Love Lies Beneath

by Ellen Hopkins

  Okay, he’s got me. Anger segues to curiosity. “But she’s still alive?”

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  I shrug. “Just a weird feeling I had.”

  “As far as I know, she’s very much alive, and taking Broadway by storm. But we haven’t spoken in months.”

  “Broadway?”

  “She’s a producer. She was working in Reno and we bumped into each other skiing.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “So, what happened?”

  His turn to shrug. “She wasn’t the person I thought she was.”

  His tone informs me he’s finished with the story. I’ll leave it alone for now, but one day I’ll worm the rest out of him.

  The pizza is almost as delicious as the truth.

  Even more delectable is the shower I take after dinner. It’s hard to appreciate something like cleanliness unless it’s denied you for several days. Cavin’s bandage waterproofing is primitive—trash bag and duct tape—but it does the trick. I run the water to steaming, which fogs the endless glass.

  “Hold on just a minute,” calls Cavin. “I thought the point was for me to see you naked.”

  “There’s plenty of room in here,” I invite. “And I can’t reach my back.”

  I’m conditioning my hair when he joins me. “Give me the soap.”

  He starts just below my jaw and works his way down, kissing a trail in the suds he creates on my skin. Water streams from his hair, and it’s sexy as hell, but not nearly as sexy as the things he does to my nipples with his lips and teeth and tongue.

  “You’re going to get soap in your mouth.”

  Cavin drops cautiously to kneel on the slippery tile. “I’m going to get more than that in my mouth.”

  Careful of my trash-bagged knee, he lathers the skin between my thighs, slips soapy fingers inside me.

  Out.

  In.

  His tongue circles my clit, and his fingers move.

  In.

  Out.

  He is the most skilled lover I’ve ever had, and I’m moaning. Rocking.

  Forward.

  Back.

  “Stop. Or I’ll come.”

  He doesn’t stop.

  “My turn.”

  I can’t bend or kneel, so oral is impossible, but stimulating him with conditioner-slicked hands is quite the turn-on.

  For him.

  For me.

  It takes both hands to fully encircle his girth, and in long, quickening strokes, I bring him off. When he orgasms, so do I.

  Thirty-Four

  Over the weekend, Cavin gets a friend to help him move the stationary bike upstairs. At my request, they place it in front of the big window, adjacent to the sliding glass door, where I can at least pretend I’m cycling outside, especially if I can crack the slider and inhale the scent of cedars and pines.

  Jon doesn’t stick around very long after they’re finished. “Did I scare him away? I know I’ve looked better, but . . .”

  “I don’t think that’s the problem, sweetheart.” Cavin explains that Jon is a surgeon, but not the orthopedic kind, and they often compete for OR time, which sometimes puts them at odds. “He and I don’t hang out all that often, and when we do it’s usually just to catch a couple of beers and maybe watch a game.”

  “Game? You do sports?”

  “Baseball and football. Very little in between, though sometimes I’ll pay attention to March Madness or the World Cup. How about you? You into sports?”

  “Only the ones worth betting on,” I joke.

  He smiles. “My kind of woman. You ready to try the bike now?”

  Cavin helps me onto the seat, which he adjusted so that pedaling will bring my knees to full extension. My first real exercise in over a week feels great. Except it hurts.

  “Give it twenty minutes, tops,” Cavin instructs, “and add a little time every day.” He turns and starts to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To tidy my study.”

  By the time my twenty minutes are up, Sophia has vanished, at least from view. If there’s one thing I’m sure of about men, they lie when it suits their needs. That might hold true for women, too. Who knows? I’ve never been intimately involved with a woman, so I’ve never had to put one to the test.

  Week two of my recuperation, I’m diligent about exercise. I add time to the bike every day. Seek more difficult stretches for my legs. Do rep upon rep with a pair of dumbbells borrowed from Cavin’s workout room. He warns me not to push too hard. But nothing is gained from slacking off. Right now, I’m all about the gain.

