Skygods (Hydraulic #2)

by Sarah Latchaw

  Chapter 10

  Funnel

  When a skydiving formation becomes unstable,

  divers find themselves in a turbulent burble

  and the formation must break off.

  Hydraulic Level Five [working title]

  Draft 2.31

  © Samuel Caulfield Cabral & Aspen Kaye Trilby

  31. Fate & Faces

  CAULFIELD,

  Come on, send me the book. No bigwig editor is ever going to give a short story a second glance, or even a first. My man said the excerpts you shared in workshops are phenomenal, but I have yet to see one. If you don’t have the balls to share your writing with the world, then your career is as good as over. One more shot, Caulfield. Send me something I can pass to my editor, or this favor has run its course.

  CO, Junior Editor

  BigName Publishing House

  Witch. Caulfield clicks open the piece he sent his buddy’s girlfriend, “The Bard’s Two Faces,” which expounds on how a seemingly insignificant chain of choices determines whether a story will end as a comedy of errors, or a tragedy. Caulfield believes in fate, but after this evening, his future hinges solely on a choice.

  They were ambushed tonight. Like two sheep hustled into a shearing pen, their parents invited them over for coffee after the rehearsal dinner, then pounced in a last ditch effort to talk sense into their children…

  “Flower, I just don’t want to have to say ‘I told you so’ in two years’ time,” Aspen’s father pleads.

  A muscle twitches in the small fingers laced with his, and Caulfield feels the miniscule movement race up his marrow and straight into the organ furiously pumping blood into his angry-red brain.

  That single muscle spasm conveys only a fraction of the hurt screaming to be loosed. Aspen knows what her father truly means. He doesn’t want his baby girl to stagnate, rooted to a place she doesn’t quite love, shouldered with a baby who frightens her and a lover so bland, her tongue forgets how to taste…but not quite. Aspen hears his unspoken words: if you marry, you will wither.

  At the same moment Aspen’s fingers twitch, her mother grimaces. Neither she nor her mother observe it. But the same pain that keeps her mother silent spurs Aspen to speak.

  “You won’t have to say ‘I told you so,’ Dad. I swear to you, all of you, I want to be his wife. I love him.”

  “You’re both so young,” says Caulfield’s Papá. “Just wait a few more years, please.”

  “No,” she says. “We’re marrying tomorrow.”

  “Caulfield?” his mother asks.

  His eyes fix on the tops of her flip-flops, studying her pink toes as they clench, wiggle, then clench again. Aspen holds her breath as he raises his eyes.

  “I love Aspen.”

  Tension lifts from her shoulders and she exhales. She doesn’t notice he fails to say “I want to marry Aspen” or “I want to be Aspen’s husband.” His parents see. Her mother sees and grimaces again. But Aspen is too occupied by her defiance, hard and flinty and daring their mutual enemy to question their love. Caulfield loves her defiance. He’d cross the Rubicon—or a satin-covered church aisle—just so she can have what she wants.

  She wants marriage. He wants her. No less will appease either of them.

  But that night…just before bed…she notices.

  “Still up, kiddo?” Her mother cracks open her door, all bleary and watery. “It’s a big day ahead of you. This time tomorrow, you’ll be a married woman.”

  “If he shows,” she mutters.

  “Oh, Aspen, he’ll show. That boy loves you.”

  “What if it’s not enough? Let’s face it—he doesn’t want to marry me, Mom. But he’s going to do it anyway, and I’m going to let him.”

  Her mother awkwardly hugs her shoulders, as if she were an out-of-state aunt rather than a mother. “Aspen, you and Caulfield are meant to be together. You will be, whether it’s tomorrow or ten years from tomorrow…”

  The next morning, he is there. Her pale ankles skip over the lawn, fresh and lovely in white lace, and he is overcome. He knows this is right when he sees her dainty frame and a bouquet of daisies and roses between her fingers.

  “May I touch you?” Caulfield’s voice quivers. He can’t bear to dirty her dress.

  “Yes.”

  His hands quake as he brushes her waist. Then he grips her to him, head bent and buried in the crook of her neck. “Thank you, Firecracker. I love you, so much.” How could he ever have considered letting her go? If marriage proves he loves her, so be it.

