Love Lies Beneath (9 page)

“Kids?”

“My son, Eli, is seventeen.”

“Seventeen? You married young, too, then.”

“Way too young. I was twenty, still an undergrad. And I was a father at twenty-two. It was ludicrous, really, maneuvering med school and residencies while trying to keep a wife and child happy.”

Quick calculations net Cavin's approximate age. Thirty-nine. Good number. “Does Eli live with you?”

“No. When Melissa and I split up, she returned to LA, and he went with her. Then she met her new husband, who moved them to Sacramento. Eli goes to a boarding school in the Bay Area while she and Russell circle the globe.”

“Sounds like fun. Is Russell a pilot?”

“No, a politician. A diplomat.”

“Oh. Poor Melissa.”

“What makes you say that?”

I sip my champagne, deciding how much to confess. “My second husband was a politician. When Raul died, he left me secure financially, but I had no clue what to do with myself. I was a business major, but not cut out for the day-to-day oversight of six pawnshops. I decided to hire interns to deal with the nitty-gritty and focus on the S corp management and investment strategies. That left me a lot of free time.

“It happened to be an election year, so I volunteered to campaign for a Republican legislator from southern Nevada. Don't ask me why. I'd never given a thought to politics before. In fact, I'd never registered to vote before. But Jordan and I happened to have mutual friends. One night I went to a fund-raiser. We met, hit it off, and by the time election night rolled around, I stood by his side at his acceptance speech, not as a campaign worker, but rather as his new bride.”

“Love at first stump?”

The silly joke draws my wry smile. “I guess I thought so then. I'm not sure I had a clue what love was. To tell you the truth, I'm still not sure I know.”

Why did I say that? Pain pills, champagne, or the combination, that was a very big admission. Too big for a first date. Maybe any date. Cavin could be put off completely. Instead, he prods gently, “Surely you don't mean that.”

I shrug. “Maybe not. But attraction and love are two different things, and hindsight, I've heard told, is twenty-twenty.”

Paolo delivers our second course, and I'm glad to veer away from frank discussions of love—or the lack of it. As dinner progresses, we continue to share very personal information. By the time the bread pudding arrives, he knows my second marriage lasted eleven years, during which I learned more than I ever wanted to about deep pockets, corporate influence, and backroom negotiations. When Jordan decided to run for the US Senate, I issued an ultimatum. He chose DC.

The split was amicable—so amicable that I suspected infidelity. That proved accurate, and not with one woman but several. The settlement was overly generous. In exchange, I promised to keep his dubious morality, personal and professional, our little secret. Eight months later I met Finley Cannon at a Vegas trade show. He steered me straight into the fast lane and moved me to San Francisco.

“What about children?” Cavin asks.

“Nothing about my life has been conducive to parenting. But I never really craved the experience, or regretted my decision not to have children.” And if I ever needed a reminder, all I had to do was visit Melody for a couple of days. Other than the raging-hormones thing, her kids aren't so bad now. But when they were younger? Insanity. “Do you enjoy being a father?”

He looks away, stares at the fire for a silent few seconds. “I was so busy when Eli was little, I don't remember much of his childhood. I taught him to ride a bike, and to snowboard, and those days are pleasant memories. Now I don't see him very often. School holidays, sometimes, and over the summer break. He's grown into a stranger, really. I know he's smart—genius-level IQ—but his grades don't always reflect that. And he's manipulative.”

He doesn't elaborate, and though my curiosity is screaming for more, it probably isn't wise to ask for details. “I have a niece who's that age. I think all teenagers are manipulative, up to a point. Always looking for detours around the rules. It comes with the ‘I'm grown-up, you can't tell me what to do' thing. I had the same attitude. In fact, I still don't much care for rules.”

“Ah, see, but medicine is all about rules. Which is why I feel the desperate need to escape every now and then.”

