Love Lies Beneath (29 page)

The cork exits the bottle with an audible pop. He waits to answer until after he has brimmed our glasses with rich, scarlet liquid. Then he looks me straight in the eye. “Why would you suspect otherwise?”

I could drop the whole thing, but then I'd never know. “Apparently while I was staying at your dad's, someone spent some time here without my permission.”

“You mean, like a break-in?”

“Not exactly. My doors are all locked with keypads. Somebody seems to have hacked the codes, along with the security system code.”

Eli crosses the living room floor in three long strides, hands me a glass, bends to look into my eyes. “And why would you think that was me?”

“Because it makes more sense than ESP?”

He smiles.

But makes no further comment.

I drag myself into Saturday morning, groggy and reluctant to throw back the covers. My covers. My bed. I allow myself the luxury of floating here, cushioned by the familiar, blanketed by an overwhelming sense of everything being right, despite a rather tense moment or two last night.

Eli and I managed to finish the cabernet on top of the pinot, and stayed up watching some HBO show he claims he's addicted to. Something about a drug-running vampire, and nothing I'd ever choose to watch. Afterward, I rocked unsteadily to my feet. “My bed is calling to me, I'm afraid. It's been quite a long day.”

“Where should I sleep?”

Even as buzzed as I was, the question felt tainted with obscure connotation. I thought for a minute. “My sister and niece are coming tomorrow, and I'm not sure I want to change guest-room sheets. How about the sofa?”

“Aw, come on. What if I change the sheets for you?”

A vague unease descended around me, but I agreed. “I guess we've got a deal. You can take the room closest to the stairs.”

I teetered across the expanse of the living room, fighting the whirl of my head and beaten up by the exercise I'd done earlier in the day. I'd just reached the foot of the staircase when I felt Eli's hand at my elbow. “Can I help you? You look a little shaky.”

Thoughts volleyed inside my head.

Had I watched my wine the entire time?

I did, and besides, he wouldn't dare.

So why was I so messed up?

Two bottles of wine and not much food.

Anyway, why would he slip me a roofie?

Come on. You know.

Did I need help up the stairs?

Remember the last time you needed help up the stairs?

Cavin swept me into his arms, and . . .

“As long as you don't attempt to carry me.”

“Carry you? Who would try such a stupid thing?”

I didn't feel the need to share that memory. Eli guided me with gentle hands, and my focus was drawn to the elegance of his long fingers. “You should play the piano,” I suggested, tapping into that well of clichés again.

He surprised me. “I do. And the guitar, too. I'll show you sometime if you want.”

His voice was a warm zephyr at the back of my neck, and heat radiated between us, and for just one moment my inner nymph might have been persuaded to invite him into my bed. But that thought dissolved instantly, along with any perceived attraction, within a sudden cataract of unfamiliar emotion.

I love Cavin.

And yes, the word materialized from the ether. Lying here now, I try to decipher what that means. I don't rush the contemplation, but rather open myself up to possibilities. So this is what love feels like. Powerful. Elemental. And it's so new that I'm watery about what to do with it. But I refuse to let it go. I don't dare destroy it, and certainly, veering away from fidelity would crush this devotion like chalk into dust. I've mastered impulse control, but this isn't about proving something to myself or anyone else. This is about accepting a deep human need that I've relentlessly closed myself off from. I'm not positive I can manage it, but I'm damn sure going to try.

I haul myself out of bed and by the time I exit the shower, dripping vanilla-cedar-scented water, I can hear movement beyond the bedroom door. Eli must be up, too. I slip into a springlike floral print dress, hope the day matches my outfit once the morning mist lifts. I actually find myself humming as I head off on my quest for coffee.

Humming.

Love makes a person hum.

Eli has already stripped the bed and is looking for a clean set of sheets in the hall linen closet. “Morning,” he says when he sees me.

“Morning. How did you sleep?”

“Great, thanks. That's an awesome bed. Conducive to dreaming.”

