Hydraulic Level Five (1) (33 page)

“What do you want?”

“It’s for my brother, actually.” Jaime’s normally gruff voice lost a bit of its edge. “He’s training to mountain climb, but doesn’t have anyone to go with. I dunno, he’s stupid.”

Ah. I knew what she was getting at. Except for Hector Valdez, the Mexican community cold-shouldered Jaime Guzman. Unfortunately, her twin brother, Luca, suffered because of her past mischief. She never would say it, but I knew she hated she’d put him in that position.

“I’ll talk to Hector about Luca. We’re doing a Longs Peak climb this winter, and if he passes muster in Hector’s opinion, count him in.”

Placing both of the puppies in the dog run, she held out her hand for me to shake. “The sordid business strategies of Caroline Ortega, coming up.”

Odd, how I felt like one of her trained Labs as she shook my paw.

I should have worn running shoes on my final day of work before the long wedding weekend. From the minute my heels clicked into the TrilbyJones conference room, it was one of those days. My eight o’clock with the Boulder Community Theatre was delayed because the director had to go to the city jail and collect “Daddy Warbucks” in the upcoming production of
Annie
. The actor’s friends were supposed to shave his head the previous night, and much alcohol was involved to bolster courage. Too much. After that, my entire schedule for the day was pushed back by half an hour, and I skipped lunch to finish the natural history museum slogan samples for their new exhibit: a complete dinosaur skeleton. The tagline?
“Remains to be seen.
” I was pretty proud of that one.

Molly was also taking time off to help Holly. Her stepsister still struggled to care for her infant, and Molly and Derek feared she would need psychiatric help.

I staggered up my outdoor staircase, heels wobbling, only to see the back of a familiar floppy fishing hat, its owner reclining in one of my patio chairs.

“Cassady?”

“Nope.” Samuel swiveled around, tipping the hat with a dopey grin.

I stifled a laugh. Yikes. Cassady could pull off the hat. Angel could even pull off that hat. But on Samuel, even with faded jeans and an old Vail ski T-shirt, it looked ridiculous. I grabbed the stairwell as my feet wobbled again. His eyes shot down my legs, to my feet.

“Since when do you wear heels?”

“Since Danita said I’m not allowed to go into my client meetings wearing shoes that make me look like a little girl. And hello to you, too.”

“You like the hat? The lone paparazzo who’s still tailing me knows my ball cap.”

“Um…it’s a different look for you. Isn’t that Hippie’s?”

“Yes. After you took me out with the tree branch and ‘ruined my mug for wedding photos,’ as my loving sister put it, she told Cassady it’s his job to keep me safe until Saturday.”

I stepped closer and studied the bruised, scabbed bridge of his nose, chagrinned. The cut wasn’t long, but it was ugly. Danita would probably sic Molly on him with foundation and face powder.

“Sorry about that.” I unlocked my door and motioned him inside. “So I’ve been demoted, huh? Not living up to my maid of honor title?”

“Dani couldn’t have a better friend than you.” Samuel eyed my apartment, hands jammed into his pockets. “Can I interest you in a stroll to Pearl Street? We can grab dinner on the way, if you’re hungry.”

I kicked off my cursed heels and smoothed down my pencil skirt, debating whether I just wanted to put up my feet and veg. But it was a nice evening and a walk wouldn’t kill me.

“Um, sure. Give me a minute to change and we can take off. Make yourself at home, grab a drink, whatever.” I darted into my bedroom and my hand flew to my chest. Samuel was in my living room, seeing where I now lived. Yes, he’d already been here for his grand cricket prank, but this time, it seemed more real. Fricking monkey rump, now I’d have that image of him standing there, in that stupid floppy hat, burned into my mind.

“Where’s Caroline?” I called from my closet. I paused halfway through pulling a maroon sundress over my head, listening for his answer.

“Denver Airport. I dropped her off an hour ago.”

Yes!
“Oh? Where’s she going?”

A pause, and a muffled answer. Stupid ear. I shrugged into a pair of sandals and pulled my hair into a ponytail, then changed my mind and let it tumble over my shoulders. Oh yeah. Hair was good today. “What was that?”

“Raleigh. Caro said she needed to take a few days to sort out some personal issues there before the wedding.”

“I take it she’s not happy with our book arrangement?”

“She’ll be fine. She’s just used to the two of us working on a book, that’s all. I don’t think she anticipated involving you, screening what she reads.” Yes. Oh freaking yes. I’d make sure that Caroline never again read a single thing about me. “That, and she’s concerned the longer this personal project takes, the longer it will be until I begin a publishable book.”

“Why do you even need her help if you aren’t publishing?” I touched up my light makeup and slicked ChapStick over my lips. What the heck. I pulled out a tube of dusty pink lipstick.

“Just because I’ve been successful doesn’t mean I should stop pushing my work to the next level. Caroline has a knack for asking tough questions and improving my writing. She usually sees angles I never considered.”

Leave it to Samuel to perfect a book that would never see the light of day. Still, he wouldn’t be Samuel if he didn’t. At least I could enjoy a few days without operating under Caroline’s hydra stares. Pouting my mouth in the mirror, I frowned and wiped off the pink lipstick. Lipstick was for dates and meetings, and this was a night with a friend. I grabbed my purse and waltzed into the living room,
hound is gone, hound is gone
dancing through my head.

Samuel studied one of my black and white framed photos on the wall. “This is gorgeous. Longs Peak?”

“It’s Molly’s. She gave it to me for Christmas several years ago. Ready to go?”

