Love Lies Beneath (10 page)

“Yeah. It will be hours before this becomes anything real.”

Cavin steers the Audi back onto the highway, and now he picks up speed. The road soon becomes a curvy climb, and I enjoy watching him put the car through its motions, downshifting instead of braking whenever possible. Finally we crest the pass, and here the highway becomes extremely narrow. Tahoe comes into sight, far below, and we reach a spot where we can also see Cascade Lake, to the south. “Wow. You were right. The view is amazing.”

“Just wait.”

A few minutes later, he pulls into a turnout, well off the highway. He comes around to help me out of the car and walk me to the brink of a several-hundred-foot vertical drop. A waterfall careens down over the granite, disappearing into the rock face, then reappearing again in a series of fountains. Emerald Bay glistens, green beneath bursts of sunlight fighting the flurries, as fists of wind pummel our backs, urging us toward a precarious plunge.

Cavin steps behind me, encircles me with his muscular arms, and for a millisecond I get a flash of menace. That fraction of a thought should bring me discomfort. Instead, it's thrilling somehow. Wonder what it would be like to step over.

With my feet firmly planted, Cavin lifts my snow-frosted hair, kisses my neck. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

“Breathtaking.”

“You're not afraid of heights?”

“I'm not afraid of anything.”

Cavin tugs me gently backward, steps between the cliff's edge and me, looks down into my eyes. “I love fearlessness in a woman. Can't stand the helpless-female ploy.”

I smile. “My sister says I'm reckless.”

“Are you?”

“Not at all. I'm a calculated risk taker.”

“That makes two of us.”

He kisses me, boldly this time, no one to observe but the birds fast on the wing toward cover, as it starts to snow more heavily. I return his kiss with every ounce of passion I can muster, more sure with each passing second that this connection is very real. Eventually, however, the need for air, plus the threat of a blizzard, pulls us apart.

“Maybe we'd better go before we get stranded,” I suggest.

“I suppose you're right. We still have quite a little drive ahead of us.”

A thin white veneer slicks the asphalt, and I'm comforted by the Audi's solid German engineering as we cruise down past the Rubicon bluffs and around the meadows of Meeks Bay, through Tahoma and into Tahoe City. It is snowing earnestly now, and we creep along behind a line of overcautious drivers. By the time we reach Incline Village, it's late afternoon, the solstice daylight failing.

“I had planned to cook dinner for you, but my kid showed up last night, sulky as ever. I thought he was spending winter break with his mom, but turns out she and Russell decided to go to Hawaii, sans adolescent attitude.”

“I see.”

“Actually, you'd have to meet Eli to really understand. He's a difficult kid. I'd go ahead and introduce you, but I'm afraid you'd run the other way without looking back.”

“I told you, I don't scare easily. Anyway, I doubt I'll be doing much running for quite a while.”

Cavin laughs. “Guess I should choose my words more carefully. Tell you what. I know this great hamburger joint. Why don't we grab a bite now, then we'll swing by the house for dessert and you can meet Kidzilla? That way we have a fair-to-middling chance of getting you back to your hotel before they break out the plows.”

“I am hugely disappointed that I will not be able to observe your culinary expertise, but I do understand.”

The burgers, at least, don't disappoint, and the fries are worth every fat-soaked bite. Good thing I didn't eat earlier. He's driving much more carefully now; it's another half hour around to the east shore and Cavin's Glenbrook home, which is perched on a forested hill across the highway from the lake. Up the road climbs, flanked by tall Douglas fir and sugar pine trees.

We pull into what must be a heated driveway, for the snow melts in thin tracks, and park beside a late-model Hummer. “Eli's car?”

Cavin nods. “A birthday gift from his stepfather.”

“Wow.”

“Indeed.”

He comes around to open the passenger door and finesse me to my feet. When I stand, my eyes have a hard time processing what they see. Even from the driveway, the view over and through the trees to the water is drop-jaw gorgeous.

“I never thought a view could rival my own, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Most people think lakefront property is preferable, but I like being up here, away from the traffic. I can always find a beach if I want one. The main problem is maneuvering this hill when the weather turns crazy.”

