Lynn Osterkamp - Cleo Sims 03 - Too Many Secrets (3 page)

A cold wave of foreboding swept over me as I tidied up my
office after Gayle left. She’d insisted that I meet with all the members of
Moxie as soon as she could set that up. I’d swallowed my misgivings and agreed.
But now I realized I was headed down a familiar slippery slope. Clients in my
Contact Project had already involved me in two messy murder investigations this
year that ended up in life-threatening situations for me and other people I
care about. Why would I want to do that again? Especially when I had my baby to
think about. How could I risk putting him or her in danger? Plus it’s Pablo’s
baby too, and he had warned me many times that a grief therapist has no
business getting involved in crime investigations.

But I was so indebted to Bruce. How could I refuse to help
his sister? He funds my Contact Project and he had said he wanted me to meet
with all the women. He’d even said he would pay for my time.

I sagged into the tan leather armchair in my counseling room,
staring into a dark corner.

“Yo, Cleo. Looks like you hit some punchy waves.”

There, perched on the counter next to the microwave, was the
first dead person I had ever talked to—Tyler, a blond blue-eyed surfer
dude spirit who’s been visiting me from time to time over the past couple of
years, usually to offer cryptic advice when I’m grappling with a problem.

“Tyler! I feel like I’m being swept up by one of those punchy
waves and I’m going to crash. I might drown. You have to help me.”

I don’t know why I ask Tyler for help. I guess it’s because
he’s a spirit, so he should be able to see the big picture and know what
matters. But his answers are always confusing, because he talks in surfer slang
and I’ve never even been surfing. And when he shows up, he has his own agenda.
Today was no exception.

“Ride your shortest board,” he said. “The beach break is fast
and steep. Turns quickly.”

“No, Tyler. I need advice about my life, not about surfing.
I’m stuck with helping this Moxie group find out what happened to Sabrina.

“Stay frosty, dude. Moxie has awesome energy, but they’re
about to fall into the pit. They can be sucked up by the barrel and get worked.
Don’t let them blow it.”

“What are you saying? I have to save Moxie? Why? And from
what?”

I was wasting my breath. Without another word, Tyler floated
off toward the window and disappeared into the dark evening sky.

He brought up Moxie, I didn’t. So he knows something about
those women. Why did he say they have awesome energy?

I was so immersed in my thoughts that I almost didn’t hear my
phone. When I jumped up and grabbed it, I saw it was Elisa calling. I knew I
didn’t want to tell her that I was getting involved in another possible murder
investigation. During the last one, she had given me as many dire warnings as
Pablo had. But I picked up anyway.

“Hey, Cleo. What’s up? You never called me yesterday with the
lowdown on your lunch with Bruce.”

“Sorry. I was depressed about a long discussion Pablo and I
had about our future. I didn’t have energy for anything else.”

“Do you want to talk about that?”

“I do, but not right now. I’ll tell you about Bruce, though.
But you’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

“You remember that woman who disappeared in the Indian Peaks
Wilderness a few weeks ago? The one who was celebrating her fortieth birthday
with a group of friends?”

“You mean Sabrina Larson?”

“Right. Do you know her?”

“Not exactly. It’s complicated. You go on and then I’ll tell
you.”

“Okay. Well as part of the celebration, the women all went
off on individual personal journeys and Sabrina never came back. One of the
women is Bruce’s sister and Bruce wants me to help her try to contact Sabrina
to see if she’s dead. I think maybe she believes Sabrina was murdered.”

I stopped and waited for Elisa to yell at me. She’s not only
my best friend, she’s a psychologist like me, and she’s my clinical supervisor
when I need one. I can tell her anything, even about my clients. The
upside—she keeps my confidences and supports me when I’m down. The
downside—she’s not shy about bawling me out when she thinks I’m heading
off in the wrong direction. I expected dire warnings about how I need to stay
away from anything even faintly resembling a murder investigation, how I have
my professional reputation to think about, and how now that I’m pregnant I
should be especially careful not to put myself in danger.

But instead she said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice,
“Honey, we need to talk and we need to talk soon.”

“If you’re going to lecture me about staying out of trouble,
I’d rather skip it,” I said. “I already know the drill.”

