Skygods (Hydraulic #2)

by Sarah Latchaw

  “Whaddya need?”

  “A name and number. The assistant to Lexi Rogers, Editorial Director with Berkshire House. You know her?”

  “Sure. I know her assistant, too. I met both of them while rubbing elbows at a book launch several weeks ago. Berkshire House knows how to throw a party for their authors.” I wondered if it was the party Samuel bailed on when he fled to Colorado. “Her assistant’s name is Robin something-or-other. Here’s the number…”

  I jotted it down, then half-promised Mr. Avant Garde a cup of coffee to get him off the phone. I punched in this Robin person’s number, praying she’d answer.

  “Robin speaking.” Craaaaaap. The voice was confusingly androgynous, and I realized “Robin” could be either a squeaky man or a woman who’d kick my tail.

  “Robin, hi. This is Kaye Trilby—Samuel Cabral’s publicist.” I heard a quiet gasp on the other end. Still no clue as to gender. “Listen, I’m in a bind. I need an advance read hard copy of a book sent to me ASAP, but I can’t get a hold of Lexi. Lyle Togsender’s BrownStoners: A Houseful of Famous Pens and Crack Pipes. It’s absolutely imperative Mr. Cabral receives it this afternoon, you understand.” I kept talking, not giving him/her a chance to object. “Now, I’ll need you to write down this address. Are you ready?”

  “Ms. Trilby, I’m not even in the office—”

  “Are you in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, like I said, it’s an emergency. You’ll find it in Lexi’s office.”

  He/she sighed. “Go ahead.”

  Yes. I rattled off Samuel’s apartment address, reminding Robin once again I needed the book couriered there immediately.

  “Okay. I’ll give Lexi a quick call.”

  Wait. Call Lexi? No!

  He/she mumbled a good-bye and hung up, leaving me slack-jawed and freaking out. For five minutes, I bit my nails and stared at my phone, terrified Lexi would call me back and ream me. When it finally did ring, I exhaled. Robin again.

  “Ms. Trilby, I couldn’t get a hold of Lexi, either. She typically won’t take calls over lunch. And according to her schedule, she’s in a meeting all afternoon. I can try back this evening—”

  “No!” Dang it, desperate times called for desperate manipulation. Hoping Robin was a dude, I mustered my best pathetic, sniffly girl voice. “Robin, please. I really, reeeally need that book now, or I’m as good as sacked. Mr. Cabral is absolutely livid he didn’t receive a copy of the book. I mean, livid. Eyes-bulging, hand-flailing, hair-pulling L–I–V–I–D. I even heard him mumble something about a rival publishing house.”

  “No,” Robin gasped.

  “Yes!” I exclaimed. “I know Lexi would send a copy if she could. I really don’t want Berkshire House’s most acclaimed author upset with her, you know? No telling what he’d decide to do…”

  “Say no more. I’ll get Mr. Cabral a copy as of yesterday, Ms. Trilby.”

  I polished my nails on my shoulders. Oh yeah, I was good. “Thank you so much, Robin,” I said sweetly. “I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Cabral how helpful you’ve been.”

  I probably should have felt like a manipulative ho-bag for scaring the kid, but for now I’d won, so it kind of voided the ho-baggish feeling. But I could see how, if you moved in this playing field long enough like Caroline had, you could grow used to manipulating people and situations to get what you wanted. I’d have to tread carefully.

  Before long, Samuel’s crack-shot team filtered back from lunch, and we dived in again. He slid into the seat next to me and plopped a deli bag under my nose.

  “Did you rest?” he asked, smiling down at me.

  “Enough.” I returned his smile, crossing my fingers that Robin wouldn’t disappoint.

  Chapter 11

  First

  New skydivers should be aware

  that every time they utter the word “first,”

  they must buy veteran skydivers a case of beer.

  To avoid this particularly expensive pitfall,

  it is in the first-timer’s best interest

  to forget it’s the first time.

  A TIDE OF PEOPLE washed us underground like autumn leaves down a gutter, and into a passage that led from the neon chaos of Times Square to the Port Authority. The stale tunnel hadn’t breathed fresh air in eons. Mucky-white tiles blurred as we hoofed it to catch the northbound A Train. Ball cap brim tugged down, Samuel secured my hand in his, releasing it only to drop a few bucks in a busker’s guitar case.