Chef Christopher emerges from the kitchen and comes over to the table, seeking praise. When I reward him with a healthy dose, he offers a nightcap, which Cavin and I are happy to accept. By the time Paolo brings the bill, I'm just a bit blurry around the edges, and that is a rare delight.

Cavin tries to hand Paolo his credit card, but I'm clear enough to stop him. “My treat, remember?”

“But I wouldn't have ordered the Cristal.”

“That's okay. I would have.”

Cavin surrenders reluctantly.

“Have you never had a woman buy you dinner before?”

“Actually, no.”

“I think you need to set your sights higher.”

He smiles. “I think I just have.”

It's still relatively early when Cavin drops me back at the hotel. He pulls up as close as he can get to the door, comes around to help me out, waving away the bellman. “How do you feel about kissing in public?”

“With the right man, I'd do more than kiss in public, though maybe not in full view of a hotel lobby.”

He laughs gently, pulls me into his arms. “We shall remain circumspect. For the moment.”

His amaretto-laced kiss is respectful. That in itself is unusual enough, but what's ridiculous is how much it's turning me on. Maybe it's the float of Black Orchid cologne over the cling of Italian food. Maybe it's the soft pillow of his lips, or the way our tongues seem like old friends, just saying hello. Whatever it is, I want more.

Apparently, so does Cavin. When he pulls back, maintaining circumspectness, his face doesn't retreat very far. “I'm surgery-free tomorrow. May I play tour guide, and perhaps cook dinner for you?”

“You can repair broken bodies and manage a kitchen, too?”

“I am a man of many talents, milady.”

“That, I believe. And I'd love to.”

He brushes his lips against mine, a promise in the gesture. “I'll pick you up around one, if that works for you.”

“Absolutely.”

I can feel his eyes on my back, watching my lurching gait. “We'll spend a little time practicing that,” he calls. “I'll even teach you how to do stairs.”

Tonight I avoid stairs and take the elevator up to the room. Mel is still awake. “Waiting up for me?” I ask.

“Well, of course. Do you think I could sleep? How did it go?”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Just okay?”

“Okay, it was better than okay. I prefer not to jinx myself.” I give her a run-down, from the antipasti to the dolce. “We really connected. No sex of course . . .” I gesture to my leg. “Jeez. I wonder how long it will be before that's a viable possibility.”

“When was the last time you had dinner with a man—not work related—that didn't result in sex?”

Valid question. “Considering I've been married most of my adult life, albeit to three different men, my dinner dates not related to work have been rarer than you might assume. And, believe it or not, they haven't all led to sex. I do have standards.”

“Good to know. Does that include the men you pick up in bars?”

Ouch. “So you know, that isn't something I do very often, either. But, yes. And my first rule, always, is that they're not married. Casual sex is one thing. Adultery is something else altogether.”

“Why don't you just masturbate? It would be safer.”

“Yeah, but a whole lot less fun. Anyway, I was almost thirty before I masturbated. It took marriage to make that happen. Singlehood is the very time to audition a partner or two.”

“Audition. So you're in the market for a serious relationship?”

“I'm not exactly shopping, but should one present itself, of course.” And now, because I don't want to discuss my sex life, let alone my probably obtuse sense of morality, I inform her, “By the way, Cavin is picking me up tomorrow afternoon. He wants to show me some of his favorite places, and then cook dinner for me.”

Mel huffs. “You want me to spend another evening alone?”

“Normally, I'd never ask it of you. You know that. But I think whatever is happening between Cavin and me could be something really special.”

I do, and that is strange. I'm generally not a believer in the hazy notion of fate. I'm far more of the “take charge and make things happen” kind of girl. But this feels different. It feels out of my control.

“I guess I can't argue with that,” says Mel, though it comes out a thin whine. “Especially since you'll be spending the holidays with us. I already told Graham to make sure the downstairs guest room is made up for you.”

“I'm sure he's
super
excited, too.”

“Oh, come on. Why is it you think Graham doesn't like you?”