“Not this time, you don’t,” Elisa said. “That missing woman
has a sixteen-year-old son and he’s my daughter’s boyfriend. Do you remember me
telling you Maria has a new boyfriend? A snowboarder? Well, that’s him. Ian
Larson, Sabrina Larson’s son. Like I said, it’s complicated. If you’re alone
tonight, how about Maria and I pick up some takeout and come by your house for
a talk?”

“Ian’s an awesome snowboarder. He’s in Breckenridge right now
competing in the halfpipe Grand Prix. It’s a serious competition.” Maria paced
around my kitchen, speaking with rapid enthusiasm, her long straight brown hair
flipping from side to side across her face as she turned. She wore tight
tattered jeans and a grey hoodie that said, “Music is an outburst of the
soul.”

Her words tumbled over each other as she continued to sing
Ian’s praises. “If he does well there, he moves on to major events in New
Jersey and Idaho this winter where he could win money and maybe get a slot on
the U.S. Snowboard Team. He’s been snowboarding since he was five, and
competing since he was ten. I mean if you saw him on the course, you’d be blown
away.”

Elisa and I listened quietly as she spread out containers of
roasted vegetables, poached salmon and spinach salad and I sliced a baguette to
put on a plate with a hunk of gorgonzola. When I sat down at the table, Elisa
sat across from me, rolling her eyes.

“I saw that, mom,” Maria said, as she finally ground to a
halt, dropping down into the chair next to me. “If you have something to say,
go ahead. We’ll let Cleo decide who’s right.”

I’ve known Maria since she was a baby—I was her nanny
for a few years when I was trying to make it as an artist—and her pacing
was a behavior I recognized as a sign she was seriously upset. I never like to
get in the middle of a disagreement between her and Elisa, but I love her like
a daughter, and I wanted to connect. “Wait a minute, Maria,” I said, putting my
arm around her shoulders. “I haven’t even gotten a hug from you.”

“Sorry, Cleo,” she said turning so we could hug. “It’s good
to see you.”

“So Ian is your new boyfriend?” I asked. “What’s he like?”

“He’s tall with shaggy brown hair and huge blue eyes that are
like deep pools of water,” she said, looking dreamily off into the distance
like she could see him standing there. Then she turned and smiled at me. “Cleo,
I know you’d like him. He’s sixteen like me, but he’s so mature for his age. I
think it’s because he’s been competing for years as a snowboarder like I have
with violin. He has a clear focus, doesn’t mess around with drugs or other
stupid teenage stuff. He’s the first guy I’ve met who gets why violin trumps
everything for me. And I get why he has to be at this halfpipe competition,”
Maria finished, shooting a glare at Elisa.

“But his mother is missing,” Elisa said quietly.

“Come on Mom, you know he cares about her a lot,” Maria said.
“And he misses her. But he says she’s amazing at taking care of herself. He
knows she’ll be okay.”

“But it’s been almost three weeks. Where does he think she
is? Isn’t he starting to worry?”

“Mom, he can’t take in negative energy right now. He needs to
stay focused. His mom wouldn’t want him to lose this competition because of
her.” Maria’s voice was becoming shrill.

“So he’s at the competition now and his mother is missing,” I
said, calmly. “He’s still only sixteen. Did he go by himself?”

“He’s with his coach. There are lots of times his mom can’t
go because she’s working or whatever. He’s fine. His aunt Brandi is fine with
it, too.”

“His Aunt Brandi?” I asked.

“Brandi is Ian’s mom’s sister. She was living at their house
anyway, so she’s handling stuff here at home. She’s hilarious—sometimes
she seems more like a teenager than Ian does—even though she’s thirty.”

I remembered what Gayle had said about how Sabrina had not
wanted Brandi to be Ian’s guardian. “Do Ian and Brandi get along?” I asked.

“Totally,” Maria said with a grin. “Everything’s fun when
Brandi’s around.”

“But she must be worried about Sabrina too.”

“Of course she is, but she gets that Ian needs his focus. And
she knows Sabrina can take care of herself. Brandi is really good for Ian. She
keeps him from getting down about his mom. Keeps him thinking positively.”