  He insisted we take the subway, determined to cure me of my aversion by tossing me headfirst into big, scary NYC. I begged for a cab, brain-weary after a long day of what The Buitre Group called “lateral thinking” (the rest of the sane world called it problem solving). I wanted to get to Samuel’s apartment as quickly as possible to see if Robin followed through.

  When I’d last been in the subway, I was a twenty-year-old kid blindly stumbling through a foreign city. I was still stumbling, but not alone. Samuel was beside me, guiding me to his park-side home in Inwood with all the tenderness and hope and fear of a new lover. He was anxious to please me. I didn’t want to let him down, either.

  Now I just had to master the stupid subway turnstile.

  I swiped the flimsy card and pushed the bar again with my hip (there was no way I was touching that germ haven with my hands). It didn’t budge, for the third time.

  “Swipe it the opposite direction,” Samuel said.

  The monster machine beeped at me.

  “Try it again, a little slower.” Samuel was a picture of patience, but the man behind us was not.

  “Come on, crazy woman, what’s the holdup? It’s not that hard!” Apparently harder than saying Huitzilopochtli.

  Samuel swiveled to face the guy, body tensing. “There are four other turnstiles—” he gestured to them “—so lay off, man.”

  “Yeah, packed with people.” The guy smacked a weathered hand over an equally weathered Yankees cap, challenging Samuel’s Red Sox cap.

  Ignoring him, Samuel shifted the brown package under his arm and asked for my MetroCard. All it took was one swipe, and so went my life.

  We found a corner in the subway car, cozy against the press of people making their way home to West-Side neighborhoods. A woman reeking of alcohol hovered over me, a picnic basket at her feet. I subtly turned my nose into the soft cotton of Samuel’s shirt, breathing in his scent. It didn’t seem to bother him. He was used to the mix of stench and sweet, grunge and color—a dissonance that strangely made sense in the city.

  Ever an observer, Samuel was enthralled by the stories around him. My eyes drifted, seeing what he saw. Advertisements on bludgeoned walls, rough-and-tumble people clinging to poles, swaying with the subway. To the left, a raven-haired woman peeled blinding-yellow polish from her nails and let it flutter to the floor. To the right, a man with temple locks flipped through the latest suspense novel. A little further into the car, a bum sprawled on a seat, slurring a Sinatra song between plaque-darkened teeth. So many stories.

  He drew my attention when his warm breath hit my ear.

  “There’s a sort of unspoken subway etiquette you pick up if you spend enough time in the city,” he said. “First, stay to the right of the stairs unless you’re in a hurry.”

  “We did that.”

  “Let everyone off the train before you get on. Don’t touch someone’s hand with your sweaty palms when you’re holding a pole. Give up your seat for pregnant women and the elderly. Also—never, never eyeball the homeless.”

  “Oh.” Whoops.

  “And, under all circumstances, avoid completely empty cars on an otherwise full train.”

  My eyes widened, thinking of stabbings and crime scenes. “Why?”

  Samuel grinned. “Because there’s shit in the car and everyone knows it.”

  I wrinkled my nose. Several people around us chuckled, probably because they’d been there before.

  Gradually, the car emptied with each stop as we rattled north to Wa
shington Heights, until there were only a handful of people remaining. Samuel thrummed his fingers against the package resting in his lap, nervously describing all of the places he wanted to show me. Central Park, the Met, the Morgan Library, Chinatown…

  “And The Dakota, of course. If we go to Graceland to pay our respects, we have to lay it down for Lennon. Do you remember the class project I helped you with when you were twelve, about the assassination? Angel told you the shooting was a government conspiracy engineered through a complex code in newspaper headlines, and I had a terrible time convincing you otherwise. You were such a stubborn girl, still are. Of course, the way that Lennon treated his son Julian was quite shameful, so it’s difficult to pay respects and not remember that aspect. Everyone has their personal failings, I suppose…”

  He rambled on, and I began to get that “off” feeling again. His chatter wasn’t like the over-enthusiastic manic-babbling of LA. Rather, it seemed as though he did it to focus his mind so it wouldn’t stray—namely, to Caroline Ortega’s betrayal. He’d had such faith in her, but even he couldn’t deny she’d played some part in this mess.

