A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  The office is busy, but I don’t have to wait too long before a stout nurse calls me back to an exam room. Paula is the picture of efficiency, taking my vitals without excess verbiage. In fact, she mostly grunts, which I find alternately disgusting and amusing.

  “What do you think, Paula? Am I going to live?”

  “Looks like you’re good. For now.” And off she goes.

  In short order, Dr. Heinlen arrives. My first impression is “straight out of med school,” though he’s probably older than he looks. Cavin has a lot of respect for his surgical expertise, which is why he chose him to do the revision I decided against. I can’t comment on that, but I can say his professionalism is impressive.

  He reaches for my hand. “Tara. I’m Cory Heinlen. So happy to finally meet you. Cavin raves about you, and I can see why.”

  Hard not to like the man. Either man, in fact.

  “Thank you. Sorry—at least that’s probably what I should say—that I didn’t invite you to dig around inside my knee. But I think it was the right decision.”

  “If you give me a minute, I’ll offer my opinion. I did go over your last test results, so I’ve got a decent idea what we’re dealing with.”

  He manipulates the leg carefully, checking for extension and flexion. “Any pain?”

  “Not really. A little after exercise sometimes, and if I weight bear too long it tires.”

  “And the training? All good there?”

  Dr. Stanley recommended my first-ever female personal trainer.

  I’ve been seeing Kami, though not as often as I might, and not because she’s a woman. I’ve got a lot going on lately and feel like I’ve got a handle on my personal training. However, she does push me, so I try to make time.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve been concentrating on core strength and gait training—I still walk with a slight limp. However, my proprioceptors seem to be in good working order.”

  “Proprioceptors, huh? Sounds like you enjoy research.”

  “I like understanding what’s in play and what’s at stake.”

  “Wish I had more patients like you.”

  “I’m good with referrals. In fact, I can think of someone who just might be a good fit for you.”

  If, as it turns out, the bitch needs rotator cuff surgery.

  “You’d refer this person to me, rather than your husband?”

  “Uh-huh. For personal reasons.”

  He can’t help but read between those two short lines. “I see. Well, happy to treat your friend, for whatever reasons. My caseload is fairly heavy at the moment, too, but if she says you sent her, I’ll work her in.”

  He finishes the short exam. “Tell your trainer I don’t recommend jogging yet, but you might try an elliptical. Gently. Overall, I’d say keep doing what you’re doing. Cavin was sure a revision was necessary, but I think you made the right call.”

  Validation.

  “Any other questions for me?”

  “Are you married?”

  “What? No. Why?”

  I shrug. “In case I’ve got a referral?”

  At least I leave him laughing.

  Before I go to my car, I circle around to where Cavin parks to get the travel certificates out of his Audi. It takes a minute to locate them, stashed out of view in the center console, sandwiched between a prescription pad and an ATM receipt from Harrah’s casino. Twenty-five hundred dollars, withdrawn three days ago.

  Disturbing.

  I grab the vouchers, and as I cut across the parking lot to my Beamer, I try to remember if Cavin was late that day. I’ve been so caught up in fund-raiser planning, I can’t really say for sure. But I’m positive he never mentioned a gambling stop—win, lose, or break even.

  Something else is nibbling at me, but I can’t quite discern what it is. Something Cavin said in his office—

  A horn honks suddenly, loudly, immediately behind me. I turn to find I’ve wandered out in front of a delivery truck. I duck to the left and offer the driver a small, embarrassed wave, which is met with a flip of his middle finger before he accelerates past me. I accept it as a deserved rebuke and chastise myself severely. I do not want to be a speed bump.

  When I get home, I grab the mail, take it inside, and toss it on the counter. One envelope draws my attention. The return address is from Blaine Pederson, the private investigator I referred Mel to. It’s a bill for expenses and hours invested beyond what the initial retainer covered. He’s already put in quite an extensive amount of time, and his fuel expense indicates he’s done a fair amount of travel. What exactly has Graham been up to?

