So it wasn’t only me—Samuel’s other love interests had also thought he was monopolized by Caroline. I knew she’d ruthlessly protected Samuel for years. Which would be wonderful, except she didn’t see me as a friend; she saw me as a threat.
It dawned on me that, save for vague references, neither of us had broached the taboo subject of past partners. Though curiosity and, admittedly, jealously, simmered in my gut, I couldn’t ask about them just now, not after what he’d told me.
I heard soft strumming on the line and I smiled. Samuel had his guitar, too. He continued. “It wasn’t until after Thanksgiving two years ago, when I told Caro you’d rejected my attempts at reconciliation, that she even broached the idea of being more than friends. I said no. I knew if we ever went down that path, it would ruin our friendship. But she pushed and pushed. And before you ask, I never slept with her,” he quickly added. “We never even rounded second base, for that matter.”
“I wasn’t going to ask,” I replied, glad for that little bit of information. I grabbed one of the warm cookies and headed back to my heating pad.
“I wanted more than a dark apartment waiting for me at night. I wanted someone to spoil, and hold, and give myself to. I knew it was wrong to say yes to Caro when I still had strong feelings for you. But loneliness is a powerful motivator, Kaye. I’m thankful you’ve never had to experience it.”
But I had felt loneliness, too. Going to sleep alone, longing for the warmth of another body next to mine. Freezing leftovers because no one was there to share my meals. Complete loneliness, though…no, I’d never felt that. In the aftermath of our divorce, Samuel never once tried to turn our friends against me, the way so many exes do. Companionship was only a half hour’s drive away.
I wanted to fall asleep with him again. I wanted to hold him and rub his back, assure him he’d never be lonely. I wanted to tell him to quit this insane self-imposed isolation and come home to Colorado, but I knew pity would only embarrass him. So I strummed a few chords, the opening to an Elvis song—“Lonesome Tonight.” He laughed. He always laughed at my disparate love for Elvis Presley.
“You remember this one?” I heard the harmonies of his guitar almost immediately.
“Just see if you can keep up, Trilby.”
“Hey now, I was the first to learn Elvis and don’t you forget it.”
After an hour of playing, I heard Samuel yawn and noticed it was after midnight in New York. We reluctantly called it a night.
“So you’ll be home mid-July,” I confirmed. “Are you renting a car in Denver or should I pick you up?”
“No, I’ll rent a car. Are you sure you don’t mind my tagging along on your caving trip?”
My heart twisted. “I wouldn’t have invited you, otherwise. Samuel, I want you along, believe me. You have no idea.”
I wanted him here, now.
It was roughly two weeks after Samuel departed Lyons that I received a package from him.
I was ready to flee the office following a long, blah Monday. Samuel had an all-day event—a press junket for the new Water Sirens trailer (I didn’t even know they had press junkets for movie trailers)—so we postponed his Q-and-A. He’d already given me fair warning that we’d be discussing Hector Valdez. I cringed. Throughout our history, my friendship with Hector had been a relentless argument between us.
My mail alert bleeped and a message from Samuel with the subject header “My New Tattoo” caught my eye. Oh no. Wincing, I flew through the email:
I thought I’d get some ink, too. A tribute to our friendship vows, if you will. Tell me what you think.
I opened the attachment, praying that Samuel didn’t do anything ridiculously cheesy and permanent. Then the image popped open, and I laughed aloud. It was a picture of him, his T-shirt bunched up around his neck to expose his tan, trim back. Between his shoulder blades was an intricate tattoo, red and puffy—four grinning geriatrics positioned on a mountainside like Rushmore. Beneath the monument in bold letters was the phrase: Thank you for being a friend.
Ha. I fired off a response:
I see someone’s been playing with photo-editing software. Don’t you have a publicity tour that’s keeping you insanely busy? P.S.—Want to see the Three’s Company tat on my tush? It’s next to the infamous heart freckle.
Smug, I turned back to my work, only to be interrupted two minutes later by Samuel’s reply:
If you send me a picture, would that be considered an improper use of company email?
