Love Lies Beneath

by Ellen Hopkins

  White noise swells like an angry beehive, becomes almost deafening. Finally, she says, “What’s the use?”

  The comment reminds me of our mother. What’s the use, indeed? “I think it’s called parenting.”

  “Really?” The retort is quick, and white-hot. “And how would you know anything about parenting? Oh, that’s right. You wouldn’t. And you never will.”

  Touché, Mel, touché.

  Thirty-Nine

  By week four post-op, I’m starting to feel on the mend. According to my doctors, the bones holding my new ACL and MCL in place are mostly healed. It’s the surrounding muscles that must be strengthened to protect the ligaments, and that will take much longer.

  I’ve learned a cool word, too. Proprioceptors. These are receptors located in muscles, tendons, ligaments, and joints that supply information about the position of a limb in space. In other words, your foot realizes where it is in relationship to the floor, your other foot, or the gas and brake pedals. Your tissues have memories. Unfortunately, when you rip a ligament, it loses recollection, so you have to retrain it. And that can take up to a year.

  They say professional athletes who push hard during rehab tend to heal more quickly because their muscles regain proprioceptive ability faster. I’m not looking to play football or run a marathon anytime soon, but I want to get around on my own. I’ve been training with dedication and feel confident I’ll be able to drive safely in another week or two. Kayla’s spring break begins at the end of March, and I want to be home by then.

  When I called her to ask about the garage-door opener, she admitted she still had it but claimed she forgot to put it back, and she sure didn’t admit to “borrowing” my house for a few days. In fact, she acted offended that I’d even suggest such a thing. I have no proof, and so I let it drop, though I continue to suspect it was her. Who else could have done it? Still, I promised her a tour of the Art Institute, and so it shall be, not only because I gave her my word, but also because I’d look ridiculous otherwise. You can’t go pulling strings only to fray them immediately.

  Postworkout, I drain the last bottle of my favorite juice-infused vitamin water. I’ve been going through it like crazy. I call Cavin to ask if he’ll pick up another case, but his cell goes straight to voice mail, so I phone his office instead. His receptionist answers.

  “Hi, Rebecca. Is Cavin available?”

  “Uh, no, actually. He got a call at lunch and left early.”

  “I see. Well, thanks, anyway.”

  Suspicion sizzles. A similar call last week took Cavin away from work prematurely. When he finally arrived home, it was with a good excuse firmly in place. “My dad was passing through, so we went out for a couple of beers.”

  We’ve only discussed his family a couple of times. I know his father is a retired medical researcher, and his mom died when he was in high school. He’s got a younger brother in the air force, and their “baby” sister is a high-level corporate attorney.

  While I wouldn’t in a million years introduce Cavin to my mother, I was disappointed. “Why didn’t you bring him home? I would have enjoyed meeting him.”

  “He was actually in Reno, and just for the day, or I would have.”

  Which explained why he was so late, but not why he didn’t let me know until after the fact.

  He did apologize for that. “Sorry I didn’t call. I have no real excuse, other than it slipped my mind.” Then he kissed me very sweetly. “I’m still getting used to having someone around who cares where I am.”

  All was forgiven, and I haven’t given it a second thought until now. Is his dad just passing through town again? And even in that highly unlikely event, would he have forgotten to call again? Which makes me wonder if that’s what happened last week. I have no reason not to trust Cavin except, as Eli would say, how well do I really know him?

  I expect him to be late, and he is a little, but not inordinately so. He breezes through the door with a multihued bouquet, piquing a fresh round of misgiving. “Flowers? What did I do?”

  “Do? You don’t have to do anything special to rate a few posies. You just have to be you.” He comes over for a kiss, and then glances toward the kitchen, where I am obviously not cooking. “Any thoughts about dinner?”

  I shake my head. “I tried to call to ask you to stop by the store, but couldn’t get hold of you. Your phone’s off, and when I called your office, Rebecca said you left early.” I work very hard to keep accusation out of my voice.

