I walked over to the TV and hit the off switch. “Pablo, I’m trying to help someone whose husband died under suspicious circumstances. Can’t you be a little compassionate?”
“Maybe you should make an appointment and come in to the office with your questions. This is my free time.” Pablo sat back down on the couch and pointed the remote at the TV again.
“If you want to watch TV so much, maybe you should just go home and watch,” I yelled, completely exasperated as I thought about my long list of unanswered questions.
“Fine. I will.” Pablo got up and walked out the front door without so much as a goodbye.
I wandered into the bedroom and sat among the tangled sheets, recalling the earlier sweetness of the evening. How did things escalate so quickly between us? Could we ever get past these flareups? I didn’t like the answers that came to mind, so I switched gears to think about Sharon’s problems, where I didn’t have to struggle with how much of it was my fault.
I ran through the various possibilities. Maybe Adam did fall accidentally. But if that was true, why was Tyler pushing me to get involved? Maybe Erik was right that Adam jumped. But again, how to explain Tyler’s comments? Also, Adam didn’t sound like the suicide type. And why wouldn’t he leave a note?
So it looked like someone pushed Adam off the edge. Who wanted to get rid of him? There was a growing list of possible suspects, starting with Joel, maybe Dr. Ahmed—if Adam knew more than he had told Sharon about him. Maybe Natalie—she had tried to kill him once before. And there was the unknown caller who left the threatening phone message. And Erik had a big stake in the suicide theory. Why was he trying so hard to convince me?
“Yo, Cleo.” I heard Tyler before I saw him in the dim bedroom light.
“Tyler! You scared me to death! And I’m mad at you! You’ve gotten me into a mess. Can you at least answer a few questions? Like what really happened to Adam?”
He was perched cross-legged on the stool next to my dressing table, looking right at me. “You’re all knotted up, Cleo. Just surf.”
“I don’t surf. And in case you didn’t notice, we don’t exactly have an ocean in Colorado.”
“Bummer. When you’re out there, things make sense.”
“Well, I’m not out there, and nothing makes sense right now. So could you please be more specific about what’s going on?” I was exasperated.
“You have to ride the waves, not fight them. Let the waves support you,” Tyler said as he vanished into thin air.
I figured he was somehow speaking metaphorically, although Tyler didn’t seem that sophisticated. Maybe stuff like metaphors comes easier after you’re dead, I thought. Then I realized I was actually sitting alone in my bedroom on a Saturday night wondering whether dead people use metaphors. It was clearly time to go to bed and hope for a better day tomorrow.
Chapter 16
Sunday morning, I got up early to hike the Mount Sanitas trail before the day got hot. In this dry mountain climate, nights can be wonderfully cool even when days are 90 degrees. I needed the exercise, and I wanted to think about my relationship with Pablo. After all, I am a therapist, and I do know a fair bit about human behavior. I don’t much like turning that magnifying glass on myself, but sometimes my own behavior strikes me as so inappropriate that I have no choice. This was one of those times.
First I asked myself, “What do I love about Pablo?” That was easy. I love that he’s a very sweet guy who cares about family so much that he came home to live near his parents after his brother got into trouble, and that he’s such a great uncle to his nieces and nephews. I love that he wants so much to make the world a better place that he went into police work to try to stop other kids from getting into trouble like his brother did. I love that he’s an artist, and a good one, and that he still works on his art even though he’s so busy. I love his enthusiasm for his art, especially when he gets a new idea. I love that he takes me seriously as an artist.
When he’s not doing his bossy ‘I’m a police officer, you’re an idiot’ thing, he can be sweet, sexy, and sensitive. And he’s very attractive. Even though I don’t always act like it, I do really care about him.
But we bicker a lot—and I don’t want to end up like my parents. So I asked myself, “Why do I push Pablo so much? Why do I goad him into so many arguments? What do I want from him?” These were the harder questions. I knew part of it was I wanted him not to be like my father who criticizes me like I’m the weakest link on a third-rate ball team. I wanted Pablo to accept what I say at face value, without cross-questioning. But last night wasn’t about acceptance, and I was actually the one asking the questions. My approach to getting information from him obviously sucked. I decided I should meditate more so I’d be more centered and less reactive, and work on remembering to back off and take a deep breath when I felt an angry retort bubbling up. Of course Pablo could be more accommodating too, but I was trying to focus on what I could do.