He stared at my beaded Elvis purse and chuckled. “Some things never change, do they?”

“Hey, if we’re going to do the buddies thing, we are going to do it right. Oh, and lose the hat. I refuse to be seen in public with you while you’re wearing it.”

He tossed the hat on my table, then messed his hair. “Aren’t you worried about having your photo taken with me?”

“We’re friends, right? Unless your plan is to make out in the middle of Pearl Street—then you might need the hat.”

Samuel’s eyes gleamed. “Behave, Trilby, or I won’t buy you any Cherry Garcia after dinner.” Yum. He had me. Darn that fat, bearded Deadhead and his tasty ice cream.

We sauntered through the neighborhood, enjoying the summer evening as we made our way to Pearl Street. Kids flew down sidewalks on bikes or threw footballs across yards. Two little girls in swimsuits blew up floaties as their father tested the water temperature in their wading pool. The pool toys deflated as quickly as he could blow air into them.

“I have a plan,” Samuel said as we turned onto the busier strip. He guided me toward a panini shop.

“Big surprise there,” I teased. “What is it?”

“Okay. I think we both agree our chat at Button Rock didn’t go well for either of us. You have struggles of which I wasn’t even aware. And I was prepared to discuss something entirely different, so you caught me off guard. Do you agree?”

“Yes. You called me dirt.”

Samuel ordered a sub crammed with mozzarella, spinach, and red peppers. I chose the same.

His lips quirked. “And you’re deliberately misinterpreting my symbiosis theory, Miss Trilby. But that’s beside the point. So, you know I have a tendency to hem and haw over decisions. Save the sarcasm.” I kept my mouth shut, swallowing the retort while he paid for our sandwiches. “And you have a tendency to make snap decisions. You do, don’t deny it.”

“Your point is?”

“We need to meet somewhere in the middle.”

“You mean compromise? What a foreign concept.” I tried to take a bite of my sub without the contents tumbling down my cotton dress as we wove through the crowded sidewalk, past shabby boutiques and restaurant patios draped with twinkling white lights.

“What was that I said about sarcasm?” Samuel nudged me. I nudged him back, just as he took a bite of his sandwich, dotting his chin with marinara. He wiped it off and gave me a patronizing glower. “Anyway, we both agree there are discussions that have to happen—‘answers,’ as you’ve put it. Here’s the thing, though. If we just dump our baggage on each other all at once, we’ll end up more confused, overwhelmed, and angrier than before.”

“You mean if we rashly fire questions at each other, we won’t have time to process?”

“Yes.”

“And if we overanalyze everything, we’ll never get a straight answer.”

“Right. So here’s my proposal. Each week, we both ask the other one question. You ask your question on one day, and I’ll ask mine the next day.”

“Just one question?”

“As a discussion prompt, yes. For as long as it takes, until we are both on the same page.”

“Have you spent time in therapy? This all sounds very shrink-like.” I squinted up at him, the setting sun casting his profile in silhouette.

“Is that your one question?”

“No. You think I’d waste it on a ‘Yes or No’ answer?”

“Of course not.” He wadded up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it in a trash can. Ahead, charming shop signs and striped canopies flanked either side of the road until it disappeared into the open blue of the sky.

“So, the questions…are you willing to give this a try?”

“Why just once a week? Is this a stall tactic?”

“Because, Kaye, we’ll need that week to ensure we really understand the implications of what we reveal to each other.”

“You must have some whopper secrets.” I only partly kidded. Spotting the ice cream parlor, I threw the rest of my sandwich away and grabbed Samuel’s hand, pulling him toward dessert. He chuckled.

“I see where your priorities are.”

“Can it, Cabral. You promised me Cherry Garcia and so help me, you better deliver. You can’t tease a girl like that.”

Once we purchased ice cream—mine in a waffle cone and Samuel’s in a neat little cup—we found a green space near the sculpture of a lovely girl on a front porch swing, her bronze tones warmed by an array of brightly hued tulips. We settled onto a park bench and ate our ice cream. An occasional pedestrian stopped to ask if Samuel was that
Sirens
author. He explained this was fairly typical, unless he was in New York. People tended to mind their own business in the city. They either didn’t know you, or didn’t care.

“So, do you have any more non-discussion questions?” Samuel asked after he’d politely autographed the back of someone’s receipt and smiled into their camera phone.

“Yes. How is any of this going to work? In one week, you’ll board a plane to wherever you’re going for the book tour. You’ll be crazy busy. I get the whole email concept, believe me. Email convo will work just fine when I read your memoir, but…”

Samuel’s blue eyes gently read me as I broke off a piece of my waffle cone. “I promised you I’d do whatever it takes to mend this friendship and I intend to keep that promise. You have my cell phone number. I have yours. If you need to call me, you can, whatever the time. If you want me to fly back for a visit, I will.”

“And you’ll be back in two months for Rocky Mountain Folks?”

“Yes, pink banjo in tow.”

I smiled and offered him a chunk of waffle cone. He took it, even though I was certain he still didn’t like them.

“Do you want to ask first, or should I?”

“You mean we’re starting with the questions right now?” I asked.

“Sure, if you want. No time like the present.”

Shoot. I had to give this some thought. What could I possibly ask him first? Samuel, were you really that unhappy with me? Were you doing drugs in Boulder? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you come back? Did you love me as a friend or as a lover?

“Geez, there are so many questions—this is like having to choose from a dessert tray. Well, a really crappy, ingestion-inducing dessert tray. Why don’t you go instead? I’ll give you time to come up with one.”