Hydraulic Level Five

by Sarah Latchaw

  He’d asked if he could touch me. I’d told him he could. Two trembling hands slowly swept down either side of my dress, fingering the lace, circled my waist. He pulled me to him. Thank you, Firecracker, he’d breathed into my skin. I love you, so much.

  My own hands had smoothed over the lapels of his crisp, black tuxedo, strong column of his neck. They’d settled into his half-tamed hair. I’d pulled him down to my mouth so I could speak to him, and only him. I love you, Samuel. Always have…

  So warm, so secure. So close. I shivered, realizing the air had grown cold on the shadowed balcony.

  “Kaye? Are you still there?”

  My heart twisted. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve been a space cadet, lately.”

  “Mamacita, we’ll show Cabral you know how to have a good time without him, whether you’re on a skydive or a date.”

  “Thank you. We’ll have a blast, I promise.”

  “I’m counting on it. Hey! Got a new one: How do you hide money from Hippie Tom? You put it under a bar of soap.”

  “Horrible.” But I laughed, in spite of myself. Just then, Molly’s car pulled into my driveway. “Gotta run, Hector.”

  Molly had insisted she stay with me, excited to see real life paparazzi. “That cliff-hucker and his tramp Aussie actress are not running you out of your own home,” she’d declared earlier, when I called.

  Pushing past the cameras in my face, I jogged across the street to meet Molly. She pulled me into a tight hug. Several cameras flashed behind us.

  “Don’t say anything at all until we get into the house.” I picked up her overnight bag. “These guys will twist your words around like nobody’s business.”

  “Hey, Kaye, is that Samuel’s sister?” asked one of the photogs.

  “No, I’m Molly Jones!” she replied cheerily, all but skipping past them. “That’s M-O-L-L-Y, not I-E. I’m Kaye’s hip, indie-stylin’ best friend and life consultant. Be sure to print it just like that.”

  “Cripes, Molly, you just had to.”

  “Should I goose you for good measure?” Her arm rested on my waist as we made our way back to the house.

  I gave her a playful swat on the rear. “That should keep them busy for a while, until the exterminator arrives. I hope you don’t mind crickets.”

  “Nope! I have to admit, the crickets were good, almost as good as Mickey-gate. Sam was asked about Mickey and PETA on The Morning Show. Oh! I found the Geneva Botsworth interview on YouTube, and I’ve got two bottles of champagne in my bag—no merlot this time—to toast the comeback of the Trilby. Such a fashionable little hat.”

  “Ha ha ha. Did you bring your Sharpies?” I tried to sound ominous.

  Molly scoffed. “Oh please. Any generic olive oil takes permanent marker out of skin in seconds. Did you and Jaime even play pranks in college? Now, I’ve compiled an entire list of pranks specifically designed to irritate the hell out of Sam…”

  And so we settled in for another evening of fancy toasting and YouTube, cataloging everything we’d need for Molly’s prank night to end all prank nights—potting soil, tomato plants, milk powder, icy hot. The exterminator stayed for dinner, terrified to leave and face a barrage of paparazzi questions about whether he was dating me, if he really was a pest control guy, and if Samuel Caulfield Cabral would be furious at him. The poor man didn’t even know who Samuel Caulfield Cabral was.

  At some point between the macabre cessation of chirping crickets and making fun of Samuel’s deer-in-the-headlights expression when Botsworth flashed the hand-holding on the big screen, I thought about showing Molly the top-secret dossier. Jaime had copied all of Samuel’s records for me: the poor NYU grades, a public intox charge, the arrest for possession of illegal substances and paraphernalia. (I hadn’t even known about the first two until Jaime showed me the folder, though I wasn’t surprised.) Keeping the file a secret was like a boulder on my back. But I left it in my bedroom, safely tucked in my underwear drawer.

  When we crawled into bed at eleven o’clock, a bottle of champagne and an entire block of cheddar cheese later, my courage was armed and fortified for my serious talk with Samuel. I wanted my Samuel again, the one with fire pulsing beneath his quiet demeanor…not this cool, aloof Samuel. I knew exactly what I wanted to ask him.

