My fingertips smoothed over his boyish face from long ago. We had so much time, then.
I’d always known my last name would one day be Cabral. Alonso and Sofia Cabral were warm, and disciplined, and solid. Church every Sunday. Family dinner every evening. “Te quiero” spoken all the time. Not so in my home. My parents didn’t believe in “antiquated traditions” and had something of a common law marriage that ended before I began kindergarten. The final shake-up happened when my hippie father refused to take me to the doctor for a ruptured eardrum, insisting holistic medicine was the better approach. By the time my mom brought me in for treatment, the unchecked, perforated eardrum had rendered me permanently, partially deaf in my left ear. Surgery eventually improved my hearing, but it would never be one hundred percent. There was a huge fight, and my dad moved off the farm.
To be fair, Mom was not the easiest person to live with. She was a reserved organic farmer who cares more about cross-pollination hazards in planting heirloom tomatoes than heartfelt conversation. Dad worked at his girlfriend Audrey’s organic grocery store, and that’s where I spent my weekends. So when I visited the Cabral home, I’d follow Alonso and Sofia with longing eyes and pretend I was their younger daughter.
Then he came. Samuel Cabral. He was Danita’s six-year-old cousin from Boston, a quiet, serious little person whose face was grayer than any Latino boy I’d seen and eyes, too blue. Alonso’s brother had died years ago, and now the wife was dead, too. At first I was jealous of the new boy. The Cabrals adopted him, just like that, when I’d put in countless months winning them over. But something about Samuel resonated within me. He was haunted. So sad—like a scolded puppy—and I wanted to fix that.
I knew the circumstances surrounding his mother’s death were horrible because everyone whispered and when I asked, they’d only say, “she died.” Even as adults he never spoke about it, ever, and I never pushed. Perhaps I should have pushed.
I tried to be his friend. He shot me down. Then, slowly, he was friendly back. Little things, like standing up to Danita when she teased me or offering to halve his sandwich with me. From then on, he usurped Dani as mi mejor amigo.
Playing by St. Vrain Creek. Guitar lessons. Baseball games. Camping trips. Summer Jobs. Prom.
Our first kiss.
First date.
First time.
First marriage.
First love.
First everything, to our detriment.
It was eerily silent in my apartment. I dialed Dani and took a deep breath.
“Danita, print ‘Kaye Trilby’ in your programs.”
I heard Dani sigh. “Oh, Kaye, it’s not that big of a deal. You’re still familia. I’m sorry I’m being a bridezilla.”
“No, you’re right—a real friend tells the truth. It’s time to let go, let Sam have his family back. I’m going to the Social Security office tomorrow to fill out the paperwork, then it’s done. I’ll be Kaye Trilby again by the time your wedding rolls around.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Yes.”
Animals…Home and Garden…ooh, another cop show marathon.
“Heck no, Kaye! How drunk are you?” Molly hurried past the marathon and settled on some ghost hunting series.
“I don’t get it.” She took a handful of popcorn. “When they ask ghosts questions and they don’t answer, why do they listen to a million hours of audio footage? Wouldn’t they already know if the ghost talked back?”
I foolishly topped off her glass, then mine. “The voices only show up on tape. See, listen closely.” She turned the television volume up as they looped the audio portion in question. It’s here. It’s here. It’s here flashed in the caption.
She squinted. “Sounds like a weak radio signal.”
“Maybe it’s saying ‘Casssssady.’”
That got a rise out of Molly. Cassady Bakke pulled into Lyons in a powder blue VW Campervan a year ago and secured a job at Paddler’s Outdoor Adventures. With his long brown hair, hemp bands, and broken-in jeans, Cassady called himself an itinerant philosopher. I placed my bet on a disenchanted kid from northern Minnesota. But Molly was enamored, and she was a persistent princess.
She pushed back the quilt and stood, only to stumble because it was wrapped around her feet. She staggered to the bathroom for the third time.
If Molly so desired, she’d never have to work a day in her life, but she’d snap like a taut wire if she sat still. Her father was a real estate developer. Her stepmother could sport a cocktail dress like a cougar. She was a waif compared to big-boned Molly, and the witch enjoyed drawing the contrast. The one good thing Molly gained from that woman was her stepsister Holly (of all names) who truly loved my friend.
