He thinks for a minute. “Let me go consult the calendar, not to mention my wife. I’d love to work out something with you.”
“Please discuss a bottom-line price so we can decide if our budget can accommodate it. And while we’re here, I’d like to taste a couple of your big-bodied reds. My cellar’s in need of replenishment.”
“Cellar, eh?”
“Yes. I had quite the vault in the Russian Hill house I just sold. Moving those bottles to Tahoe was a serious accomplishment. Now I need to have something substantial built there, so if you can recommend a good storage system, I’d be grateful.”
“Here. Start with this 2013 Syrah and I’ll be right back.” Logan pours two samples, then disappears.
Jason lifts his glass in a small toast. “To October fund-raisers.”
I take a sip of a fine syrah. “To excellent vintages and generous winemakers.”
When Logan returns, he has a possible date. “Looks like the last Saturday will work. Is that good for you?”
Exactly what I was hoping for. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
We talk wine and racking for fifteen or twenty minutes. Every now and again I glance at Jason, who is watching with amusement. I ask to try something else and steer our dialogue toward the accomplishments of Fresh for Families, a bit about my previous fund-raisers, and the upscale clientele likely to be attracted to well-publicized goodwill.
I taste a petite sirah, two cabernets, a zinfandel, and a fabulous Barbera, and am glad Jason declined a sip of anything but the syrah. He’s driving, and it would be impossible for me to take the wheel, at least without napping for a while.
But the tactic definitely worked. I go home with three cases of decent red wine and Logan’s commitment to let us use his winery for our event for the cost of staffing it. He even offers to fire up the barbecue, don his chef hat, and cook for our crowd.
Voilà!
“Date and location locked in,” I tell Jason on the way home.
“Seems so,” he agrees. “Impressive.”
“I hope everything falls into place as easily. This is a big undertaking, and I foresee it growing into quite an event.”
“I don’t doubt that at all. You are genuinely persuasive.”
“Only one of my many talents, and thank you. Now that we know the ‘when,’ we’ll need to coordinate with the growers as far as touring their properties, plus figure out the details of the video shoots. I’ll get straight on that tomorrow.”
It’s early evening by the time Jason drops me off at home. “May I help you carry in your wine?” he volunteers.
“Of course. You can meet my husband.”
We each grab a case to take inside. Cavin’s in the kitchen. “Good. You’re home. Perfect timing. Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.” He comes over to relieve me of the carton in my arms, but first extends a hand, forcing Jason to set down his own box and shake. “I’m Cavin. You must be Jason. It’s good to meet you.”
“You as well. Your wife is a live wire, in case you don’t know.”
Live wire. I like it.
“Believe me, I knew it from the minute I met her, even if she was strapped down to a gurney.”
“Honey,” I interrupt, “there’s another case of wine in the back of Jason’s SUV. Would you mind?”
“Three?”
“I think she mostly bought them as a bribe,” Jason says.
“Did it work?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
The two men laugh and Cavin follows Jason out to his vehicle.
“Bye,” I call, before collapsing on the couch.
Cavin soon returns with the last of the wine. He sets down the box, then takes an assessing look at me. “You okay?”
“Tired and a little headachy. Would you mind bringing me a couple of ibuprofen and some water?”
He delivers the requested items, kisses me gently, then looks me square in the eye. “Two long days in a row, with a lot of time on your feet. You should rest up tomorrow.”
I swallow the pills. “The security company is supposed to come in the morning. I’ll follow them around, then do my best to sit out the afternoon. I’ll have a lot of telephoning to do, but I can accomplish that butt in chair.”
“Promise?”
“Absolutely.”
He straightens. “Good. Jason seems like a nice guy. I take it your day was successful.”
“Yes, we accomplished a lot today.” I give him the overview as he goes to start the vegetables.
He opens the fridge. “Asparagus okay, or would you rather have spinach? I can sauté it with garlic and olive oil.”
“Choices, choices. Either’s fine by me. Maybe you should ask Eli.”