  Now it was just a matter of forcing the words from my mouth.

  Chapter 11: Undercut

  Paddlers should be aware of the dangers in current

  flowing beneath ledges, branches, and rocky

  overhangs and evade them.

  SAMUEL WAS THE PICTURE of contentment behind the wheel of Cassady’s classic 1973 VW Campervan, a sky blue behemoth named “Betty.”

  Okay, not quite contentment. He was a bundle of nerves as he drove the beast west into the mountains, fighting the blinding afternoon sun. His fingers drummed the steering wheel when they weren’t white-knuckling it. He tried to pass it off as jamming to the Elvis playlist I ran through my iPod. Watching my clean-shaven, Italian sunglasses-wearing ex maneuver this epitome of hippiedom around the hairpin curves of steep mountain roads was…well…frigging hilarious.

  Betty rarely made it out of the car port of Cassady’s rental bungalow. He biked everywhere because it was A) healthier, B) greener, and C) cheaper. We planned to take the Campervan on our skydiving trip next weekend, and Samuel was entrusted with “stretching her tires” today after a long winter’s hibernation. It was a perfect solution—the paparazzi knew Samuel drove a roadster rental, so Angel arranged for him to take Betty for a spin. (Angel also thought the idea of uptight Samuel behind the wheel of Betty was better than a mini-skirted bowling league.) Betty was decked out in pure seventies wood paneling, burnt orange upholstery, kitchenette, a custom stereo system, and sleepers Cassady kept in immaculate condition. She was his pride and joy, and I was staggered he’d let a stranger drive her. Of course, the Samuel we’d all known was nothing but obsessively responsible, and I’m sure Angel had told Cassady as much.

  “You’re certain you don’t mind forgoing the art gallery?” he asked for the third time.

  “Like I said, I’ve been there a lot. They’re one of our clients.”

  “Right. That’s right.” One of his hands ruffled his thick hair, an all too familiar nervous tic. “The gallery seemed too whitewashed, quiet. I wanted to get outside, see a few of the old haunts.”

  “Yeah, it’s a nice afternoon.”

  We climbed up Ute Highway, heading to Button Rock Reservoir. It’d been years since Samuel had seen that tucked-away bit of grandeur, and he wanted to pay it a visit before he returned to New York.

  “There’s soda in the cooler if you want one,” he offered. “Diet Coke, a ginger ale. A lemonade, too. You still like lemonade?”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay. Really.”

  A fraught silence settled between us. He’d been all anxious energy since he waved me over to the van parked in the gallery’s lot, and I wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for the old frayed Lyons baseball cap, now tossed in the back seat. I began to regret requesting this face-to-face conversation. Yesterday, our phone call had come so easily, my confidence was boosted tenfold, but actually seeing the soft mouth that formed his words was the difference between Pikes Peak and a paperweight.

  Maybe we were trying too hard to be ourselves…or the selves of eight years ago. I gazed at my trembling fingers and tucked them beneath me. It was time to loosen up.

  “So…you really need a tie-dyed tee and vintage Levi’s. This whole dark and depressing New Yorker thing you have going is an insult to Betty.”

  He smiled, not once diverting his eyes from the road. “I like to think I’m channeling Steve McQueen—you know, the King of Cool?”

  My gaze swept over his gray tee and jeans that just hinted at lithe muscles beneath. I ignored the twinge that ran the span of my body. “Doesn’t every man? Besides, the King of Cool drove a motorcycle, not a VW Campervan. You are not Steve McQueen cool. More like…”

  “Smokey and the
Bandit cool?”

  “I was thinking Scooby Doo Mystery Machine cool.” I tapped into my inner ditz. “Jeepers, Fred! This ride has GPS and everything!”

  “Let’s split up, gang,” he said in his best golden boy voice. “You go after that ghost while I take Daphne for a ride!”

  Samuel had never really liked cartoons when we were kids, and preferred to read or play outside. He said the endings were too easy to figure out, but he’d put up with them for my sake. My eyes darted to him—he was perfectly at ease. I relaxed, mission accomplished. By the time we bumped along the back road to the reservoir, we’d found our comfortable rapport.