  Aspen’s hands find their way into his cub’s mane, one of the last corporeal strongholds of his youth. She murmured against his lips. “I love you, Caulfield. Always have.”

  That afternoon, as a small gathering of friends wander beneath April leaves, he remembers “The Bard’s Two Faces.” It is tucked away in his boyhood room, and he still thinks it’s pretty good. C.O. was an idiot. How could anyone not understand that hovering above the chaos was Fate’s calm hand? One small choice might have changed whether Aspen and Caulfield found each other: If his mother hadn’t left him to his uncle. If Aspen’s parents had left Bear Creek after their split. If he and Aspen never had a penchant for ghosts.

  But Fate pre-ordained them. He believes that old biddy will bind them, no matter what comedies and tragedies life whips up.

  C.O., Junior Editor, could kiss his ass.

  Kaye—What were you thinking after our parents staged their intervention? ~Sam

  I was scared we were making a mistake, too, but I wanted so badly to prove them wrong. I regret so many things. But, Sam, never once have I regretted loving you, even in the dark times. There’s a difference.

  P.S.—It seems as though you’ve got some serious passive-aggressive tension building, Mr. Cabral. Want to meet me in the bathroom? ~Kaye

  Passive aggressive? I’m a rational adult and Caro deserves to be heard. Besides, the airline bathrooms are too small for this man, Firecracker. ~Sam

  Caro deserves to be strung from the Chrysler Building by her tatas. And ego much? I don’t want to touch anything in that nasty bathroom, anyway. Truly. ~Kaye

  “Don’t you trust me, Kaye?” Samuel asked.

  He shifted the unfolded copy of The New York Times he’d picked up at La Guardia, using it as a barrier between me and the driver’s rearview mirror. Subtle. I doubt the man could have seen into the backseat, anyway. We were passing through the Queens Midtown Tunnel, and the blurs of light outside the window barely lit the interior. I worked a gray silk stocking up my prickly leg, careful not to snag it on my new bracelet.

  “It’s not a question of trust,” I answered. “But the facts speak for themselves.”

  “Facts. As in, secondhand information from Justin—a man who tends toward the dramatic.”

  “Facts, as in Togsy’s tell-all book and Caroline’s split from Buitre. She can’t possibly come out innocent in this mess.”

  Since we’d caught a red-eye flight, I’d barely had time to fish a professional-looking outfit from my suitcase before a bleary-eyed Buitre intern whisked us away. We were being carried straight to Midtown, where the agency’s headquarters were located. It wasn’t until we careened through Queens that I noticed my horribly rumpled skirt, cleavage hanging out of a half-buttoned blouse, and unseemly legs. I grudgingly donned the stockings I’d stuffed in my purse. Samuel, on the other hand, was immaculate in charcoal trousers and a crisp oxford. I didn’t know how he did it—only that it was typical.

  He stiffly refolded the newspaper. “She wouldn’t sell me out.”

  “Oh no? You told me yourself that she’s ruthless when it comes to business.”

  “Ruthless, but loyal.”

  “And it was loyal of her to overload your schedule?” I had him there.

  “In order to advance my career.”

  “She knew full well what could happen to your health.”

  “I could have said no a lot earlier, but I gave her a green light,” he retorted. “Caro and
I were caught up in the publicity game years ago, whether I like to admit it or not.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “But when you finally told her no, she threw a hissy fit and betrayed you with that book. Samuel, this isn’t friendship!”

  Samuel sighed and pressed tired fingers to his temples. With only a two-hour nap in an uncomfortable airline seat, we really were too sleep-deprived to do this right now. “There’s more to this story, and I owe it to Caro to get her side.”

  “You owe her nothing.”

  “Have you stopped to consider that perhaps you’re biased against her?”

  Ooh, now I was getting angry. I bounced to the defense. “But Justin thinks she’s a snake, too. So do Molly and Jaime, Danita—”

  “So you trust their judgment above mine,” he said in a cutting voice.

  “I could say the same thing. Trust is a two-way street, buddy.”

  And we’d circled back to trust. If I was honest, though, I really didn’t trust him above the others, and it wasn’t just because he’d lied about his disorder. I believed he was a fool to still have faith in Caroline Ortega.