“Good dreams, I hope.”

“Excellent. In fact, you starred in one or two.”

The boy is an expert at making me blush. “You can skip the details. When you finish, would you mind taking the dirty sheets down to the laundry room?”

“Not at all. But they're not really dirty. No sweat. No semen.”

I can't help but smile. “Wait. You dreamed about me, but you didn't sweat?” I purposely avoid the other s-word, but the insinuation is clear.

“I thought you didn't want details.”

Touché, brat.

“I'm going to make coffee. Want some?”

“Please. Strong and black.”

“A man after my own heart.”

“Maybe. Too bad your heart seems to be taken.”

He turns away, pulls a set of sheets out of the closet, goes to make the bed while I finesse my way down the stairs to the kitchen, wondering about the intent of his words. “Seems to be,” meaning maybe my heart's
not
taken? Meaning maybe I'm faking it? Or was it simply an overt reference to wanting my affection? Eli is difficult to decipher, and that concerns me. I'm glad his father is easier.

I measure dark roast beans into the grinder, pour water into the receptacle, turn on the machine, and while the coffee perks I call Cavin. It's a weekend, so he should be home unless he went skiing or snowshoeing, or is otherwise recreating. He picks up right away.

We indulge in small talk for several minutes. My knee. His plans for the day. Watching vampire crime lords last night. I want to ask why he omitted the information about Sophia and Eli, but I choose to reserve the query for a time when the young man in question isn't around. It doesn't really matter, except to satisfy my curiosity. When I hear clunking footsteps on the stairs, I decide it's time to sign off. “I miss you.”

“It's only been two days,” Cavin says.

“I know. Guess I got used to having you around.” Can I test this new ground?

“Call me later?”

“Of course. Cavin?”

“What?”

Come on. You can do it. “I love you.”

Dead silence on the other end.

“Hello?”

“I'm still here,” he replies. “It's just, you do realize that's the first time you've said that to me, right?”

“It's the first time I've said it to anyone.”

And now that I've uttered the words out loud, I can't take them back. That feels like complete commitment, which bothers me only a little. Three loveless marriages all ended unhappily. Can love connect two people indefinitely?

Eli returns from the laundry room and I pour two mugs of strong black coffee. “Breakfast?”

“Like what?”

“Omelets? I've got scallions and mushrooms.”

“Sounds good. Can I help?”

“You know how to cook?” I hand him a carton of eggs, assign myself the task of chopping the vegetables.

“Sure. Been doing it for years. When you're left on your own, you learn or go hungry. Mom always was too busy to bother with menial tasks like cooking.”

More Melissa insights.

“Your dad likes to cook, though.”

Eli cracks four shells carefully, empties their contents into a bowl. “Yeah, but he wasn't around. In fact, even when he was still married to my mom he didn't hang out at home very often.”

I spoon butter into a skillet to melt, add the veggies to sauté. “He regrets not spending more time with you when you were little.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about regrets . . .” He pours the whipped eggs into the skillet. “They're like butt holes. Everybody has them. Besides, it's a little late to worry about that now, isn't it? Anyway, talk is cheap, Tara. When it comes to Dad, you might want to remember that.”

Fair warning. But what does he mean by it?

Eli is just putting on his shoes when Melody and Kayla arrive, each lugging a suitcase. I was hoping he'd be gone. It's ridiculous, of course, considering our families will be joined in just a few months, but somehow I don't feel quite ready for the larger merge.

I offer a quick introduction, observing the way Eli's eyes crawl all over Kayla, who is dressed in a short skirt and tight scoop-neck tee, revealing plenty of skin from the thigh down and cleavage up. She notices his attention and smiles approval. Mel misses the entire exchange.

“So, you're Cavin's son,” she says. “You and Kayla must be around the same age.”

“Close,” I agree. “Except Kayla turns eighteen next month. Eli's birthday is in the fall.”