  Slopes steeped in green prickled conifers and clay the color of sunset rose high above our windshields as the mountain lake came into view. The van crawled to a stop, and I hopped down, thin, pine sap air hitting my nostrils. Somewhere overhead, birds squawked at our intrusion. I slipped out of my sandals to exchange them for my Tevas and felt Samuel behind me, hovering.

  “Hey, what happened to your foot?”

  “What do you mean?” I wiggled my bare feet. He crouched next to me.

  “Is that a scar?”

  Ah. “No, it’s a white-ink tattoo. A little trilby hat. One of our TrilbyJones clients did it for me.”

  Samuel whistled. “Nice. May I?” He glanced at me over his shoulder. It was a boon that I couldn’t see those ice eyes behind his sunglasses.

  I swallowed. “Um, sure.”

  He lifted my foot to get a closer look at the delicate etching above my toe. A long finger traced the edge of the hat’s brim, brushing my skin. He studied the tiny, translucent detail, and his mouth stretched into that lazy smile.

  “This is fascinating. I’ve never seen a white-ink tattoo before.” My breath caught in my throat. Sweet mother, what was he trying to do to me? “You always surprise me, Kaye,” he said quietly. “It’s very unique—I like it. Did it hurt?”

  “Yeah. The top of your foot is a really sensitive spot…lots of nerve endings. It doesn’t…doesn’t really go numb when they ink it.” Lord, he needed to set my foot down or I’d soon yank it free.

  Sensing my unease, Samuel patted my heel and released me to my sneaks. I jerked them on and laced up with shaking fingers while he dug through the van for his messenger bag, cramming it with sodas and sandwiches.

  “So, why the tattoo?”

  I mustered my courage for our talk. There would never be a more natural segue than this. “I got the tattoo because of my last name—Trilby.”

  “I picked up on that.” I zipped my fleece, and he closed up the van. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he motioned for me to lead the way. “I meant, what made you want to get a tattoo?”

  “I guess it was on impulse. I thought they were pretty. That, and the idea of having a tattoo made me feel like a bit of a rebel.” I wasn’t a rebel, I was a coward. Kaye, Kaye, just tell him about your name change—such a simple thing. “I worked on a project several years ago for the TatnGo Tattoo Parlor, helping to reinvent them as upscale artisans. The first thing to go was the business name.”

  “TatnGo not classy enough?” Samuel teased.

  I shook my head, wrapping my pullover around my waist and grabbed the lantern. Great, Kaye, you stupid lamppost. Way to step up. How can you possibly get answers if you can’t even do something as easy as tell Samuel about your name change?

  This late in the afternoon, the reservoir was nearly devoid of people, the last of them trickling home for supper. Samuel and I used to come here occasionally on clear evenings, because the low sun peeking between the mountain range cast the entire lake in orange. Rock and scatters of bleached timber stretched beyond us as we made our way along the coastline.

  “Oh! I’m reading The Last Other page-by-page this time. No skimming.” I hopped over a toppled tree, careful not to bang my shin.

  “Really?” Samuel’s eyebrows lifted. “What do you think so far? How much have you read?”

  “I’m about three-fourths through. It’s…it’s brilliant, Samuel, but you already know that. The metaphors frustrate me like nobody’s business and it takes forever to read, but all personal stuff aside, it’s even better than the others.”

  He grinned and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “See? I knew you couldn’t resist the dark side.”

  “Well, you did all but dare me to read the thing. But I wouldn’t get too excited. Neelie’s still alive, but barely. I might crash another book signing once I finish.”

  Samuel climbed onto a boulder and offered me a hand up. “That bothers you, doesn’t it—Neelie’s eventual demise?”

  “It weirds me out a little, reading and waiting for the final ousting of Fiction-Me.” I let go of his hand.

  “It was never my intention to ‘weird you out.’ I guess I thought putting Neelie to rest would help both of us. She’s always bothered you, and I’m sorry for it. You have to admit, though, that she’s not a bad gal.”

  “Honestly, Samuel, lately I’m more troubled by Nicodemus.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “He’s…I dunno. He just seems so sad to me.”

