Love Lies Beneath

  I rip myself from the dream, trying to scream, but the sound gets stuck and I swallow. And now I know where I am—in Cavin’s big bed, which is my big bed, too. My bed. My bedroom. My house. I settle back against the pillows, catch my breath, and listen to my heart as its racing slows. Every nightmare returns me to Idaho.

  It’s dark in the room—shades drawn against the morning. I glance at the clock. A little after nine. Cavin and I are supposed to go to the beach today, try to relax a little, and remember falling in love. We had a tiff when he got home last night, fueled by Eli’s passing comment. I meant to stay calm, but when he breezed through the door well past dinnertime, reeking of beer, I lost it.

  “What are you doing here?” he’d asked. “I thought you were staying at your sister’s.”

  “She and Graham are having problems so I decided to come on back.”

  “You should have called to let me know. I would have been home sooner.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. With luck you could have had a threesome. My voice began to rise. “If you would have come home sooner, you could have handled the situation instead of my having to do it.”

  “What situation, Tara?”

  “Eli and Sophia.”

  “What?”

  “They were here together. In his bedroom. Pretty sure they weren’t just listening to music. Did you tell him it was okay to bring her here?”

  “No!”

  “He said he called and asked if it was okay and you said yes.”

  “Tara, I would never agree to that. He told me he ran into an old girlfriend at the beach and asked if she could come over. He never said it was Sophia.”

  Same story. Different details. Again. I couldn’t figure out a reason for Cavin to lie. Except maybe one. “Did you know she’s living in Reno again?”

  His gaze, which has been fixed on me, drops toward the floor and he reluctantly admits, “Last time I saw her, which was the day we had lunch together, she mentioned it was a possibility.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He crossed the room in two long strides, stood very close, one hand on each of my cheeks so he could tilt my eyes toward his. “Because I didn’t want you to worry about it, and I knew you would. For the millionth time, I love you. You. And if it takes to the end of my lifetime, I swear I will prove it.”

  His kiss was tender, but then he swept me into his arms and carried me straight to bed. No soap or lotion or mouthwash. His beer met my wine, and our bodies intertwined. Tenderness dissolved into an ocean of desire. He kissed me hard and long. Then he buried his face in my hair, whispered fiercely, “I don’t want Sophia. I want only you. Want to inhale you, breathe you inside me. I want you under my skin. I’ve never felt this way about another woman, and I’m sure I could never again.”

  Love welled up and pulsed through my veins, foreplay to first orgasm. Then another, and another, until he finally let himself come, too. Exhausted, ecstatic, I tumbled into sleep, then woke up with this morning midnightmare.

  I slip on a robe, go in search of coffee, and find it in the kitchen, where a shirtless Eli is whirring something in the blender. I push away the recollection of how he appeared in my dream, reach for a mug. “Where’s your dad?”

  “He said he had early rounds and he’d pick you up for the beach around eleven.”

  I pour coffee, sip it as I watch his culinary efforts. Finally, I have to ask, “Do you bastardize conversations to purposely try and piss me off?”

  “Not very often.” All the answer I need, I guess. But then he adds, “Why? Do you have a certain conversation in mind?”

  “I do. Your dad said when you asked about bringing an old girlfriend home you didn’t mention it was Sophia.”

  He stops the blender, opens the silverware drawer, extracts a spoon. “I guess I didn’t mention her by name. But I figured he’d know who I meant. He’s generally pretty good about reading between the lines.” Eli stirs whatever he’s got in the blender, takes a sip with the spoon. “Yum. Want some smoothie?”

  “What’s in it?” It looks enticing, and I’m starving, having skipped dinner last night.

  “Fruit juice, yogurt, honey, and ice.”

  “Sure, I’ll try some.”

  Eli pours two tumblers, hands one to me. “Cheers!”

  I take a sip. Delicious. Take a gulp, then another, trying to discern the flavors. Banana, for sure. Something else, something sweet and . . . All of a sudden, bumps pop up on my tongue and my mouth starts to itch. My pulse quickens. Shit. I’ve been here before.

  Everything begins to bloat—lips, tongue. Megahives swell in my throat, which closes around them. This is critical. I can barely suck in air.

  Eli doesn’t react. He stands there staring with those cold lead eyes. “What can I do?”

  “EpiPen,” I manage. “Pu-purse. Bedroom.”

  He strolls down the hallway.

  Strolls.

  Is gone too long.

  Where is he?

  My head grows light. The ceiling begins a slow spin. I put my hands to my face. It’s double the size it should be, and my bulging cheeks make it hard to see. I concentrate on drawing breath through constricted airways. Every inhalation is a painful rasp.

  Finally, Eli returns with my bag. I find the EpiPen without a problem, but my hands shake, my eyes are slits, and I can’t open the packaging. “Help me.”

  Eli does as instructed, gives me the injector, and I slam it into my thigh. The needle is made to go through clothing, and the thin material of my robe doesn’t do much to slow its entry. Bloody hell! It hurts! But the epinephrine goes to work almost immediately. The itching lessens as the hives begin to shrink. I can see again.

  Breathe again.

  “Are you okay?” asks Eli, quite calmly, once it’s clear I’m not going to die. “What was that?”

  “Food allergy. Was there mango in the smoothie?”

