“I have no aversion to facial hair. Go for it.” Actually, I prefer clean-shaven men, but he’s just joking anyway. “Maybe you could get Eli to grow one, too, so you’ll match in the wedding pictures.”
“The only way I could get Eli to grow a mustache would be to order him not to do it.”
The roads are free of ice, but I drive overcautiously anyway. This is so not me, but I’ve got to start somewhere. Today, a drive to the gas station to fill up for my trip. Next week, road racing! Or not.
“So, have you informed Eli about our upcoming event?”
He was hesitant to make the call, though I’m not exactly sure why. I called Melody right away. She thinks I’m crazy to marry a man I barely know but conceded he seems like a pretty good catch. Her overall message was, “If he makes you happy, I’m happy for you.”
Cavin sighs. “Yes, I talked to him. He was less than enthusiastic, but then again, that’s how he is about almost anything me-related. He wasn’t out-and-out hostile, at least. Pretty sure that means he likes you.”
“I’m not so positive. Eli’s hard to read.”
“A well-practiced trait.”
We are almost home—I’ve started to think of it as “home,” and soon Carmel will feel that way, too. With San Francisco, we’ll have three houses. Seems like a lot for just two people, but they’re all so unique, it would be hard to give one up. I suppose it’s a conversation worth having. We’ll need a good tax attorney in addition to our personal lawyers, who will handle the prenup separately. So much to consider there, too. What do we throw into the communal pot? What should remain separate?
Mortgages.
Investments.
Bank accounts.
Incomes.
Expenses.
All these tedious details could threaten the romance, but without settling them, one or both of us could get screwed. I don’t want to approach marriage in terms of possible dissolution. But in my experience, which is relatively broad, forever has no meaning with respect to romantic relationships.
At least there is only one “child” complicating things, unless you count my nieces, who can really lay no legitimate claim to any sort of inheritance. Eli, on the other hand, might consider me a threat to his. I steer the Escalade onto the steep road up through the woods. “You did tell Eli that we’ve agreed on a prenup, yes?”
“Actually, no. It’s none of his business.”
“Maybe not. But if he can’t be happy about our union, I’d like him, at least, not to be paranoid about it. I want him to feel secure about his birthright.”
“I appreciate that, Tara. But I’d prefer he not feel secure about it. I want him to find his own way in the world, to make something of himself, not sit around waiting for me to die so he can inherit his future.”
Wow. He means it. Guess I made the right choice, forgoing motherhood. I’d suck at it. I pull off the street, into the driveway, brake perfectly. “That’s good to know. Tell you what. I’ll leave all major decisions regarding Eli up to you. I’ll offer advice if you want it, but truthfully parenting is not on my bucket list, so I’m just as happy to stay out of your way. Deal?”
“No.” He turns in his seat to face me. “I want us to be partners in every sense of the word. There will be challenges, of course. We’ve still got a lot to learn about each other. But communication is the key. I haven’t talked a lot about Eli, mostly because there’s so much about him I don’t know myself. I can tell you he’s resentful, to the point of bitterness. But I’m not one hundred percent sure why, or even who he blames for his self-imposed exile. Lots of kids have parents who get divorced.”
“I don’t think divorce is the benchmark. Melody and Graham are still solidly together, and they’re having issues with Kayla. Of course, speaking as an outsider, I find Kayla relatively tolerable, as teenagers go.”
When Cavin smiles, tension visibly vacates his shoulders and neck. “ ‘Relatively’ being the operative word. I want to believe this is just a phase for Eli, and normal for a kid his age. But it would have to be a generational thing, I think. At seventeen, I was hot to take on the world, set my own course, and steer full-speed in that direction. Right after I found a way to get laid, of course.”
Ooh. Love when little bits of information like that slip out. Virgin at seventeen, married at twenty. One day I’ll find out what went on in between, not that it matters except to assuage my ambition to know everything about him. That, I’ve decided, is the only way to really love someone. To learn everything about him so you can become that person’s ideal partner. I’ve got a distance to go, but I’m willing to work very hard to get there.
Meanwhile, we have a few hours to satisfy more carnal desires. “Ready to come inside?”
“That, my dear, is a loaded question.”
The man was reading my mind.
Forty-Two
I have to admit I’ve missed San Francisco, and the house I’ve made so very much my own. The Tahoe place is nice enough in an upscale rustic way, but there’s something about sleek modern architecture that I find extremely appealing. Plus, and some people would probably think I’m crazy, despite the relative proximity of other houses on this street, I feel less claustrophobic here, without trees closing in on every side. My view to the ocean isn’t filtered, except by the too-present fog.
The drive isn’t a problem. It’s Friday, so most of the traffic is moving in the other direction, toward the mountain and spring skiing. The flow into the city will slow toward evening, when suburbanites motor in for weekend entertainments, but I’m too early to be bothered by that. I pull into my garage a little after one, call Cavin to tell him I’ve arrived safely and miss him already.
I didn’t bother to pack much. Most of my clothes are here, and I had Charlie stock up the kitchen and resupply the bathrooms with my favored soaps and lotions. I’ve rehabbed my knee enough that the stair climb isn’t so bad. I’ll even sleep on the third level in my own big bed tonight. The sheets will be lonely.