  I stared at his hardened face, trying to decide if it was disappointment or denial which brought out this calm—almost eerie—intensity. It first surfaced yesterday evening, when I told him of my conversation with Justin, and how we had to high-tail it to New York City. To my horror, he suggested there had to be some misunderstanding, and why didn’t we keep to our original plans and finish out Folks? That led to an argument, which I won. But as I watched him shove clothing into suitcases with slumped shoulders, I didn’t feel as if I’d won. I didn’t like winning if it meant Samuel lost.

  The whole incident irked me because, not two days ago, I swore I wouldn’t be ruled by my feelings. Yet here I was again, allowing fear, and hurt, and anger to dictate my actions.

  Samuel touched my hand. “We’re leaving the tunnel.”

  I peered past a series of stone overpasses and into the city. Thousands of skyscraper lights flickered out as the sky became an amalgam of corals and blues. While we’d cruised along the expressway, the distant city seemed an adventure. It was the same rush of adrenaline experienced when riding a ski lift to the top of a slope—the closer I got to the point-of-no-return, the more anxious I became.

  The gray buildings on either side were so tall, I had to crane my neck to see where they ended. Soon, Samuel tentatively showed me the place he now called home, pointing out the Empire State Building, Bryant Park, and Rockefeller Plaza. I recognized city backdrops prevalent in the Law & Order marathons my mother griped about yet watched religiously. As I stepped out of the car, I nearly tripped over the curb in my effort to take in the cacophonous surroundings and put my heels in pungent water streaming from an alley. Common sense told me the quickest way to spot out-of-towners was to find the people who looked up instead of down, but I couldn’t help myself. Modern monsters shared real estate with sturdy, century-old bricks. There was a clutter of brightly colored signs—some fluttered from awnings, others were light boards three stories high. Despite the hour, sirens and car horns echoed along grid streets, and early risers pushed past Samuel and me, their heads bent over to-go cups of coffee. I wasn’t sure what they were doing up and about at six a.m. on a Sunday, but it was New York—the “city that never sleeps” and all that.

  “Wow,” I breathed, nervously fingering the cuffs of my sleeves. No wonder Samuel found inspiration here.

  He smiled and took my fidgeting hand. “I don’t want to go in there on opposite teams, Kaye. No more cricket infestations or IcyHot on the toilet seat?”

  I squeezed his hand. We did have a tendency to beat each other up, whether the weapons were stupid pranks or vicious words. And if he didn’t have my back, I wasn’t confident enough to go into an elite boardroom packed with Newhouse alums, guns a blazin’.

  Samuel led me through the building’s rotating door and into a lobby. An older man in a jacket sat behind a reception desk, head propped on his fist as he stared at a security screen. I wondered if he always worked the weekend graveyard shift—if so, what dreary surroundings. The décor was going for industrial chic, exposed pipes mixed with paint-splashed art, but it came across as cold and sterile. Our feet slapped across polished cement, and the man’s face snapped up.

  “Mister Cabral, welcome back. You’ll need to sign in your guest.”

  “Um, Buitre’s expecting me. Kaye Trilby?” I gestured to the elevators.

  “You still need to sign in, ma’am.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “I need ID.” I handed the man my driver’s license. At TrilbyJones, our receptionist just buzzed my office and I swung around the corner to greet my clients.

  Samuel gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Sorry, I should have warned you. Security’s really tightened up since 9/11, understandably. Don’t let the hoops rattle you—you’ll have to do the same thing on the forty-first floor.”

  “I’m not rattled.” Trembling fingers peeled the back from the badge and I stuck it on my shoulder with the nervousness of a rookie.

  We stepped into the elevator. The back wall was entirely glass. I felt like Charlie Bucket as we rose higher and higher, watching older buildings give way to rooftop gardens and AC units, and I wondered if the elevator would just keep going until it burst through the ceiling and soared into the sky.

  “Do you see that black, glossy building with the stripes?” Samuel said. I followed his finger. “That’s the Bertelsmann Building, where my publishing house is located. If we have time, I can show you their offices, introduce you around.”

  “For my career or personal reasons?”

  “I’m taking you home to meet the family,” Samuel kidded, a touch awkward. He wasn’t fibbing about his nonsocial tendencies.