“Oh, he won’t be home for dinner.”
“Really? Where is he?”
“I’m not sure. I just got a text that said not to expect him, and he’d be back late.”
I’ve got a pretty good idea where he went. “Did you know Sophia’s living in Stateline now?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since Starbucks. How do you know?”
“Guess.”
“Oh. You think that’s where he is?”
“Where else?”
Rather than respond to that, he redirects: “Did you decide on the vegetable?”
“Spinach.”
“Good decision.”
“Want help?”
“Nope. I’ve got this.”
The ibuprofen has worked its magic; the pain has receded. I move to a kitchen bar stool, where conversation will be easier. Besides, “I like watching you work. At least, I like watching you cook. I wish I could mince garlic as fastidiously. I always end up with pieces on the floor.”
“That would be me and bone spurs.”
“What?” His words finally sink in. “Oh. You mean on the operating room floor. That’s rather disgusting. I wouldn’t make a good nurse.”
“That’s all right. You’re good at just about everything else.”
Once the spinach is safely in the pan, I ask, “So has Eli mentioned his plans for this year to you?”
“Plans?”
I repeat Eli’s list of goals and desires.
“He thinks I’m going to finance his bumming around for six months? Not to mention allow him to stay in the Carmel house? What planet does the boy live on?”
Planet Sophia, obviously.
“I thought I should let you know.”
“Why would he come to you first?” He’s fuming.
“No clue. He also asked me to run interference.”
The oven buzzer sounds, signaling the chicken has finished roasting. Cavin turns down the heat on the spinach, removes the bird from the oven. And wow, does the sizzling fat in the pan release an amazing scent. Coupled with the sautéed garlic, it’s olfactory paradise. Now I’m really glad I chose the spinach.
“Oh my God!” I exhale. “I’m pretty sure I’m starving. In fact . . .” I run down the day’s activities in my head. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” Which explains why the wine tasting threatened head hammering.
But Cavin’s thoughts are elsewhere. “You know, I get that Melissa spoiled Eli all the way to rotten. But I really can’t quite comprehend how his brain works. Is it too late for him to mature into an actual thinking human being?”
“Highly doubtful. But stranger things have happened, and I don’t believe as his father you’re allowed to give up on him just yet.”
“Okay, fine,” he says, all pouty, and that’s really rather charming. “But sounds like he and I are way overdue for a very long talk.”
“Indeed. But since he’s not here, and that chicken is, could we please eat? If my mouth waters any harder, it’s going to be decidedly unattractive.”
“I kind of like your mouth wet,” he teases, reaching for a knife to carve the chicken. “At least, some of my body parts do.”
“Tell you what. You give me one of those breasts and I’ll see what my wet mouth can do for you later
.”
He loads up a plate with sautéed spinach and white meat, slides it across the bar in front of me. But before he fixes his own, he comes around and slips a hand inside my blouse. “Tell you what. You give me one of these breasts and I’ll guarantee what my wet mouth will do for you later.”
“You’ve got a deal, mister.”
After dinner, with Eli gone and the neighboring houses empty, I suggest we take our just-purchased-today, Double Gold Award–winning cabernet out to the hot tub, where we sit and soak in the buff, listening to irresistible alternative music. By mutual silent agreement, we don’t talk about work or crazy relatives or try to make plans for the weekend.
The water’s heat erases any vestige of pain and makes my muscles pliable. When we’ve emptied our glasses, I put them aside and scoot sideways into Cavin’s lap, and all it takes is a demanding kiss to bring him rigid between my legs. It would be easy enough to allow him entry right here, right now. But that would deny all the earlier talk of wet mouths.
“Sit up on the edge,” I tell him.
I am able to kneel on my left knee and extend my right leg to the side. It’s awkward, but it doesn’t hurt and allows me to go down on him without much of a problem. Some women, I’ve heard, don’t enjoy giving head, but it’s almost as much a turn-on for me as receiving it is, even though it’s something of a feat with Cavin because of his size.