I typed:
Not when you’re the boss. But I’m afraid sending you a picture of my pert tush would fall under the “friends with benefits” category.
There was a knock on my office door and I minimized my email, embarrassed to be caught e-flirting. My underling smiled and dropped the mail on my desk, including a FedEx priority package. Almost immediately, a new email arrived:
Kaye, you’ve ruined me and I need to return to this junket. Behave. Yours, Samuel
I blathered over the “Yours” sign-off, then tore into the priority package. Anticipation hopped in my gut when out slid a rough-bound, incomplete manuscript. Dozens of colorful Post-it flags stuck out of the sides:
Hydraulic Level Five [working title]
A Novel
© Samuel Caulfield Cabral & Aspen Kaye Trilby
I flipped through the pages, seeing Samuel’s scribbles everywhere—questions, comments, highlighted passages. Curious, I tucked into the first chapter. Warm nostalgia flowed over me as “Aspen” tackled “Caulfield” in the creek. I’d forgotten how runty he’d been as a child, before he shot up like a beanstalk.
A picture fell out of the envelope, a recent shot of Samuel leaning against a moss-covered stone wall. His hands were tucked in his pants pockets and he squinted against the sun. A river and rolling bluffs stretched behind him. Wind whipped his hair around his face, and my fingers ached to tug at that fabulous mop of messy hair. I looked at the label on the back: Fort Tryon Park. June 23.
I missed him.
Settling into my chair, I lost myself in Caulfield and Aspen and a long night of seeing our story, for the first time, through Samuel’s eyes.
Chapter 2
Bounce Crash
A diver who lands
without the aid of a parachute
“bounces.” Generally not advised.
IT WOULD HAVE BEEN PAINLESS to dip my toes in that frigid river and test the cold, the power of the current curling around my ankles. Or even to stay in that metaphorical boat, experiencing the wild ride that was Samuel’s manuscript, from the false security of a piece of plastic between me and the water. But if we were going to find each other again, I had to dive in and risk getting hurt. I had no trouble taking risks in every other facet of my life. So why was it so difficult with Samuel?
In Samuel’s description of Caulfiend and Aspen, I could see how he’d thought I’d guarded my heart from him long before he ever gave me real cause. He’d told me a month ago at Button Rock Reservoir that getting into my head was like breaking into Fort Knox. I’d only reaffirmed that when I barricaded his questions regarding Hector until he let out a frustrated growl and informed me that the only way this reconciliation would ever work was if we were honest with each other.
“What do you want me to say, Samuel? That I’m in love with Hector? Because I’m not. He is, and always has been, my friend.”
“At least acknowledge that whenever you are upset with me, you use him to make yourself feel better.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I fired back. “I would never, ever use a friend like that.”
“When we were dating and we got into a fight, who was the first person you always went to?”
“Hector,” I begrudgingly replied.
“And when I was away at college, who took you out on dates?”
“They weren’t dates. Just two friends having fun!”
“Kaye,” he said in a patronizing tone that made me want to smack him, “Hector Valdez has harbored a crush
on you for years, and I think you know it. You may not have considered your time together as ‘dating,’ but when people back home started warning me that my girlfriend was seeing someone else, it was a problem.”
“I don’t care what the Lyons gossips say and neither should you.”
“But can you see how it would’ve stung? I’m not above feeling jealous.”
Yes, I could see that. I tried to calm my voice. “For the last time, I chose you. And I’m still choosing you. In the seven years we were apart, I never once had a romantic relationship with him. Don’t you think if I had any desire to snack on Hector, it would have happened already?”
“I know.”
“And do you realize Hector kept me from tanking when you left me? Kind of like Caroline did for you.”
He paused, and I pictured him running a hand through his hair, or squinting, or another one of his exasperated quirks. “I know. I just…I want to be the one you come to first. I don’t want Hector involved in our relationship. That’s all I ask. Can you do that for me?”