Elisa sighed. She wasn’t scowling or looking visibly upset,
but I could sense a lecture on the way. Apparently Maria did too. “Okay, Mom,”
she said exasperatedly. Then, to me, “Cleo, Mom says I need to talk to you
about how people act when they’ve lost someone. She thinks Ian isn’t facing the
situation, that he’s in denial or pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think Mom doesn’t get Ian. I know what it’s like to
practice for days, months, years to get to a competition. Mom doesn’t
understand. He needs his focus.”

Elisa finally lost it. “Maria, look at me,” she said sharply.
“We’re talking about a serious situation here. Ian and Brandi are acting like
his mom is away on vacation. I find that very strange. What is going on? Where
does Ian think his mom is? Apparently he doesn’t think she’s still up at Indian
Peaks injured or lost.”

“Not really,” Maria said. “After all the searches, they
probably would have found her by now.”

“So,” Elisa went on, “do Ian and Brandi know something no one
else does?”

Maria closed her eyes for a minute and took a deep breath.
“You two are both psychologists so you understand confidentiality,” she said
looking us each in the eye in turn. “Everything Ian has told me is
confidential, so I’m not going to tell you anything unless you agree to keep it
that way. Do I have your word?”

“We can’t make a promise like that, Maria,” Elisa said
sternly. “A woman is missing, your boyfriend’s mother. Why wouldn’t you want
everyone to know everything that might help find her?”

“It’s not my information to give out, Mom,” Maria said,
sounding close to tears. “I promised Ian to keep his secrets.”

I thought about how committed Ian and Maria must be to each
other. Two intense focused kids like them could fall head-over-heels in love in
a flash. It reminded me of when Pablo and I met in art class our sophomore year
in college. We were instant soul mates deeply in love for the next three years
until he broke my heart when he went off right after graduation to travel and
find himself. I could imagine the fear Maria might be feeling at the thought of
losing Ian if she betrayed his confidences.

I put my arm around Maria’s shoulders again and gave her a
squeeze. “It sounds like you’re in a tough spot,” I said. “I wouldn’t ask you
to betray Ian’s trust. Maybe you could tell him your mom is worried? Maybe you
and he could talk to your mom together?”

I pretended not to notice Elisa giving me the evil eye from
across the table.

I lay in bed that night thinking about Maria’s fierce, yet
naive, love for Ian. Ah sixteen—such a romantic age. Again she reminded
me of myself. I was only a few years older than she is when Pablo and I fell in
love our sophomore year in college. We stayed together until we graduated. If
this pregnancy had happened back then, Pablo and I might be married with a
sixteen-year-old child today. Or—given all the ups and downs in our
relationship—maybe we’d be divorced with a sixteen-year-old child. All of
that is hard to imagine now.

I wouldn’t have chosen to get pregnant at age twenty or twenty-one,
but if I had, I would have had no hesitation about marrying Pablo. I loved him
deeply, trusted him totally, and believed in our future together. I thought of
him as my soul mate until that night a few days after our college graduation.

When Pablo said he’d saved up to take me to dinner at the
pricey Flagstaff House to celebrate our graduation, I was sure he planned to
propose. After all, the Flagstaff House is known as Boulder’s most romantic
restaurant, and widely acknowledged to be the best spot in town to pop the
question. And we’d been together for three years. I intended to bring up my
concerns that we were too young for marriage, that maybe we should wait a year
or so. But I also planned to say “yes” to his proposal, because I
knew we were destined to be together forever. I was floating on a joyous cloud
as we walked into the elegant restaurant in the foothills.

Our table, next to a floor-to-ceiling window, gave us a
breathtaking view of the city of Boulder 6,000 feet below. A stunning sunset
matched my inner glow. I felt glamorous and grownup in my perfect little black
cocktail dress, cut and gracefully draped to mold to my figure. I had spent
more than I should have on it, but I wanted this night to be a magnificent
memory. As I looked at Pablo, my handsome lover, looking especially delicious
in a tie and jacket, I was in heaven.

