Hydraulic Level Five (1) (11 page)

When I was little, I was convinced I would marry Alonso. I’d said it before, I really was very determined to become a Cabral. Tall, curly black hair, clean-cut and kind, he was a prince who’d stepped right out of a Disney movie. Danita may have gotten her exotic facial structure from Sofia, but her regal stature and glorious hair were all Alonso. However, when I saw Alonso take time to play Candy Land with Danita rather than settle in with a joint, the idea of marrying him was swiftly abandoned for my desire to have him as my father. I never told my dad that.

“Kaye, you’ve done an incredible job.”

“It’s the least I could do, Alonso.” Danita had done the same for me.

He patted my shoulder one more time then turned to Sofia. As he did, I saw that Samuel and Caroline had come in with him. Dread churned in the pit of my stomach. They wandered around the B&B foyer, speaking too quietly for me to hear. He rested a hand on top of her head, rather sweetly, and she pulled it down to her lips and kissed his palm. Then he looked toward the kitchen. Before I could duck under the counter, he was making his way over. I hunted for a tray, arranged plates and cups, anything to appear too busy to interrupt.

“Hello, Kaye.”

“Samuel.” No Cabral hug this time. I didn’t expect it. An awkward silence hung between us as I nervously shuffled veggies on the relish tray. Thankfully, Alonso saved me.

“Son, I’m going to scout out those Warbirds in the yard. Care to join me?”

“No thanks. I should probably stay here for a bit.” He nodded toward Caroline, who picked at a flower arrangement.

Come on, Alonso, don’t leave me hanging here,
I pleaded with my eyes. “Suit yourself. Come find me when you’ve had too much of the ladies.”

“Will do.” Samuel turned to me expectantly.

I scrambled for something to say. Sarcasm usually fit the bill when nothing else came to mind. “And so the big bad author returns. Should I have made security arrangements when planning the bridal shower, keep the fan-girls away?”

He wasn’t sure how to take my cynicism, and settled on a painful chuckle. “No, that’s not necessary. The nice thing about coming home is everyone’s seen you in braces and high-water pants.”

“You mean your relatives aren’t clamoring for your autograph?”

“You’re the only one who’s asked me to sign their book.” He had the decency to look away when my cheeks colored. “What’s playing? I like it.”

I listened to the folk music mix I’d thrown together for the shower. “Ah…New Greeley Bluegrass Group, just released an album.”

He smirked. “Do you lick them too?”

Cue tongue-tied syllable babble…yep, there it goes.
“Listen, Sam, about that email. It…well, I didn’t…”

“You didn’t mean to send it?”

“No.”

“I figured that one out on my own.”

“Of course you did. Molly and I, we…um…and you know.”

He laughed, fingers rubbing the back of his neck. “One of those. I’m just impressed you still have emails lying around from two years ago.” I took the opportunity to briefly sweep my eyes down his body. Untucked button-up shirt, faded jeans. He looked refreshingly normal, not like the debonair “Samuel Caulfield Cabral” of entertainment news and gossip rags.

“Well, you know me, hold on to everything. You should see my work accounts. Did you go, by the way?”

“Go where?”

“To see The Twiggies.”

He cleared his throat. “Nah. I ended up having to fly back to New York early, so it wouldn’t have worked out, anyway. Don’t feel bad about it.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes.” Another awkward pause. “Do you still get out to Planet Bluegrass for Rocky Mountain Folks?”

“Every August. This band playing now, New Greeley? They’ll be there.”

“I should try to go this year. It’s been a long time.”

I folded my arms around my ribs. “You should take Caroline. I bet she’d like it…Maybe you could even write a book about Planet Bluegrass,” I hinted.

A strange expression flitted over his face. “Maybe.”

And then Ms. Ortega herself spotted us across the room. Resplendent in pearls and tailored-to-a-tee slacks, she sidled up to Samuel with the grace of a Manhattan socialite, looping her arm in his. I was suddenly self-conscious of my off-the-rack brown dress. Next to Caroline, I might as well have worn a shapeless paper sack.

“There you are,” she breathed to Samuel. He smiled back. Mother cliff-hucker, I wanted to throttle them both.

“Kaye, have you actually met Caroline? The book signing was rather chaotic.”

“We haven’t been properly introduced.” Heavy emphasis on
properly.
“She’s worked with my TrilbyJones team, but not me.”

“Of course. This is my close friend and agent, Caroline Ortega.”
Just friend? Well, Kaye, he’s not exactly going to introduce her as his lover, is he?
“Caroline, this is Kaye Cabral.”

Cabral…I froze, stunned. He didn’t know.

What to do? Correct him, not correct him? And Danita. I’d think twice before I listened to her over my own instincts. Obviously he didn’t have a problem with my bearing the Cabral name in front of his girlfriend.

I tried to match Caroline’s lethal grip as she murmured, “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cabral,” her face tighter than a fat man’s Speedo.

“Ahm, actually, my name is—”

“Angel’s here,” Samuel interrupted, glancing at the door. I saw Angel barrel into the room, scooping up his little sister in a bear hug. “We’re dragging him out to the golf course while you do your thing.”

“I hardly think you have to
drag
him out to the golf course. Most men would go willingly.” Caroline flashed flirty eyes. What did
she
know about Angel?

“Oh no, they really have to drag him,” I countered. “Angel doesn’t like to golf. He prefers man versus nature kind of things—rafting, rock climbing, spelunking.”

“Beating his chest,” she teased.

Oh, cliff-hucking floozy was going down. She could scorn me, make fun of me. But
no one
made fun of First Lieutenant Angel Valdez unless they’d earned the right. I opened my mouth to lay into her, but Samuel interrupted, his eyes caution lights.

