I look at him—not too young, handlebar mustache, curly hair, too long over the ears. Yes, I’ve noticed him before, too, though I couldn’t manage to call him by name without reading the badge on his chest. “How’s it going, Jasper? I’m meeting a friend, but she shares my taste in wine. Bring a bottle of the Syrah/Grenache. And we’ll have a bar picnic—salamis, prosciutto, the chevre, and whatever your cheese of the day is.”
I’ll start the no-dairy-no-bad-for-you-meats diet tomorrow. By the time Cassandra arrives, so has the wine. The food joins us soon after. She’s anxious for information but waits politely while Jasper delivers the tray, which is liberally stocked with crackers, nuts, meats, and cheeses. As soon as he returns to the bar, she pounces. “Okay, give.”
Give? What am I, fifteen? “What are you talking about, Cassandra, darling?”
“Come on, Tara, I’m dying here. What’s this big development? I mean, really. Where have you been for the past month?”
Where do I start? With skiing, I guess, since that’s where Cassandra and I last left off. The complete story, including Christmas at Mel’s, the weirdness with Graham, and hiring Charlie, takes a good twenty minutes. I omit any mention of creepy phone calls and shady sedans. I’ve decided to bottle that paranoia.
My friend absorbs every word. When I finish, she says, “I’m concerned.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been sitting here for a half hour, and there are a couple of great-looking guys over there who keep trying to catch your attention. You haven’t so much as blinked in their direction.”
“Really?” I turn to look. They’re cute, but I don’t return their come-on smiles. “I never even noticed.”
“That’s why I’m worried. I’ve known you for a long time, and you are always hyperaware of every man in the room. You take inventory.”
Her directness makes me smile. “Usually, I’m shopping, or at least window shopping.”
“Exactly, but not tonight. This doctor of yours must be one very special man.”
“He is.”
“Oh, speaking of your men, you know that personal trainer you used to boink?”
“Nick?”
“That’s the one. He’s working at my gym now.”
“Is that so?”
“He says a former client got him fired. Well, actually, a heartless, horny bitch of a former client. For some reason, I thought of you. Was that you?”
“What if it was?”
“I guess my question would be why?”
I construct my answer carefully. “Nick is not a careful man. He throws threats around without thinking. Some people prefer not to be threatened. Some people fight threats with action.”
I’m not sure what her reaction will be, so I’m happy when she lifts her glass. “Cheers.” I accept the toast, but then she asks, “What about people who fight action with action?”
Twenty-Six
The question irritates both my daily routine and vain attempts to sleep at night. And there’s another one, too, inspired by my friend Cassandra’s counsel: am I really ready to tie myself down, commit to another full-time monogamous relationship, no matter how perfect Cavin Lattimore appears to be? The answer I keep coming back to is, I want to find out.
My surgery is scheduled for crack of dawn Monday morning. I’m not looking forward to the procedure and post-op rehab, but I’m definitely anticipating walking without a limp again, not to mention the freedom of driving, which I still worry about attempting. The entire core of my knee is mush. I’m fearless about some things. Dying in an auto accident because I can’t hit the brakes in time isn’t one of them.
Charlie has helped me pack enough clothes for an extended stay at Cavin’s. “You sure you’re not just moving in?” he jokes, after he returns from his third trip down to the Escalade.
“That offer has not, as yet, been put on the table.”
“Good. I’d hate to lose my job already. In fact, I’ve been brushing up on my shoulder-rubbing skills. Want me to demonstrate?”
“A tempting offer, but another time. I want to get to my sister’s before that god-awful Sacramento rush begins.”
Charlie is driving me as far as Mel’s, then my sister will chauffeur the rest of the way. Both will return via car service so I’ll have the Escalade available postsurgery rehab. Which means another two nights in Mel’s guest room, something Graham will just have to deal with.
“Okay, if you’re sure, let’s plan on a rain check. You ready?”
I’ve locked the doors. Left the security system on. Visited the bathroom. “Let’s go.”