  Cavin is conscientious about communication this week. On Thursday, he calls to let me know he’ll be a little late. When I ask why, he tells me it’s a surprise. I’m fresh out of a postworkout shower, running a comb through dripping hair, when he breezes through the bedroom door, hands behind his back. His goofy grin belongs to a little boy. He whips out the gift with a flourish. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Val—”

  “Well, technically, it’s Saturday, but I couldn’t wait.”

  The last time anyone remembered me on Valentine’s Day was . . . I seriously can’t recall.

  “Hang on.” I dry my hands with the towel that’s lying across my lap. The box is wrapped in what looks like old-fashioned wallpaper, raised red paisley atop gold foil. It’s elegant and unique, and I open it with care.

  Inside is a smaller one, jewelry-box size, on top of tissue-protected lingerie—a plum satin teddy and matching robe. “Can’t wait to see you in it,” he says. “Now, open the little one.”

  The heart-shaped ruby earrings are of exceptional quality. After all that time around pawnshops, I know jewelry, and he did not skimp. These were quite expensive. “Oh, Cavin. They’re perfect.”

  “You really like them?” That little boy again.

  “I adore them. Here, I’ll put them on.”

  “And the teddy later?”

  “It will probably look better on me in a month or two.”

  “Nonsense.” He drops the robe I’m wearing from my shoulders, and his hands travel the contours of my body. “All things considered, I can’t imagine you—or anyone—ever looking much better than this.”

  Way to clarify, Doctor. “Actually, I was referring to my knee. Wounds and provocativeness are oxymoronic, no?”

  “Provocativeness? That’s a lot of syllables to say hotness, yeah?”

  “What’s a syllable or two among friends?”

  We laugh together, and it’s a genuine bond. He likes words, too, and I like that. “Anyway, let’s take a peek at those incisions. I don’t think they actually qualify as wounds.”

  They are healing quickly, at least I think they are. They don’t itch like they used to, and don’t require much in the way of gauze over the Steri-Strips that keep the newly forming skin from stretching to the point of damage.

  Cavin confirms this. “How would you like to move off the futon and into my bed?”

  “Let me think.” I rest two fingers against my chin. “Um . . . I’m not sure. Can you sweeten the offer?”

  He tugs me to my feet, folds me into him, kisses my forehead. “I think that can be arranged. Now I’ve got a question for you. Feel like dinner out on Saturday evening? Chef Christopher has something very special planned, and Paolo has reserved the best table in the house.”

  Except for a single postsurgery follow-up with Dr. Stanley, I haven’t been away from this place in almost two weeks. I’d kill for a few romantic hours out. “You bet, but only if I’m pay—”

  “No way. You paid last time.”

  “But I don’t have a Valentine’s Day present for you.”

  He picks up the teddy from the dressing table where I laid it, rubs the smooth satin against his cheek in an extremely suggestive way. “Oh, you most assuredly do, and this is the only gift wrap required.”

  For the thousandth time, I think how alike we
are.

  Smart.

  Sexual.

  Subtle.

  The rest of the evening is lovely. So lovely, in fact, I think there must be a storm approaching—the metaphorical kind, not the blizzard they’re calling for next week. But tonight is steeped in romance, punctuated with sex. That’s still not up to par, but it is improving, and as the old idiom goes, half a loaf is better than none. Or, to paraphrase, getting a little is preferable to celibacy.

  We are lying in bed, mostly satiated, when the proverbial tornado hits. “Oh, I forgot to tell you something.”

  I don’t like the way that sounds. “What?”

  “Eli is coming up for President’s Day weekend. He’ll be here tomorrow afternoon and leave Monday. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Even if I did, what could I say? “Not at all. He and I should get to know each other, anyway.”

  “Yes, you definitely should. Just don’t let his posturing bother you, and take everything he says with a grain of salt. He isn’t always completely forthright.”

  Hmm. I think Cavin just called his son a liar.