  I watched our feet as we walked, navigating the slick, natural cobblestones and sand along the lake coast. Samuel bent over and picked up one of the smooth, weathered stones, deep in thought. Finally, he answered, his eyes fixed on the stone.

  “He was sad, but that was years ago. He’s a lot better now.” He gave me a reassuring half-smile. “I’d tell you more, but I don’t want to ruin the ending for you.” Chucking the rock in a pool of water, he watched it land with a plop and walked again.

  My heart thudded sickeningly. Thanksgiving, I was right. I should have at least heard him out, then.

  We sauntered along while I shared what I enjoyed about The Last Other. I asked if he’d really been back to the Alps. He had, and it was as beautiful as ever. I repressed the jealousy bug gnawing in my gut as he described the places he’d visited all over the world, the people he’d met. Samuel had always been an amazing storyteller, and his words allowed me to see the places he’d seen. He loosely committed to sending me some photos.

  The sun began to set as we trekked further, me swinging a lantern and Samuel scouting out a place to sit down and eat. He finally found the perfect spot in the recess of two bleached logs. The breeze turned chilly. I pulled my hood over my head and dropped onto the dirt. Samuel took his time, spreading his jacket over the ground.

  “You can sit on this with me, if you like.”

  I opened my mouth to say no thanks. But the shadowed ground was freezing, so I caved and scooted next to him. The long line of his body was warm, and soon the cold tingling in my arms vanished.

  He dug through his messenger bag, passed me a turkey swiss sandwich and the only lemonade.

  “We can share this. It’s your favorite, too.” I offered him the lemonade.

  “That’s okay. You can have it.” He twisted open a cola.

  We watched a couple make their way down the trail, holding hands, fishing rods swinging from backpacks. I thought I recognized them from Planet Bluegrass. Samuel ducked his head until they were gone, intent on his sandwich.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You know, this looks really inappropriate for me to have you out here, alone, after the café photo. I’m sorry. If someone snapped a picture…”

  I smiled at him sadly. Button Rock preserve was serene, isolated. “Samuel, those photogs have done a number on you, haven’t they? It hasn’t always been this way, since the book was published?”

  He shook his head. “My name started to show up outside the context of my books when I dated a musician a few years ago. It wasn’t serious, but it put me in the limelight—walking the red carpet with so-and-so at the Grammys, attending benefit concerts, and the like. Authors rarely struggle with paparazzi. I guess I got caught in the crossfire between photogs and the people they stalked.”

  “But what about now? I mean, late night talk show appearances aren’t run-of-the-mill
. And you were on a People magazine list, for crying out loud.”

  He tugged the hair above the knob of his neck. “Yes, the People list was strange for me. It’s like I don’t even know that person in the gossip rags, on TV, in pictures. Fortunately, Caroline keeps most of it corralled so I don’t have to deal with it, save for an irritating photographer…or five.”

  “But that picture of us got through.”

  “That’s my fault, I wasn’t careful. Caro’s using her Midas touch to turn this in our favor. She’s been shellacking paparazzi left and right, tracking down who released the photo. I told her not to stress, but with the press sniffing around my break-up with Indigo…” He paused. “You probably don’t want to hear any of that, though.”

  I took a shaky breath. “Samuel, it’s okay, I’m a big girl. Caroline seems very loyal. I’m glad you have somebody who cares about you.” I could barely choke out the words.

  “Loyal?” He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose she’s very loyal. Caroline reminds me of Danita, in a way. You have to know how to handle her. She can be self-centered and affected, but she knows what needs to be done and goes for it. She’s pulled me through some really awful times, and deserves my loyalty, too. I’d hate to keep repeating my mistakes, over and over.” He looked at me from the corner of his eyes. I couldn’t miss the implication.

  “That’s…admirable. She’s very driven.” It was the best I could do.

  Samuel sighed. “She’ll also cut down anyone she sees as a threat. Look, Kaye, I’m not a fool when it comes to Caroline. I know she most likely did something to rile you up—enough for you to loose Jaime Guzman on her. Whatever she did, I’m truly very sorry for it. That’s why I’ve let the whole lesbian hoax go on as long as it has. Just…please don’t goad her. I’ve asked the same of her.”