We drank wine and ate amazing food in celebration of our
newly minted fine arts degrees. We speculated about the acclaimed artists we
would become. The future stretched endlessly in front of us. Everything was
possible. When I look back now, it is with sadness for my naive former self who
loved and trusted in a way I have never done since. And sadness for Pablo who
had no idea of what I expected from him that night.

Just as I finished the last bit of my dessert—a
chocolate torte I’ve never had a taste for since—Pablo took my hand in
his, gazed soulfully into my eyes, and said, “Cleo, I love you so much. I
hope you know how much I will always love you.”

As I looked deeply into adorable brown eyes, I melted inside,
waiting for the proposal I knew was coming. Except it didn’t.

Instead, he said, “But I need some time away from
Boulder, from everyone I know. I need to find myself as an artist and I can’t
do it here. I’m going to Mexico—to that artist’s community, San Miguel de
Allende.” His face lit up and he dropped my hands. “So many artists
live there. Galleries, art courses and workshops are everywhere. Diego Rivera
painted there. Can you believe it?”

Shock nearly flattened me. All I could do was gasp out,
“Why do you have to leave?”

He looked off out the window briefly, then turned back to me
with a determined look. “For a while now, I’ve been focused on creating
art that pleases others—like my teachers and judges of our student
shows,” he said. “But a lot of the fun has gone out of it for me. I
don’t know who I am as an artist anymore. My work doesn’t have the energy I
want it to, the energy of an artist freely exploring and creating.” His
voice gained intensity. “I need to reinvent myself as an artist, somewhere
where art is in the air, where I can live cheaply, where I can devote all my
time and energy to art.”

Tears ran down my face. “Are you breaking up with
me?”

“Cleo, I’d like to ask you to wait for me, but I won’t
ask that of you. I want you to be as free as I am to make whatever choices work
for you.”

No way. I couldn’t accept that. I’d do whatever I had to do
to keep him. “Maybe I could go with you. I’m an artist, too. I could study
and learn there alongside you.”

He shook his head no. “Much as I’d love to have you with
me, Cleo, it wouldn’t be fair to you, or to me to have you there. I need to
live a solitary existence so I can create without distraction. I have to be
able to follow whatever inspires me, to head off in a different direction any
day I choose to, without any obligations.”

“So you are breaking up with me.” Now I felt anger
growing inside me. He was so full of himself. How could he set me up this way?
I didn’t want to explode and make a scene in the restaurant, so I gathered my
forces, stood up and said as calmly as I could manage, “Give me the keys.
I’ll wait in the car while you pay the check.”

““Wait, Cleo. The evening doesn’t have to end this
way. You know I still love you.”

Other diners were looking at us and a waiter was on his way
over. It was tempting to sit down, but I stayed strong. “Give me the keys
right now or I’m going to start shouting at you,” I said.

He handed over the keys and I walked out with as much dignity
as I could muster.

In the car on our way down the mountain, I asked the question
at the top of my mind. “Why, the Flagstaff House, Pablo? Why did you take
me there to break up with me?”

He sighed. “I didn’t take you there to break up with
you, Cleo. I took you there to celebrate our graduation and our exciting
futures as artists.” Then he launched into the “we can still be
friends” spiel. I saw it as a sop to his guilt.

“Forget it, Pablo. Forget me, like I’m going to forget
you,” I said. “Have a good life.”

We didn’t speak or see each other again before he left. I
didn’t answer his calls, didn’t go out where I might run into him. Of course I
was nowhere near as blasé about his decision as I pretended. I felt blindsided,
rejected and abandoned. Now that I’m a trained grief therapist I can look back
and recognize the stages of grief I went through. First was shock, denial and
isolation. I stayed home alone, cried, slept a lot, and was as miserable as I’d
ever been. When I got tired of wallowing in self-pity, I moved on to anger. I
burned all the pictures I had of him and threw out the things he’d left at my
apartment. I started telling our friends what a shit he was.

The pain was intense for many months. I missed Pablo in so
many ways and so many places. And I missed my vision of our future together.
But I gradually let go of what was and moved on to what was to come. I
committed myself to working intensely on my own art, painting with Gramma in
her studio part of every day. I took a part-time job as a nanny to Elisa’s
one-year-old daughter, Maria. And I got involved in a relationship with Brian,
a hunky graphic artist, who didn’t want commitment any more than I did at that
point, but who was always ready for a good time.