  The added three-hundred-dollar tab doesn’t surprise me, nor does the fact that Pederson sent the bill here, as I paid the retainer directly. What’s odd is the notation at the top that says File of Tara Lattimore. Shouldn’t it be File of Melody Schumacher?

  That triggers the early warning part of my brain, and when that kicks into gear, I know what it is that bothered me earlier in the parking lot. Cavin said Sophia’s shoulder was so swollen he couldn’t order an MRI. But I’d just seen her a couple of minutes before that. Wearing short shorts and a revealing tank top that invited inspection of her obvious assets. Surely I would’ve noticed one shoulder bloated larger than the other.

  I didn’t.

  thirty-five

  E LI’S BIRTHDAY PROVIDED LITTLE fanfare but plenty of fireworks. Over big bowls of delectable green curry, I handed him the beautifully wrapped box containing his travel vouchers.

  He shook it gingerly. “Awfully light. Don’t tell me. It’s a gift card.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Cavin said.

  “Only much more creative, at least I think so,” I added.

  I watched his face as he opened the package and discovered what was inside. “Australia? Trying to get rid of me?” But he smiled.

  “Not until after you graduate,” I told him. “But then, absolutely.”

  We talked a little about the trip, and he seemed excited by the prospect, though it can be hard to measure Eli’s enthusiasm accurately.

  After dessert (mango sticky rice, which I watched the men ingest from a safe distance), Eli took off to do some celebrating on his own, and that’s where the fireworks came in. Turned out he’d gone to Sophia, who wished him a happy birthday and sent him on his way. He blew in through the door like a cyclone.

  “Fuck that motherfucking bitch. Goddamn whore.”

  Cavin had gone to the bathroom, but I was sitting in the living room. “Sounds like that went well.”

  “She told me she didn’t want to see me anymore. That if her investors found out, it wouldn’t look good.”

  “Sophia?”

  “Who the fuck else?” He was still yelling.

  “She probably has a point.”

  He lowered his voice a little there. “She probably has other reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . Dad.”

  “You mean because he told her he didn’t appreciate her sleeping with you?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t know he talked to her about me, but hey, no big surprise. And no, that’s not what I meant.”

  The look I shot him was a silent “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “God, you really are dense, aren’t you?”

  “That isn’t very nice.” Cavin returned at that point. I have no idea how long he’d been listening.

  “Yeah, well, neither are you,” snapped Eli. “And you really ought to come clean to your wife.”

  “About what?”

  “You and Sophia.”

  “Not this again. What am I supposed to have done now?” Cavin moved in between Eli and me, so I couldn’t see his face.

  But whatever Eli saw caused him to back up a couple of steps. “Fuck it. Tara wouldn’t believe me anyway. I’m out of here. There’s a big fat bud with my name on it.”

  He disappeared downstairs.

  I queried Cavin about Eli’s remark.

  Cavin denied any k
nowledge.

  I let it drop.

  Again.

  Later, however, Eli cornered me at the sink as I poured a glass of water. Cavin had already gone to bed, but the earlier interaction had wrested me from dreams, and what happened next denied me sleep for most of the night.

  Shirtless, Eli slithered up behind me, left no air between his flannel pants and the silk of my thigh-length robe. He slipped his arms around me, dropped his lips to the pulse behind my ear. “You should know Dad and Sophia have an arrangement.”

  His breath was a summer zephyr, hot through the thin fabric covering my shoulder. Other than for a slight sway, I didn’t move. “What kind of an arrangement?”

  “I wish I could tell you for sure. All I know is, I happened to see her phone, and up on the screen was a message from Dad. It said, See you then.”

  “You’re certain it was from him?”

  “Positive.”

  “Why tell me now?”

  “I don’t want you to be blindsided.”

