It did not.
Instead, I dreamed of lazy May nights. Catching rare Colorado fireflies in jars as we chased their haunting glow trails across wooded backyards and marshes. Slices of Mexican birthday cake alight with sparklers. And a little boy with warm, ice eyes.
When I woke, gray morning light stretched from casement windows through the creams and beiges of Sofia’s cozy family room, hitting my face.
The warm ice eyes were still there, watching me from the armchair.
The stench of curdled milk in my nose was overwhelming.
Crap.
Chapter 13: Offset Waves
A wild stretch of waves that curl and collide
into each other from all angles.
MILES OF GOLDEN CLAY and rocks slid past Betty the VW Campervan’s windows on the road out of Boulder. Danita and Molly chatted quietly in the front, Molly at the wheel. Santiago followed behind us in his car. Angel and Cassady were passed out in the back, Cassady’s body slumped over Angel’s knees (Danita had already snapped several photos) after a long night of Coronas, cigars and poker.
Samuel and Caroline were settled in the bench across from me, his arm resting along the seat behind her, her creamy coffee face nestled in his shoulder. His iPod lay in his lap as his head lolled back. I was sorely tempted to crank up the volume on that thing and scare him with the force of the apocalypse. His legs stretched out in front of him, his calf occasionally bumping mine.
At least most everyone was getting in a few hours’ rest before the dive.
I leaned against Hector—who was also asleep—and tucked up my knees.
“Oh, Sweet Kaye, shoes off the upholstery,” Molly sang in her best “Cassady” voice, eyeing me in the mirror. “Hippie has issues with dirt in his Campervan.”
“Then he’s not a real hippie.” But I shot her an apologetic smile and slipped off my sneaks.
Since Samuel would leave the day after the wedding, I tried to read the final quarter of The Last Other in the narrow windows of time I had to spare. That included now, on our way to the Rocketeers’ Skydiving hangar. Rather than suffer the embarrassment of reading the book in front of Samuel, I’d snagged the dust jacket from my special edition Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy (a present from Angel) to camouflage it.
I chewed my thumbnail, reading on…
She would not die. He would not let her die. Nicodemus seized Neelie’s hands, her wrists, her body, dragging her away from the scores of Others spilling through the tunnels, crawling over slimy, mildewed walls like poisonous spiders. For hours and hours they hid below, in the ground. He buried his face in her hair, waiting for the Others to scatter above them. And when the creatures finally retreated, still they hid, clutching bodies. Neelie…his friend. Neelie…
Nicodemus pulled her to him with hungry hands…
Oh no. No! I was going to murder him. I flushed, pressing the book shut until my blood cooled. Minutes later I returned to the story, rushing through Nicodemus’s musings on Neelie’s scent, the feel of her skin, her mouth, all the while my mind hammered fiction, fiction, fiction! I breathed a sigh of relief as the narrator tactfully drew a veil between audience and the newly-aware couple. If there’d been any more references to heart-shaped freckles, I would have strangled him with his iPod cord. I skimmed over the passage again. Second time through, it really wasn’t that bad. Kind of hot, actually. He’d live to see another day.
I should have finished The Last Other before now. The final week before Danita and Angel’s vow swappin’ would be frantic, whipping together the last of the decorations and entertaining the extended familia, traveling from as far as Ciudad Victoria in Tamaulipas.
This past week hadn’t been much calmer, but for entirely different reasons…
After the ultimate prank night, I woke in Sofia’s basement to find Samuel watching me, his fingers tented over his mouth. I thought I was a goner. And he’d gotten me back, oh yes. Once fuzzy sleep lifted from my brain, the first thing I noticed was that the horrible smell of soured milk was too strong to be coming from Samuel alone.
“Ewwww.” I sniffed my arms, pushing myself up from the powdered milk-coated blanket. My nose crinkled in disgust. “Did you do this?”
Samuel raised an eyebrow. “I told you I wasn’t going to let you mess with me and not fight back. You really shouldn’t fall asleep in someone’s basement after pranking them. Poorly executed, Ms. Trilby.”