  “Maybe in the juice. It was called Tropical Fruit Blast or something.” He goes to the recycling bin, locates the plastic container and reads the label. “Oh yeah. Passion fruit. Guava. Banana. And mango. Wow. That was awesome. Your face looked like a fucking ten-dollar balloon.” Then, as an afterthought, “Do you need paramedics?”

  All the literature says to call 911 or go into the ER after an episode capped with epinephrine. But I want to go to the beach and, after all, Cavin is a physician. “I think I’m okay. But can you call your dad and tell him what happened? I’m feeling nauseous.”

  I run to the bathroom, make it just in time to reach the toilet and empty my stomach of smoothie. Shimmering sweat, I slump onto the cool tile, heave until there’s nothing left. When I think it’s safe, I get to my feet and go to the sink to rinse my mouth and chance a look in the mirror. Not pretty. The swelling has subsided, but my skin is slack from being stretched so far out of shape. I wash my face. Apply tightening lotion. Hope for the best.

  I stumble back to bed, crawl beneath the top sheet, and close my eyes, expecting Eli to come check on me. Instead, the base boom of too-loud music vibrates the floor.

  I think he knew. But he couldn’t have. I’ve never mentioned it to him.

  Above the percussion, I hear the front door slam and the pounding of hurried feet. Cavin rushes through the door, straight to my side. “Are you all right?”

  I look up into his eyes, which overflow with worry. “A little queasy, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I never even thought about the mango thing when I bought that juice. I promise to be more careful in the future.” He studies my face. “You look like hell.”

  Cavin forgot about my allergy.

  Eli didn’t know about the allergy.

  It was just an accident.

  Wasn’t it?

  So-Called Experts

  Swear I’m incapable of love,

  that my limbic system is turned off

  to such powerful connection.

  Why do specialists settle for easy

  explanatio
ns? Till a little deeper,

  the facts are fascinating.

  The truth is, I do love, with

  unparalleled intensity, and it’s a wildfire

  burning, uncontrollable. Uncontainable.

  It is both a thing of beauty, and one

  that must be feared. To stand

  in the way is to beg incineration.

  My love is like a child’s—all

  encompassing. Possessive. Egocentric.

  It’s my toy. Only I can play with it.

  And no one—no one—better take

  my toy away. I’d just as soon destroy

  it. Smash it flat against the ground.

  Fifty-Seven

  I chalk the mango up to an immense mistake, make a mental note to check every label from now on, and obtain another EpiPen ASAP. This episode was bad—worse than the last, and I have no doubt another could result in dire consequences. I won’t be so careless in the future. I’ve got every reason to live.

  The week is busy. My brush with eternity encouraged some decisions I otherwise might not have made. Every one revolves around Cavin and my determination to be his ideal mate. If I’m going to do this thing with him, I’m damn sure going to do it right. People like me aren’t meant to fall in love. That I have is a miracle, and those are once in a lifetime.

  Trust.

  I’m working on it.

  I call the Realtor in San Francisco, tell her to go ahead and list the house on Russian Hill. Half of whatever I clear will go into my portfolio; I’ll invest the rest in another house, in Colorado, maybe. Aspen or Vail. Someplace new to ski. Cavin can help me decide. The deed will be joint tenancy. As long as he agrees to put this house, at least, half in my name and make Eli damn well understand that it is, in fact, mine.

  Trust.

  Is best achieved when it’s mutual.

  That reminds me to tweak my living trust. I keep Mel as executor. I know she’ll honor my wishes, and it gives me a small sense of control of my hereafter. She’s already slated to receive a large share of my investments, with the understanding that Graham gets nothing from me, and anything left to the girls must go into a trust until they reach the age of thirty. I name Cavin as beneficiary to my insurance policies and bank accounts. Should I predecease him, he’ll be able to retire early.

  Trust.

  It’s easier when the details are in writing.

  At some point, I’ll establish a foundation and feed some of my posthumous earnings toward funding it in perpetuity. Not so much because any one cause is truly close to my heart, but rather to keep my name alive forever. The Tara Lattimore Foundation. I like the sound of that.

  Trust.

  Either built or destroyed by love.

  The paperwork is tedious, but I comfort myself in knowing it will all be accomplished before the honeymoon. I go into the study to use the fax, decide to check e-mail while I wait for the pages to send. When I log in to my home page, news headlines pop up in my feed. I scroll through them, and one catches my eye: JORDAN LONDON PLEADS GUILTY IN PLEA BARGAIN DEAL.

  I skim the story. Apparently, he’ll serve less than two years in a federal penitentiary. The evidence was overwhelming. Good. Glad I won’t have to testify. But I would have, even if it meant he’d find out it was me who turned him in. Payback’s a bitch sometimes, and a deal isn’t really a deal if it’s forged in lies.

  When I get to my e-mail, there’s one from Melody. Don’t mean to put a damper on your excitement, but you need to know that Mom is very ill. Apparently the tests they ran when she went in for the anaphylaxis revealed a growth. Stage-three lung cancer. Inoperable. They’ll start radiation treatment, but the prognosis isn’t good. I tried to call, but your phone seems to be off.

  I take a deep breath, notice a slight tremor in my hands. Why am I shaking? It’s just another small reminder that none of us is immortal. And in Mom’s case, death is nothing more than the ultimate desertion. Stage-three lung cancer. Guess she should have given up those cigarettes after all. Wonder how much black magic her secondhand crap worked on Mel and me. I suppose I should consider a checkup. I’m the kind of person who only goes to the doctor when I feel like I’m croaking.

  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?”