Love Lies Beneath (37 page)

I locate my phone, which I did, in fact, turn off while it charged, and call Melody. “I got your cheerful e-mail.”

“Sorry. The timing is bad, I know.”

“It would be a lot worse if I cared.”

“You really don't, huh?”

“I really don't. But it's weird. When did I see Mom last? Five months ago? She didn't look sick, did she?”

“Not at all. Well, other than that little cough.” She is quiet for a moment. “Do you think she suspected it? I mean, with all that stuff about connection.”

“Mel, you know as well as I do that all she wanted that day was money. Besides, I'm pretty sure Mom thought herself invincible.” I get that from her, too, I suppose. If not for an ER visit for something unrelated, she'd probably still feel that way. How sick do you have to get before you consider the idea that you might die?

“At some point, I'll have to go down to visit her,” says Mel. “I don't suppose you'd consent to going along?”

“You don't suppose correctly.”

“She needs some help, putting her affairs in order. You have more experience with that than I do.”

“How hard could it be? She's never owned a thing except for a dog and a beat-up Ford truck.”

“How do you know that?”

That stops me. I've worked very hard not to know anything about her, or let her know anything about me. “I guess I don't.”

“Can't you find a shred of forgiveness in your heart?”

“Forgiveness” is not a word in my vocabulary, especially not when it comes to my mother. “I . . . uh . . .”

“She forgives you. She wants you to know that.”

“Forgives me for
what
?” The words explode in a froth of rage.

“For not forgiving her.” The anger subsides for a moment. But then she adds, “And for not inviting her to any of your weddings.”

Bam. “Does she know I'm getting married?”

“Afraid so.”

“Who told her?”

“Calm down, Tara. Kayla mentioned we were coming up for your wedding. She didn't realize Mom didn't know. Besides, she's excited. All the girls are. And in the long run, what does it really matter?”

She has a point. “Totally changing the subject . . .” Because this conversation has grown stale. “What's up with Graham? Did he go to Vegas?”

“Yes.”

“That's it? And?”

“Apparently whatever remained in Vegas excised the wanderlust from his system. He's decided to stay with his family.”

Right. For now. “He didn't change his mind about the wedding, though?”

“And miss a gig?”

Of course. “I'd still talk to that lawyer and start squirreling some money away. Can't hurt to be cautious.”

“I know.”

We sign off with a promise to see each other on Friday. Before I close up my laptop, I cycle through old e-mail to make sure I've responded to everything important and trash anything unnecessary to keep. I happen across the last e-mail from Melody—the one that mentions Mom's allergic reaction to mango. That makes me flash back to the day Eli was reexamining Dirk Caldwell's information. My laptop was here, asleep but not completely shut down. Eli could have been in my e-mail. He might have known, after all.

Another flare of temper sends me on a fevered quest for an answer. I find Eli on the deck, reading and listening to music. My body language is screaming. He puts down the book, slips the headphones around his neck. “What now?”

“Do you peruse my e-mail?”

“Peruse? You mean read? Why would I want to do that?”

“Don't answer my questions with questions! Do you?”

“Not regularly. I mean, I've seen some of it up on your screen before, but I don't actively go looking for it.”

“Did you know about my mango allergy?”

“What? No, of course not.” He stands. Inches closer. Unsettlingly close. “You don't think I'd purposely try to hurt you?”

I stand my ground. “I don't know.”

“I don't want to hurt you, Tara.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. Gently. “I want to love you.” His voice is genuine, but there's something more—a hint of vulnerability. My instinct is to reach for him. I sway, take a step backward, and he amends, “Like a mother, of course.”

“Stepmother?”

“Wicked or regular?”

“Which would you prefer?”

“I think you know.”

Stop the ridiculous repartee.

He's a kid.

Cavin's kid.

I'm afraid you're misinformed. Eli is very much a man.

To silence her, not to mention the scolding of my inner voice, I go over to the chaise where Eli was sitting, look at the book he was reading. “
Confessions of a Sociopath
? Research?”