“How’d you get all of this…stuff…under me?”
“Are you going to explain the same thing to me?”
“Heck no.”
“Then I’m not telling, either.”
“Well, one good thing about this. No one will want to be within twenty feet of me, so at least I’ll be able to finish your book.”
He grinned. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Maybe if I keep it up, you’ll re-read all of my books.”
“Once was enough, thanks.”
Rubbing my eyes, I took him in for the first time. Well-worn pajamas and T-shirt, damp hair, freshly shaven…red marker still very prominent on his forehead. After Dani’s revelation last night, I saw him with new eyes. He didn’t remember what happened in New York…he’d been so messed up on drugs, he only knew what others had told him.
“You’re not very intimidating with ‘I’m a Naughty Nacken’ written on your face.”
His lips curled. He crossed the room and held out a hand mirror. “Likewise.”
I grabbed the mirror from him, examining my forehead:
I'M NAUGHTY, TOO
Ugh. Well, Kaye, what did you expect?
“Nice, Mr. Famous Author. Couldn’t come up with anything better?”
“Well, I considered writing ‘Neelie Nixie is completely and entirely fictional—kind of,’ but I thought it would tick you off.”
I smiled in spite of myself. Between the horrible smell and the marker, I’d probably start work late this morning. I fumbled for my phone…nine thirty. I groaned.
“I thought you could use the sleep.”
“How long have you been down here?”
He shrugged, glancing at the wall clock. “Not long.”
I remembered I didn’t even have my car. I fired off a quick message to the office, letting them know I’d work from Lyons today.
“Caroline and I are flying out of Denver tomorrow. We can take you to Boulder for your car, if you like.”
“That’s okay. Wouldn’t want to give your paparazzi photogs any ideas about a threesome.” Horror flooded his face, and I laughed. “Kidding, Samuel. We’re going to Boulder to pick up our dresses, so I can collect my car then.”
He gently tugged at my elbow. “Come on, let’s get you fed. Mamá cooked up a storm this morning—chorizo, huevos rancheros, pan de yema con chocolate—then ordered me to eat outside. Apparently she doesn’t like the way I smell.” His eyes flicked over a strip of pale stomach as I stretched, then darted away. Self-conscious, I tugged down my cami and grabbed my fleece from the floor. He busied himself cleaning up the powdered milk mess on the blankets.
“I bet she was incensed this morning.” I gave him a hand.
“Let’s just say we’ll all be paying to have her furniture cleaned. Danita barely made it out of the house alive.”
I winced. Together, we rolled up the offending blankets, dragged them into the laundry room, and stuffed them in the washing machine. “I’ll chip in to pay for that.” There was no way I was ending up on Sofia’s bad side. Over the years she had perfected the art form of inflicting sweet and subtle guilt on the deserved.
“If you want.”
I tromped up the stairs, scanning the house for any signs of Caroline. A radio quietly buzzed in the kitchen, pulsing with Sofia’s up-and-at-em classical playlist, which usually just lulled me to sleep again. Right now, it was something familiar. Samuel would know.
“Composer?”
“Vaughan Williams. Too early for him?”
“No, no, it’s fine. Relaxing.” Alonso a
nd Sofia both believed classical music stimulated the brain, which was why they’d insisted Samuel study Spanish guitar along with acoustic. My dad, however, believed rolled joints and The Grateful Dead did the trick.
The dishwasher rattled, but other than that, it was peaceful. Too peaceful. I looked at Samuel.
“Mom’s at the florists. Molly is still asleep. Caro went for a run to cool her head—she was a little agitated this morning, heads up. She hasn’t even seen my luggage yet.” He gestured for me to sit down at one of the bar stools while he dished up a plate of leftovers warming in the oven. The fragrance of spicy sausage and chocolate flooded the room, momentarily driving away the sour milk smell and making my stomach rumble. Then he placed a mug of luscious, black coffee under my nose. I sighed. God bless Sofia Cabral and her gourmet beans.
“Thanks. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a rift between you and Caroline.”