  Still, he blushes and looks away. Not a good sign. “Yes, I guess I did.”

  “Your dad again?”

  “Of course not.” He pulls away, goes into the kitchen, reaches for wine and two glasses.

  Uh-oh.

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Not at all. But I do have something to confess.” He returns to the living room and hands me a glass before he continues. “I had lunch with Sophia. She’s here visiting a friend and called to say hello.”

  “I see.” I sip my wine, seethe, wait for him to offer some lame explanation.

  “Look. We met for lunch, but that was all. The truth is, she was interested in more, but I was very clear that I’m no longer available for ‘more.’ ”

  Three hours is a pretty long time. Must have been horrible service. I roll the information over in my mind.

  Don’t like what he did.

  Appreciate the honesty.

  How honest was he?

  He didn’t have to admit that’s where he was.

  He could have called and let me know.

  Really? You would have preferred that?

  I would have preferred he didn’t see Sophia.

  I consider my words carefully. “Cavin, on one hand, yes, I’m uncomfortable with you spending a few hours with an old girlfriend, especially one you were so close to. On the other hand, despite two incredible months together, and the fact that I’ve lived with you here for several weeks, whatever commitment we have to each other is completely informal. I suppose I’ve assumed something more, but—”

  “Wait.”

  He sets his glass on the end table, takes mine and rests it beside his. Then he lifts me into his lap, so I’m sitting across his legs. He places one hand on each of my cheeks, rotates my face so I have no choice but to look into his eyes. Gray.

  Almost black in this failing light.

  “I don’t want you to have to assume, but do you really not know? I love you, Tara.”

  This kiss is not a simple hello, and it holds no apology. It is filled with longing, lust, and, yes, love. Startling. I return it with abandon, then stop so I can lift my sweater over my head, invite his mouth lower. His lips explore the length of my neck, down to the cleft between my breasts, where his tongue takes over. As I sit here, in his lap, his sudden erection pushes against the exact right spot, as if asking to enter. Won’t happen with two pairs of pants between us, but the prospect makes me hungry.

  But first I relocate myself. I still can’t kneel, but because I’m sitting here on this big, fluffy cushion, my face is almost exactly the right height. “Stand up and take off your jeans.”

  Cavin complies, and I reach for his brilliant cock, invite it against my lips, and circle the knob with my tongue, slowly at first, then in quickening rotations. Then I unhinge my jaw, which is what it takes for my mouth to accept the whole thing, and I teach him the meaning of head, Tara-style, pausing only to slow him down, and once to tell him, “I will make you forget Sophia.”

  He rocks forward. “Who?”

  And now I let him come.

  Forty

  Once seeds of suspicion sprout, they take root very quickly. It takes sheer strength of will not to call Cavin’s office daily. His declaration of love was at once comforting and disquieting. Comforting, because that’s what I wanted. Disquieting, because I can’t quite believe it. Perhaps something to do with the timing?

  My guess is Sophia is still around, and even if Cavin did tell her he’s hooked up with someone
else, that doesn’t mean she’s going to quit trying. I can’t stand sitting around here, doing nothing to reassure myself. Mel would tell me I’m being ridiculous, that if Cavin were cheating, he wouldn’t proactively admit to lunch and conversation with an ex. The truth is, I’ve done exactly that before, and it didn’t mean I wanted to have sex with that person.

  Conversely, however, when I had an idea my ex was messing around on me, I took charge of the situation and hired a private investigator. I can only find two in the immediate area. I choose the one with the most interesting name.

  He answers his own phone. “Dirk Caldwell here. How can I help you?”

  His voice is high and forced through his nose, and I imagine a beady-eyed rat in a trench coat, whiskers twitching.

  “I’m looking for someone to follow my, uh, partner for a few days.”

  “Partner as in business partner, or love interest?”

  “The latter.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I take it there might be another woman somewhere?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “No problem.”