Charlie is careful behind the wheel, at least with me in the passenger seat. Aggressive California drivers bother him not at all. He stays in the middle lane, drives five miles over the limit. Normally this might aggravate me, but it’s a nice day and I’ve been cooped up, and I’ll be sequestered in the days to come, so I appreciate having this time to enjoy the scenery, such as it is. The winter hills have yet to green, and there’s a lot of concrete between home and Mel’s.
Turns out, there’s a fair amount of cement between Charlie’s ears, too. You’d think someone born and raised in San Francisco would have a little more cognizance of world affairs, but when it comes to big-picture ideas, he’s pretty dense. I resign myself to his stories of university antics. He’s enjoying playing a rather diverse field—male, female, undecided—and at this point, he hasn’t declared himself, either. Actually, some of those anecdotes are rather amusing.
Finally, he says, “Oh, I almost forgot. When I told Teddy I was working for you, he said you two are well acquainted.”
“That is true. He’s on the board of an LGBT teen center. I helped him do some fund-raising.”
“Why didn’t you mention it? Did you know that’s who I was referring to when I told you who my landlords were?”
“I figured it was probably them, but I rarely give everything away to someone on first meeting. Haven’t you ever heard that it’s good to hold your trump cards close to your chest?”
“Did you think you’d need a trump card?”
“You always need a trump card.”
Apparently, Graham has played his trump card and gone golfing with buddies until Sunday afternoon, when Melody and I are scheduled to leave. Mel’s house is half-empty when Charlie and I arrive. Not only is Graham away, but so are two of the girls. Suzette and her new snowboard went to Tahoe along with a group of her friends. Kayla and her new boyfriend are currently AWOL, a fact that is not discussed until after Charlie’s on his way back to the city.
Mel and I are settled in the living room, sipping early glasses of wine while Jessica and one of her friends play Xbox in the den. “This guy—Cliff—is a real piece of work,” Mel says. “Twenty years old, supposedly going to University of the Pacific, but I don’t think he spends much time at school.”
“Kayla met him after she got back from San Francisco?”
She nods. “He’s a barista at a Starbucks she happened into. According to Kayla, ‘He smiled at me, and I smiled back, and we just knew we were meant to be.’ I mean, gag me.”
“You don’t like him much, I take it?”
“He couldn’t look any more like a loser if he had a capital L stamped on his forehead.”
“But Kayla will see through that. She’s a smart girl.”
“Maybe eventually, but right now she’s mired in that hormonal lust-confused-with-love stage. Which today means she waited for her father to leave before calling Cliff to come pick her up. Not one word to me until she texted that she planned to spend the night with a friend. Said friend, when I checked, had no idea Kayla was going to stay overnight. But she had heard about a big party somewhere and as far as she knew, Kayla and Cliff were on their way there. When I tried to call Kayla, her phone went to voice mail. I texted her, of course, and, of course, she hasn’t responded. So, what do I do? Call the cops?”
“And say what? That your daughter and her irresponsible boyfriend are going to a pa
rty without your permission? Even without that information, law enforcement wouldn’t bother to look for her until she’s been missing for twenty-four hours.”
“That’s what I mean.”
For about the millionth time, I’m glad I’ve managed to avoid pregnancy. And, apparently I’m still blessed. Despite plenty of passionate Carmel sex, my period started right on schedule.
“Guess you’ll have to deal with it when she gets home and try not to worry in the meantime.”
“Deal with it, how? I seriously doubt grounding her will work.”
“Maybe you’ll just have to trust that you’ve raised her with enough of a moral sense that she’ll keep herself out of trouble. Alternately, you could always hire a hit man to take Cliff out.”
Mel takes a sip of wine. “Don’t suppose you know any, do you?”