But I enjoy a challenge, especially this one, and at this angle I can bring him over my tongue and into my throat on entry, then slowly lift my face, applying enough suction to make him moan his pleasure. At one point I pause long enough to ask, “Is my mouth wet enough for you?”
“Perfect,” he manages, asking for more with the plea of his hands.
I make him as slick as I can, then fold my breasts around him, sandwiching his pulsing shaft. Up. Down. Up. Down. Sensuous rise and fall. His hands enfold mine and he quickens the tempo, grasping my nipples in the Vs of his fingers and vising them to the point of just-pain. Together, we bring him very close to climax, something he refuses.
“Get out,” he says, and when I do he lifts me off my feet and lays me gently on a big beach towel spread over a lounge chair. “I believe I gave you a guarantee. Close your eyes.”
To the tune of R.E.M.’s “The One I Love” and the forest’s own night music, I give myself completely to the demands of my husband’s mouth and tongue, and he makes good on his promise, rewarding me with a great silken wave of pleasure.
Rather than chance the chair’s flimsy nature, he tugs the towel, with me still on it, to the relative stability of the deck itself. Quickly, he’s inside me, brimming me with every thrust, and oh, how I wish I could lock both legs around his waist. I make do with one, lifting my hips as best I can to meet the drive of his body.
What’s that noise?
It’s a low, primal growl, and I realize suddenly it’s emanating from me.
And what it means is I’m coming now.
No, more than that.
My orgasm escapes in a superheated geyser.
“Holy hell!” exclaims Cavin.
One strong arm lifts me gently, turning me onto my side, and he enters me from behind. Five long, hard strokes, and he shudders, exhaling, “God, I love you,” into my hair as he comes. My husband is sexy as hell.
He gathers me into the cup of his body, smooths my messy tresses, calms my stuttering heart, running his fingertips softly along my moonlight-bathed skin. It’s lovely, and not the kind of gift one could expect after sex with a stranger.
But drifting here in the afterglow, I’m almost certain I detect a hint of lit tobacco. “Do you smell that?”
“What?”
“A cigarette.” I sit up and reach for the clothes I shed beside the hot tub.
“I don’t smell anything. But relax. I’ll take a look.” He slips into his boxers, goes to the railing and investigates the perimeter of the deck. “Nothing. Your paranoia is showing.”
No, it’s not. Not even close.
thirty-three
T HE SIDING COMPANY HAS finished the job. The security company will start installing cameras, motion detectors, alarms, and a couple of extra protocols on Tuesday. Cavin and I spend a quiet weekend catching up on work-related loose ends and enjoying a Sunday brunch on the lake at Camp Richardson’s Beacon Bar & Grill.
With summer winding down, it isn’t as crowded as I expected, and the bike rental place looks lonely, so we pick up a couple and cruise the gentle cycling path through the old growth forest. Playing tourist on home turf feels a little strange, but we have a great time doing it and it’s nice for all that pedaling to actually move me from point to point. Stationary biking has definitely grown old.
Eli spent most of the weekend away from the house. When he finally stumbles in Sunday evening, red-eyed and slurring slightly, I quiz him about where he’s been, and he answers with a noncommittal, “Better you don’t know. You wouldn’t be pleased.”
Rather than have him confirm what I suspect, I shift gears. “Once school starts I hope you’ll have sense enough to stay away from known drug users and concentrate on your studies.”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m not into anything heavy. Weed is one thing. Addiction is another, and not something I’m willing to take a chance on. I do have priorities, believe it or not, and brain damage isn’t one of them.”
Some soliloquy.
“I’m no expert,” I continue, “but I’ve heard that cocaine attracts some pretty bad people. You can’t know who you might run into at her place.”
He falls silent for a couple of seconds but at last says, “So you know, she’s not into coke anymore. The only thing I saw her using was prescription drugs, and downers at that. And I’m not afraid of her dealer.”