The ghost hunting grew hokey, so I flipped to an entertainment channel just as a familiar face flashed across the screen.
Oh, you have got to be kidding.
“After a tumultuous schedule in Europe, Indigo Kingsley heads to LA with heart-throb author Samuel Caulfield Cabral. She has just wrapped filming on Water Sirens, the movie version of his best-selling book.”
Footage rolled of Samuel and Indigo at the Oscars, Samuel in a dashing tux and Indigo in a flowing buttercup-yellow gown. His hand rested on the small of her back. She was magnificent…platinum blond hair piled high, long silky legs. Was she as broken over Samuel’s new relationship as I was?
“Sources say the duo is still going strong, though the in-demand author has been seen out-and-about with close friend, Caroline Ortega. Is this a spritely brawl in the making? Maybe we’ll find out in two weeks, when he’ll launch his latest book, The Last Other, in Denver, Colorado…”
Growling, I hurled a pillow at the TV just as Molly returned. She looked at me soberly—as soberly as possible—and smoothed the creases from my forehead.
“Oh, Kaye-bear, don’t be sad. You know most of the stuff on those shows is a lie.” I tossed back the rest of the wine in my glass. “He’s thirty now,” she continued gently. “You can’t expect him to be alone forever. What if he wants to be a dad someday?”
I went green and stumbled for the bathroom Molly had just vacated. She ran behind me, tripping over the quilt again.
“Oh geez, wrong thing to say. I’m sorry!” My friend patted my back as I clung to the toilet. “Umm, how to fix this? He’s a jerk! An elitist snob. Their children will be brats. His head is so far up his own —”
“Thanks, Molly, that’s fine.”
“Are you going to…you know?” She made a gagging motion from her mouth to the toilet.
“I don’t think so.” Pulling myself up from the cold tile, I splashed water on my face and steered clear of the mirror. I hadn’t been seriously drunk since college.
Molly scoured the Internet while I lay down next to her, my head spinning. “Frickin’ famous cliff-hucking author.” Molly’s fingers stopped clicking.
“What’s a cliff-hucker?”
“No, no, no, cliff-hucking. Extreme skiing?”
“I like ‘cliff-hucker’ better.”
She hit play on a video, actual footage of skiers hucking off overhangs in Zermatt. I wondered if it was the same ski resort Samuel had stayed at with his mother. I pulled a pillow over my head. “Argh!”
“What’s wrong, pillow-face?”
“Look at me—I’m a basket case. Who in their right mind cries over being jilted so long ago? I wish Samuel could feel this…this cliff-hucking horrible.”
“Cliff-hucking floozy, Caroline.” She pulled the pillow off of my face. “You know what you need? Revenge.”
I stared at her dubiously. “I don’t know…”
She shook her head, ponytail swishing back and forth. “No, no, hear me out. Picture this: hot dress. Shiny blond curls. Beautiful legs. Heels.”
“No heels.”
“Heels. You walk—no, sway—into the book signing, all sexy. He’s slack-jawed. Salivating for you. Make him forget about Indigo, Caroline, Candy Cane, whoever.”
She had my
full attention. “Go on.”
Molly took another swig of merlot and flung her arm dramatically. “You slam your book down, lean over the table, get right in his face and say…”
“Sign it, mother cliff-hucker!”
“No!” She doubled over in laughter, rolling off the couch. Then she grabbed my ankle and pulled me with her. “I love you, Kaye. You should stay with me during this book release, until the media frenzy blows over.” She patted my cheek, but missed and hit my nose.
“I love you, too. And I think I might.”
“If you don’t do the whole book-signing scenario, the least you can do is find a date for the wedding.”
I anxiously picked at my thumbnail. “I’ve asked Hector and I think he’ll agree to it.”
Her face softened. “You know, Hector is a pretty handsome guy. And he’s been by your side through a lot.”
“Hector’s a good friend.”
“Have you ever considered he could be more than a friend?”
