Love Lies Beneath (12 page)

In my experience, tequila only makes one meaner, but perhaps the exceptional quality of this particular bottle will have a different effect on him. Or maybe he'll skip the experience altogether and wander off to bed. I go to my room, gather the gifts I haven't bothered to wrap. Hmm. The liquor and crystal shot glasses are still in their plastic bag. That will do. I tuck everything else in there, too. What the hell?

The family, including Graham and two tail-thumping dogs, is in the living room, where Melody has turned on the Christmas tree lights and some soft holiday music. “Sorry I didn't get around to making these pretty, but it's what's inside the paper that counts anyway, right?”

I reach into the bag. First up, “This one's for you, Suz.” I hand her the Sports Authority gift card, value: $750. “I checked out some boards online. This should cover one shredding Burton, plus some hard-core bindings. Oh, and next ski trip, you're invited along.”

Suzette's face lights up. “Thanks, Aunt Tara! Hey, can we try Kirkwood? All my friends say it rocks.”

“I don't see why not.” It's a long way from any casino action, but that wouldn't be a concern, anyway, with a teenager along.

“Okay, for Jessica. I hope it's the right color.” I offer her the small white box.

“One hundred twenty-eight gigs? Who cares what color it is? Look, Mom!” She dances across the room to show off her new iPhone, then twirls back to give me a hug. “Thank you! How did you know this is what I wanted?”

“It's what every girl wants, isn't it? I can help set it up if you want. I have one just like it, except mine is black. Oh . . .” I reach back into the bag. “Here's a case, the kind with a battery. I have a feeling you'll use it.”

Now I hold out the bag. “Hope you'll enjoy this, Graham. A friend of mine says doctors need to let their hair down when they take a few days off.” Obviously, he could use more than a few, but I tuck that away.

He reaches into the bag, reluctantly, as if expecting a gag gift. Or a spider. Instead, he extracts the glasses first, and then the tequila. When he reads the label, he gives a low whistle. “Single barrel, aged eleven years? This must have cost a pretty penny.”

“Enough so you don't want to add mixers. That's sipping tequila right there. Have a taste. And, if you don't mind, pour me one, too. Please and thank you.”

What can he do but comply? As he busies himself, I turn to Kayla, who is looking at me expectantly. “As for you, I hear you've got a dream college in mind.”

She nods. “But I don't think I can get in there.”

“I think you can. Finn is acquainted with someone on the board. I asked him to put in a good word for you. He called earlier. Said it's all taken care of.”

“Really?” she squeals, like a kid coming down a very tall slide. “You mean it?”

“Hold on just a minute,” interrupts Graham, handing me a glass. He takes a sip out of his, tilts his head approvingly. But then he remembers his objection. “Even if they'll let you in, we can't afford it, Kayla. Not unless you get a scholarship, and you know your grades aren't good enough.”

“But, Dad—”

“I'll take care of it, Graham. That's my Christmas present to Kayla.” I lift the glass up under my nose, inhaling the sharp scent before tasting.

“I won't hear of it.”

“Why not?” Kayla screeches.

Graham tries to remain calm. “It's too much money. I'd be in her debt forever.”

“No, you wouldn't,” I say. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me! If I can't do this for my daughter, no one will.” He downs his drink, slams the glass on the coffee table with enough force that I'm sure it will shatter. Somehow, it survives.

Kayla dissolves into tears. “Daddy, please . . .” Daddy. Nice touch.

“This is not up for discussion.” He exits in a huff, goes upstairs to his bedroom, leaving the tequila on the table, still open.

I think that's an invitation. I pour myself another, offer, “How about you, Mel? A little fortitude before you try to placate your husband?”

“Better not.” She trails after him, followed by the dog duo.

The two younger girls excuse themselves—Jessica to go fiddle with her new phone, and Suz to peruse the Sports Authority website. Kayla stays put. “Why is he such an asswipe?” she asks.

“Most men are asswipes.”

“Why?”

“Beats me. Some leftover Neanderthal tic that makes them believe they're the superior sex.”