  Thirty-Five

  Cavin is still at the hospital when Eli arrives, earlier than expected. I don’t like surprises. I’m just out of the shower, still unclothed, with the bedroom door open when the front door whacks the wall and footsteps slap the entry tile. I yank on the short robe lying across the chair, hobble into the other room to make sure I’m not being accosted by a burglar or something. The plum satin Valentine’s Day gift doesn’t cover a whole lot.

  Eli whistles appreciatively. “Whoa. Nice. Got anything else you want to show me?”

  How old is this kid again? “No. I was double-checking to see if you were a criminal. Since you’re not, I’ll go put some clothes on.”

  “Who says I’m not? Oh, and hey, don’t get dressed on my account.”

  I do, anyway. I crow-hop back into the bedroom, close the door, and put on a velour warm-up suit, zipping the top well above cleavage. Then I moisturize, apply a thin layer of makeup, and take the time to blow-dry my hair. By the time I finish, as expected, Eli has gone to his room.

  I’m in the kitchen, deciding what to make for dinner, when he reappears and seats himself on a tall stool at the island, watching curiously. I withdraw my head from the refrigerator. “I’m thinking chili tonight. Does that work?”

  “Whatever. I’m omnivorous.”

  “Good. Makes things easy.” I go to work, cubing chuck roast.

  He doesn’t offer to help. “So, are you living here or what?”

  “For now, until I can get myself around better. The knee damage was pretty extensive.”

  “Dad doesn’t usually move his patients in.”

  I believe the kid is baiting me. Game on. “Actually, I’m not his patient. Dr. Stanley did the surgery. I wanted your dad to do it, but he thought it was unethical.”

  “Because you were fucking him.”

  “That’s correct.” I wash meat from my hands, reach into the cupboard for spices to season it. “You don’t have a problem with your dad getting laid, do you?”

  He smiles, and when he does, I see Cavin there. “Not at all. I just find it interesting, which women he picks. You’re different from the last one.”

  I reach for an onion. “In what way?”

  “She was younger.” Straight for the ovaries. But then he amends, “But you’re prettier. And you know how to cook.”

  I turn up the heat under the Dutch oven. “You met Sophia, then?”

  “Oh, we absolutely met. She’s hot.”

  It feels like there’s a subtext. That piques my interest. “Cavin says she’s in New York, producing a play off Broadway.”

  “Huh. For some reason, I thought she was still around. I ran into her at Heavenly not too long ago. But then, she does love to ski, and the East Coast hills pretty much suck.”

  He seems to know an awful lot about Sophia, whom I don’t want to talk about anymore. Fragrance blossoms as I sauté the onion and garlic, add the chili and cumin-spiced meat to brown. “Tell me about your mother.”

  “What about her?”

  “I don’t know. Do you get along?”

  “Guess so, at least when she’s around. I don’t see her all that much.”

  “Cavin says she travels a lot with her husband. Do they ever invite you to join them?”

  “No.” His tone says end of conversation.

  I go into the pantry to look for ingredients. Kidney beans. White beans. Both within reach. But the canned tomatoes are on a shelf above my head, and I can’t chance a step stool. “Eli, can you please help me for a second?”

  I hear the bar stool scrape tile, his heavy-footed approach, and when he comes into the pantry behind me, I become fully aware of his height. “What do you need?”

  “Tomatoes.”

  He is opportunistic, maneuvering his body very close to mine. When he reaches around me, his arm brushes my cheek and I can feel the muscle, not sculpted but sinewy. I wonder if the contact was on purpose.

  “These?”

  “No. Those. The ones that say Mexican style.”

  He brings down two cans, gives them to me, and as he backs away, his hand brushes my hip. Okay, that was not accidental. But there is nothing more, and I ignore the gesture, pretend it was harmless.

  Eli returns to his stool and I go back to my chili, feeling the heat of his gaze as I open the tomatoes, add them to the Dutch oven along with beef bouillon and a can of beer. He observes for a while and finally says, “I asked Taylor Andaman about you.”