It clicked. He wasn’t asking me to give up my friendships. He just wanted reassurance that I’d turn to him before I turned to Hector—an establishment of boundaries. It was still difficult to think of the godlike Samuel Caulfield Cabral suffering from such fallible human qualities as jealousy. Perhaps, by pushing the line with Hector, I was pinching Samuel to ensure he was flesh and blood.
“I can do that, Samuel.”
He sighed. “Good. Thank you.”
At Friday lunch, when Hector asked me to a movie, my argument with Samuel was fresh in my mind. Sooner or later, we’d have to clear the air about our romantic entanglements during our seven-year separation before someone was hurt. The specters of those nameless, faceless women ate at my peace, but I wondered if it wouldn’t be better to let them remain nameless.
Everyone else in our small circle of friends was busy—Hector’s brother Santiago Valdez was taking a new bluegrass chick to dinner. Cassady was returning from a hiking expedition, so Molly had him penciled in. And the new Mr. and Mrs. Angel Valdez were still “penciled in” long after their return from Maui. So I called someone I’d never considered socializing with other than to plot the downfall of Caroline Ortega. To my shock, Jaime said yes (on the condition she didn’t have to sit next to the “caveman”). I was happy she’d joined us, but I had ulterior motives—to ask her about something that Samuel’s memoir had brought to light.
I sat in the middle of a dark theater, Hector on one side, loaded with popcorn, soda, and chocolate, and Jaime on the other side, arms crossed over her chest. Previews rolled—some romantic comedy that caused Jaime to snort derisively every five seconds.
“Jaime,” I whispered above the preview, “when you went through all of our financial information during the divorce, did you ever run across a three-million dollar trust fund?”
She turned, her mouth hanging open. Snapping it shut, she threw her arms up and abruptly tore into me. “Did you even read the paperwork I gave you? Did you even listen to me as I walked you through it? I distinctly told you that Samuel was the beneficiary of a trust fund established by his parents, naming Alonso Cabral as the controlling third party until Samuel turned eighteen. Whatever estate money he inherited went into that fund. It was considered separate property and therefore, untouchable in the settlement. Not that you would’ve let me go after it, anyway. I can’t believe you operate your own business…”
I’d known Samuel had a trust fund, but had believed it to be an insignificant amount. Rather, he’d been a millionaire at the age of eighteen. I tuned out Jaime’s huffing rambles and arm jabs as something in my memory was jogged. Samuel had told me weeks ago that using his mother’s money for his own self-destruction seemed “fitting.” This trust fund must have been the account Samuel once used for drug money.
Another preview rolled, yanking us to attention. A sweeping view of the Rocky Mountains filled the screen as haunting music wailed from the speakers. A shot of a sinister old Main Street rippled into view and blurred into a city sign…Welcome to Bear Creek, Colorado. The theater audience erupted into shouts and cheers as they realized which movie trailer rolled.
Hector laughed and poked me in the ribs. Jaime laughed too, but more at my discomfort. I sank into my chair, praying they would lay off the Neelie Nixie jokes. Then the woman herself appeared as a camera panned around and captured her rappelling down a mountainside, her blond braid swinging.
“In the West, legend tells of an ordinary girl…”
I groaned while Hector shook my shoulders, forcing my eyes to the screen. I peeked through my fingers in time to see Neelie take a spill as she leaped across a creek.
“…who went to extraordinary lengths for the ones she loved.”
The picture slowed as a dreamy Nicodemus reached down and grabbed Neelie’s hand, pulling her from the creek. Ha! If only Samuel’s readers knew that “Nicodemus” had biked off in a hissy-fit after getting tackled by a girl.
The audience ooohed and aaahed as a quick montage flashed across the screen, detailing the rise of the nixie clan and their archenemy, the Others. The music and drums spiraled out of control and then the screen went black and silent as the words Water Sirens flared bright and bold, followed by November 26.