“Maybe I'll just become a lesbian.”

I laugh. “I don't think that's something you become, but I know what you mean. On the other hand, the thing about men is they're utterly predictable. Women, not so much.”

“You mean you could have predicted that my dad would be a jerk about the Art Institute?”

“Actually, I did foretell this very reaction. Your father never really liked me much, and he resents the fact that I can take care of the tuition when he can't.”

“That doesn't mean he has to be rude.” She watches me sip the smooth amber tequila. “Do you think he'll change his mind?”

“I don't know,” I admit, “but I hope so. I shouldn't have said anything. That was my original plan. To make him think it was a regular scholarship.”

“It's ridiculous!” she says, anger rising. “Why can't he understand how much this means to me? I hope he chokes on his pride.”

“That would be nice, kiddo. That would be nice.”

Two beats to consider, and she lowers her voice again. “Do you ever think about revenge?”

“Only when it's useful. And then I do more than just think about it.”

Christmas morning. I let myself sleep late. When I finally wake, prodded by stabs of sunlight through the blinds, I stay in bed, basking in the warmth beneath the big quilt. No use hurrying into the stress of the day. No use fighting the wake of last night's trouble before I must.

Mel, no doubt, is busy in the kitchen. Graham? Who cares? Probably sleeping off his foul mood. The girls? I don't know. Not much noise on the far side of the door, which seems unusual. Have they already opened all the presents that were stacked so neatly beneath the tree? Surely they're not waiting for me.

I reach for my cell to check the time, find a new-message notification. Cavin.
Just wanted to wish you a very merry Christmas. Hope it's filled with love and laughter.
From anyone else, I'd think
How Hallmark.
From him, I'm thinking
How sweet.
I never think
How sweet.
Something is definitely wrong with me.

The clock informs me it's after eleven. I should haul my behind out into the light of day and go make sure there aren't three breathless kids awaiting my appearance. Before I do, I text Cavin back.
Ho-ho-ho. That's probably the extent of today's laughter. Thanks for thawing the chill a little. Talk to you soon.

I manage to wiggle into a velour warm-up suit without popping my knee out of place once. Practice makes perfect. The swelling is down quite a bit, but every sideways mistake is painful. Right now it doesn't hurt at all. I pop a Vicoprofen anyway. Not all pain is physical.

The bedroom door opens into silence. “Hello? Merry Christmas?”

The living room is empty of people, the tree devoid of presents. Guess they opened them without me after all. The paper and bows and boxes are all neatly disposed of but for bits awaiting the vacuum. The tequila bottle still sits, opened, on the coffee table, but the glasses are nowhere in sight.

Dinner is in the oven, as evidenced by the smell of roasting turkey, drifting this way from the kitchen. I follow it but find no sign of the chef, who has left a trio of pies cooling on the counter. There's coffee, still hot, in the carafe and when I pour myself a cup, I notice Melody's note:
The girls and I went to church. Back by 12:30. Help yourself to whatever. Except pie. We'll have dinner around three, so keep it light.

I grab a yogurt out of the fridge, and when I start toward the dinette, I notice both ovens are on. Turkey
and
ham. Damn, that's a lot of food for six people. I foresee a lot of leftovers in the coming week. Maybe I should just hire a car service to drive me home before we get down to ham bone and beans or fowl carcass soup.

The newspaper is on the table, so I catch up on what's happening in the world on this Christmas Day. I'm almost to the sports section when Graham comes in from outside, dripping sweat.

“Did you go for a run?” Stupid question.

He pounces on it. “No. I perspire naturally in forty-degree weather. Just have to step outside.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, my dear. Anyway, I don't see a need for hostility. Can't we remain cordial, at the very least? After all, it
is
Christmas.”

He braces himself up against the kitchen counter. Obviously, this seconds-long exchange with me has been too much for him, and he's trying to choose his words carefully (for once). “I'm tired of you interfering in my life.”

I might feel slapped, except I have no idea what he's talking about. “Excuse me? How, exactly, do I interfere in your life? I only see you a couple of times a year.” And that's only if I'm unlucky.