  And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was an eggshells day…

  “Samuel, did you take your meds?”

  His story about John Lennon’s spectacles ground to a halt. His eyes went cold. “Kaye, did you wear clothes today?”

  The rest of the ride was chilly and silent.

  The train slowly pulled in to the 190th Street station. Samuel ground his teeth as we left the platform and stepped into an industrial elevator, brusquely nodding to the attendant.

  But the odd discomfort melted away when the doors opened and we stepped into a world of green, green, green. The picture Samuel sent me weeks ago didn’t do the place justice. Some brilliant city planner made wondrous use of the naturally hilly terrain, and what emerged was a fairy-tale blend of stone arches and shady foliage. As we climbed higher into the Fort Tryon Park, I caught a glimpse of the Hudson River far below, gray and hazy.

  “Are you sure this is Manhattan?”

  “Oh yes, we’re on the edge of Washington Heights. Take a jaunt south down Broadway and you’ll hit the Dominican neighborhood, follow the merengue. But these bluffs…I always feel as though I’m walking through a Thoreau poem when I’m here,” Samuel murmured. “‘Give me thy most privy place, where to run my airy race…’ The park’s still something of a secret. Or it seems that way, to me.”

  My lips quirked—Samuel and his poetry. For him, musing over the Romantics was akin to breathing, it came so naturally. If I tried, I’d sound like a haughty snoot.

  “So, which bench do you sleep on?”

  He laughed. “None of these. My apartment building is across that grassy stretch—see the archway?—then down a set of stairs. This is a roundabout way to get there, but I couldn’t wait to show you the park.”

  We walked in silence. Suddenly, Samuel dragged light fingers along my spine and I jumped. His face was full of apology.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you about my meds. It was a fair question.”

  I waved him away. “It’s okay. I’m not your parent.”

  “I’m trying to be more open about it.”

  “I know.”

  He rubbed the knuckle of my ring finger, squeezed it, and let it go, his face twisted in defeat. It made me sad. No, no defeat, Samuel. Look how far we’d traveled on this third road. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have even known to ask about the meds.

  I watched him shuffle the package between his arms. “Speaking of being open, are you going to tell me what’s in that thing?” I nudged him with my elbow. “Did Ace bring you a bust of Ted Williams?”

  “Um…no. It’s an urn.”

  I cocked my head. An urn?

  “It contains my mother’s ashes.”

  I pivoted so quickly, my purse swung off my shoulder. “You’ve been carrying a cremation urn all afternoon? Your…y-your mother.” My hands flew to my mouth as I eyed the package that contained the earthly remains of Rachel Caulfield Cabral. “I wish I’d known. Oh Samuel, I’m so sorry.” I had no idea what to say, so only awkwardness spilled from my mouth. “We should have taken the taxi so you didn’t have to carry them—her—onto the subway. What if you’d been robbed?”

  He shrugged. “Then some thief would be sorely disappointed.”

  “Where did it—she—come from?”

  “Ace’s relatives came across them in the family home. He called and asked if I wanted the urn. I guess no one else did.”

  “That’s really heartbreaking.” Sorrow for Rachel Caulfield Cabral crept into my chest, in spite of myself. I eyed the morbid box as we descended the park stairs into the neighborhood below.

  He was right—the bottom of the bluff was a different world of Art Deco and fire escapes.

  “Is it legal to fly with remains?”

  “I don’t know. Ace took his family’s private plane. Here’s my place.” He stopped in front of an eight-story façade with awnings. I noticed he refused to refer to the Caulfields as his own family. I knew he’d never cared about them, but his omission was so deliberate, it was almost passive aggressive.

  As he collected his held mail from the doorman, I took in the lobby. Cracked tile floors, mint walls—nothing like the gentrified East Village brownstones. According to Samuel, Inwood suited him perfectly, unlike the “bohemian” neighborhoods south of 14th Street. I jokingly called him a snob. Yet another dichotomy of Samuel Caulfield Cabral, formerly of Lyons. He turned up his nose at pretension, but kept his own secrets and failings guarded beneath a veneer of flawlessness.

  “So, what are you going to do with the urn?” I hedged.