The trailhead on Mapleton is only a few blocks from my house, so while I thought about Pablo, I’d begun climbing the steep, rocky trail to the summit—along with a couple dozen other hikers, runners, and their dogs. You do trade solitude for a convenient location with this hike, but I liked sharing the path. Being part of a group of energetic hikers perked me up. Two young women walking behind me were discussing home remedies. One said, “I make a mix of rose hips and other stuff and mix it with a little brandy. It makes me feel much better.” I wondered how much brandy, and at what time of day she usually imbibed, but I had gotten too far ahead of them to hear any more details.
I was pleased to see many responsible pet “guardians.” (This word has legally replaced the word pet “owner” in Boulder.) They dutifully scooped up their wards’ poop with green plastic bags and brightly colored newspaper covers. Dog poop is a serious issue on the trails here, especially this trail. A local plant ecologist has made it his personal crusade to make sure the police enforce the law requiring poop pickup, even going to the extreme of videotaping offenders, handing the tapes to police and demanding they press charges. Dog guardians nicknamed him the “pooper snooper,” and brought harassment charges against him. But the snooper was acquitted after he showed the jury the extent of the problem by displaying a “crap map” he created. He had walked the trail with his GPS device, counted piles of droppings, plugged the GPS into his computer, and generated a map that marked each pile with a green X. Some think he’s slightly over the top, but I can sort of understand his obsession and I certainly appreciate poop-free trails.
The steep ascent and the view of the Continental Divide from the top relaxed me. On my way back down the trail, optimism kicked in. I decided I’d call Pablo and apologize for insisting he talk about police work after he’d clearly said he didn’t want to. I’d do what I should have done last night and ask him to name a time when he’d be willing to answer my questions. I resolved to try to find ways to build on the good parts of our relationship, and not to bristle so quickly when he pushed my buttons. I was so focused on playing our imaginary conversation in my mind, that I was almost at my house before I noticed someone lounging on my porch reading a newspaper. It turned out to be Erik, reading my Sunday paper.
“Hey,” I called out. “This is a surprise,” thinking he had an odd way of showing up without notice, which was a little creepy. Why were so many odd things happening lately? Had I somehow become a magnet for weirdness?
Erik looked up from the paper with a big grin. “I woke up yearning to sit out in the sun with coffee, a muffin, and a beautiful woman. So of course I thought of you. Let’s walk down to Spruce Confections.”
It sounded like he wanted to have me for breakfast. I was just about to tell him to bug off, when he looked wistfully at me and said, “Sunday mornings are hard. I get so lonely without Jenny. Please indulge me.”
So I agreed to go, if he was willing to wait while I took a shower. He said he’d keep on reading the paper while I showered, which I assumed meant he’d be outside
on the porch. But when I came out of the bedroom, he was in my living room looking around. “Why haven’t you planted the seeds?” he asked, pointing at the starter kit he had left for me the previous week.
“Um…I’ve been busy. And to be perfectly honest, I really don’t have time for another project right now.”
“Hey—you’re hurting my feelings! This isn’t just another project. It’s a gift from me to you, and it will have a big payoff.”
A gift? When he brought the kit, I thought he’d said he would charge me $250. “You’re giving it to me? Why?” I asked.
“Because I want you to have it. Plus, you’re going to love growing these plants. Everyone does,” he said with a winning smile. His eyes met mine in a guileless gaze. “Let’s go grab some breakfast, and I’ll help you plant the seeds when we get back.”
He looked so cute and cuddly, I felt a kind of melty warmth moving through me, loosening my defenses. Certainly Erik had his problems, but I thought maybe I could help him. Still, I was ready to leave before the situation got any more intimate. “Okay, let’s get that coffee, and we’ll take care of the seeds later,” I said shooing him out the front door.