Samuel gave me a dubious look as he set the plate before me, along with the fruit bowl. I immediately went to work on my huevos rancheros.
“You didn’t, really. Caro will get over it. The pranks are good for her, although, she’s going to skin me alive for not correcting her about your…sexual orientation. She’ll be livid, actually.” He grimaced.
“Maybe Jaime and I can stage a break-up scene, then we’ll both be off the hook. Not that it’s any of Caro’s business who I tango with.”
He offered me a little smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “When it comes to business, she takes herself very seriously. Unfortunately, I am Caroline’s business. She works very hard, has since she first read my writing. Every social event, every dinner date, she makes connections, promotes…well, me. If it weren’t for her, I would have lost my focus a long time ago. And if it were any other author, I don’t know if she’d work so hard. She genuinely cares about me, and I’d be a fool not to appreciate that.” Grave lines settled around his eyes and mouth, as if he wore that expression enough to make those lines permanent. I didn’t like that expression. My fingers itched to reach up, smooth the worry lines away. I held them back.
“I know Caroline has helped you to become wildly successful. But does she care about your happiness, too?” I asked softly. “That’s pretty key when you’re dating somebody.” My cheeks burned, and my plate of food became extremely interesting as I stabbed at a sausage.
Samuel wasn’t going to let me play ostrich. He leaned across the counter, his intense eyes seeking mine, drawing them up from my plate. He held them captive, not letting me go until he spoke.
“I did a lot of thinking on the drive back from Boulder last night, Kaye.” Blood pounded through my veins. Uh oh, never good. I braced myself. “You told me some things that startled me, quite frankly. The biggest is that you refuse to be alone because of me. That you need concrete answers.”
“Why does this surprise you?”
“Because I’ve never thought of you as being alone. You’re very successful, strong…beautiful.” His soft lips quirked. “You have TrilbyJones. Close friends and family. You’ve taken up daring hobbies, like whitewater rafting, skydiving. I just assumed you had moved on, that you were happy.” I started to shake my head, and he rushed on. “I was a weak man who let everyone coddle him when I needed to be stronger for you, and you should have been glad to be rid of me. I believed I’d given you more than enough reason to put me behind you…especially after New York.” Confusion and doubt crept into his features, something I wasn’t used to seeing in Samuel Cabral’s normally self-assured face.
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that I have an answer for you—a concrete one.”
“I’m listening.”
“I never was a true friend to you.”
I scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No, Kaye, listen—this is important. Real friends don’t hide vital things from each other. Real friends are truthful, even if it means making themselves susceptible to hurt, or causing the other person pain. And I wasn’t truthful. I’ve hidden so much from you…since the day I first met you, I think. Do you remember?”
My mind skipped back to that afternoon. I could barely recall it, because I’d only been four. The Cabrals had hosted a Halloween party for Samuel to meet the neighborhood kids and parents. He’d spent the entire time in the corner, fiddling with his white sheet and plastic chains, watching other children as they played a bean bag toss game. I’d gone as a ghost, too. (Much to my mother’s chagrin—she’d wanted me to be a butterfly.) I told him my mother was taking me trick-or-treating. He said his mother was taking him, too. “She’s not here yet. She’s in Boston, but she’ll be here tonight.” I scowled, asking if she was going to live with the Cabrals, too—I already had to share them with this new boy. But all of this happened before I discovered his mother was dead…
“Usually it worked and I made you happy. But this time, Kaye…I don’t know. After last night, everything’s mixed up in my head. I just…I need to fix it. I don’t want to be weak or coddled anymore.”
Who was this Samuel? Chasing his quick-moving mind had always been like chasing a river current. But drumming the counter, biting his lip…this nervousness was new. He was usually so decisive, so self-controlled in the slightest pinky-lift.
He said he’d hidden a lot. What? I didn’t think it was just the drugs. I grabbed at what I could.
“Samuel, look. If you miss our friends and family, you don’t need to stay away on my account. Don’t feel things between us need to be fluffy kittens for you to come home. I think we can get along well enough.”
