The Girl Most Likely To... (23 page)

Carrie was intrigued by her surroundingsand thrown a bit off-balance by the wiry, annoyed man who clearly ruled this strange kingdom. She stood next to Mr. Cavanaugh in a standard 1950s one-car garage that served as his studio. The walls were unfinished wood plank; the ceiling was bare wood beams with shelves built into the eaves. She could see where the garage door had been closed up many years before, the wood there a different grain and color, and how most of the entire back wall had been fitted with a picture window to let in the natural light. But it was twilight now, and the area seemed closed in. The shadows were stark.

Ghostly shapes of what looked like unfinished sculptures seemed to sprout out of the concrete floor, surrounded by shapeless hunks of rock not yet touched by the artist.

Sharp tools similar to surgical instruments were scattered haphazardly on top of sketchbooks, tables, and the floor, along with heavy mallets and drill bits. Wooden stands had been tipped over on their sides, and a strange, thin stainless-steel contraption sat near the center of the room, arms askew. She took a step back. It reminded her of a huge praying mantis.

She shuddered.

Mr. Cavanaugh chuckled. It's a pointing machine, honey. It's not going to bite you.

A what?

It measures points three-dimensionally on a sculpture.

Stepping with caution, Carrie moved toward a plywood table and placed her business card on the edge, then reached above for the light fixture chain and pulled it. The sudden brightness didn't cheer the roomit only illuminated the mess.

I didn't say you could turn on a light.

She refused to acknowledge Mr. Cavanaugh's rudeness. No one spoke to her like this. She would not allow it under any circumstances. She was a physician. She was beautiful. She was entrusted with developing policy that impacted thousands of lives. Carrie turned to face him. I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with your work. What kind of sculpture do you do, Mr. Cavanaugh?

He grunted. Whatever the hell I feel like doing. I'll ask you one more time: What do you want? Why did you mention my daughter?

Ah. Well. Carrie looked for somewhere to sit. There was nowhere, except for a rusty, clay-splattered metal stool that he obviously used when he worked, and it looked as uncomfortable as this whole place felt. She folded her hands in front of her body and tried to smile politely. It's about Kat and Riley Bohland.

The old man stared at her without breathing. Slowly, his lips curled into a grimace and he shook his head. Whatever you're fishing for, you won't find it here. I don't talk to Kat. Haven't in twenty years.

That surprised Carrie. I didn't realize the two of you were estranged.

Mr. Cavanaugh chuckled. That's a fancy word for it. He offered her a sarcastic smile. Now what do you want?

I want to know about her connection to Riley.

He waved his hand. I go to Bohland because he's the only doctor in this town. Trust me, it's not because I'm a friend of the family. I never liked any of those idiots.

I see. Now she was getting somewhere.

But your visit has nothing to do with my health, does it?

No.

Mr. Cavanaugh nodded. He studied her as she studied him. Carrie took in the details of that sinewy body and hard face. Though he seemed surprisingly agile for a man who'd just had angioplasty, Carrie was struck at how his face had suffered from aging, the bones sharp under papery, blotchy skin.

She knew Mr. Cavanaugh was sixty-two, but he looked eighty, and the bitterness in him was probably responsible, along with his blood alcohol level. Carrie decided the guy was a walking, talking advertisement for the mean son of a bitch everyone said he was, and he seemed proud of it.

Suddenly, Virgil Cavanaugh shifted his cold eyes from Carrie's face to the rest of her. She shivered as his gaze roamed all over her, from her sling-back pumps, to the hemline of her skirt, to the delicate teardrop diamond pendant she always wore at her throat. She'd had the necklace made from the diamond engagement ring Riley had given her, which she rightly refused to give back. She did not appreciate the old man's gawking, and raised her fingers to touch the necklace, calming herself in the process.

I need to know how to keep Kat away from Riley, she said. Any suggestions?

I suggest you take off your clothes and sit for me.

Carrie felt her eyes bug out. /What did you just say?/ You're going to model for me. I'm going to sculpt you. I've worked with my share of stuck-up brunettes over the years, and I need a new muse.

Carrie snorted in disgust. I so doubt that, Mr. Cavanaugh.