  “When could you get started?”

  “So happens my schedule’s pretty open right now.” Hope that’s not a bad sign. “Let’s take care of the business end first. With this type of investigation I charge fifty an hour, and I’ll need a thousand-dollar retainer up front.”

  “You expect it to take that long?”

  “Probably not, but you never know. I mean, you and he aren’t married, right? So this isn’t about needing proof to take the dude to the cleaners. You just want to be certain for your own peace of mind.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Is the money a problem?”

  “Not at all. I’m just not very mobile at the moment.” I explain briefly about my injury.

  “I can come to you. What’s the address?”

  When I tell him, there’s a long silence on the far end.

  “That sounds familiar. Is that your house?”

  “No, it’s my boyfriend’s.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Cavin Lattimore. He’s an orthopedic surgeon.”

  The rat whistles. “Oh, um. I’m sorry, but I recently did some work for Dr. Lattimore. I’m afraid it would be a conflict of interest. I do have a colleague I can recommend, however.”

  He rattles off a name and phone number, but I quit listening after “conflict of interest.” What would Cavin need a PI for? There must be a file around here somewhere, and his study seems like the logical place. It doesn’t take long to find it.

  I sit at his desk and inspect the drawers. The two large ones on the bottom contain alphabetized filing folders, and in the Cs is one labeled Cannon. I pull it, place it on the desk, and open it, revealing a large manila envelope with a business card paper-clipped to the flap. It belongs to “Dirk Caldwell, Private Investigator,” and features a grainy photo of a dumpy middle-aged man who I’m pretty sure drives a beat-up sedan. It kind of looks like him.

  And there I am, inside the envelope. It’s an extensive report. Birth record. Marriages. Divorces. Properties. Businesses. Fund-raising activities. Information about Melody’s family. News stories about Jordan and Finn. Raul’s death notice. There’s even stuff about Mom.

  This must have cost a whole lot more than a grand.

  The only thing that seems to be missing is my employment history: exactly one job, stripping at the Jellybean Club. Would I be embarrassed if that were included here? Would it make me any more pissed than I already am at having my privacy invaded in such a fashion?

  I carry the folder to the kitchen, leave it open on the island counter, and fix myself a drink. Bourbon, straight up. Something to burn going down. Something hotter than the anger simmering inside. When Cavin comes in, I’ve had three stiff shots of John J. Bowman Single Barrel. It has raised a decent buzz—almost decent enough to mellow me out. Almost.

  Cavin takes in the bourbon bottle, plus the fact that I’m pouring a fourth, adds the pinched look on my face, sums up the situation correctly. “What’s wrong?”

  I wave at the offending paperwork. “That.”

  He studies the open folder. “Ah. That. I don’t doubt you’re aggravated. But might I ask how you came across it? Do you regularly dig through my things?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “Then, how?”

  The straightest path to truth is through truth, and I happen to be buzzed enough to confess. “Coincidence, really. I was looking for a PI, and happened to choose good ol’ Dirk. He mentioned a conflict of interest, because he’d recently done some work for you.”

  “You wanted to investigate me?”

  “Yes.”

  I expect consternation. Irritation. Out-and-out in-your-face accusation. Instead, he laughs. “This is a small town, isn’t it? Pour me one of those?” As I reach for a glass, he sidles up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist. “I understand you wanting to be sure about me. Just like I hope you understand that I needed to be sure about the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

  I almost drop the glass. “What does that mean?”

  He circles around, insinuates himself between me and the counter, gentles the drink away, and sets it down behind him. Then he takes both of my hands in his. “I know this seems fast, but I want to marry you, Tara. Would you consider being my wife?”

  “I . . . uh . . . what?”

  “I’ll get down on one knee if you’d like.”

  “No!” I reach up, lock my hands behind his neck, search his eyes. “I just never thought . . .”

  He kisses my forehead.

  Kisses my right eye closed.

  Kisses my left eye closed.

