Love Lies Beneath (25 page)

The struggle to cast off the vestiges of childhood isn't gender-specific, of course. Kayla is going through a similar phase, and she's no easier to deal with. Certainly, at seventeen, I had wrested complete control of my young life from my mother's grasp, not that she tried very hard to hold on. But had I come from a home with parents who cared, and who gifted me with affection and possessions, would I have acted out in the same way that Eli and Kayla are? Who knows?

Now it's Cavin whose heavy boots thud across the floor. He plops down beside me, offers a kiss before he asks, “Where's Eli?”

“He decided to take Gunbarrel down. He said he'd meet us at the car.”

“Oh.” His voice is impassive, his expression unreadable.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“What's Eli's take?”

“He said you've decided not to pay for his college and that you said, and I quote, you wouldn't ‘piss away' your money on ‘a motherfucking loser.' ”

Now he looks confused. “Tara, that's not even close. We were on a lift, and to make conversation, I asked about his grades. He admitted they probably don't look very good. So then I asked if he knew what he wanted to do, going forward—had he decided on a career path? He told me he wasn't sure. So then I asked if he'd considered a community college for his core classes, since Stanford isn't exactly looking for kids without clear goals, not to mention outstanding GPAs, and perhaps it would be a wiser investment of his time and college fund. And then he went off on me. Demanded to know how much money is in said college fund, and if I had other plans for it.”

“Like what?”

“That was my question, and he had no concrete answer. We were in the unloading zone by then and he just took off. I swear I have no idea why he got so angry.”

Calm. Reasonable. Every molecule the Cavin I anticipate. Perhaps Eli's overreaction was nothing more than a surge of testosterone. I don't pretend to understand male physiology. Psychology, I thought I had a handle on, but now I'm not so sure. Strange creatures.

“So, are we still on for cheesesteaks? My mouth has been watering for one all day.”

“Personally, I'm starving. Eli can join us or not. You ready?”

He tugs me gently to my feet, sees me safely beyond the door, where he collects his skis. The gondola line is long, but most people are willing to let me hobble to the front and take the handicapped bench. The exception is a pair of twentysomething pretty boys, whose belligerent protests smell like beer.

Jerk One plants himself squarely in front of me. “Who the fuck do you think you are? The Queen of England?”

“Absolutely not. The Queen may be old, but she isn't crippled.”

Now Jerk Two joins in. “Yeah, and neither are you, I bet.”

Unbelievably, the guy grabs one of my crutches and tries to yank it away. Cavin is immediately in the dude's face, stepping between him and me. “I'd let go of that if I were you.”

“Or what?”

The younger man probably outweighs Cavin, but he's flabby, not to mention intoxicated. Cavin is taller. Buffer. When he chest bumps Jerk Two, the guy stumbles backward, lands on his butt, hitting himself in the forehead with the crutch. Someone has called for Security, and I can see a burly uniform headed this way. But there's plenty of time for Jerk One to step up to the plate. He starts to, and I swear all it takes is one look from Cavin to make him back away again. There's something new in Cavin's eyes. Cold. Hard. Fury.

The situation defuses as the rent-a-cop arrives. The Pretty Boy Jerks sputter excuses and express concern for their personal well-being. Burly Uniform takes one look at Number Two (ooh, apt name), still clutching my crutch, a large knot forming on his forehead. The pseudo-cop extricates the crutch from his grasp, hands it to me. “Sorry some people feel the need to be assholes.”

I take the handicapped bench. Cavin stands beside me, and as the gondola descends I look up into his eyes, where fury has melted into satisfaction. Eli's words rise up inside me.
How well do you know him, really?

The week starts out on an even keel. Cavin and Eli buried the hatchet long enough to make it through Sunday dinner. It was uncomfortable—bloated by silence—but they didn't argue or even discuss their earlier issue, and it wasn't mentioned again before Eli headed back to school on Monday morning. Hopefully he'll find the ambition to lift his grades up out of the gutter.