“Kaye.” My name was an exasperated sigh. He warily reached for my hand, his expressive eyes asking permission. I didn’t tell him no. His fingers linked with mine. “What if I want to be your friend? What if I want to help you find your answers? I know it will take a lot of work and honesty, but I think we could do it.”
“But what about your book tour? Let’s be realistic, Sam. You’re leaving in two weeks.”
“I don’t give a flying…cliff-huck about my book tour, Kaye. I want to make things right between us.”
My breath grew quick, shallow. “I don’t know if it’s still possible. I don’t know if I can…” I wasn’t sure how to finish that.
“If you can what?”
“If I can trust you,” I sputtered. “I want answers to tie up loose ends, not create new ones.”
His face fell like a toppled sandcastle. “I thought with the pranks, maybe…” He squeezed my hand and released it. “Fair enough. Just think about it first, please, before you decide. I’ll do what I can to help you find your answers, regardless.” He smiled, but his brow furrowed. I brushed an index finger over it, smoothing away the creases.
Had I really just called our friendship a loose end? How jaded. I’d sent him mixed messages and I knew it, but what other message could I send when I was so mixed up myself? It struck me—the hypocrisy of it all. Here I was, telling Samuel I couldn’t trust him. Yet I had a file hidden in my bedroom with information that could utterly ruin him if I wanted it to. Just hours ago we broke into his laptop. And if he considered “hiding” to be untruthfulness, then, according to Dani, I was as guilty as he. But what he’d done—leaving our marriage, the drugs, the woman—was much, much worse than my alleged hiding. Wasn’t it?
He had been right about one thing. I had some thinking to do before I could decide whether or not to be his friend. In the meantime, a peace offering wouldn’t hurt.
“Olive oil.” My thumb rubbed the red streaks on his forehead. “Molly said it takes out permanent marker.”
He’d released a shaky breath. “I’ll try that…”
Muffled snoring from Hector broke into my reflections. I gave his shin a nudge and he started, his head thumping Betty’s window.
“Sorry.”
“S’okay,” he mumbled, and went back to sleep.
Samuel’s head lolled against burnt orange shag carpeting as we climbed a hill, Betty’s weight
and girth chugging against the incline. I studied the elegant, masculine lines of his face, noting an increased resemblance to Alonso as he aged. Samuel’s father and Alonso had looked very similar, though I’d only seen a single picture of the man in Alonso’s home office, taken near Boston Harbor when they were college students. Samuel’s strong jaw and high hairline must belong to the English Caulfield side, as well as his blue eyes. I’d never seen a photograph of his biological mother, though Sofia had once told me she was insanely beautiful and came from a prominent Boston family. I wondered what other characteristics Samuel had inherited from her. My eyes traced the faded pink letters still scrawled across his forehead…
When I’d tuned in to The After Hours Show last Friday night, “I’M A NAUGHTY NACKEN” was still boldly written across his forehead.
I’d been at the farmhouse that evening, helping my mother label honey jars. We’d settled into the familiar routine, too caught up to even notice I reeked of sour milk. When ten thirty hit, we turned on the ancient television on the counter, adjusting the antenna to get a signal. We watched the program in comfortable silence, chuckling every now and then.
“So I’ve got to ask, this forehead art—‘I’m a naughty nacken.’ Is it a hint for a future book?”
The audience had laughed. So had Samuel, charming as ever. I’d noticed the host discreetly covered his nose with his hand.
“I think the Siren series has run its course. No, a friend wrote it as a joke. She believes I have an obsession with metaphorical water creatures. I suppose I’ve written about them for the past decade, so she may be onto something.”
“I don’t know, just a hunch she has?” (More audience laughter). “Your new book is The Last Other, being snatched up in bookstores across the country…”
They had talked about the typical topics: the book, the movie, and now the hand-holding picture and Mickey-gate. Samuel, of course, had a practiced, polished answer for everything—no, Neelie Nixie is not real. Yes, Indigo Kingsley is a wonderful woman and that’s all he’d say about his personal life. No, a PETA advertisement wasn’t on the horizon.
Hydraulic Level Five Page 18
