. You know that, and she does, too. Or at least she ought to. And honestly, there were times when she made me feel . . . I don’t know. Uncomfortable?”

  “Really? Like how?”

  “I said she was dependent. A better word might be ‘possessive.’ Most of the time I could deal with it, but sometimes—maybe she was off her meds or whatever—she kind of went ape shit over little stuff like my checking out girls at the beach. I mean, I’m not blind.”

  He’s not exactly subtle, either.

  “You don’t think maybe finding out about you sleeping with Sophia while she was in California had something to do with her mistrusting you?”

  “I guess. But you know what she said? That if she ever caught Sophia and me together, she’d make damn sure it would never happen again. And the way she said it creeped me out. Once in a while, she’s scary, man.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re exaggerating.”

  He says nothing, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see his head swivel slowly, left-right-left.

  “If you felt that way, why didn’t you just break up with her?”

  “Scary chicks are great in the sack.”

  “Eli . . .” I warn.

  “No, look. First, there’s the you-and-Kayla connection. I didn’t want to take a chance on pissing you off. Plus, I really wasn’t sure what she might do, to me or to herself, if she went all the way off the deep end. Anyway, I knew you’d make damn sure she’d start college, so I figured I could just wait her out.”

  “Are you telling me you’re actually afraid of her?”

  “Let’s just say she probably shouldn’t be allowed too close to a loaded gun.”

  Boom.

  Figuratively thinking, that is.

  But I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around this. I’ve known Kayla her entire life and never intuited anything menacing about her.

  Then again, other than the short time she spent living under my roof, I’ve probably been around her on only a dozen occasions. How well can you reasonably “know” someone in those circumstances? I was surprised at her total disdain for her parents’ concerns about her boyfriends, especially considering she actually disappeared for a couple of days, not a word to let anyone know she was safely shacking up with some sleaze. She drinks, smokes weed, and she could very well be experimenting with harder drugs. All that self-medication could contribute to the suicide threats Mel mentioned, as could forgetting her prescribed meds.

  Do suicidal tendencies go hand in hand with homicidal propensities?

  “Anyway . . .” Eli interrupts that very long stream of negative thoughts. “I wanted to thank you for not telling Kayla about Sophia moving to the lake. It would’ve pissed her off majorly.”

  “I decided it was not my place to tell her, Eli, though I do think she has the right to know. Unless you officially sunder your relationship. Besides, I wasn’t one hundred percent positive Sophia would actually make the move. There’s always the possibility she’ll change her mind.”

  “Nope. She’s already there.”

  “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “I talked to her. She’s living in a condo up on Kingsbury Grade, right next to Heavenly.”

  The boy is a wellspring of information.

  “When did you talk to her?”

  “On the way back from San Francisco last night.”

  “What?”

  He lifts his hands in the air, wiggles his fingers. “No worries. Hands-free technology.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Did you call her or vice versa?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay, okay. I called her, just to see how she’s doing. She was all wound up about her new show and living at Tahoe. Her condo’s ski in, ski out, and—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Eli, why would I care about what Sophia’s wound up about? I don’t care about her at all.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot you were jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous. I’d just prefer she stay off my radar.” Weak. “Not to mention off my property.”

  “You including Dad as your ‘property’?”

  Sometimes I really want to smack him. I reel that thought in and answer, “I trust your father, Eli.”

  “Up to you, I guess. And what about me?”

  “Do I trust you? No, but I don’t have to, do I?”

  He feigns grabbing his heart. “Shot through. But I’ll survive.”

  Now he turns up the volume on the radio. Guess that means we’re finished conversing. I satisfy myself with listening to him sing along with some of my grunge favorites, and truly showing off his vocal ability by nailing Alice in Chains’ “Rooster.”

  I wait unt
il he’s finished to ask, “How do you know this music, anyway?” He didn’t miss a lyric.

  “You and my mom have something in common. Besides my dad and me, that is.”

  Good enough.

  We’re almost home before I remember to ask, “Neither you nor Kayla smoke, do you? Cigarettes, I mean.”

  “Nope. One habit I never picked up. And I’ve never seen her smoke, either.”

  That’s what I thought.

  When he inquires why I asked, it’s a fair question.

  One I’m not willing to answer.

  Four decades of play have taught me to hold some cards close to my chest.

  thirty-two

  T HE DAY I SPEND with Jason, traipsing through fields and orchards, is pleasant enough, though by the end of it my knee feels like it’s experienced far too much weight-bearing activity. Happily, at least, much of it is at altitude, which mitigates the heat to a great degree.

  We also tour a couple of elevated wineries—some of Jason’s favorites—and one stands out to me as perfect for what I have in mind. They do weddings here, overlooking the American River Valley, and there’s plenty of space both outside and in the building itself to accommodate whatever the capricious weather gods might throw our way in early October.

  The owner himself is in the tasting room, and Logan has heard of the FFF programs through one of the local growers he knows, so he’s immediately open to my idea. “Tasting closes at five on weekends,” he tells us, “so an evening event isn’t impossible. We’ll have to look at dates, as we do have a couple of weddings scheduled for October.”

  “We are a nonprofit,” I remind him, “so our budget is limited. Not sure we could pay as much for the facility as a bride might be willing to. But of course, you could write off any in-kind donation on your taxes.”

  I give him my best temptress imitation, and apparently I’m not too out of practice because he rewards me with a smile, which says he wants to work with us. Or me.

  “I don’t suppose it would work on a weekday?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The idea is to show donors around a couple of the Apple Hill orchards that we work with, hopefully boosting business for them as well. But if you think about it, we’ll be pulling in people from points distant who might not otherwise discover your wonderful wines, so that’s a plus for you, too.”