Speaking of ambition, the weather gods seem to have discovered theirs. It started to snow a couple of hours after Eli left, and it's been coming down enthusiastically ever since. We're on an El Niño storm track, according to local meteorologists, and as of Thursday, it's a doozy, the snowdrifts outside growing five or six feet high.

Which means no real chance of venturing outside. Last thing I need is to slip and go down. Forward, backward, or doing the splits, it would set back my rehab by months. I keep exercising, probably too much. But I push through the pain and feel myself getting stronger. Strength is what I'm after. I never cared much about being a size zero. Size four and buff is beautiful.

Cavin has several surgeries scheduled this week, so I spend lots of time alone. I am working on a fall fund-raiser when my phone rings. I reach for it absentmindedly, thinking it must be Cavin. “Hey, gorgeous,” I purr.

“Um, hello? Ms. Cannon? It's not ‘Gorgeous.' It's Charlie. Sorry to bother you, but . . . oh, how are you doing?”

“Getting stronger every day, thanks. Is there a problem?”

I had left Charlie a door code and asked him to keep an eye on the place, water plants, et cetera. I never expected a call, however.

“I'm not sure. It's just . . . well, it appears someone has been in your house.”

“Why do you say that? Does it look like there's anything missing?” Anxiety shimmers. Except for the artwork and wine cellar, my valuables are locked in a wall safe, and my valuable valuables kept in a safe deposit box at my bank. A TV or computer I can replace.

“I don't think so. I'm not sure. I mean the art is still here and all. But there's stuff on the counter and coffee table. Glasses and bottles. Like someone has been helping himself, and maybe a friend or two, to your liquor.”

The place was spotless when I left. “Anything else?”

“Well, why it seems weird is because there's no sign of a break-in, like whoever it was knew how to get in.”

“Was the alarm on when you got there?”

“No, and that's the thing, I'm sure I activated it before I left last time. Should I call the police?”

“Have you been through the whole house?”

“Yes.”

“And nothing seems to be missing except alcohol?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“Don't worry about it, then.”

“Are you sure?”

I am, because suddenly it comes to me that Kayla went missing a couple of weekends ago, and she knew I'd be here with Cavin. She has since returned home, but I'll bet she and Cliff spent those days in my house, smoking it up and helping themselves to my pantry and liquor. I hate to consider what they might have done in my bed.

But how would they have gotten in? Wait . . .

“Do me a favor and go look in the 'Vette and BMW for garage-door openers.” I'm sure there's one in the Escalade because I used it to shut the garage door when I embarked on this adventure.

Charlie isn't gone long. “I found one in the Beamer, but not in the Corvette. Does that mean something?”

Obviously Kayla didn't return it to its proper place, but whether that was purposeful or simple neglect, I don't know. “Yes, I have an idea who it was. I'll change the access from here and let you know how to get in later.”

“Okay. Hey, are you coming home soon?”

“Not for a couple of weeks at least.”

“Oh.” The disappointment is obvious in his voice. “You're still going to need some help, right? That extra money sure comes in handy.”

I promise his position is safe, and it is, at least for now. I had planned on turning it over to Kayla, but now I'm not so sure. I don't trust easily and, relative or not, once you chew a hole in that thin veneer, I will write you off completely. Punch one, I'm liable to retaliate.

But dirty dishes and bottles are more like a nibble, so I'll recode the system remotely and let this one go for now. “Do me a favor and tidy up? The last thing I need when I get back are ants. And please check on the place every day until further notice. If you see anything else out of the ordinary, let me know ASAP. I'll text you the new codes later.”

He agrees, and I promise to send him a check for his trouble. I try to return to my busywork, but this is bothering me, so I put in a call to Melody. We spend a few minutes on chitchat—knee rehab, kids, blizzard, and dogs—before I finally ask, “Did you ever find out where Kayla disappeared to?” I know she was gone three days without permission, and Graham had threatened to have her locked up.