He shrugged. Your call, darlin'. He turned toward the door that led to the side yard and talked with his back to her. Forgive me if I don't walk you to your car. It's been so long since I've had a visitor that it seems I've lost my manners.

Carrie's mouth fell open at the offensiveness of this wretched man. Who did he think he was? She tried to remember why she'd even thought it would be a good idea to come here and talk with him.

Kat Cavanaughthat's why she was here. And she'd been correct to think that Virgil Cavanaugh was just the person to show her how to get Kat where it would hurt the most. The man was ruthless.

Pardon my observation, but you really don't give a damn about your daughter, do you, Virgil? It pleased Carrie to see him spin around as if she'd hit him in the back of his head. It's none of my business why you despise your own flesh and blood, but it's convenient, because I don't like her much myself. So maybe we can help each other out.

Virgil stood riveted to the concrete floor, his expression one of tentative interest.

You look surprised, Virgil. Can I call you Virgil?

You can call me Grover Cleveland if you get naked for me.

If you tell me how to keep Kat from Riley, I'll do it. That will be our arrangement.

He let out a boisterous laugh, one so loud that it seemed too big for the bleak, tight space.

My, my, my. What we have here is a regular old love triangle, isn't it?

Is that what all the fuss is about?

It isn't a triangle, Carrie huffed, despising the way he'd just dismissed her dilemma with a soap-opera clichй. Her eyes fell on the praying-mantis thing. What we have is two points on a three-dimensional masterpiece of true lovecomposed of myself and Rileyand your daughter is doing her best to get between us.

Mr. Cavanaugh laughed again, and this time it sounded downright gleeful.

You are a real pointy-headed piece of work. He scrunched up his nose like he smelled something unpleasant. And how do you know Riley, anyway?

You're not from around here.

We met and dated in medical school. We were supposed to get married, but he called it off because of Kat.

A frown crept over Mr. Cavanaugh's brow. He tilted his head. I don't follow.

When your wife was dying, she told Riley about the baby. Right before our wedding.

The frown intensified, digging deep ruts into Virgil Cavanaugh's forehead. He clenched his teeth. Go on, he hissed.

Well, as soon as Riley was told he'd fathered a baby back in high school, he went searching for the kid. Out of a sense of obligation, of course. Guiltthat's all it was. I didn't even believe there really was a kid until just recently. And now Kat's come back to distract him all over again, and I won't stand for it. So, fine, I'll sit for you if you help me find a way to get Kat out of the picture for good. Agreed?

Carrie waited a moment for him to say something. He didn't. But she watched the anger twist Virgil Cavanaugh's face until it turned flame red. It was the oddest thing how the man's fury sucked the air pressure right out of that cramped garage. An electrical charge passed through Carrie. Her skin tingled. Her sinuses pounded. Her pulse raced.

Get… the fuck… out. He motioned for Carrie to exit the studio, and she did so without debate, not entirely sure what had just happened, but relieved to be stepping out into the fresh air. He locked the studio door, brushed past her, and disappeared inside the house.

Carrie stood in the yard, aware of her own too-fast breath, and it occurred to her that Virgil Cavanaugh hadn't known he had a grandson or maybe even that Kat had been pregnant when she ran away all those years ago. Cavanaugh's wife hadn't told him anything. No one had. How strange.

The wind kicked up. A handful of dry leaves skittered across her shoes.

She shivered again. Then she ran to the car.

Carrie spent the first hour on the road trying to shake the feeling that she'd made a mistake by talking to Virgil Cavanaugh. The feeling wouldn't budge.

By the time she reached the Jennings Randolph Highway in Weston, she realized the encounter had left an icky scum all over her psyche. She decided that as soon as she got back to Charleston she'd take the hottest, longest shower of her life.

When she stopped for coffee in Sutton, Carrie began to ponder whether she should just let this whole mess alone. She had no business telling a sick old man his own family secrets. In fact, maybe she should just back off the Riley situation altogether. Clearly he was going to do what he wanted to do when it came to Kat. Maybe she should just let Riley be an idiot if that was his destiny, and she could stand back and watch his silly reunion fantasy blow up in his face.

Then he would come back to her. On his knees, crawling. Begging. She liked that.