He laughs. “Self-help, maybe.”

As usual, his meaning is unclear. I'll have to gnaw on it. Right now, I need to talk to Cavin. I find him toweling off after a shower.

“Are you okay?” he asks immediately. “You look a little shaky.”

“I just got an e-mail from my sister. It seems my mom has lung cancer. Stage three.”

“Oh no. I'm sorry, honey.”

“Don't be. She's had more years than she deserves.”

“You don't mean that.”

“I wish I didn't.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I haven't given him many details about my childhood, but he knows it wasn't the best. I shake my head. “But can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Were you close to your mother?”

He goes to the sink, finds a comb, and runs it through his hair. Then he steps into a clean pair of boxers. Finally, he answers, “My mom lived on her own planet. Bipolar disorder is vicious. In her manic phases, she was the mother every kid wants—fun, loving, full of life. But when the switch flipped, she barely spoke to any of us, just hid out in her room, watching TV. She didn't bathe. Didn't eat. She refused her meds, preferring alcohol. No one, least of all Dad, could convince her otherwise. And then one day, she was gone.”

“You mean dead.”

“Yes.” He shimmies into a pair of jeans.

“Why didn't you tell me she committed suicide?”

He doesn't even ask how I know, though he must suspect. “It's not something I talk about, Tara, any more than you talk about your mother. But I suppose I should have. Secrets are counterproductive to relationship building.”

Secrets. I need to hold on to a few. But this doesn't have to be one of them. I go over, slide my hands up his chest, wrap my arms around his neck, and look into his eyes. “What do you want to know about my mother?”

He can ask. If I don't like the question, I'll manufacture the answer.

Friday, wedding day, I can barely drag myself out from beneath the blankets. I'm not sick, unless you count an overwhelming sense of apprehension as an illness. I haven't had second thoughts until this morning. Suddenly, everything seems wrong. Am I making a huge mistake?

I lie in bed until Cavin brings coffee—strong and black and steaming. That's right. Usual. Routine. Except by this time of day, I'm always out of bed. Cavin sets the mug on the nightstand. “You okay?”

I sit up, lean back against the pillows. “I'm not sure.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nerves,” I admit.

“You're not backing out now, are you?” He takes my hand, kisses my fingertips. The gesture is so sweet that I can't help but smile.

It's really much too late to call it off. I've signed away a good chunk of my independence. Not all, of course. Never all. “Not backing out. Mostly, I'm nervous about meeting your family. What if they hate me?”

“Not possible. You are nothing less than an angel.”

“And you are a liar.”

He puts the back of his hand to his forehead, feigns hurt. “You wound me, madam.”

“Open the blinds, will you, please?” I need to yank myself into the morning, shake off drowsiness and anxiety.

Cavin goes to the window and with the pull of a cord, sunshine filters into the room, lifting my mood slightly. It looks to be a spectacular day. “Breakfast?” he asks.

“I'm not sure I can keep it down, but I'll give it a try.”

What I need is a workout, and after managing to swallow a couple of bites of eggs and toast, I spend forty-five minutes on the stationary bike, then lift and do one hundred crunches. Afterward, I shower and take a long, relaxing bath before heading out to get my hair and nails done. By three o'clock, when I'm slated to meet up with Mel and the girls, eighty percent of my earlier trepidation has melted away. I can deal with the other twenty.

They're staying at the Timber Lodge, so we can walk to the gondola for the ride up to the observation deck. From there, the wedding party will hike a short distance into the trees for a small, private ceremony. Cavin and I chose the simplest option, mostly because the more formal possibilities were already booked by the time we finally settled on Heavenly as our venue.

By the time I arrive at the suite, the girls are already dressed, with the fresh flowers I had delivered earlier pinned in their hair. “Wow. You ladies look amazing,” I tell them, even though I think their makeup is a tad heavy. Kayla must have done it.