Cavin happens upon the conversation, and the mood quickly takes a tumble. “I assume you’re referring to Sophia. Why don’t you do all of us a favor and steer clear of her? None of us needs her presence in our lives, and that includes you.”
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Jealousy doesn’t become you, you know.”
“Jealousy? Are you implying I’m jealous of you, you little shit? Because that is preposterous.”
“Preposterous. Ooh, big word, Dad. I’m impressed. Look, I understand why you’d be nervous about me hanging out with Sophia. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
Cavin and I both react at the exact same time, with the exact same question: “What secret?”
“If I told, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, would it? Actually, I’d love to confess, but I promised Sophia I’d keep quiet, and, unlike some people’s, my word means something.”
Eli glares at Cavin, who returns his angry stare. My eyes stray between their two faces, trying to discern the silent communication. But all I keep coming up with is how much their resemblance is growing, especially with Eli’s refusal to shave lately. The thought allows me to interrupt the ugly posturing.
“You are going to remove that facial hair before tomorrow morning, aren’t you, Eli?”
He actually smiles at Cavin in a sinister way before turning his attention back toward me. “What? You don’t like my stubble?”
“I don’t think your school will appreciate it. My opinion is irrelevant.”
“Not to me, and that’s fine. I’ll shave. In fact, I’ll go do it now. Seven a.m. is going to roll around awfully early.”
“Don’t you have to be at school by, like, seven thirty?” I ask.
“Yep. It’s only ten minutes though. Hop out of bed. Put on jeans. Brush my teeth. Plenty of time.”
“What about breakfast?” Is this mom-sounding person me?
“Lunch is early. I’ll be fine.”
“He’s a grown-up, Tara. Leave him alone. If he gets hungry, he’ll get up earlier on Tuesday.”
“Whatever you say.” At least he won’t have time to smoke dope before his classes. Off he goes to shave or whatever. I wait till he’s out of sight before querying, �
�What exactly was that all about?”
“The ‘secret’ thing? Or the ‘jealous’ thing? Because either way, I have no clue. Just stirring up sewer sludge is my guess, or trying to distract us from whatever it is he’s been up to. ‘Baffling us with bullshit,’ as my dad used to say.”
“Quintessential Eli.”
“Yep.” Cavin comes over and takes my hands, interweaves his fingers with mine. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll repeat it as many times as I must—I don’t keep secrets from you. And as for my son having sex with Sophia, I only care because, one, it bothers you immensely and, two, I know he’s going to get hurt. He wouldn’t keep going back if he didn’t have feelings for her, and she is a coldhearted bitch. On one hand, he deserves it. On the other, I wish I could help him avoid it. But he’s not going to listen to me.”
“Not sure he’s ever listened to anyone.”
“Believe it or not, I think he listens to you.”
I consider that. “Maybe a little.” And only with an ulterior motive firmly in place. Still, it is strange that I’ve become his confessor.
“Come on, let’s go sit.” Cavin coaxes me over to the couch. “I’ve been thinking. If Eli manages to pull off graduating early, rather than allow him to trash the Carmel house, what about packing him off to Europe or Australia for a couple of months?”
“Alone?”
“Why not? He’s totally independent, and lots of kids take time off to travel before starting college. He can get it out of his system.”
Plus, he’d have to vacate Planet Sophia.
“Have you discussed it with Eli?”
“Not yet. I wanted to get your take on it first.”
“I think it’s a great idea, if he’ll go for it. You should probably talk to Melissa, too.”
“We’ve got plenty of time to work on both of them. At the very least, it will jump-start the discussion.”
We indulge in a nightcap, but before bed, I excuse myself to check e-mail and messages. Two of the three video companies have sent proposals, which I’ll peruse in the morning. There’s an e-mail from Jason, too.
Hope you managed to relax a little this weekend. When you get a chance, you should follow our Facebook page. I’ll make you an admin so you can post there. Here’s the link . . .
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