“Have you ever gotten snowed in?”

“Absolutely, on many occasions. Come on. I'll help you inside.”

Cavin slides an arm beneath my shoulder blades and lifts slightly, relieving the weight on my ridiculously loose knee. He guides me along the snow-slicked walkway to the front door. The main entry opens straight into a great room, with big glass windows framing the travel-poster vista. No partitions separate the kitchen, dining area, and living room, which boasts a massive stone fireplace on the far wall. There is little in the way of artwork, and no carpets cover the hardwood floor. Compared to the modern gleam above white carpeting that is my house, this one defines Tahoe-rustic, and yet it's completely inviting.

“Home, sweet home,” says Cavin, directing me to a chair. “Make yourself comfortable. Wine?”

I consider. “Don't suppose you could approximate a sidecar?”

“Approximate? I believe I can accommodate.” He goes over to the wet bar, tucked away in a corner of the great room, and busies himself with cognac, triple sec, and a squeeze of fresh lemon.

I observe appreciatively. “You are a doctor of many talents.”

“Thank you. But to be fair, you haven't seen anything yet.” He pours club soda for himself, brings the sidecar to me.

“Trying to quit?”

He shakes his head and points toward the window. Just beyond, snowflakes the size of half-dollars tumble from the sky and collect into decent slush on the big deck. “I think a sober driver is in order this evening. I've got crème brûlée in the fridge. Eli must be downstairs in his room. Should I ask him to join us?”

“Of course.”

“I'd yell for him, but he'd never hear me. His current method of tuning out the world is Viking metal through headphones. Be right back.”

Cavin picks up a remote sitting on the black granite countertop, presses a button to turn on some music. Gin Blossoms.

He isn't gone very long. The tick of his footsteps, light against wooden stairs, precedes him. And once he reappears, the noise follows him into the kitchen, where he extracts three bowls of crème brûlée from the stainless steel refrigerator. I assume that means Eli will make an appearance soon, and he does.

His approach sounds much heavier than Cavin's, and I expect a hulk of a kid. Instead, the boy who comes through the door has the look of a distance runner—tall, like his father, but not particularly bulky. And, despite his overly long wheat-colored hair, which could really use a stylish cut, he carries Cavin's charmed good looks, including those storm-cloud eyes. Exceptional genetics.

“Hello, Eli. I'm Tara.”

He doesn't respond immediately, at least not verbally. But he lowers his eyes to meet mine, and the connection is discomfiting, like a static electric shock. “Hi.”

“Sorry if I don't get up, but—”

“It's okay,” he interrupts. “I can see what your problem is.”

I can't quite interpret the connotation. Literal? Sarcastic? Accusing? I choose to play ignorant. “Yeah, well, it was not my best day skiing, and it trashed my vacation.”

“That's too bad. My mom trashed my vacation.”

Cavin seems to be trying too hard not to sound hurt. “Hey, now. Your vacation has just begun. There's some fine snow up on that mountain.”

“Which would be great,” Eli responds, “except for all the tourists tracking it up, not to mention face-planting.”

The intent of his statement is clear. Game on. “Don't worry. It's not the tracks that will get you. It's the guy who decides he's equal to a run that's way over his head. That's a clear and present danger.” I wink at him, and he actually smiles.

Cavin brings a tray over, allows me to choose my bowl, and then sets the rest on the coffee table. “Hope you like. It's a specialty of the house.”

It's amazing, and that's what I tell him. Then I turn to Eli, who's picking the brown sugar crust off the custard. “Your father says you go to school in the Bay Area.”

“Yeah. The Athenian. Lucky me. My mom figured I needed better grooming if I wanted half a chance at Stanford.”

“I see. Stanford's tough, all right. It's very ambitious of you.”

“Uh, Stanford is her idea. Not mine.”

“Oh. Well, I happen to be acquainted with the Athenian.”

“Really?”

“In a roundabout way. I have a friend whose son goes there. Do you, by any chance, know Taylor Andaman?”

