Love Lies Beneath

  “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.

  Fifty-Eight

  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 batt
le 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.

  At some point, he, Kayla, and Taylor disappear outside. My hunch is they’re smoking weed, a fact that’s confirmed when they return, red-eyed and moving like tortoises. No one says anything about that, either, too caught up in the merriment to chance a scene. Or maybe no one really cares.

  Except I do.

  I find an opportunity to tap Eli on the shoulder. “May I have a word with you, please?”

  “Guess so.”

  We move into a quiet corner. “I can guess what you were doing with Kayla. Kind of inappropriate, don’t you think?”

  “Hey, it was her idea. I only went along to keep her safe from Andaman. He’s a legendary perv, and I know she means a lot to you.”

  I choose to believe him.

  After we’ve eaten, the music begins. The trio we hired does covers of pop and rock standards, plus three or four songs I have on my own playlist. Happily, I am able to dance. And when we start tossing around toasts, I propose, “To orthopedic surgeons, without whom I would definitely not be here tonight.”

  When the band launches into Gin Blossoms’ “As Long as It Matters,” Cavin pulls me into his arms and we slow dance, something I’ve done very few times in my life, and never this filled with an emotion I truly supposed had been denied me. It’s a defining moment.

  One I’ll never forget.

  Fifty-Nine

  The problem with leaving Eli alone at home while we honeymoon has solved itself. Cavin’s dad volunteered to hang out for a couple of weeks and enjoy the mountains. Andrew is an interesting man, though cool. Apparently, it’s a family trait. Still, I’ve enjoyed spending a little time with him. He’s brilliant, so conversation is easy.

  Cavin’s brother is okay in a military sort of way. Which means, rather patriarchal, but seemingly quite devoted to his wife and kids. His sister is the life of the party. Only problem that night was no one to party with, at least not if that meant someone to sleep with. Best she could manage was sidling up to Chef Christopher, who appreciated it, I’m sure. I’m just as sure his wife would feel differently. Pam’s an awful flirt, worse than I am. I like her.

  Cassandra and I didn’t have much time to talk, but I did corner her long enough to ask about Charlie. “It’s a fling,” she said. “And a fun one.” Taylor, however, doesn’t think it’s so funny. Of course, Charlie is only four years older than Taylor, not to mention “hired help.”

  After the wedding, Mel and the girls stayed for a couple of extra days. “Giving Graham some space” was her explanation, but I think she’s giving herself a little room. Hopefully she’s contemplating going it alone. They’ll leave tomorrow, about the time Cavin and I drive down to Reno to catch our flight to Vancouver, so this afternoon we’re at the beach and not Skunk Harbor.

  The girls have rented a paddleboat and are on the lake, scoping out guys.

  Mel and I kick back on short lounge chairs in the shade. The UV at Tahoe is killer, especially midday and near the water. “You ever think about getting some work done?” I ask.

  “What are you talking about? I work all the time.”

  “No. I mean, like, plastic surgery.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Not at all. But sometimes I think about having a little more than fillers done.”

  “You can’t fight age with technology. Anyway, why would you want to fight it? You look absolutely amaz—”

  “For my age.” That’s obviously what she means. “You can fight age with technology, by the way. And exercise. And water. And diet. And a whole lot of things. But to regain a more youthful face, why not resort to technology?”

  “Expense?”

  She’s got me there.

  “Anyway, what’s the point? I’m approaching middle age, the mother of three teenage girls. I’ve got an okay career, but I’m sure not well off. Even if I looked like Miley Cyrus, what guy would be interested in me?”

  “Alan Thicke?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Is that why you’re so intent on hanging on to Graham?”

  Growing old together.

  “You know what? If Graham decides to walk, I won’t be looking for a replacement. I don’t mind being alone.”

  Easy to say when you’re not alone, and in a few years her girls will all be out of the house. Which reminds me, “When does Kayla leave for San Francisco?”

  “Middle of August. There’s an orientation week before her classes begin.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it over for her graduation.”

  “Not a problem. She knew you were crazy busy. She ended up graduating seventh in her class, by the way. Not that it matters. She’s in at the Art Institute regardless, thanks to you.”

