Love Lies Beneath (28 page)

“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.

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.

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.”

“Who?”

“Sophia.”

It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to spit out my wine. Instead, I swallow it so quickly that it rasps my throat. “So-Sophia?”

“Yes. You said you knew about her.”

“I think we're having two different conversations. I said I knew about her, meaning her cocaine habit, and her rather dubious sense of morality. I did not, however, have any idea that her sleeping around on your father included sleeping with you. Does Cavin know?”

“Well, yeah. He found us together.”

Oh my God. I should probably cut this conversation short, but I really want the details. “How? Where?”

“It was good ol' Dirk who busted us first. Dad suspected Sophia was cheating on him, so he put Caldwell to work. Neither of them expected to find her fucking me, especially not in Dad's house. We should have been more careful, but caution wasn't something I particularly worried about, and when that bitch was soaring on coke, whoa. She would have screwed any dude with a boner.”

I look at Eli, more boy than man in my estimation, and even younger when this happened. “But you had to have been, what? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen. She waited until I passed the magic age of consent. In fact, the first time was a slightly belated birthday gift. She said she wanted me to learn from the best. That woman was one hell of a teacher, too, let me tell you. The only problem is, she spoiled sex for me. Vanilla will no longer suffice, and I haven't found a girl closer to my age willing to do the things Sophia did. Thus, no girlfriend.”

“Did your dad catch you in the actual act?”

“Uh, yeah, he did.”

“What did he do?”

“I think he watched for a couple of minutes. Making sure his eyes weren't lying. Then he turned and walked away. Slammed the door so we'd know he was there. I was banging her from behind. She tried to get up and go after Dad, but I held her until I finished. She was pissed. He was pissed. And I was pissed because I figured it would be our last time.”

“Was it?”

“Yep. Right up until I bumped into her on the mountain over winter break. We had a quickie in the woods, for old time's sake.”

Bet that's something that didn't come up when Cavin had lunch with her. But this explains a lot. Why he broke up with her. Why he distrusts his son. Why he's nervous about Eli spending the night here. But the kid wouldn't dare try to put the moves on me, would he? And Cavin couldn't possibly believe I'd go for it, could he?

“What did you say to your father afterward?”

“I asked what he would have done if a woman like Sophia had put the moves on him when he was sixteen.”

“And how did he respond?”

“He called me morally bankrupt. I told him I was obviously a chip off the old block.” The boy, who is a font of clichés, stands. “If you'll excuse me, I've got to take a leak.”

“The bathroom is—”

“I know.”

He slithers down the hallway, straight to the correct room. Strange. When he comes back, wiping his wet hands on his jeans, I ask, “How did you know where the bathroom is?”

“I noticed it when I came in.”

Which makes perfect sense. Except I think the door was closed.

That's going to bother me all night. It's almost as if he's been here before. But that's impossible. I'd straight up interrogate anyone else. But I don't think that's the best way to approach Eli Lattimore. The closer I study him, the more thought provoking he becomes.

He's smart, no doubt about that. He's got a great vocabulary, and uses it. Doesn't always fall back on teen talk, although when he does it's crude. But he uses that language without apology, and purposefully. He thinks things through before opening his mouth, formulates his sentences to achieve maximum effect. So maybe, if you disregard his looks, he is in reality more man than boy. Which makes the game more interesting, as long as I remember appearances can be deceiving. Oh, and now
I'm
the wellspring of clichés.

Don't judge a book by its cover.

Boys will be boys.

The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree.

The last might be concerning, in the case of Cavin and Eli. However, considering how far this acorn rolled away from her mother tree, I have to feel confident that a child doesn't always reflect his or her parentage.

“What are you thinking?” Eli interrupts my reverie.

“About clichés,” I say without hesitation, taking the easiest route.

“Like what about them?”

“Like how they don't always represent the truth, despite how often people rely on them to do exactly that.”

“Give me an example.”

I don't want to talk about acorns, so I offer this one. “Okay, how about ‘honesty is the best policy'?”

“Are you saying it's better to lie?”

“Not always, but in some situations, avoiding the truth might be the best course of action.”

“You mean, like if someone asks if you think they look fat.”

“If it's someone whose feelings you care about, yes. But I was thinking more like if confiding information might put someone else in danger. Or even if a confession is likely to be detrimental to a relationship. For instance, I'm wondering why your dad didn't mention your dalliance with Sophia. The only reason I can come up with is that he didn't want to damage the fledgling connection between you and me.”

“Has it been damaged?”

“I'm not sure yet. I do know I'll never think about you in exactly the same way.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“So . . . are you a liar?”

Generally, I like the direct approach, but sometimes it can be intimidating. “I'd rather rely on the truth. And when it comes to people I care about, I'm almost always completely honest even if that means telling someone they've put on a few pounds. Why lie about that? They know what the mirror reveals.”

“Yeah, well, I bullshit regularly. It's only bad when you get caught middeception . . . Why are you shaking your head?”

“I don't know. You seem to enjoy shock value. The truth is much more conducive to that, in my humble opinion.”

“If you're talking about the truth as revelation, then yes, I agree. It's like dessert at the end of a satisfying meal of deceit.”

I think I'm glad Eli won't be living with Cavin and me full-time. I could never let my guard down. “Right up until that last remark, I was going to suggest you become a politician. But they refuse that kind of dessert.”

“Tell me about it. My mom married one, and diplomats aren't a whole lot better than your everyday congressman. Anyway, politics isn't a lucrative career, unless you're taking bribes. And that doesn't always end well, does it?” He winks at me.

The file.

My file.

Dirk Caldwell's discoveries file.

The file Cavin paid for.

File.

The word prickles.

“I don't think a decision's been made in Jordan's case yet. In fact, I don't think a trial date has been set.”

“But he's guilty, right?”

“Do you really think I should comment?”

“Hey, maybe they'll subpoena you. Then would you comment?”

“Then I guess I'd have to, wouldn't I?” The verbal swordplay has grown tiresome. “Would you like another glass of wine? I can open a cabernet if you'd prefer it.”

“Something bold from your cellar?”

“How did you know I have a cellar?” That information, I'm sure, was not in my file.

Eli shrugs. “You mentioned it before.”

I try to remember our past conversations, but the two glasses of wine I've already had have retarded my recollection. Still, I'm pretty sure I never mentioned the cellar to him. Why would I? Suddenly, I remember Charlie's words, half whispered into the phone:
Glasses and bottles. Like someone has been helping himself . . .

“Why don't you go choose a bottle? From the top three shelves, please.”

He regards me closely, pivots on one foot. “Downstairs, I imagine?”

It's a logical choice, considering the definition of the word “cellar.” I nod agreement. “Dug into the hill, through a door in the back of the garage. The switch—”

“I'll find it.”

Eli vanishes into the darkness. “Flip on the light!” I yell after him.

Last thing I need is for him to go tumbling and break his neck. I hear no noise to confirm such a dreadful happenstance, however. He is gone long enough that he either got lost or is making a careful selection. Finally, he reappears with a decent bottle of Caymus.

“I'll open it,” he says, stopping to collect our glasses before carrying the wine into the kitchen. “The corkscrew is . . .” He opens the correct drawer on the first try.

“Do you have ESP?”

“No, why?”

“You just seem to know your way around my house pretty well. And considering you've never been here before . . . You
haven't
been here before, right?”