“Angel will like this. The groomsmen are going mini-golfing.” He had the gall to look apologetic. And was that smugness I saw in Caroline’s face? How could he possibly be friends with this woman, let alone date her?

But then I realized he said they were going
mini-golfing
. Hector was in the wedding party.

I forgot about Caroline as haunting images of the last mini-golfing excursion invaded my mind, making me tremble. Hector hitting his bright orange ball into the creek, then forgoing the net to wade into the water himself and pluck it out. Hector putting the ball so hard, it skipped over the green and pelted some poor child in the head. The kid was fine, but he’d cried and his dad had yelled at us. Hector dropping his shorts after a wager with Cassady that he couldn’t break par for the course. We’d been escorted out. I’d be surprised if the mini-golf staff didn’t bar him at the gate.

“Ah, Samuel, not such a good idea.”

“We’re mini-golfing, Kaye, not whitewater rafting. We’ll bring everyone back in one piece.” That soft smile crept over his mouth, and dang it, it still got to me.

“If you get kicked out early, you can’t come back here.”

Just then, the guest of honor walked through the door and a dozen shrieking women rushed her. Danita was as lovely as ever, but a deep glower was etched in her features as she scanned the room. Samuel looked in her direction, distressed.

“I suppose we better hit the road before it gets too wild.” He gave Caroline’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You going to be okay?” he asked her.

Panic flashed across her face, then retreated. Begrudgingly, I knew I had to play the good hostess.

“Caroline, follow me and I’ll get you one of those ‘Hello, My Name Is’ stickers. You don’t mind wearing one, do you?”

She grimaced and smoothed a hand over her soft Angora sweater. “That’s fine.”

I started to walk away, but Samuel caught my eye. The cold blue from the book signing was entirely gone, replaced by nothing but warmth. “Thank you,” he mouthed.

I narrowed my eyes, and he got the message. I wasn’t doing this for him, or for Caroline. I was here for Danita, and I was going to give her a perfect bridal shower if it killed me.

Whatever made Danita so sour when she first arrived dissipated, and soon she laughed with the rest of her guests. The bridal shower went well, despite the near-disaster with the sheet cake, the glares Molly sent toward Caroline, and my spilling a glass of punch down the junior bridesmaid’s back. Angel’s little sister was nice about it, but she was not pleased with the red stain streaking the zipper line of her lavender blouse.

Caroline was quiet, aside from the occasional name-dropping or comment about how she saw the same gift in Fifth Avenue’s such and such culinary boutique, and how divinely it whisked eggs, brewed coffee, cooked a seven-course meal. I tried not to notice how impressed the other ladies were with her high-class exterior, how they emulated the refined way she crossed her ankles. It didn’t bother me in the least when Molly’s stepmother—who was so tan she’d nearly turned to leather—asked Caroline what it was like to date a famous author and have her name appear in gossip mags. Then my own mother, for Pete’s sake, asked about the hype surrounding the movie. Thanks, Mom. After Caroline finished expounding upon the dreariness of having one’s life become tabloid fodder, no one asked her anything more.

We played your typical shower games, ate cake (everyone commented on the precious strawberry hearts), and fawned over Danita with all the attention due a bride-to-be. She loved it, and I was in high spirits. When I drove back to Boulder that evening, I felt rather proud of myself. I’d given my friend her dream bridal shower and managed not to gouge out the eyes of my ex-husband’s new girlfriend, all in the same day. This was progress.

Of course, that progress might collapse like Jericho after I met with Jaime Guzman Tuesday night. I wondered, for the thousandth time, if involving Jaime was a mistake.

Chapter 7: Punching

Heavier, larger rafts cannot avert hydraulics like
canoes or kayaks are able to, and the paddling crew
must speed up and punch directly through
the hydraulic to avoid ensnarement.

I S
HOULD
H
AVE
K
NOWN
when I left the TrilbyJones mansion to find that my Jeep’s battery was dead, it wasn’t a good idea to meet with Jaime Guzman.

My nerves were already a mess. For the past three days, ever since I read the part in
The Last Other
where Samuel wrote about Neelie’s lack of peripheral vision, I tried to pay attention to all of the little details going on around me, rather than focusing straight ahead. But enough was enough. I’d stumbled over a fire hydrant. Missed my mug when pouring tea. Shook a loosely-capped ketchup bottle and splattered it all over Molly. I decided to take whatever cryptic passages Samuel wrote with a grain of salt.

I arrived at five after seven. The smell of burnt grease stung my nose and eyes when I entered the nearly empty Lyons Café. Jaime waited for me, already pissed. Tucked into a cracked faux-leather booth, she had shoved a cup of coffee to the side, half finished. Her lips were pursed tightly, fingers drumming the table to Roy Orbison and rattling the chrome napkin holder and table tents.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, car trouble.”

Jaime snarked. “Right.”

With her sharp Latina features and round eyes, Jaime was naturally beautiful. If she ever decided to don lipstick, skirt, and heels, she could probably bring a courtroom to its knees. But like me, Jaime was a little rough around the edges. Okay, a lot. Her sleek black hair was tucked under a pageboy cap. In fact, her entire body was hidden in the baggy cargos and snarky T-shirts she favored. Another winner tonight: a mustard yellow one with “
Illiterate? Write for Help”
scrawled across the front.

“For the record,” she said, “I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I’m on the clock.” I froze, menu half open. “Relax. I’m not charging you exorbitant legal fees. Just a little pocket change to save face.”

I exhaled. “Please don’t
ever
volunteer for a children’s charity.” I nodded to her T-shirt.

“Unless it has to do with Labradors,
this—
” she motioned between us “—is as charitable as I get.”

I scowled at her implication.

“
Qué tan burro eres
, Trilby, don’t get your little feelings hurt.”

“I’m hardly a charity case.” I sniffed indignantly.