§ § §

Six years later, Pablo moved back here to help his parents
after his brother got involved in a gang selling drugs and ended up in jail. He
called me to meet him for coffee at The Trident one summer night. When I walked
in, he was sitting at a quiet table reading a book, just like in our student
days. But he looked different. Thinner, longer hair, face more finely drawn.

We hugged awkwardly, but we didn’t kiss. I had thought about
this day often over the years. More in the early years, less later. I had asked
myself how I would feel seeing him again. Angry? Happy? Excited? What I hadn’t
anticipated was what I actually felt— nothing much.

We brought each other up to date on our lives at the moment,
but carefully avoided talking about our shared past or about what we’d done in
the six years he was away. Pablo told me about his brother’s problems and the
impact it had on his family. Then he said he had decided to go into police work
to help keep kids like his brother out of gangs. He was already taking the
Police Academy training. And he was living in Longmont with his family.

I said I had just started a doctoral program in clinical
psychology at the University of Denver, because I wasn’t making enough money
from my art to support myself, and I didn’t want to be a nanny for the rest of
my life. I also told him how worried I was about my grandmother, who was
becoming increasingly forgetful. At Grampa’s encouragement, I had moved in with
him and Gramma while I went to grad school. It would save me money and he
needed the help now that Gramma was declining. He had offered to help me with
school costs so I wouldn’t have so many loans.

I think Pablo and I both had the same reaction. We were here,
but the old magic wasn’t. We were the past, not the present. With our
respective family issues, and each of us immersed in demanding training
programs, we rarely saw each other for the next five years. And when we did it
was a “So, what have you been up to?” conversation that ended in,
“Great seeing you.”

§ § §

But deep down we never lost our love for each other. Finally,
our stars exploded into alignment one night when I ran into him at a party at
the house of some of our old college friends. It was one of those “across
a crowded room” moments. I’m not sure why, but when we looked at each
other, sparks flew. We weren’t the strangers from the song, but we were
different people than we had been. I saw the Pablo I had loved so truly ten
years before. In the ten years since our breakup we had matured into capable
professionals. He was a detective with the Longmont Police Department and I had
my grief therapy practice set up.

We flew into each others’ arms for a huge hug. “I’ve
missed you, Cleo,” he whispered in my ear.

“Me too,” I whispered back.

“I was an idiot,” he said, pulling me off to a
corner of the room. “It’s taken me a long time to realize what I gave up
when I went off to Mexico by myself. I’d like to put the past behind us and try
again. What do you say?”

“I say, I’d like to try that,” I said. And I knew I
was ready. I could look back at our nineteen-year-old selves and understand how
a young man who felt a strong need to grow as an artist with no distractions,
and a young woman who wanted commitment, were a terrible fit. Back then we had
loved each other, but were both too self-absorbed and unsure of ourselves to
see each other. Now we had mellowed into contented adults ready for a new
relationship.

We ended the night at my place—my grandparents’ house
where I’d continued living after Gramma went into a nursing home and Grampa
died. We came together, Pablo and I, with all the passion from our young
romantic days, and all the compassion from life’s lessons learned in the years
since. Our hunger for each other was intense, and our joy at the satisfaction
of that hunger was blissful.

Since then we’ve jumped in and out of this relationship like
a couple of high school kids. Neither one of us has wanted a serious
commitment, so we’ve been mostly drifting. We have fun together, and we have
great sex, and we love each other. But I haven’t had those old illusions about
our relationship.

Now that I’m pregnant, he wants us to get married. But even
though I love him, I have my doubts about whether marriage would work for us. I
still have trust issues, and he still has independence issues, and in many ways
we drive each other crazy. I think he’s too bossy. He takes over and I feel
swallowed up by him. He thinks I ask too many questions and push him too much.
He also thinks I’m too flaky. And we have the issue of where we would live.

Some days I think we can get past all that, have a good
marriage, and raise our baby in a happy home. Some days I don’t. How do you
know for sure? People say, “You just know.” But that’s too magical
for me. I need to know we can fit together and stay together before I take that
step.