Love Lies Beneath (17 page)

“Look, I don't care what it takes. Bribe him. Threaten him. Hell, go ahead and kill him. My patient load has almost doubled this winter. I need OR time. I'll be back in a week. Work something out.” He hangs up.

“Who was that? Your hit man?”

He smiles. “Not exactly. That was Rebecca, my receptionist. I'm having a hell of a time securing operating room hours. It's financially expedient to do surgeries back to back on the same day. Taking a week off means I'll have patients piled up, waiting.”

“Sounds uncomfortable for them and frustrating for you.”

“It is. But I'm overdue for a little time off, and now that I'll be spending it with you, I can't wait to put all that behind me.”

“If you'll help me put a few things into a suitcase, I'll be ready to go.”

“Can I help choose your outfits?”

He does.

From start to finish, it's a great five days. The weather is perfect. The setting is perfect. My companion/host/tour guide is perfect, or at least as close to it as a man can come. If I were the type to scare easily, I'd probably run, because instinct hisses that there must be a defect there somewhere. Cavin Lattimore defines the cliché “too good to be true.”

His Carmel vacation house perches on a cliff off Highway 1. Because of the curve of the hill, and genius engineering, it overlooks the ocean on three sides. It isn't huge—only two bedrooms and maybe three thousand square feet—but every room is spacious and open, with lots of sunlight through banks of windows and skylights. You almost feel like you're outside, inside.

We walk nearby beaches and stroll through old-town Carmel-by-the-Sea, with its courtyards and hidden paths and eccentric architecture. Cavin's patient with my injured pace, steadies me over uneven stone sidewalks, or carries me across deep pillows of sand, to the firmer damp footing closer to the sea.

“Keep this up, you're going to get a hernia,” I joke.

“It's all about proper form, my dear. And your form is better than proper.”

We hold hands and kiss publicly, like high school kids making out, no worry of censure. Every now and again, someone will wink, or I'll notice the odd look of displeasure. But for the most part, there is just Cavin and me, insulated by our peculiar bubble of happiness. I haven't laughed this much in a very long time.

On day three, we drive to Monterey and go whale watching. It's relatively early in the annual gray-whale migration from Alaska south to Baja, but apparently they're anxious this year and we're treated to regular sightings. As per regulations, the boat stops at a required distance when whales are spotted. Closer viewing is up to the whales. We get lucky there, too, when a juvenile becomes curious and approaches playfully, spouting very close to the side of the ship where we happen to be standing. He rolls to one side, looking up out of the water as he glides by.

“This is very unusual,” announces the on-board naturalist. “And, oh look. Here comes his mama.”

Cavin, who is behind me, lifts my hair. Kisses my neck. Mumbles into my ear, “Did you wear your Come Hither Leviathan perfume? I've done a half dozen of these trips before and never seen anything like this.”

“Didn't you know? I'm the Whale Whisperer.”

We laugh at the ridiculousness of the conversation. I feel almost as juvenile as the young whale. There's a freedom in that, one I've never really allowed myself to experience before. Even as a kid I had to be the adult. This is a rare gift. I turn to Cavin, reach up, and lock my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

The kiss we share is anything but adolescent.

We spend the afternoon at the aquarium and exploring Cannery Row, with Cavin offering narrative insights into John Steinbeck, who not only wrote about this area but was also born and raised here. “He loved this land, and he worked it, too. That's why he became so interested in the plight of migrant workers. Oh, and he was a tour guide at Tahoe for a while. That's where he met his first wife.”

Turns out, Cavin is an avid reader and amateur historian, something he demonstrates again on day four. “Having a clear understanding of the past is vital to a healthy future.” We are driving past the Henry Miller Memorial Library, on our way back to Carmel from Big Sur. He points to the small building, a converted old house guarded by giant redwood trees. “What do you know about Henry Miller?”

“Um . . . he was married to Marilyn Monroe?”

“No. That was Arthur Miller, the playwright. Henry Miller was a novelist. Have you read his
Tropic of Cancer
?”