“Not exactly. She told me they were over at Cliff's, but later I found out he'd been evicted from his apartment. I'm not really sure where they landed, and she hasn't exactly come clean. Why?”

I mention the call from Charlie.

“Oh, I don't think she'd do that, Tara. She respects you a lot, and I know she's counting on your support to get into school next fall. I sincerely doubt she'd jeopardize that.”

“Perhaps the marijuana clouded her judgment?” Not to mention trying to impress her loser boyfriend, especially if they had nowhere else to go to catch a buzz and engage in sexual activities.

“I suppose it's possible,” she admits. “I'll have a talk with her as soon as she gets home, okay?”

“You're not allowing her to see Cliff anymore, are you?”

She is quiet for a moment. “I'm pretty pragmatic about it, Tara. You tell a kid no, they'll be that much more determined to keep right on doing whatever it is you don't want them to do. That's especially true when it comes to dating. Of course, Graham doesn't feel the same way. He put his foot down, demanded they stop seeing each other.”

Oh my God. He and I actually agree on something? “And how's that working out?”

“About like you'd expect.”

“What about Kayla's grades?”

I can hear her shrug in the silence.

“A couple of months ago, she was worried about a single B,” I pursue. “Have you checked in with her teachers lately?”

White noise swells like an angry beehive, becomes almost deafening. Finally, she says, “What's the use?”

The comment reminds me of our mother. What's the use, indeed? “I think it's called parenting.”

“Really?” The retort is quick, and white-hot. “And how would
you
know anything about parenting? Oh, that's right. You wouldn't. And you never will.”

Touché, Mel, touché.

By week four post-op, I'm starting to feel on the mend. According to my doctors, the bones holding my new ACL and MCL in place are mostly healed. It's the surrounding muscles that must be strengthened to protect the ligaments, and that will take much longer.

I've learned a cool word, too. Proprioceptors. These are receptors located in muscles, tendons, ligaments, and joints that supply information about the position of a limb in space. In other words, your foot realizes where it is in relationship to the floor, your other foot, or the gas and brake pedals. Your tissues have memories. Unfortunately, when you rip a ligament, it loses recollection, so you have to retrain it. And that can take up to a year.

They say professional athletes who push hard during rehab tend to heal more quickly because their muscles regain proprioceptive ability faster. I'm not looking to play football or run a marathon anytime soon, but I want to get around on my own. I've been training with dedication and feel confident I'll be able to drive safely in another week or two. Kayla's spring break begins at the end of March, and I want to be home by then.

When I called her to ask about the garage-door opener, she admitted she still had it but claimed she forgot to put it back, and she sure didn't admit to “borrowing” my house for a few days. In fact, she acted offended that I'd even suggest such a thing. I have no proof, and so I let it drop, though I continue to suspect it was her. Who else could have done it? Still, I promised her a tour of the Art Institute, and so it shall be, not only because I gave her my word, but also because I'd look ridiculous otherwise. You can't go pulling strings only to fray them immediately.

Postworkout, I drain the last bottle of my favorite juice-infused vitamin water. I've been going through it like crazy. I call Cavin to ask if he'll pick up another case, but his cell goes straight to voice mail, so I phone his office instead. His receptionist answers.

“Hi, Rebecca. Is Cavin available?”

“Uh, no, actually. He got a call at lunch and left early.”

“I see. Well, thanks, anyway.”

Suspicion sizzles. A similar call last week took Cavin away from work prematurely. When he finally arrived home, it was with a good excuse firmly in place. “My dad was passing through, so we went out for a couple of beers.”

We've only discussed his family a couple of times. I know his father is a retired medical researcher, and his mom died when he was in high school. He's got a younger brother in the air force, and their “baby” sister is a high-level corporate attorney.

While I wouldn't in a million years introduce Cavin to my mother, I was disappointed. “Why didn't you bring him home? I would have enjoyed meeting him.”

“He was actually in Reno, and just for the day, or I would have.”

Which explained why he was so late, but not why he didn't let me know until after the fact.