  “Really. And what did he say?”

  “He said his mom wishes she were you and his dad thinks you’re a cunt, but he thinks you’re fine. He said you live on Russian Hill, and he’s been to your house, and it’s fucking awesome.” He pauses, gauging my reaction.

  I cover the chili, lower the heat, and leave the pot to slow simmer. Then I turn toward Eli, stare him down. “I’d say that’s an accurate assessment. But why did you ask him about me?”

  “When my dad came to school to bail me out of trouble he mentioned he was going to see you before he went to Carmel. He was kind of salivating.”

  “Did you know he planned to invite me to Carmel?”

  “I kind of figured.”

  “So you weren’t surprised to find me here, then.”

  “Not really.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Why should it? It’s his house. Anyway . . .” He eyes me like a cat toying with a rodent. “There are perks.”

  Before I can respond, the front door opens and in comes Cavin. “Hey. Something smells amazing. Is that chili?” He heads straight for the kitchen to give me a kiss.

  “I felt like doing something creative. Hope you didn’t have other plans for that chuck.”

  “Pot roast, but no worries. This is better. You two getting acquainted?”

  I nod. “Eli helped with dinner, in fact.”

  Cavin looks bemused. “Really?”

  “Yep,” says Eli. “I fetched cans.”

  “He’s an extremely talented can fetcher,” I add.

  “Well, thanks for the help, son.” Cavin slides an arm around my shoulder, tugs me close. “And what do you think of my lady?”

  Eli smiles. “I think you’ve got your hands full.”

  Dinner is vaguely uncomfortable. I catch Eli staring from time to time and wish I could interpret his expression. Cavin doesn’t seem to notice. Conversation centers around the two boarding together on Sunday, the state of the mountain, and whether or not Motts and Killebrew will offer enough untracked terrain by then to make them interesting.

  Cavin does detect a hint of consternation. “You don’t mind if I desert you on Sunday, do you?”

  “It’s not that you’re going,” I answer, “or even that you’re planning on testing the canyons. I’m just jealous that I can’t go, too.”

  “I’m sorry. But there’s always next year.”

  “I know, but that seems
like a long way away.”

  Patience isn’t my best thing.

  Low Rise of Morning

  Postblizzard, elongated fingers

  of light poke through the sugar

  pine fringe, stretching shadows

  across the ermine meadow.

  They reach long, and as the sun

  lifts, draw back again, scratching

  the pristine white, luring

  my attention to the fresh fallen

  facade. Untracked. Unspotted.

  Untouched, but by the scattered

  radiance. I am coaxed from

  the warmth behind the window

  glass, out into the snap of winter

  day, tempted by an irresistible

  desire to smash footprints into

  the diamond crust. Mark territory.

  Thirty-Six

  I don’t see Eli on Saturday morning. He doesn’t bother with breakfast but heads to the mountain fueled by grab-and-go snacks—protein bars, bananas, and Red Bull—claiming he’s good till midday and lunch. Ah, youth! He plans to snowboard all day, pop leftover chili in the microwave for dinner, and eat it solo. Glad I made a big pot.

  None of that changes our Valentine’s Day plans. Cavin sneaks out of bed early. When I wake to cooling sheets, I think he must have gone to say good-bye to his son and allow myself to doze off. The scent of strong coffee nudges me and I stretch awake again.

  “Morning. Happy Valentine’s Day. Here, hold this.”

  Cavin has brought a tray of French roast and scones. He places it across my lap, props pillows behind my back, then climbs into bed beside me. We slather butter and jam on the hot bread, sip coffee, and watch the morning news, which informs us there’s a rose shortage this year, explaining the high prices.

  “That’s the excuse every year,” I say. “They should get creative. Like a rogue group of anthophobes loosed armies of spider mites into greenhouses across the country. Much more dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “Much. But what’s an anthophobe?”

  “Anthophobia, the fear of flowers. Not to be confused with anthrophobia, the fear of human relationships.”