  It may have been a joke, but Samuel’s “family” comment reminded me I didn’t need to be intimidated by these people. They worked for Samuel. So did I. This wasn’t a competition—this was a valiant effort to save our client’s reputation and so help me, I would give this my all. Families helped each other, right?

  Oh sweet baby Jesus.

  In Boulder, people at least pretended to like you. Heck, even in LA you could garner business-savvy respect if you glossed your lips and showed a little thigh. But in New York, you knew within a minute if someone thought you were a moron.

  A crowd of hostile eyes stared me down as we strode into the boardroom, save for Justin’s pitying expression.

  If Samuel noticed the “you’ve got to be kidding me” looks when he officially introduced his odd choice of a publicist, he wasn’t fazed. The eight-foot-tall, glass-encased promo banners of Neelie and Nicodemus that circled the room told me everything I needed to know: Water Sirens was their coffer, and Samuel, the crown jewel. Squaring my shoulders, I hitched up the strap of my messenger bag and found my fierce face. So they didn’t like me. Big deal. I could at least make them respect me.

  Sliding into one of two empty seats, I pulled the conference phone toward me and punched in Molly’s direct line.

  “This is TrilbyJones, Molly speaking.”

  “Hello, this is Kaye. Thanks for joining us—I know it’s insanely early for you.” Around the table, mouths silently yawned, fingers wrapped coffee mugs, men smoothed hastily knotted ties. A woman with plum lips and a sassy neo-fro (I assumed she was Lexi Rogers, from Samuel’s description) picked fuzzies from her blouse.

  Introductions began, and I quickly observed they’d divided themselves into three groups: Samuel’s team, the Berkshire House Team, and The Buitre Media team. I discreetly pulled out the cheat sheet I’d created with the help of a book critic for an avant-garde magazine in New York—an acquaintance of Molly’s who used to live in Colorado. Okay. He was also the first man I’d slept with after Samuel and I split, and calling in a favor was really awkward. (Thank goodness Samuel had been in the shower when I actually uttered the words “I swear this isn’t a booty call.”) But my former fling had insider information a
bout these people, which dug beneath the polished bios on company websites, so it was worth a little humiliation. My finger drifted down the list as each person introduced themselves, until only the key players were left.

  “Lexi Rogers, Editorial Director with Berkshire House Publishing.” She turned beautiful black eyes to Samuel. “We’re still working on finding you an editor you can really bond with, Mr. Cabral.” Oh gag.

  Actually, Lexi seemed pleasant enough. She was the type of woman who kindly touched the forearms of business associates when she talked to them. Samuel admitted that after their first meeting, he wanted to encase his forearms in bubble wrap with a Post-it that read “personal space.” I had a feeling she and Caroline Ortega used to sip mojitos together.

  “Ace Caulfield, just got in from Boston. When I said to call me day or night, Sam, I really didn’t mean it, ha. Let’s keep this brief. My kid’s got a flu bug and Mischa’ll kill me if I’m not back tomorrow.”

  Archibald “Ace” Caulfield, Samuel’s lawyer, employed by none other than Boston’s own Caulfield Law Firm. Not so incidentally, Samuel confessed that Ace was his cousin. This surprised me—given the bitterness he harbored toward his absent blood relations, I’d been under the impression he had no contact with them. He was a toned-down version of Samuel’s sharp lines with a high brow and cheek bones, and those blue, blue eyes. But Ace didn’t carry Samuel’s strong jaw, and without it, the other marks of beauty were a bit too effeminate.

  Finally, the last and most prominent:

  “A pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Trilby. And Ms. Jones, also, though the circumstances are lamentable. Jerome Buitre, and I’m very happy to have you join our family.”

  Jerome Buitre, Wielder of the Buzzword. Shaved head and glasses, his appearance was deceivingly slight. He was a silver-tongued ferret-of-a-man and if you didn’t know he owned one of the more prominent agencies in New York, you’d assume he was either a lawyer or politician. In the past decade, Buitre had turned its eyes to Hollywood in a diversification move that, after several celebrated authors found movie audiences (Samuel Cabral included), proved to be a coup. Buitre Literary Agency became Buitre PR & Media Group, and Jerome bought a beach house next to Harvey Weinstein’s.