  “Don’t think. Just say yes.”

  “Yes.” The word swims out of some thick, boozy sea, only to become mired in doubt. “But hold on. When did you make this decision? After Carmel? A report like that took some time to assemble.”

  “Go sit, okay? I’ll bring your glass.”

  Cavin pours himself a matching drink, carries both into the living room, and we nest on the couch before he continues.

  “Remember I told you I was serious about Sophia . . .”

  How could I forget?

  “Look. I thought I knew her, but we were two years into the relationship when I discovered some unsavory things about her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like she wasn’t above sleeping with people to obtain financing for her shows.”

  “Even while she was with you?”

  “Absolutely. There’s more. Apparently, she was always short on cash because she maintained a sizable cocaine habit. I couldn’t believe I didn’t recognize it. Had we actually cohabitated, I probably would have. But she lived in Reno and I lived here. We saw each other a lot, but she had plenty of opportunities to party without me, and took every advantage of that.”

  Okay, I’m feeling marginally better about Sophia. Whiskey and revelation, a winning combination! “After that, I was gun-shy,” Cavin admits. “But then you materialized, like some mythical temptress, and my attraction was so immediate I had to second-guess it, although I also desperately needed to feed it. Cavin the optimist was totally hooked. Cavin the pragmatist insisted he didn’t want any surprises if he was to invest time and energy—not to mention love—in you.”

  I have to smile at his earnestness. “Well, since I wasn’t able to secure Dirk Caldwell, is there any information I should be privy to? Something maybe requiring a prenup?”

  “Tara, first of all, I really have no problem with you doing a background check on me. There are other private investigators. Second, I absolutely insist you request a prenup. I don’t want your possessions or your money. I only want you. I might, however, ask for a little investment advice. You’re one hell of a businesswoman.”

  I am, in fact, a savvy businesswoman. But think I prefer “mythical temptress.”

  I take a few minutes after dinner to e-mail m
y sister: I’ve got some news. Cavin asked me to marry him. Believe it or not, I said yes! I know it’s kind of quick and all, but the thing is, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’m pretty sure I’m in love him. Don’t tell anyone, okay? I haven’t even told him yet.

  Her reply: Oh, Tara, I’m happy for you. Just please be sure this time.

  See, that’s the problem.

  Forty-One

  Cavin and I decide on a June wedding. Corny, I know, but it happens to be one of the most beautiful months at Tahoe, plus Eli and Melody’s kids will be out of school. We’ll have the ceremony at some outdoor view venue. Sugar Pine Point maybe, or Camp Richardson. No Elvis (Raul). No rented mansion (Jordan). No yacht (Finn). No Methodist church (Melissa/Cavin).

  Chef Christopher will host the reception. We don’t expect too many guests—family and a few close friends. Maybe thirty total. We’ll invite Cavin’s dad, but not my mom. Definitely not Sophia. Still considering Graham. Anyway, now I’ve got something to plan besides the next fund-raiser.

  Meanwhile, I’m going home to San Francisco for a couple of weeks, and I’m driving myself there. My proprioceptors seem to be on full alert, my right foot comprehending where the brake is in relationship to its place in space. Or whatever. Basically, if my brain says stop, my foot can handle the command. I think.

  I wait until the weather is clear and the forecast calls for more of the same. The day before I’m scheduled to go, I take my knee for a test drive, with Cavin riding shotgun. I back carefully onto the street, drive down the hill, turn onto the highway, completely without incident. “Hey, it’s working.”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Next thing you know, I’ll be doing jumping jacks.”

  “I’d avoid those for a while, or any jumping for that matter. And you still don’t want to run, or engage in any joint-jarring activities. You can, however, start to walk or swim. Just don’t overdo. We don’t want you limping down the aisle.”

  “Whatever you say, Doc Lattimore.”

  “I like it when you call me that—so Wild West. Hey, maybe I should grow a handlebar mustache. Wax it up. Curl the ends.”