  If I doubted that at all, the way he lifted my hair and circled my neck with tentative lips persuaded me that he believed every word. Every ounce of his youthful awkwardness vanished in a gust of passion that almost knocked me off my feet, though Eli was right there to catch me. In that moment, had he picked me up and carried me into his bed, I would’ve forgotten his father, sleeping just down the hall.

  But he hesitated long enough for me to remember the stakes and how easy it would be to lose the game completely. I lifted my glass, took a deep swallow. “Thank you for the information.” I turned, gave a little shove that made him take a step backward, and peered up into his eyes, seeking some sign of deception. Finding none, I wet my lips with a sweep of my tongue and rewarded him with one lingering kiss before pushing past him to return to my own sleeping quarters. “Happy birthday.”

  The close encounter left me trembling. What had just happened? What had almost happened? And what was happening with my husband? If I dozed after that, it was amid a whirlwind of questions.

  Was Eli right?

  He seemed sure.

  But was he truthful?

  Why would he lie?

  He lies all the time.

  Says who?

  Cavin.

  Cavin doesn’t lie?

  I ruminate on that as I down a power shake in preparation for a session with my trainer. But I tuck it all back away when my husband joins me in the kitchen, wearing khaki shorts and a bright chartreuse shirt I’ve never seen before.

  “You trying to blind the other golfers or what?” I ask.

  That elicits a wide grin. “Considering how rarely I play the game, I need every advantage I can get.” He’s taking part in a fund-raising event benefitting the Barton Foundation, the hospital’s charitable giving arm.

  “How late do you think you’ll be?”

  “We’ll probably knock back a couple after we finish, but I’ll be home in time for dinner. You sure you don’t want to come along?”

  “No thanks. I have no desire to play golf, and observing it is the approximate equivalent of watching grass grow. Anyway, I’ve got an appointment with Kami.”

  “Moderation, okay? I know Cory says everything’s looking good, but pushing too hard now could be counterproductive. Don’t make your body rebel any more than it already has. You aren’t getting any younger, you know.”

  Ka-boom.

  “I do hope that was just a tasteless joke.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant your age will affect the speed of your recovery, even without injuring yourself in a careless fall or thoughtless over-rotation. I know you hate the brace, but I highly recommend you utilize it to eliminate any chance of a twist.”

  “Would you quit talking as if I’m geriatric, feeble-minded, or both? Thanks for the advice, and please run along now. I’ll be fine and dandy.”

  He considers a retort.

  Changes his mind.

  And that is a very good plan.

  Once he vacates the house, I pack my gym bag, purposely leaving the brace behind. Age? Fuck him. Age is a state of mind, and a body trained to ignore chronology.

  Sounds like something you’d read in an AARP bulletin.

  Good point.

  I go into the bathroom, take a long hard look in the mirror. It’s been a while since I’ve had my hair done. At the part, a sprinkling of white undeniably blends with the red. I’ll fix that next week. I make a mental note to call my new hairdresser, Jayne. Maybe we’ll have to discuss an updated cut, too, though I’ve worn my hair this way forever. Something shorter. More stylish.

  Younger.

  Over the years, I’ve spent a small fortune on skin-care products, with the occasional laser peel and semiregular Restylane injections to deny time’s incessant whittling. I’ve managed to keep the crow’s-feet mostly at bay but today find hints of four-plus decades of living. My regular plastic surgeon, who I trust completely, is in San Francisco, so I’ll either have to drive over or find someone here. Either way, it should be soon.

  My body has been firmer. The relaxed workouts have taken a small toll, but nothing that can’t be fixed as my rehab progresses. Having never borne children, I have a tauter stomach and breasts than those of most women my age. The rest I’ll rebuild quadrant by quadrant.

  A disturbing question surfaces: Is that what Cavin wants?

  Why wouldn’t he?

  I don’t know. But why would he encourage me to slow my training schedule?

  So you don’t screw up your knee forever?

  Okay, fine. Maybe he doesn’t want me helpless.