We dawdled along the Pearl Street sidewalk toward Spruce Confections, enjoying the sun, its intensity cut by shade trees and a morning breeze. It was a typical Boulder summer Sunday morning. Runners wearing earphones attached to iPods passed us without looking up. Bicyclers, wearing those tight, stretchy biker shorts, with the multi-colored microfiber jerseys and the flat lattice-type helmets that look like they’re ready for outer space, sped by on their way up the canyon. A thirtyish guy wearing faded baggy shorts and flip-flops walked by talking intently on a cell phone about a three-million-dollar deal.
I was feeling relaxed and comfortable until Erik blurted out, “So, I hear Sharon tried to contact Adam, but got her mother. And, she was so excited about talking to her mother that she couldn’t keep herself from telling her dad. I guess Waycroft was furious.”
“She told her father that? Oh my God! No! What was she thinking?” It was like I’d been kicked in the gut.
“Not thinking, I guess. I’m sure glad I missed him. I went over last night to pick up Sharon and Nathan for pizza and a movie, and he had just left. Sharon was pretty upset. She said her dad had been yelling at her big time in front of Nathan. You know, Cleo, I warned you not to get Sharon into this contact voodoo, but you went ahead anyway, and now you’ve created major problems for her with her dad.”
We were standing outside the bakery by then. In an unusual moment of clarity, I decided to collect my thoughts before I answered. I didn’t want to be defending myself or Sharon to Erik, when this whole thing was actually none of his business. So I went on in to stand in the order line without answering him.
Spruce Confections is part of a new mixed-use area of shops and condos on West Pearl. It’s a real bakery with a large area behind the counter filled with huge stainless mixing machines, bread slicers and ovens. The front space has a retro diner-like feel, with formica tables, a glass case filled with muffins, scones and coffee cakes, and a counter to order coffee drinks, espresso, tea, chai, and such. A not-so-retro sign above assures customers each espresso drink is made individually from locally roasted, certified organic coffee beans. But the big attraction, and what makes it a Sunday morning favorite, is the spacious flagstone patio outside in front and to the east.
We stood quietly in line, ordered, and took our lattes and coffee cake out to one of the contemporary gray metal tables littered with sections of the Sunday paper. But we didn’t read. Erik wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily. He gave me an uneasy look and started in again. “Here’s the thing, Cleo. Now that Nathan knows about this contact thing, he wants to reach Adam, too. I think that’s an even worse idea than Sharon doing it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve never worked with any children in this project, and I’m not planning to start,” I assured him. “Personally, I wouldn’t have told Nathan about it, but I guess once Sharon told her dad, she couldn’t control that.” I briefly flashed on my mother reminding me not to talk with my mouth full, as I washed down a slightly-chewed chunk of blueberry coffee cake.
“Yeah, Waycroft’s not much for secrets. Basically a loose cannon when it comes to information. I guess he also told Nathan that his real father is in town and wants to meet him.” Looking at his plate, Erik crumbled his coffee cake and said, “Nathan kept bugging Sharon about it last night, until she admitted that Joel is in town, but she didn’t think it would be good for Nathan to meet him.”
“How did Nathan take that?”
“Not well. But I supported Sharon. After all the guy left before Nathan was born and has never tried to see him all these years.”
“True. But most kids want to at least meet their birth parents.”
“Well, Nathan may get to meet Joel. He was so insistent that Sharon said she’d think about it some more.”
Glancing around, I noticed a woman over at the funky West End Gardener shop setting out their daily display of flowering plants, pots, lawn chairs and decorations. Among them were some of Pablo’s metal yard ornament sculptures—rusty birds and cats crafted from yard tools. I felt proud seeing his work displayed so prominently in Boulder’s trendy west end. That strengthened my resolve to call him to try to make up from last night. We were done eating by then, so I gathered my dishes and told Erik I needed to get back. He looked a little disappointed, but followed along without objection.
We didn’t say much walking back. I was thinking about how to get him to leave so I could call Pablo. But as soon as we got back to my house, Erik said, “Okay Cleo, I’m going to set up this growing system and plant the seeds for you. You’re going to love this. I promise. I can see you’re a gardener by looking at your well-tended rose bushes and flower beds out front.”