Dirty looks. Disparaging remarks. The way he tunes out completely anytime I'm talking. What Mel will never know is that when they first started dating, good ol' Graham tried to put the moves on me. I told him if I ever found out he'd cheated on my sister, I'd kick his spindly ass. That was back in the day when I used such colloquialisms. I've cultivated my language over the years. Once in a while, I still think rural Idaho trash talk, but it's rare for me to utter it out loud.

“I'm afraid Graham is under the impression you and I have way too much fun on these trips. Your husband, dear sister, considers me a bad influence.” That part is no doubt true.

Mel laughs. “Well, we can't get into too much trouble wrapping Christmas presents and such. Anyway, he didn't complain when I told him you were staying with us for a while.”

He probably got a good chuckle over the reason. He came skiing with us exactly once and spent most of his time riding my wake. Some men get pissy about stuff like that.

“Hey,” Mel says. “Wouldn't it be interesting if we both end up married to doctors?”

“Whoa, Speed Racer, slow down, would you? I wouldn't mind getting married again someday, but that day is a long way off. Besides, Cavin and I have just barely kissed. I'd definitely need to take him for a test drive, if you know what I mean. And that won't happen tomorrow.”

“Good. Maybe it's you who needs to slow down, and this was God's way of showing you that.”

“God? You think God sent that guy careening into me so I couldn't have sex with strangers?”

“God can do wondrous things. This one would be a rather mundane task for him, I imagine.”

I study her face, her body language. She isn't kidding. “Just when did you discover God?”

She shrugs. “I've been going to church for a while.”

That's news to me. “Really? How long?”

“Five or six years.”

“Why haven't you ever mentioned it?”

“I figured it would probably annoy you.”

You are correct about that, little sister.

Our mother took us to church on those rare Sunday mornings when she wasn't fighting a hangover. Insisted we believe in a holy trinity that nothing about her represented. I suppose when I was very, very young I had some small morsel of belief. But that crumbled as soon as I realized the Jesus she claimed to worship expected things she never even tried to deliver. Specifically, things like loving others more than herself.

Especially her children.

“Does your family go to church with you?”

“The girls do. Well, usually. Kayla makes excuses sometimes.”

“And Graham?”

“Graham sleeps in on Sundays. He says if I have a problem with that, I should take it up with God.”

“Why? Because God expects women to be subservient?”

She smiles. “No, dear. Because God made Sunday a day of rest.”

“Oh. Right.”

As our mother herself might say, I forgot more Bible than I ever knew.

Thank God.

Cavin picks me up at one o'clock on the dot. I like promptness in a man. Better to make him wait a few minutes if necessary than to sit, anticipating his arrival. I, too, am right on time this afternoon, however. And when I exit the hotel, I'm glad I brought my jacket. The wind has fangs today.

“It's supposed to storm this afternoon,” Cavin explains as I finesse my way into the Audi. “The road around Emerald Bay can get hairy. In fact, they often close it in winter. Right now, it's clear, so we've got a good chance of outracing the weather. The view, especially if you've never seen it, is worth the risk, in my humble opinion. But it's up to you.”

“I'm always up for an adventure.”

“As I suspected.”

He drives cautiously enough as we motor south through town and turn west onto Highway 89, through a beautiful tract of old-growth forest. “I thought they clear-cut the lake in the eighteen hundreds,” I say, showing off my rudimentary knowledge of local history.

“They pretty much did. Virginia City needed the timber to shore up its silver mines. But the family who owned this particular property happened to be early environmentalists who wanted to preserve the forest. Hold on.” He turns off the highway and onto a street marked Valhalla. “This is the Tallac Historic Site. Once upon a time, the wealthy partied here. Now you can rent the historic mansion for weddings, et cetera.”

“So, the wealthy still party here?”

“I guess that's an accurate statement. I'd park and show you around. The buildings really are quite lovely. But it's more work than that leg needs right now. And besides, it's starting to flurry.”

Tiny feathers of snow drift down, melting as soon as they hit the warm windshield. “Think it's okay to keep going?”