  Or fat. Probably not fat, in fact.

  God, I’m sick of arguing with myself.

  Fact is, I’m a born cynic. Trust will never come easily, if it ever comes at all, and that has mostly served me well. But while I take great pride in the fact that it’s hard to put one over on me, the constant surveillance wears on a person after a while. Processing recent revelations has been a struggle.

  Cavin and I have been married a little more than three months, which is one-third the total amount of time we’ve known each other. That’s long enough to have discovered dents in my prince’s shining armor. He isn’t particularly savvy when it comes to financial concerns, and his propensity for withdrawing large amounts of cash to carry in his wallet, not to mention devote to games of chance, is worrisome. He works hard but likes to play, and now I have to wonder where, and with whom.

  On the plus side, he is respectful and kind, two traits many men largely lack. He is supportive of my ambitions, and that is no small thing. The extra hours he’s been putting in at the hospital seem to be paying off. At least our joint bank account reflects a decent balance, one that I haven’t had to augment this month.

  I could if I needed to, without touching my investment accounts. The check for the Russian Hill house arrived last week. I thought long and hard about where to put that $1.6 million and decided to leave it in my personal money market for now. At some point I’ll invest in another property. I just don’t know where yet.

  I finish dressing, gather my things, and head to the gym, where I ask Kami to challenge me. We remain conscious of the offending knee but work everything else to a demanding degree. I finish up, tired, sweaty, a little sore (muscles, not joints), and satisfied. Anything but old.

  On the return trip home, I find myself mired in a line of slow-moving traffic due to some sort of incident ahead. Roadwork or accident, we creep along at ten miles an hour. Rather than fret, I turn up the radio and fall into a grunge-inspired reverie, driven by a heavy beat.

  The percussion carries me back to a place I haven’t remembered in thirty-odd years. I came home from school and, as often enough was the case, the noises drifting toward the front door told me Mom was entertaining some man not far beyond. I didn’t have to go looking to stumble upon them, rutting in the kitchen of all places. He had her bent over the beer-bottle-strewn counter, driving into her from behind.

  I g
asped at the sight of his pimpled white ass, and they both turned enough to see who made the noise. His face was nondescript—just another truck stop conquest. But I’ll never forget my initial impression of the woman who couldn’t have been much older than twenty-eight or -nine. A single word surfaced in my mind.

  Crone.

  thirty-six

  T OMORROW IS THE FRESH for Families fund-raiser, and the culmination of weeks of work. Everything is in perfect order. At least, I’m pretty sure it is. There’s always the slight possibility that I missed some detail. But I really don’t think so, and anything that might go wrong is not within my realm of control.

  The buses are waiting at the winery. The caterer has been vetted and comes highly recommended. It was Eli’s idea to use food provided by the farms that donate to the cause, and those fresh-from-the-fields ingredients will be delivered this afternoon and held in cold storage in the winery cellar. Jason has rounded up a crew of volunteers who will set up the tables and chairs, add centerpieces and silverware.

  On a personal note, both the color and style of my hair have been revamped. I couldn’t bring myself to cut it really short, but Jayne trimmed it shoulder-length and added lots of layers, highlighting a few. The new dress I chose is pale aquamarine, and although I’m cautious of UV, I’ve allowed myself a sunscreened tan, one I’m settling down on the deck to deepen slightly this afternoon.

  Cavin’s at work. Eli’s at school. None of the neighbors are currently home. So it feels private enough out on the deck to sunbathe in the nude. I can’t stand tan lines. I turn up the music, settle on a heavy beach towel draping the chaise lounge. When I close my eyes, Nirvana’s “In Bloom” launches, transporting me back to a day in Las Vegas.

  I was seventeen, and I’d spent the afternoon ditching school in favor of unspectacular sex with Barry Lewinski. As I chased him out the door, my sister came home, passing him on the step. She wrinkled her nose at the stink of sweaty sex clinging to his body.