An hour and a half later, Carrie rolled up her driveway, clicked on the garage door opener, and pulled inside the safe cocoon of her townhome.

Only then did her hands begin to tremble. Only then could she admit that Virgil Cavanaugh was far more than just eccentricshe was damn lucky to be in one piece.

Kat's spine tingled with the expectation of plea sure as she hoisted the mallet over her head and brought it down with all her might. The wet clay imploded with a thud, splattering the floor with gray goop. It was satisfying to see how a single swing of the rubber-headed hammer obliterated the whole side of the woman's face, blew apart her left nostril, turned her carefully fashioned cheekbone and jawline into nothing but a pile of muck on the concrete floor.

Good. The slut deserved it. Kat only wished she could do the same thing to her father's face, the real one, the one made of flesh and bone.

She took another swing. And another. The rage came from the soles of her feet and poured out of her hands, liquid and scalding, never ending, always a new rush rising through her to give her the strength for another swing of the mallet. And another. The hate felt like it was cleaning her out, making things clear for the first time in her life.

Her fucking joke of a father had turned off the portable heater before he'd zipped up his pants and walked the governor's wife to her car, so by now the studio was quite cold. The sweat poured off Kat's face anyway. /Thud/. Riley didn't want her anymore. /Thud/. She was three months pregnant. /Thud/. Her father saw her looking through the studio windowhe knew she'd seen everything. /Thud/. Kat's life was overshe was only sixteen and it was fucking /over/.

Stop! Oh God, child! Have you lost your mind?

The voice seemed to come from nowhere and every where at the same time, inside Kat's own head and from another world, and it took her a moment to realize her mother was standing over her back, gripping her forearm so hard it hurt, screaming in her ear. But Kat couldn't stop the swinging.

Katharine! Sweet Jesus, he'll kill us both. What have you done? Oh God, what have you done to his commission?

Kat's fingers loosened. The mallet fell to the concrete floor with a thump. She blinked away a stream of sweat from her eye and focused on what she'd done, but it didn't make sense to her at first. It looked like a bomb had gone off in her father's studio. Clay was everywhere, and smack in the middle of the goopy mess was a pink grapefruit, stuck like a pig in the mud. A box of cornflakes lay on its side, splashed with white globs of cottage cheese that had spewed from the broken container at her feet.

Slowly, Kat raised her eyes, noting her mother's horrified expression.

You dropped your groceries.

Sweet Jesus save us.

I've ruined everything, haven't I?

The spatula hit the kitchen floor, and Kat heard the clank of stainless steel against tile. She blinked. She was home, in her kitchen, in Baltimore. It was now, not then. She had made it out of there.

It's not that bad.

Kat looked up to see the most shocking sightRiley Bohland just out of the shower, all glistening olive skin and lean muscle, a white towel draped low on his hips, and a smile setting up residence on his handsome face. He walked toward her and scooped up the spatula.

Kat's mind scrambled to make everything sane and normal and squeeze it back into the present moment. She was in her Baltimore apartment. Riley had stayed here with her last night, and they'd talked until the sun came up. She would be moving back to Persuasion.

Icy panic had begun creeping through her veins.

I said you haven't ruined anything, Scout. The pancakes look great.

Riley planted a quick kiss on her mouth and rinsed the spatula in the sink, wiped it dry, and handed it back to her. Can I pour you a cup a coffee?

Kat stared at him. I'm sorry, what?

Coffee. Riley had reached into the cabinet for two mugs but stopped cold, his arm in midair. Are you OK?

Yeah. I'm good. Kat shook her head. Wait. No, I'm not. I remembered something. Just now. I was flipping the pancakes, and I remembered all the details from the day I left Persuasion. I Kat couldn't continue. She feared that saying any of it aloud would put breath and life into the events, making it real. Something so terrible…

Come here. Riley took Kat into his arms, pulling her up against his damp chest. She clung to him. She breathed in the familiar yet exotic smell of his skin and rubbed her cheek against his warmth. She felt Riley reach around her back to turn off the stove, then guide her to the living room sofa. Sit for a minute. I'll get us some coffee and you can tell me what you remembered. I want to hear everything.