I had. After the split, Samuel had Sofia and Alonso—they’d moved to New York for a year to be with him. I had the Valdez boys, pulling me out of very dark times with everything from skydiving (I sprained my ankle) to mountain climbing (sprained my other ankle). I had new passions in which Samuel played no part. Now that he’d moved on to someone else, maybe…
I’d met and dated men since Samuel. I’d even slept with a few and felt sick afterward—partly because I wanted them to be Samuel, and partly because I hated that I wanted them to be Samuel. Did he ever really love me that way, or had he confused friendship love with romantic love? If I was ever to escape from the churning vortex that was Samuel Caulfield Cabral, I needed answers.
It was here, sprawled on the area rug of my living room floor, my body absorbing merlot like a warm wine cork, I decided I’d do whatever it took to get unstuck.
Molly dropped an elbow over her eyes and groaned. “I’m supposed to see this Dylan-wannabe tomorrow with Cassady, one of his ‘friend dates.’ I’ll be lucky if the little people with jackhammers in my head keep it to a dull roar.”
“Samuel asked me on one of those a while back,” I murmured.
Molly shot up from the ground. “A friend date? No! When?”
“Two years ago, after Thanksgiving. Want to see?” I sat up and held the coffee table to steady my tilt-a-whirl brain, then opened my account and pulled up four emails. Molly skimmed them over my shoulder, gasping:
Kaye, come with me to Denver next Saturday? The Twiggies are playing at Three Kings Tavern—think you’d like them.
“How did you reply?”
“I didn’t.”
“Kaye!”
“I replied to the first one. I just…didn’t know what to do with the other three.”
“So instead of facing him, you tucked tail and ran?”
I grimaced. “Something like that.”
She pushed me out of the way and leaned over the keyboard. “You are going to reply to him now, missy.”
Dread filtered into my veins, followed by an odd recklessness. Why not reply? After that Thanksgiving, he couldn’t possibly dislike me more. And maybe, if he replied, I might get the answers I needed.
“This is kind of like drunk dialing. Drunk emailing.” I tossed a piece of popcorn at her. It soared over her head and bounced under my dining room table. “What should I say?”
“You could start by apologizing for missing the concert.”
“Fine. You type, I’ll dictate. ‘Dear Cabral…You white-hot unholy cliff-hucker.’” Molly glanced back at me, unsure. I waved for her to continue. “Trust me. ‘Sorry I missed The Twiggies concert. I do like them, you’re right.’ That’s it.”
She shrugged and typed the rest. I read it over her shoulder, swaying a bit:
Deer cabral, you white-jot unjoly cliffhuckr. sorry I missed the twigging concert. I do lick them, your right That’s it.
I clucked at all of the mistakes. “No no, delete ‘That’s it.’” Molly back-spaced, clicked send, and clapped her hands gleefully.
“Kaye, you did it! That man is not going to know what hit him.”
I stared at the screen, my face blanching. “No.” Diving for the keyboard, I clicked into the Sent folder and saw the brainless, double entendre-riddled message sitting there, dated just seconds ago. “Molly, you actually sent it?” There had to be a way to retract it, take it back, something. I considered pulling my laptop apart and destroying whatever tiny port of sail waved that doomed virtual message to sea.
“Hey, s’okay. You know Samuel, he’ll get a kick out of it.”
“You’re right about one thing.” I peered through my fingers at the embarrassing, irretrievable message. “He definitely won’t know what hit him.”
I hoped Samuel still had a sense of humor.
Chapter 4: Peel Out
Paddling into the core current.
A downstream lean is needed to remain balanced.
I TRIED NOT TO CHECK my email account every hour. When my phone buzzed, I forced myself to wait a full minute before I read the message. Each time, I held my breath…then exhaled when I saw the sender was Molly, or a client, or my mother, or one of the many monthly newsletters I subscribed to for my job. What did I care if the Denver Zoo had a new exhibit coming, called “The Scoop on Poop”? Who paid money to see a heap of animal crap, anyway?
After a week, I gave up hope of his responding. Either he was paying me back for not replying two years ago, or he didn’t want to out of respect for Caroline. Knowing Samuel, it was probably the latter. He wasn’t one for playing games with other people’s heads—just his own.