“Everyone knows everyone at the Athenian.” Which doesn't exactly answer my question. “So, are all your friends rich?”

“Eli . . .” warns Cavin.

“That's okay,” I soothe. “Actually, most of the people I know are well-off, yes.”

“Including you?”

“Why? Is that important?”

He heaves his shoulders. “Nope. Not to me. But it's a prerequisite if you want to date Dad.”

“Eli!” Cavin shifts his weight as if to rise.

I put a hand on his knee to stop him and lock eyes with the brat. “Nothing wrong with having high standards, is there?”

Eli smiles, revealing teeth that must be the product of excellent orthodontia. “Personally, I prefer slumming. Rich women are boring.”

“Not nearly as boring as privileged kids.”

His grin dissolves. “You just might have a point. Well, if you'll excuse me, pudding has a laxative effect on me.”

Nice. He leaves his bowl, brown sugar shards crusting the sides, on the coffee table, starts toward the door. “Great meeting you, Eli.” And he's gone. I turn to Cavin and smile. “That went well, don't you think?”

He grimaces. “At least you didn't run. Finish your drink while I load the dishwasher. Then I'd better get you back to your hotel.”

By the time we're on our way, maybe three inches of snow have accumulated on the roads. It's slow going, and I'm grateful that Cavin chose to play designated driver. One small lapse of judgment could lead to serious consequences. Unlike most of the other men in my life, this one is cautious, and while that might once have bothered me, tonight I appreciate his prudence.

“Thank you for a great day.” I don't want to distract him, but I need him to know I'm interested in pursuing something more, so I rest my hand on his leg, just above his knee.

“No. Thank
you.
” He lifts my hand to his lips and then replaces it, a bit closer to his inner thigh. “Meeting you was quite unexpected, and absolutely my pleasure.”

“Would that I could pleasure you more. But this is definitely a case of wrong time, wrong place.”

“No apology necessary. I'm happy to accept your IOU. Tomorrow's your last day here, yes?”

“That's right. We'll probably just kick back. Melody's done a lot more skiing than she's used to. And I . . . Well, I don't really have much of a choice. Just so you know, Doc Lattimore, this injury really stinks.”

“It's a bad one. If you have any questions about presurgical rehab, don't hesitate to call. You've got my number.”

“Can I call even if I don't have any questions?”

“If you don't call me, I'll call you.”

He pulls up in front of the hotel and parks. I'm reluctant to say good-bye. “If you ever decide to give up doctoring, you could become a tour guide. Thanks for the private excursion.”

“Anytime. And the encore will be even better.”

His kiss good-bye is filled with promise.

You are roused into the dark

soup of morning, crawl your way out

of a green dream of summer.

One foot explores the far side

of the quilts, withdraws again, stung

by subzero tentacles that have infiltrated

the weather stripping.

You want to slip back

into the ignorance of slumber,

but a jolt of frustration has jump-started

your brain, and once the words

have coalesced, they repeat themselves,

a stutter:
It's a long, long way to June.

There is no detour except to rise.

But this day brings a singular

reward, for in the frozen

night, a fog has lifted, crowning

barren branches with tiaras of ice.

Against an azure mantle, they shimmer

in soft December sunlight, dazzle

cynical eyes, then melt like memories.

Upon the hoarfrost, you spy a flutter

of rust and fix your gaze on

the feathered enigma—a robin, huddled

in the cold white snare. Framed by the tangle,

he is a picture of despair and you wonder

why a creature capable of flight

would choose to stay and weather winter.

I expect to find Mel sitting in front of the fake fire, comfortably reading or watching TV. Instead, she's pacing. “Oh, thank God,” she says when I totter through the door. “You're back early. I didn't want to call and bother you if you were having a good time, but . . . Wait. What happened? Why are you back early? It didn't involve pepper spray, did it?”

“Not even. It involved snow. You do realize it's dumping outside, right?”

“It is? I mean it flurried a little up on the mountain, but when I got the text I came back down to try and manage a little damage control. Is it supposed to quit?”