  He sighed. “No clue. I’d rather not talk about it anymore.”

  Yes, Samuel’s head needed some serious fêng shui, but like he said, he was trying. Open him carefully…I fingered the laminated poem in my purse.

  There was nothing more I could do for Samuel right now, and frankly, he didn’t want me to. I wrapped my arms around his middle and murmured a last “I’m so sorry about your mother.” Then I promptly collapsed into the first bed I was steered toward, where sleep came to collect.

  Mmmm, soft bed. Beautiful, cozy bed. A very nice smelling bed.

  Then why was I yanked from its bliss?

  I burrowed into the right side, but my body slid to the left, where the mattress sagged. How funny that, after years of sleeping alone, we both preferred our respective sides of the bed. I savored the warmth of the familiar quilt, almost positive it was the comforter we’d had on our bed in Boulder.

  Actually, this was our bed from Boulder.

  And wasn’t that the armchair we’d salvaged from a university Dumpster?

  I didn’t know when or why Samuel had acquired our ratty old stuff, but I vaguely recalled asking Sofia to get rid of it when she helped decorate my place above TrilbyJones. My heart hammered in my chest. If Samuel’s pilfering of our rag-tag furniture wasn’t such a testament to our obsession with the “glory days,” it would have been sweet.

  As I hovered just above dreams, I heard it again—Samuel’s low voice. He was talking to somebody in Spanish, but the door muffled most of his conversation and my bad ear didn’t help. I strained to hear and translate.

  “…we’re staying in the city for now, sí…I don’t know how long…No, it’s fine, Papá…”

  It was Alonso on the phone. A sudden pang of fear twisted my gut. What if Alonso flew to New York again? Would he try to force me out? Send me home? My fingers fisted around the comforter. Well, I wasn’t going without a fight.

  Dragging the quilt with me, I rolled from the bed and pattered to the doorway, my feet cold against the oak floor. I peered into the softly lit living room and saw Samuel beyond the sofa, his lilting Spanish words echoing through the vaulted ceiling. A brown grocery bag sat on the counter, abandoned for the phone. He’d gone to the store while I slept. I pulled the blanket around me like a cape and watched him. One hand clutched his
cell, the other gripped the fireplace mantle, where his mother’s urn now rested.

  “…I said it’s fine, you and Mamá stay in Lyons. We can handle this on our own.”

  My fingers slowly unclenched. Samuel told them not to come. He wanted to face this together. Was it wrong to feel giddy?

  “…Yes, she’s okay. Sleeping right now, it was a long day…She is staying here, not a hotel. We’ve been married, Papá, it’s not as if…”

  A frustrated grunt, and then, “…I told you, no more episodes…Yes, I’m still on my meds…Well, if I sound irritated, it’s because I am irritated.”

  I shifted, and the floor squeaked beneath my feet. Samuel’s head shot up. His troubled face softened, and he beckoned me into the room. I crossed quickly and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  He switched to English. “I’ll talk to you later. Give my love to Mamá. Tell her not to worry.” He set his phone on the mantle, then folded me into his arms.

  “Did you have a good nap?”

  “Yes. Almost like I was in my own bed,” I hinted.

  “I liked our old bed—sue me.” Samuel laughed quietly. “It’s actually the only bedroom in this place. But honestly, if I had a guest room, I still would have put you in my bed.”

  Because I belonged there, on the right side. “Your father thinks it’s wrong that I’m staying here with you, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s more concerned than anything. But I think he understands the unorthodox position we’re in.” It was odd, not feeling as though the eyes of Lyons were upon me. The seclusion of Samuel’s New York haven was freeing. Here, we were only answerable to God. I nipped his chin and he smiled down at me.

  “A Berkshire courier dropped something off for you,” he said, holding up a package. “It’s marked urgent.”

  “Oh!” I took it from his hands and ripped it open. Out slid a freshly printed copy of BrownStoners: A Houseful of Famous Pens and Crack Pipes. Thank you, Robin.

  “I’m not even going to ask what you had to do in order to pry that from their hands.”

  “Nothing illegal. At least, I don’t think so.” Only unethical. I cringed. “But I should warn you, Lexi’s PA now believes you’re the devil incarnate. The next time you see Robin, he/she might douse you with holy water.”