So, if he didn’t want to talk to me, why in the name of pogo-sticking Peter was I on my way to his book signing?
Molly.
“Remember, smug and professional,” Molly commanded as she whipped around curves on the rock-lined road to Boulder. “There’s no revenge sweeter than rubbing your hotness in his face.” Cassady choked in the front passenger seat as he swallowed green tea from his thermos. I patted his shoulders and felt them quake with laughter.
“Yes, Molly, I remember. How about I rub my happiness in his face, instead?”
She ignored me.
“Besides, this isn’t revenge per se,” I continued. “This is getting answers. Untangled.”
“Whatever you want to call it, Kaye.” I saw her roll her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Walk confidently up to that table—”
“—look him in the eyes—” I echoed for the hundredth time.
“And say in a sultry voice—”
“Welcome back, Cabral,” I replied in my best sultry voice.
Cassady now laughed aloud. “Wasn’t that a seventies sit-com?”
I slapped my forehead. “You’re right, it’s too cheesy. How about I just say ‘Samuel’? That’s sultry, right?”
“Why don’t you just be polite and normal?” Cassady reasoned. “That will make a bigger impression.”
“Why do you think she wouldn’t be polite? She’s not going in there to rip off his face. She just needs to project confidence.” Molly glanced at me over her shoulder, the Subaru veering to the right as she did. “Confident, not killer—right, Kaye?”
I desperately clung to the handle above the door. “Molly, road!”
“Oh!” She swerved back into her lane just as the right tires of her Subaru rumbled along the shoulder, kicking up wet gravel.
Cassady reached over Molly’s massive car organizer to fiddle with the radio, settling on a classic rock station. To Molly’s not-so-secret glee, he’d asked to tag along and have Samuel sign a book for his sister. “How’s the studying going back there?”
“Still skimming.” Samuel’s latest, The Last Other, launched two days ago. Despite the high demand for copies, I managed to obtain one from the bookstore after work. But with our entire TrilbyJones team putting in long hours to prep for the new Rocky Mountain National Park campaign—“Colorado’s Craziest Adventure”—I had no time to read.
Now I rushed through the book.
While there was a romantic subplot in the series, it didn’t belong to Neelie, for which I was eternally grateful. The New York Times hailed the series as “brimstone beauty in a post-apocalyptic landscape.” The Guardian described Samuel Cabral’s work as “bound together in a masterfully allegorical black ribbon.” Whatever. The books were action-packed, epic mysteries set in various mountain ranges, which Samuel’s mythology inhabited. Each book culminated in some sort of bizarre good-versus-evil showdown. Caught up in the struggle was Neelie Nixie, a naïve but well-meaning water sprite on a quest through ashen wastelands to discover the fate of her friends: Nora, Noel, and Nicodemus.
Many of the storylines were taken straight from our imaginative playtimes in St. Vrain Creek, which ran the length of Lyons. When we were little, Samuel had come up with dramatic rescues from tree forts, leaps over the river into enemy territory. Like the scene I read right now: Neelie rappelled down a mountainside in the Alps with her crew, uncovering another clue in a long string of tense arrows that pointed to the conclusion.
The Last Other was the final book, thank goodness. Now that the Siren series was finished, I felt more magnanimous. When I took myself and Samuel out of the equation and read the story for what it was—simply a story—it was good. But then I’d stumble across another little characteristic, such as Neelie biting her fingernails, and feel resentment once more. For the record, I didn’t bite my fingernails…not since last week.
“Kaye, do you know how it ends yet?” Molly called, yanking me from the book.
“No, I’m only about half-way through.”
“Did he write about me?”
“Ummm…sorry.” I was beyond certain the “Molly” character was a rosy twelve-year-old who’d shipped off to boarding school in the fourth book, but she disagreed. She still waited for a hip, New Age nixie to strut onto the stage of Samuel’s series in vintage cowboy boots. I caught a glimpse of Molly’s disappointed face in the mirror. The only sound was the pleasant, steady beat of the windshield wipers and Cassady’s fingers drumming the dashboard.
Hydraulic Level Five Page 3