As it turns out, the hit man is unnecessary, at least for the time being. Kayla arrives home midmorning. I happen to be near a window when Cliff pulls his belching Kia against the curb. From here I can see them kiss good-bye, and there’s nothing sweet about the gesture. The boy is brave, I’ll give him that. He walks Kayla right up to the front door, and that is where I confront them, before Mel can.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Kayla wears the remnants of last night’s party—smeared makeup, dead booze breath, clothes that smell of sex. And the black pupils of her eyes tell me she did more than drink, though I think I won’t confide that to my sister. Sometimes keeping secrets is the best move.
Kayla sputters at the direct question, but Cliff is prepared. “Just bringing my baby home, safe and sound.”
I keep my voice steady. “Kayla, come inside. Your mom is beside herself with worry. As for you . . .” I step between the two of them, drawing a petulant protest from Kayla, one I ignore completely. “If you ever disrespect either my niece or my sister like this again, you will be very, very sorry.”
Cliff attempts to inflate himself to big-man status, fails completely. Still, he dares, “Yeah? Whatcha going to do about it?”
The smile I give him is one I reserve for moments exactly like this one. “You know what, Cliff? The world is full of impotent jackals like you, and I’ve made it a personal goal to dispose of as many as possible. Just how is something you will find out, if you don’t pay proper respect to this family. You will start by apologizing to Kayla’s mother . . .”
“Aunt Tara!”
I turn toward my niece. “What? Did I embarrass you? But you’re not embarrassed to lie to your mom, get high and fuck all night, then come home looking like a common streetwalker? Get inside!”
At this point, Melody arrives on the scene to investigate the commotion. “Oh my God, Kayla, just look at you.” She says nothing to Cliff, who tries to walk away.
“Stop.” The menace in my voice is enough to halt him. “If you are, in fact, interested in maintaining a relationship with your ‘baby,’ I suggest you locate some small sense of decency and offer a sincere apology to my sister.”
I am more than a little surprised when he actually turns around, looks at Mel, and mutters, “Sorry.”
Kayla freaks out. “You don’t have to apologize!” she yells at Cliff, before turning her anger in my direction. “And you don’t need to rescue me! I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”
Mel steps into her mom role. “You may be beyond the age of consent, but you’re hardly an adult, as your recent actions demonstrate. And if you’d like to keep living here, this will be the last time you pull a stunt like this. As for you, young man, please understand that this household cannot function without simple rules, one of the most important being that we know where our children are at all times. Bending rules with deceit will not be tolerated. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. Whatever. But just so you know, she told me it was okay with you.”
I’m not sure who looks more shocked, Melody or Kayla. The two stand there staring like they’ve never seen each other before. Down the block, a very large truck downshifts, turning onto the street with a loud chuff. Cliff uses the distraction as an opportunity to make his escape. He takes off and Kayla yells after him, “Hey, everything’s cool. Text me, okay?”
He responds with a shrug and an almost obscure flick of his hand. I shut the door between his retreat and us, as Kayla bursts into tears. I am not impressed.
“No one loves me but Cliff.”
“Oh, blah, blah, blah. Poor little unloved Kayla. Lose the melodrama, would you? If that boy cared about you at all, he would have dropped you off at a reasonable hour last night.”
“The least you could have done was answer my text,” interrupts Melody.
“Why? So you could tell me to come home?”
“So we would have known you were all right. And then so I could tell you to come home.”
Kayla changes tactics, softening. “Look, by the time I got your text, we were too wasted to drive. I figured you’d rather have me safe than out on the road in that condition.”
Mel’s face flushes consternation. “Wasted? Wasted on what?”
Kayla rolls her eyes. “It was a party, Mom.” Way to avoid a definitive answer.
“Yes, well, there will be no more parties for quite a while. And, while I appreciate your not allowing your wasted boyfriend to drive you home, there are plenty of taxis in this city. Or I would have come to pick you up.”
She snorts. “Right. Call my mommy.”
“If you’re going to act like a stupid kid, yes.”
“I’m not a kid. I’ll be eighteen in April.”
“And I’ll still be your mommy.”