I frowned. Wasn’t the release date initially scheduled for early November? This meant that Water Sirens would hit theaters Thanksgiving Day, which foretold good, good things for Samuel’s franchise. I tried to be happy for him, but it also meant that Samuel would be gone for Thanksgiving, and it stung.
Later that night, I dug through my divorce papers, looking for the information Jaime insisted was already in my possession. I had to admit, I’d never read through the financial stuff because I’d assumed there was nothing to discuss. Actually, I barely glanced at anything, too wrapped up in my pain to care about the details…guarding my heart. Sure enough, there was the spreadsheet Jaime had referred to—a breakdown of Samuel’s inheritance after his parents’ estate had been settled. Three million dollars.
What else had escaped my foggy brain during divorce proceedings?
“After all that rain, we need to embrace those blue skies, mamacita,” a brown, bare-chested Hector cajoled. “Put that thing away and jump out of a plane with me again.” The “thing” Hector referred to was the hard copy of Samuel’s manuscript, which I’d carried like a security blanket since receiving it in the mail.
I held up a finger as I finished my notation, knowing I wouldn’t be able to work much longer before we reached the dropzone. From the plane window, Boulder sprawled west and below. Saturday forecasts originally predicted an afternoon of strong winds and dust, but a late morning shower tamed the skies. The minute the weather shifted for the better, Hector called and told me to grab my gear so he could test the Birdman jumpsuit he’d acquired on a few diving runs. He also talked his older brother, Air Force Lieutenant Angel Valdez, into taking us up.
Hector yanked his arms through the sleeves of his new Birdman suit. He flapped his wings, an odd cross between Elvis and a bat.
“Kaye, are you in or not?”
“I dunno. If it starts to rain, it’ll leave welts.”
Honestly, I was ready to call it quits. Clouds had regathered, and only idiots and masochists skydived in rain. When your terminal velocity is about one hundred fifty miles faster than the speed of rainfall, those little suckers hurt like hell. But Hector was relentless, an unapologetic adrenaline junkie who ceaselessly strove to one-up his previous adventures. His technique was flawless and fluid in skiing, skydiving, and everything in between, and I often felt as though I was watching a bird slice through air instead of a man.
“Last call, Kaye.”
“Let me think a minute.” I waved him off and settled against the rumbling belly of Angel’s plane, attacking the manuscript with a red pen.
-You've got this scene with cherry ChapStick girl all wrong, Cabral. I wasn't angry because Jennifer was stealing my friend from
me. I was ticked off because I had a gigantic little girl, starry-eyed crush on you, and I didn't want you dating ANYONE.
-Barnacle-brained wombat...I'd forgotten about that one! It was one of my favorites, along with bitsy blubber butt. Maybe you can work that one in, too?
-Okay, the Weeping Lady. Come on, Sam, I wasn't made of glass...but yeah, I admit I was happy to pretend she was real, even if we both knew the truth. Our avoidant coping mechanisms (there's some psychobabble) didn't do either of us any good...
If it was possible to fall in love with a book, I’d send flowers and sparkly things to Samuel’s beautiful body of writing. Then again, I’d never feared a book quite so much—reading about the decay festering beneath the surface of my first and only love, the overwhelming sadness, the lost childhood. I hadn’t realized how deep that cavity ran. But again, Samuel truly was a master of concealment.
Samuel’s writing was innocent and raw, and it seared my heart. His Water Sirens series displayed his talent, yet he never quite let his readers veer too close to his personal pain, instead wrapping his prose in a protective gauze of fine words. But in this memoir, he laid himself bare. Reading the stories of our childhood was like watching him take a scalpel to his chest and peel it back, declaring, “Here is my weakness…it is yours to explore.”
Above the roar of the engines, a stereo blared a mix of pure, happy summer music. Angel bobbed his head and flipped switches on his navigational panel. One raindrop, then two, then a dozen pattered against the plane’s thick windows. Aw, frickin’ hamsters. I’d come out of this dive looking like an acne-plagued teenager. I flipped the page.
Skygods (Hydraulic #2) Page 3