Charlie has been good about clearing away the evidence of my uninvited visitor. I wander room to room, assessing, but find no other hints of a break-in. Everything is in its place, which only underscores my belief that whoever was here was someone I’m acquainted with. I changed the door codes remotely from Cavin’s. I change them again now, just in case. Funny how paranoia comes creeping back as soon as I’m on my own again.
Melody and Kayla will be here tomorrow. I’ve arranged the Art Institute visit for Monday. Larry Alexander was quite accommodating and made it clear that, providing Kayla’s tuition is paid, there will be no problem with admission. Strings capably pulled. Meanwhile, we’ll take in the de Young Museum and an off-Broadway something Kayla’s dying to see. The play poses little problem. The museum, however, means some time on my feet. We’ll see how far I’ve come.
After four hours in the car, my body feels stiff, and my knee is complaining. Rather than take a pill, I opt for thirty slow walking minutes on the treadmill. This is the most actual weight-bearing exercise I’ve accomplished in many weeks, and it hurts. But it also makes me proud and fills me with the certainty that I’m well on the highway to full recovery.
As the sky darkens and the city illuminates window by window, I consider a solo dinner. I almost call Cavin to reassure myself that he, too, is dining alone. No. I refuse to go there. Building trust is a tedious process.
Instead, I content myself with a Trader Joe’s frozen sukiyaki and a big glass of fruit-forward pinot noir. I’m almost finished with both when the intercom buzzes. I go into my office and turn on the light so the camera can inform me who’s there. His face is turned away from the lens, but I can tell by his build, not to mention his hair, who it is. “Eli?”
Now he faces the camera. “Yeah. Hi. Uh, can I come in?”
I have to check what I’m wearing. Baggie sweatpants below, baggier sweatshirt above. Everything completely covered. “Of course. Up the steps to the second level.”
“Yeah, I kn�
� Sure.”
He knows? He must have noticed the lights. And speaking of lights, I flip the switch that will guide his way upstairs, unlock the deadbolt, and wait for his recognizable clomp. When I’m sure he’s reached the landing, I open the door to invite him in. He doesn’t wait for formalities, but bolts straight past me without pausing for a greeting. He stops when I close the door and throw the lock. “What? Afraid I’ll escape?”
Seriously?
“You are welcome here, Eli, but I’m a little surprised by your visit.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, I’ve only been home a few hours. Did you know I’d be here?”
“Duh. Dad told me.”
Duh. Such eloquence. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“Ever hear of spring break? Started this afternoon.” He circles the coffee table. “Mind if I sit down?”
I shrug. “Help yourself. I was just finishing dinner. Are you hungry?”
“Nah. Had a burger.”
Eloquence, squared. “Then can I get you something to drink?”
“Got a beer?” He plops down on the sofa.
“I don’t serve liquor to minors.”
“Beer isn’t liquor. Besides, I promise not to tell.”
“Sorry.”
“Dad lets me drink at home.”
Somehow I doubt it. “That’s between you and your father.” I go into the kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher, freshen my wine, and look for something nonalcoholic. “Unfortunately, there’s not a lot I can offer you. Sparkling water, with or without juice. Vitamin water. Tap water.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
What does that mean? “Remember what?”
“That you’re a health nut. No soda. No junk food.”
He picked that up from one weekend at Tahoe? Whatever. I return to the living room, sit in the curved chair I bought for looks, not comfort. I’d be less comfortable sitting next to Eli. “If you get thirsty, you know where the fridge is. So, are you spending your vacation at the lake?”
“I wanted to make it up for some spring boarding, but Mom’s home, and she’ll only be there for ten days before they take off again. So I’m afraid I’ll be stuck in Sacramento. It’s a dick hole of a town.”
I’m relatively certain his less-than-savory language is meant to test, not outright offend, so I do my best not to react to obnoxious terms like “dick hole.” “I agree it’s not my favorite city. Ugly in all kinds of ways.” I glance at the clock. “You’ve still got a little drive ahead of you. When does your mom expect you?”
“Tomorrow. I was kind of hoping you’d let me crash here tonight.”
“Here?”
“Yeah. We can get to know each other better.”
The words sink like lead weights, and I’m not certain I like their intent. Better chill it on the wine so I don’t say too much. “I guess it’s okay if you stay over. But before I say yes, does anyone know you’re here?”
“You mean like my parental units?”
“Exactly. Where does your mother think you’re spending the night?”
“With a friend. You are my friend, aren’t you?” His voice is soaked with sarcasm.
“I’m sure you don’t need me for a friend. You must have plenty.”
“Only a couple, actually. But then, you only need one or two really good ones, right?”
I think about myself. “Right.”
“So you can use one more, and so can I.”
“I’m not sure it’s a parent’s job to be a friend, Eli. As for stepparents, pretty sure ‘foil’ is in the job description.”
“You’re not my stepmother yet. And even if and when you are, it might be the better course of action for us to be friends.”
If? “Was that a threat?”