Eli winks at Kayla. “It's all good. I have a thing for older women.”

Kayla and Melody laugh, but his so-called joke lands with a thud at my feet. He's watching for my reaction, but I won't reward him. “You should probably go, don't you think? Your mom will worry.”

“Okay,” he says, “I can take a hint. Will I see you ladies at the wedding?”

“Wouldn't miss it,” exhales Kayla, and when Eli bends to tie his laces, she mouths,
Especially now.

Where does that leave poor ol' Cliff?

When Eli stands, he takes notice of the oversize luggage. “Can I help you ladies with your suitcases?” He doesn't wait for an answer, but instead goes straight to work playing bellman, which is so not his style. Who's he trying to impress?

The gesture is not lost on Melody. “What a polite young man. Excellent manners.”

He impressed her, anyway.

“Gosh, he's so strong!”

And Kayla, too.

He tromps back downstairs. “I put yours in the lavender guest room . . .” He nods toward Melody, then addresses Kayla. “And yours in the blue. I slept in there last night, but don't worry . . .”

Oh my God. He's not going to say anything about sweat and semen, is he?

“I changed the sheets,” he finishes. “I'd better hit the road, I guess. Thanks so much for your hospitality, Tara. I'll see you in June, if not before.”

Eli is barely out the door when Kayla gushes, “Wow. He's so cute! If he looks anything like his dad, no wonder you're getting married.”

“A handsome face is not the primary benchmark for a husband, Kayla.”

“Really? What is?”

I think for a moment, and consign Cliff to his proper place in the not-husband-material ranks. “The ability to care for you properly, and the desire to put your needs above his own. Followed by the handsome face.”

“Um . . .
is
there a guy like that?”

“I hope so.” Then I amend, “I believe so.”

“So how come Eli was here? Does he visit you often?”

I spend a few minutes explaining Eli's circumstances, omitting the part about his mother living in Sacramento, a coincidence that's a little too close to Kayla's front yard. “But you're not shopping for a new boyfriend, are you?”

Kayla shrugs. “Maybe.”

“What about Cliff?”

“You were right. He's a loser. He dropped out of school and moved back in with his mom. Not to mention, he cheated on me.”

So much for love. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. Obviously, there are better guys out there.”

The Eli reference is clear. I wish I knew for sure he was actually superior. I invite Mel to join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, hoping Kayla will decide the looming adult conversation will be much too boring.

The tactic works. “If it's okay, I'll go upstairs and relax for a while.”

Relax, meaning text her friends, no doubt, and I'm pretty sure what about. “Sure. My plan is dinner out before the play. Curtain is at eight, so I'll make reservations for six. We'll need to leave here around five thirty.”

Melody watches Kayla go, making certain she's out of earshot before following me into the other room. Despite her earlier cheerfulness, when I offer her a mug, she has lost any semblance of a smile.

“What's wrong?”

Mel dampens her voice. “The usual.”

“Graham?”

She nods. “He's being totally unreasonable about this, Tara. It's not just a ‘no way' now, it's a ‘if you support this, you're not supporting me.' He even mentioned divorce.”

“That's a bit radical, don't you think?”

“It's completely irrational, and that's what I told him.”

I give it two beats. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“Was your marriage in trouble before this? Because it almost seems to me like he's looking for an excuse to talk divorce.” If so, she's never said a word.

She sits quietly for several long seconds. “We've been together twenty years. All marriages suffer after so much time. People grow apart. People's opinions change. The passion cools. Arguments last longer, become harder to forgive and forget. I don't know if that fits your definition of trouble, but I'd say that's where we are.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I don't want to tear my family apart, Tara. Divorce was easier for you, not having children.”

“So, it's better for you and the kids to live unhappily?”

“The kids would be more unhappy if we split up. As for me, it doesn't matter. Happiness is overrated because it's fleeting. Happy one day, miserable the next. That wouldn't change because I got divorced.”