Kayla storms off to her bedroom. Melody trails, dragging a stern lecture along. I watch them go, thinking about the strong need for independence I had at that age. The difference was, I possessed the skills to pull it off, and a mother who didn’t care anyway.
Twenty-Seven
I start toward the kitchen, where a strong cup of coffee is waiting. I’m almost there when the doorbell rings, and I turn around. Cliff? What could he possibly want? I fling open the door. “Did you forget—”
I haven’t seen her in decades. And while I’d like to say those years have not been kind to her, it would be a lie. She has gone slender, and there is pride in her carriage, perhaps even conceit. Her hair is cut stylishly short, and colored a pale titian. The only real evidence of her age is the whittled web etching her face. Could insanity be the fountain of youth? Or maybe it’s just all the “good lovin’.” Beyond her, I notice the out-of-place semi loitering curbside.
She stares at me for a long minute, finally nods recognition. “Tara. What a surprise.”
My mother walks past me, smelling vaguely of diesel and sincerely of tobacco, yanking her bulky male companion over the threshold as if to avert having the door slammed in their faces. Excellent instincts, as ever.
“What are you doing here?”
“What? No hug?” She opens her arms. “It’s been a real long time.”
I back away.
Something ugly surfaces in her eyes. “Where’s your sister?”
“Dealing with a problem child.”
“Melody Ann!” she yells. “Where the hell are you?”
Melody Ann. Two names, the second used as punctuation. And suddenly, there’s the venomous mom of my nightmares. I knew she’d slither out from the woodpile sooner or later.
The man, at least, seems to have the wherewithal to be discomfited by the outburst. “Now, June . . .”
Her head rotates slowly in his direction. “What?” she snaps.
“Nothing.”
Mel comes rustling down the stairs. “Mom? What are—”
“Not you, too! What am I doing here? Jesus H. Christ on a crutch! Can’t a woman drop by to see her daughter when she happens to be driving past the neighborhood?”
Mel and I exchange confounded looks. I’d better let her do the talking. “No. It’s just . . . I mean . . .”
I can’t help myself.
“She means it’s not like you drop by every week or so, or even every year or so. Or, in my case, not even every decade or so. So what do you want?”
Rather than answer, she moves past us into the living room, where she makes a slow, assessing circuit. We have little choice but to follow. She stops in front of a framed family portrait hanging on the wall. “Beautiful kids. Too bad I don’t know them.” She turns toward Mel. “You’ve done all right for yourself.”
Ah, here it comes. The shakedown. “You want money.”
“You always were a blunt bitch, Tara. But no, believe it or not, I’m not asking for a handout. Will over there earns a decent paycheck, and he’s happy enough sharing it with me.”
“So what do you want, then?”
She takes a deep breath. Exhales, initiating a crusty cough. She really ought to give up smoking. “Connection.”
“What the fuck do you mean, connection?” Goddamn it, Idaho pops up on the doorstep and the classless Tara I’ve worked so hard to dispose of claws her way out of the crypt.
Mom throws back her shoulders, lifts her chin. “Look. Will’s on a long haul, and I’m riding shotgun. We were passing by, so I thought we’d stop in. I’m not getting younger, you know. I’d like a little time with my family before I die. Is that too much to ask for?”
I toss a glance at Will. “Did you have something to do with this?”
He has been staring, slack-jawed, but now his gaze falls toward the floor. “Well . . . uh . . . why would you think so?”
“Because my mother never gave a shit about us, not even when we were little. She hasn’t said one word to me in thirty years. Why would she care about connection now, unless someone else suggested it might be important?”
“You know something, Tara Lynn? Communication is a two-way street. You could have picked up the phone and called me any damn time.”
Anger crawls up the back of my neck, seethes into my cheeks. I fight to keep my temper in check. “You know what? You’re absolutely right. I don’t suppose we really have much to say to each other.” Obviously the bonding she wants doesn’t include me, and that thought makes me change tack. “Did you know I was going to be here today?”
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