  “Hey, what are rich sisters for?”

  Wonder how many stoners end up valedictorian. Conversely, wonder how many valedictorians end up stoners. Or just plain losers. Or dead before their time.

  “Hey, Mel?”

  “Hmm?”

  “How do you feel about Mom?”

  “Sad. But then, I’ve always felt a little sad about her.”

  I think about that. Have I ever felt sad about Mom? Maybe when I was really little? “Why? I mean, why not angry?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of anger. But she’s one of those people who can’t accept love. She should never have had children.”

  Stating the obvious.

  “When you go down to see her? I won’t go along. But if you need help with her will or whatever, let me know.”

  It’s the best I can do.

  I still have some last-minute packing, so I part ways with Mel in the late afternoon, promise to keep her updated on the honeymoon by e-mail. When I get home, I’m greeted by the sound of raised voices coming from the study.

  “Don’t you think she has the right to know?” Eli.

  “What business is it of yours?” Cavin.

  I creep closer.

  “Maybe none, except it was my college fund you spent.”

  “Look, son. I just borrowed a little. I’ll pay it back, no problem.”

  “How? Extra surgeries?” Sarcasm infuses Eli’s voice.

  “Yes, in fact. I’ve managed to secure more OR time, finally. Once I get back—”

  “Bullshit! God, Dad. You need help.”

  “I’m already getting it.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “I promise I am. Don’t you understand? Everything changed when she came along.”

  “Then you need to be honest. You can’t keep something like that from your wife. I really like her, Dad. I want her to stick around.”

  “So do I. But you need to let me handle this in my own way.”

  The doorbell rings. I back away, hastily retreat toward the kitchen, and as Cavin exits his office I call, “I’ve got it.”

  On the far side of the door is Andrew, carrying a large suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other. “Ready for me?”

  “Absolutely. Come on in.”

  Cavin has appeared by my side. “Let me help you with that, Dad.” He shoots me a quizzical look. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Got home just now. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom. The restroom at Zephyr Cove was disgusting.”

  The men start toward the stairs and I head in the other direction. Eli stands in the hallway, watching. “Do you really need to pee?” he asks as I pass.

  I stop. “I can hold it.”

  We are very close, and I am hyperaware of his body heat and shallow inhale-exhale. “Did you happen to ov
erhear any of that conversation?”

  I could lie. “Some of it. Is there more to tell?”

  He searches my eyes. Looking for what, I’ve no clue. Finally, he shakes his head. “That’s up to Dad. I hope he tells you the truth. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

  “By your dad?”

  “By anyone.”

  He shuffles off, leaves me treading confusion. What the hell hasn’t Cavin told me? And when did Eli transform from foil to ally?

  I’m not sure how to approach the subject and can’t even try until bedtime. I’m brushing my teeth when Cavin comes in after saying good night to his father. He lifts my hair, kisses my neck. “All packed?”

  “Mm-hm,” I manage, mouth foaming. I remedy that situation. Spit. Rinse. “You?”

  “Just about. Should I bring my camera, or should we just use our pho—”

  “Cavin, is there something you want to tell me?”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Like what?”

  Go for it. “Like what you and Eli were arguing about when I got home.”

  He sighs weightily but doesn’t hesitate, so I know he’s considered his answer. “I should have already mentioned it, but didn’t think it was something you needed to worry about. I had an issue with the IRS four or five years ago. I had a large gambling win and neglected to claim it on my taxes. They audited me and came up with a rather large bill, with penalties and interest. Rather than make payments, I tapped Eli’s college fund. He happened to open a letter that came from the investment firm, saw the amount left in the account, and freaked out.”

  “I see. Well, if he’s serious about college . . .”

  “No, I’ll pay it back, of course.” His arms enfold me. “Don’t worry your beautiful head about anything. I’ve got it all under control.”

  Just like that, I’m worried about everything.

  This is not the way love should feel.

  Sixty

  I’m reclining on the upper deck of a magnificent ship, basking in tepid Alaska summer air, observing the spectacular scenery of the Inside Passage. It’s the fifth day of our cruise and I don’t think I’m drunk enough. I signal to the cute waiter to bring me another sidecar.