I’m a sucker for compliments about my garden, so I wavered. “Can you do it really quickly? I know you’re trying to help, but I have a lot to do today, and I need to get started on it.”
“That’s fine. Go ahead with whatever you need to do. I’ll just put this together. Do you have a container I can use for some water?”
I decided it would be quicker to help him and get him out of there than to leave him to his own devices, so I moved the whole operation out to the kitchen, where we could work next to the sink. Unfortunately, just as we were finishing the planting, Pablo stopped by. He walked right in, not realizing anyone was there with me because Erik had parked over in the Settler’s Park lot. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, looking like he’d like to interrupt Erik right out the door.
“Oh, hi, Pablo. This is Erik. He’s helping me plant some seeds he gave me. Erik, this is my friend Pablo.” Looking back on it, I realize I should have said boyfriend, but instead I heard myself saying friend. Not a good start.
“Why are you planting seeds inside? It’s summer,” Pablo said.
“These seeds are an investment for Cleo. I gave her the plants to grow, so she can sell the roots later and make $5,000,” Erik said in a confident infomercial tone.
“Are you so hard up you need to get involved in work-from-home schemes, Cleo?” Pablo challenged.
Somehow his challenge made the project more interesting. I knew I was being oppositional, but my irritation at his bossy tone overcame my new resolutions not to be so reactive. I slipped back into my old habits, took his bait and pushed back. “Pablo, it’s no big deal. Just something to try. Don’t get all bent out of shape.”
“Whatever, Cleo.” His tone was icy cold. Then he turned to Erik. “So who’s going to buy these plants at that inflated price?”
“My company buys them back. It’s a win-win proposition for everyone,” Erik said, handing Pablo a Natural Herbal Remedies Company business card, oblivious to Pablo’s frosty tone. “Maybe you’d be interested. It’s a small investment for a big payoff.”
I knew Erik had gone too far when he tried to recruit Pablo. And sure enough, Pab
lo shut him down without any further discussion.
“No thanks. I’m not interested in any get-rich-quick schemes. I already have two jobs—and I need to get back to one of them right now.” Pablo was on his way out the door as he spoke.
“Pablo, you’re over-reacting here. Why don’t you sit down for a few minutes until we finish planting the seeds, and then we can talk?” I said, thinking I could have handled this better. Reacting first and thinking later was becoming a pattern in our relationship.
“No, I have to go,” Pablo didn’t turn back. I felt a jolt of disappointment, but trying to get him to stay seemed hopeless.
“Hey, give me a call if you change your mind about the seeds,” Erik yelled after him.
My resolve to improve my relationship with Pablo had disappeared again in the heat of the moment, and I was ready to get rid of Erik as well. So as soon as we finished with the seeds, I reminded him I had work to do, and he needed to leave.
After he left, I noticed a message on my cell phone, which I had forgotten to turn on earlier. It was Elisa. “Hey, Cleo. Honey, you have to come to dinner tonight so we can talk. It’s important. How about 6:30? I’ll be out all day, so leave a message.”
More of a summons than an invitation, but dinner at Elisa’s is always tasty, her deck is pleasant on a summer evening, and we enjoy each other’s company. I decided to accept.
Chapter 17
When I got to Elisa’s, she was alone on the deck, getting out the grill. ”Jack’s out of town, so it’ll be just us girls—you, me and Maria.”
“Has Maria recovered from her traumatic babysitting gig at Sharon’s last weekend?” I asked, wondering how much Elisa’s daughter had told her about what happened.
“Not to worry, she’s fine. She’s inside making the salad. Hey, grab some wine, we need to talk. And I’m going to grill some fish.” Knowing Elisa, she had an agenda, and it wasn’t about fish. Sure enough, about two seconds after I sat down on the deck with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, she started questioning me about Sharon’s progress. “Sharon won’t tell me much, but I know she reached her mother. Isn’t that strange when her mother’s been dead for more than 30 years?” Elisa wheeled the grill out away from the wall, and started the fire.
Too Near the Edge Page 10