“Right. And every time you manage to make me feel inferior.” There it is. That tic. “Pricey ski trips. Expensive gifts. Out-of-sight tuitions.”

“Graham, I'm only trying to help.”

“We don't need your help. I don't want your money. Just keep it, okay?” He storms off, hopefully to shower. The kitchen's lovely scent has been tainted.

It's interesting, really. His obvious contempt for me borders on hatred. It can't be because I shunned his moves over twenty years ago, can it? Not that it really matters, except for his digging in now will negatively affect his daughter. I know he cares about her. Maybe he doesn't want her to leave home. Whatever his rationale, he is definitely being, as Kayla would say, an asswipe.

About the time I finish my second cup of coffee and the classifieds, Mel and the kids get home. The girls peel off, head in separate directions. Melody goes directly to the oven to check on dinner's progress and baste the turkey. “Thanks for keeping an eye on things.”

Is that what I was doing? “I was mostly keeping an eye on the newspaper, but you're welcome.”

“Did you see Graham?”

“I did, yes, coming in from a run. He's still pissed at me.”

“Oh.”

“Any idea why?”

She closes the oven door, goes to pour a mug of coffee. “I think he's more petulant than pissed. He's a proud man, Tara. That's all.”

“You might remind him of that proverb: pride goes before destruction.” It was one of our mother's favorites, usually uttered right before she decided to try to beat the conceit out of me.

Mutually, silently, we let it drop.

“So, what's up with all the food? Are you expecting more people than the six of us? Like, maybe the entire block?”

She laughs. “The girls love turkey, but Graham claims it gives him indigestion. His family always had ham, and that's what he wants, so I do both. There will be lots of leftovers, but ham keeps well.”

It's two hours until we're gathered at the table, plates filled and grace said. Dinner is delicious, which is good. It gives everyone the excuse to keep conversation to a minimum. If Kayla bothers to look up from her turkey, it is to glare at Graham, who pretends not to notice. From time to time, Jessica and Suzette trade jabs about who's stuffing herself with the most stuffing, and how anytime now they'll totally resemble plump plucked fowl.

Melody and I sip a lovely full-bodied Syrah. Graham kind of gulps his, emptying his glass at twice the speed we do. After we finish eating and the plates are cleared, the kids disappear while we adults adjourn to the living room. Graham turns on a football game and dives straight into the tequila.

“Want some?” he asks, noticing me watching him slurp.

“No thanks. Think I'd better stick to wine.”

“Suit yourself.” He turns his attention back to the game.

So do I. I'm not a football fanatic, but I do understand the play and find it interesting to watch from time to time. Besides, what else is there to do? Suddenly, Graham bolts from his recliner, face white. “Shit!” He sprints to the hall bathroom, slams the door.

“Oh!” Melody's voice holds concern. “Is he sick?”

“Sure looked that way to me.”

Mel goes to check on him, returns momentarily. “Man. It's coming out of both ends, and rapidly. That bathroom is a war zone. Hope you don't have to pee anytime soon.”

“There's always the backyard.”

“That sure did come on fast. He didn't eat any turkey, did he?”

“Not that I saw.” My eyes settle on the tequila. “Maybe it was that.” I gesture toward the bottle.

“How much did he drink?”

I shrug. “Not that much.”

A question oozes out of yesterday.
Do you ever think about revenge?

Turkey, flu, or tainted tequila, Graham is sick for a couple of days. Finally, he materializes from isolation like a time-confused vampire—shaky, drained, with skin the approximate color of unbaked piecrust. His mood was foul prior to this; it's time for me to vacate the guest room.

Melody is in the backyard, feeding her mutts. I step outside the back door. “I think I need to go home.”

“Sick of our company already?”

“I think somebody around here's sick of mine.”

“Can you drive safely? And what about all those stairs? How will you get around?”

“I've been mulling that over. Kayla has another week off school, right? Maybe she could drive me home and help me unpack. Maybe run to the store for groceries and such. Then I can hire a car to bring her back. What do you think?”