“I've heard of it. It was early erotica or something, right?”

“It had quite a bit more substance than most erotica, but it was raw, and at the time France first published it in 1934, it was banned in the United States. It published here in 1961, and led to a series of obscenity trials that tested American laws on pornography. The case went all the way to the US Supreme Court, which ultimately declared the book a work of literature.”

“Is it worth reading?”

“Do you like Kerouac or Ginsberg?”

I reach into memory for a favorite quote from
On the Road.
“ ‘We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time.' ”

“Ah. A fan, I see. Well, many credit Henry Miller with inspiring the Beat Generation. Certainly, Miller qualified as a bohemian, and his books paved the way for theirs. I've got
Tropic of Cancer
and
Tropic of Capricorn
at home. I'll lend them to you.”

“And what about you? Do you qualify as a bohemian?”

He laughs. “Hardly. Although, you do encourage my inner hedonist.”

“Is that so? Too bad you haven't gotten a glimpse of mine yet.”

“I wouldn't say that. Just because she hasn't been able to come out and play yet doesn't mean I haven't caught sight of her.”

Despite being largely confined to the missionary position, the sex we've shared has been great. I do, however, harbor a growing desire to experience straddling his exceptional cock, not to mention taking him from behind. When it comes to a healthy sex life, variety isn't just
any
spice. It's the salt and pepper.

By day five my knee has ballooned. “You've worked it a lot,” observes Cavin. “Let's forgo the sightseeing and chill here at home. I'll run to the store for dinner provisions and you can read this.” He hands me a copy of
Tropic of Cancer.

Before he leaves, he settles me on the patio in the pale sun, with my knee packed in ice. Then he tucks a blanket over my legs. “Warm enough?”

I nod. “Did anyone ever tell you you'd make a good doctor?”

“Only my mom. My teachers said I should try farming.”

“Really?”

“I'll leave you with that image and see you in a bit.”

He kisses me good-bye and I introduce myself to Henry Miller. I immerse myself in his stream-of-consciousness rant and must get sucked all the way under because at some point Cavin returns with groceries and I find I've read close to half the book.

He puts away the perishables, comes outside, and gestures toward the slim volume. “So, what do you think?”

“I think he was a brilliant writer, and a terribly disturbed man.”

“Self-absorbed, certainly, even narcissistic. Disturbed? I guess that depends on your definition.”

“Oh, I wasn't complaining. Most of my favorite authors fit my definition of disturbed. Painters, too. Something about the artistic temperament. In fact, I recently read a fascinating article about the correlation between creativity and depression. There's a part of the brain that refuses to turn off for artists, so they're always thinking. That, and they have an overwhelming need to control both their fictional characters, and the ‘characters' who populate their real lives.”

Sounds like me. Wonder if I've got a book somewhere inside.

“Anyway, that intrinsic darkness only serves to make their work more interesting.” I throw back the blanket.

“I happen to agree. I take it you're ready to come inside?”

“Either that or grow roots right here.”

I excuse myself for a bathroom break and when I return to the kitchen, Cavin is slicing fruit for a salad. The berries and bananas are already in a pretty crystal bowl and he's just started on the mango.

“Oh. No mango for me.”

“You don't like mangoes?”

“I do, but they don't like me. I'm highly allergic.”

“Really?” He puts down the knife.

“Really. It's funny because there are two kinds of allergies to mango. One is topical. Some people can't touch them. Apparently, they're related to poison oak, which doesn't bother me at all, and I can peel mangoes all day long. But I've got a food allergy, which is enzyme related. One bite, my tongue swells up and my throat wants to close.”

“I hope you carry an EpiPen.”

“I do, but even a hard-core antihistamine will do in a pinch.”

“Have you had more than one reaction?”

“Three, each worse than the last. Sometimes mango sneaks into things like ‘tropical cobblers' or fruit trays. Even juice cross-contamination will nail me.”

He picks up the mango, drops it into the trash.

“Why did you do that? You can eat it.”