The corners of his mouth twitch into a grin. “No, no, not at all. Why would I want to threaten you? I just meant I’d rather we feel at ease with each other. Let’s start with, would you prefer I call you Mom, or Tara?”
A sharp little laugh escapes me. “Eli, I’ve worked very hard to make sure no one would ever have the right to call me ‘Mom.’ Tara will do.”
“I figured. Okay, now you ask me a question.”
Twenty questions? Is that the game? I consider for about fifteen seconds. Might as well come at him head-on. “How do you feel about your dad and me getting married?”
“I think you’re crazy.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing, what’s the rush? There’s a reason why people wait—you know, like date—a while before signing up for forever, not that a watery concept like a vow means much to most people.”
“It means something to me. Unfortunately, my exes didn’t see things the same way.” Oops. Too much information, perhaps?
“Exes, plural?”
Rein it in. “Yes, plural. I’ll spare you the ugly details, however.”
His eyes shimmer amusement. “That’s okay. I’ve seen your file.” The snot-nosed snoop expects confusion, shock, maybe even anger.
Counterattack. “So have I, actually, and Dirk Caldwell was relatively thorough. Did you learn anything surprising?”
“Only that you don’t seem to care that my dad put a PI on you.”
“He really didn’t have to do that. I have very little to hide and I’d already confessed most of it. But I understand his caution, especially after what happened with Sophia.”
Eli has been sitting slightly hunched forward. At the name, he straightens. “You know about Sophia?”
“Well, of course.”
But his demeanor says I might not know everything.
Hush
Don’t speak
to me as the sun
does, vowing in honey
silk voice unswerving
devotion to soil, seed
and bloom, pledges forgotten
with winter flirtation.
Don’t promise, like the sun.
Don’t shout
at me as the rain
does, hurling coal
throated insults
and sharp punctuation
at earth, already saturated,
and river, risen to flood.
Don’t curse, like the rain.
No, whisper
to me as the snow
does, feathering harsh
realities with a sift of white
lies, miniature deceptions,
each unique facade
a fairy tale adrift.
Tell stories, like the snow.
Forty-Three
Before I can query him, my cell interrupts our conversation. It’s Cavin, and I feel like I should let him know who’s currently sitting in my living room, pumping me for information. I probably won’t mention that I plan some serious reverse pumping as soon as I say good-bye.
It’s your dad, I whisper to Eli, before moving into my office. “Hey there,” I coo into the phone. “Guess who dropped by for a visit.”
Cavin is floored. “What does he want?”
“A place to crash for the night, and a chance for us to get to know each other, at least that’s what he said.”
On the far end of the line, the pause is more than pregnant. It’s three weeks overdue. “Be very, very careful, Tara. Eli can be . . .”
“Manipulative? Less than forthright? Yes, I understand. You’ve mentioned it before, and I have to agree. But seriously, don’t worry, Cavin. I’ve got it covered.”
Except maybe I don’t, because when we hang up and I exit my office, Eli is in the kitchen, helping himself to a glass of fruit-forward pinot noir. He smiles at the consternation I don’t try to conceal. “No worries. You didn’t serve it to me, so you’re off the hook, right? Besides, I’m not going anywhere tonight. No one will ever know.”
“Do you like pinot?”
“Actually, I prefer something a little bolder. But as pinots go, this one is very nice.”
This boy is wise beyond his years. “Who taught
you about wine?”
“My mom bought into the European philosophy that labeling anything taboo only makes a kid want to try it. There was never an alcohol prohibition in my home, as long as it was at the dinner table, under adult supervision.”
“So, your mother educated your wine palate?”
“Not exactly, but that’s a long story, and one I’m not sure you’ll want to hear. May I freshen your glass?”
It’s already on the counter, snugged against his own. There’s a sip or two left, and that makes my instinct sing. I can’t see any unusual sediment or discoloration. Still, the well-schooled woman in me says, “Let me rinse it first. I don’t usually backwash, but you never know, and wine is much better without a sukiyaki float.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
Eli returns to the living room. I follow through, rinse my glass, refill it once I’m sure there are no additives. But why would I consider that to start with? And am I really going to share a bottle of pricey pinot with my underage almost-stepson? Apparently, that’s an affirmative, because I find myself doing exactly that. He appreciates it like a true connoisseur, one slow sip at a time.
“How often do you drink?” I ask pointedly.
“Whenever I can, though rarely to excess. I don’t mind getting buzzed, but I hate hangovers. Worse, I don’t like acting stupid.”
Can’t argue with that, I suppose. Still. “I’d caution against drinking too often, especially at your age. It’s bad for brain development.”
He snorts. “Too late.”
No use lecturing. Besides, I’m a poor example. So I’ll change the subject. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
His smile falters and he studies me closely. “Not at the moment. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“You interested?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m old enough to b—”
“I love older women,” he interrupts. “I love their poise. Their experience. Their ability to carry on a conversation that does not involve boy bands or menstruation.”
“Really. And how many older women have you been with?”
He sips his glass empty. “I have admired many. I’ve had a sexual relationship with one. But then, I thought you knew about her.”
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