I change in one of the bedrooms and Mel comes in with my small bouquet of roses and lilies. “How are you feeling?”

“Determined.”

“Does that mean scared?”

I repeat one of my favorite phrases, or at least a bastardization of it. “Nothing scares me.” It doesn't sound very brave.

“If you say so. You ready?”

I twirl once. “How do I look?”

“Scared. And gorgeous.”

“Then I guess I'm ready.”

It truly is a picture-perfect afternoon, with a sky so blue it's almost purple, and a baby-soft breeze puffing at a few white clouds. The ceremony is scheduled for four, and we're to meet everyone up top, which allows me the opportunity to make a grand entrance. It's a short ride. The girls chatter the entire time. Mel and I sit silently, wading through personal reveries. Bet Graham is on her mind.

The officiant, who is short and round and wearing an awful hairpiece, greets us at the platform, escorts us to where the wedding party awaits. It's a small but eclectic group. Cassandra has come with Taylor, and it pleases me to see that Charlie has accompanied them. He seems attached at the hip to Cassandra. Romance? Lust, at the very least. Well, that answers the question about his sexual preference, at least for today.

Those three, plus Mel and crew, are all who are here for me. On the groom's side, I recognize Cavin's family members from photos. His father stands talking with two of Cavin's colleagues. His sister is huddled up with his brother, whose wife and kids look vaguely uncomfortable. Also in attendance is Rebecca. Interesting that his receptionist has made an appearance, but I guess if my boy Friday showed up, why not?

Cavin and Eli lean against the railing, checking out the view. Even in profile, the resemblance is uncanny. The two wear matching charcoal tuxes, and I really couldn't say which one is the more handsome. Eli has the youth thing going on, but his father has matured into a striking man. As soon as the girls notice Eli and Taylor, the whispers fire up.

Who's that?

Cavin's son, Eli.

O-M-G! He's so cute!

I know, right?

Who's the other one?

I have no idea.

Would you two shut up? People are staring.

Eli spots us first and, despite the girls vying for his attention, is drawn to me immediately. Even from here, I can see him assess me approvingly. Our eyes meet and there is meaning in the smiles we exchange.

But now Cavin's head swivels in my direction, and my heart harbors no doubt that he's why I'm here. He excuses himself from his clan, strides across the deck, straight to me. He takes my hands in his. “Oh my God. You are so incredibly beautiful! I am, sincerely, the luckiest man alive.” He leans forward, kisses me just this side of R-rated, then whispers into my ear, “I have never been quite this turned on.”

“Obviously, the white dress hasn't fooled you. Wait till you see what I've got on underneath.”

“What?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out. Oh. The minister is looking at his watch. I think we're boring him.”

“Shall we?”

He guides me over to the group. After some quick introductions, we all follow the officiant's flapping toupee off the deck and into the woods. The man, who does similar services throughout the Tahoe basin, delivers a standard wedding-chapel liturgy—quick, simple, and lacking both homilies and Bible verses. I barely have time to double think.

There is one surprise. Cavin and I had picked out simple gold wedding bands, but when it comes time for the “with this ring, I thee wed” part of the ceremony, the ring Cavin slips on my finger is ornate pewter, studded with diamonds. “My mother's,” he whispers. “Hope that's okay.”

I study the ring, which is easily the most beautiful I've worn, though likely not the most expensive. It looks like a custom design, however. Unique. And that feels right. This relationship is unique. This wedding is unique. This surging love is unique.

Cavin is given permission to kiss the bride, which means it's official, or will be once our witnesses sign the marriage license. Bliss and terror wage battle inside me. Can love survive the seasons? What if I don't love him at all? Either way, a celebration awaits us, and I'm always up for a good party.

Chef Christopher has given us his entire dining room for three hours. Well, okay, we're actually paying him very well, and it's worth every penny. The food, as always, is exceptional. Alcohol flows freely, and most everyone is imbibing, including, I can't help but notice, Eli. No one says a word.