He shakes his head. “Wouldn't want to cross-contaminate you when I do this.” He pulls me into him, kisses me sweetly. “Now, how about a mango-free mimosa?”

It's the beginning of the end of an excellent day.

It's the beginning of the end of an excellent vacation. Cavin drops me off at home, helps me up the stairs, stays only long enough for an extended good-bye. He's got a surgery at Tahoe in the morning, and a decent drive ahead of him.

“What about my knee?” I ask before he goes. “When should I schedule surgery?”

“It's getting close, but I'd give it a little more time. Do you want a referral to someone here in the Bay Area?”

“Oh, no. I'd rather you operate.”

He clucks his tongue. “A week ago, I probably would have agreed, but now I'm afraid it would straddle the ethics line.”

“No one would have to know.”

“I would know.”

I slide my arms up around his neck. “Aw, but I trust
you.
”

He kisses the tip of my nose. “The problem is, I've become awfully attached to you over the last few days, and my feelings just might cloud my judgment.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is. But listen. Barton does have one of the best orthopedic teams in the country. If you want to schedule there, I can refer you to one of my partners.”

“Well . . .”

“I'll sweeten the pot. You can recuperate at my house. That way I can keep an eye on your recovery.”

“Is that the only thing you want to keep an eye on?”

“I think you know better than that.”

He kisses me, and it's full-throttle, and I realize how much I've enjoyed not only his company but also the regular sex. My lips still touching his, I mumble into his mouth, “I'm going to miss you. Have time for a quickie?”

Cavin takes my hand, tugs me over to the couch, pushes me down on the cream suede cushions. Then he lifts my hips, pulls until he can prop them up on the sofa's broad arm, where he kneels. Up goes my skirt, and my legs gently part and his face dives between them.

The lap of his tongue.

The plunge of his fingers.

The draw of his lips against my clitoris.

I want to protest. Ask to reciprocate. But I want more to ride this surf to completion, and that's what I do. Cavin kisses one thigh, then the next, then the first again, back and forth as he withdraws. “I hope that wasn't too quick.”

A sigh escapes me as I close my legs, straighten my skirt. It was much too quick, but I say, “It was just right, but I'm afraid I owe you now.”

“No worries. I'll make sure you pay that debt. Now I'd better take my leave before you convince me to stay.”

He isn't gone an hour before this great swoop of loneliness settles over me. Weird. I'm used to being alone, but right now I feel emptied. I wander the house, which the housekeeper has cleaned as per my orders. Today it seems sterile. I go into my office, flip on the security camera, which shows a street devoid of traffic. I turn on my computer, scour my e-mail. Nothing important, just a couple of fund-raiser RSVPs and credit card bill payment receipts. The only phone message is from Melody, wanting to know details about my “romantic rendezvous.” I'll call her back later. Right now I want to keep every one of them locked up inside.

Instead, I call Charlie, ask if he can go shopping tomorrow. He's agreeable, so I give him a list. Fruit. Vegetables. Quinoa. Eggs. Raw almonds and pistachios. No complex carbs. No dairy. I've vowed to eat healthy for a couple of weeks to make up for the calories I consumed in Carmel. I'd go ahead and work out, but my knee is complaining as it is.

I try to read but am too distracted, especially when the next-door dog starts yapping. Annoying, but does it mean anything? I check the windows and camera but spy nothing out of the ordinary. Still the mutt keeps barking. It must be as bored as I am. Rather than go one hundred percent stir-crazy, I call Cassandra and arrange to meet her at Robberbaron, a favorite nearby wine bar.

It's a long slog down the steep stairs to the street, where I meet the cab I called, still not trusting that my leg can work the gas and brake pedals correctly. For once, I arrive ahead of my friend. The place is relatively uncrowded, so I choose a table near the front door, where Cassandra can spot me easily, and I don't have to walk farther than necessary. The down-the-stairs hike left me with a decent limp.

Apparently, the bartender notices, because he hustles over with a menu. “Hello again.” Apparently, he has noticed
me
before.