What have I been trying to tell her? “So, how long are you staying down there?”
“Not sure. At least through the weekend. I’m trying to put everything in order before I go. Later today I’m going over to the funeral parlor to pick out a casket.”
“Why bother? Burial is expensive. Have her cremated.”
“She quite specifically wants to be buried.”
“So what? Once she’s dead she won’t know the difference.”
“No. But I will. Oh, and she wants to be buried back home in Glenns Ferry. I guess she bought a plot in the same cemetery where her mother was interred, which is weird, I know, considering their contentious relationship. It’s all written down in her living will, which is handwritten but apparently valid.”
“Do you need me to handle anything?”
“Thanks for offering, but no. She doesn’t own much. In fact, there’s nothing to cover the deductibles but a small life insurance policy and even smaller savings account. Other than that, some furniture and clothes, all of which can go to the Salvation Army. Oh, she does have an old beater. Rather than try to sell it, I thought I’d just give it to Will, unless you object.”
He hung around longer than most of Mom’s men. “No objection. If she’s still able, you might have her sign over the title now. Either that or forge her signature and a bill of sale. No use arguing with the DMV if you don’t have to.”
“It’s already taken care of.”
My sister defines efficiency.
“What about the casket? Do you need some money to pay for it? Those things are expensive. And what about shipping it to Idaho?”
“I’ll put it on a credit card and if you want to reimburse me some, that would be great. Will has already volunteered to handle the transport. Believe it or not, that man really seems to care about Mom, and not because he thinks he’s in line for her junker truck.”
Too little, too late, so sorry, Will. Wonder if Mom even cares.
Suddenly, a hideous scream erupts on the far end of the line, somewhere behind Melody, who says, “I have to go. She needs her meds. Is there anything you want me to tell her?”
I’ve worked very hard not to say a damn word to the bitch for over two decades. Mutual anger charged the few exchanges we’ve had. But with death hovering over her head, there isn’t much left to be pissed about. I don’t regret the silent years, and wonder how I’ll remember her after she’s gone. Will planting her in Glenns Ferry mitigate the Idaho nightmares? Will I think of her at all?
“Tell her bon voyage.”
I think that calls for a drink, and what sounds good this afternoon is sangria. I’ve got a favorite recipe that calls for white peaches, which we happen to have, turning ripe. I dice three, put them in the bottom of a pitcher along with a little brandy and a half bottle of Grenache, and am topping the whole thing off with prosecco when Cavin blows in, tornado-like. His expression reads “disgusted.”
“What’s wrong?”
He comes straight over, puts his arms around me, and kisses me softly, denying the tenseness in his shoulders. “Are you finished with that?” He points to the sangria.
“Only just.”
“Sit down. I’ll bring you a glass.”
Now what? But I do as instructed and watch him pour two tall tumblers, spooning some peaches into each. Then he joins me on the sofa. “So, I reviewed your test results. Spent quite a bit of time going over the films and digesting the tech’s notes. I disagree completely with Roger. The ACL reconstruction is rupturing, and a revision is most definitely in order . . .”
I mostly tune out for the length of time it takes him to give me all the reasons my knee could be disintegrating. What it comes down to is he wants me to have surgery to repair the repair.
“In my opinion, a two-stage ACLR revision is necessary.”
“What does that mean?”
“Two surgeries, around three months apart. The first would remove the old hardware, and bone would be grafted to fill the holes where the screws are currently in place. Once that heals, the second surgery would do what the original ACLR was supposed to.”
“Sounds like an awful lot of downtime, not to mention physical therapy.”
“Yes, and the PT could not be as aggressive as last time. You are a strong, stubborn woman, but, even with the revision, your knee will never be either of those again, and pushing it too hard would be bad all the way around.”
“What if I forego further surgeries?”
“The knee will improve slightly, but it will always be prone to laxity. The odds of reinjury would be great, as well as the possibility of arthritis developing.”
I don’t know whether to be relieved, scared, or goddamn angry. I’m starting to feel like damaged goods. But mostly what concerns me is too many hours being housebound again.
Maybe you need a third opinion.
I treat myself to a refreshing sip of some very good sangria and reach for my husband’s hand. “Would you do the surgeries? I’d want someone I can trust at the helm.”
“I would definitely oversee the entire thing, even if my hands don’t do the work. But don’t worry. I won’t let Roger in the OR. There are others I can call in.”
“Will I be able to ski again?”
“Probably not this year. Possibly not without a brace. And definitely no more Mott Canyon. But yes, you’ll ski again, and we’ll ski together. I’m so looking forward to that.”
“Me, too, and two years seems like a long way off.”
“Sixteen months. Eighteen max, depending on Mother Nature. I’ll still be here. Will you?”
“That’s been my plan all along.”
“Excellent.” He takes a long pull off his glass. “And so is this concoction. What, exactly, is it?”
“White peach sangria. Just one of my many specialties.”
“Let’s finish our drinks and I’ll show you one of mine.”
He runs three fingertips along the pulse just beneath my jaw, down my neck, and into the scoop of my blouse, all the way to the rising beat of my heart.
“Here? Now? Before dinner?”
“Why not? We’re alone in the house. Let’s work up an appetite.”
Suddenly I realize how few times we’ve indulged our libidos since we got back from our honeymoon.
What’s up with that?
Middle age?
Marriage?
Now I’m parched.
Thirsting.
And not for sangria.
fifteen
I DESPISE BEING UNSURE. I mean, even of petty things, like whether to purchase an oversize bag because people will see I’ve bought the best or instead go for the one unnoticeable to thieves that also serves its purpose better because I only carry my wallet, phone, pepper spray, and the occasional lipstick inside it anyway.
But when it comes to major decisions, like whether to listen to the doctor who originally “fixed” my knee or take the word of another orthopedist—one who happens to be my husband—and tear out what’s already there, then rebuild it again? I wish it were cut-and-dried, but it’s anything but. It would be so easy to play wait-and-see—brace it, prop it, isolate it. But Cavin says I could limp forever. On the other hand, while surgical corrections, followed by months of physical therapy, might raise the odds of my participating in the activities I love, there are no promises. It’s frustrating as hell.
All I know is, I want the knee right. Skiing isn’t the only thing it’s getting in the way of. My sex manual is currently a limited edition. In Cavin’s relentless pursuit of coition sans patellar pain, he is careful. Too careful, when what I want is no-holds-barred recklessness.
The evening Eli stayed in Reno, our lovemaking was disappointing at best. The foreplay was good enough—Cavin is brilliant at cunnilingus, and I just have to find a comfortable way to lie, legs open in invitation, for that. It’s nice. But nice is not what I’m after. My goal, that night and in the future, is dirty, nasty, bordering-on-demonic fuckfesting. Instead
, any time I moaned, whether for the right reason or not, he was all, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you.” Then he backed off, though not completely out. He gave just enough effort to finish and pull away, satisfied, if not depleted.
High school sex déjà vu.
Except for the tongue.
High school boys hate oral sex.
Giving, not receiving.
So, if anything is making me lean toward saying okay to surgery, it’s my desire to live out my life having lust-driven sex without worrying about popping my tibia sideways due to abnormal rotational forces. God, I sound like a medical dictionary.
I’m still mulling over the decision when Cavin and Eli get back from town. Eli wanted a new shirt to wear to Shakespeare tonight. “Something upscale casual” was how he put it. Something to impress Genevieve Lennon is what I’m thinking. Good thing South Lake Tahoe has an excellent little boutique that sells both men’s and women’s clothing; otherwise it would have necessitated another trip to Reno.
He didn’t want to “bore us with the details” of his evening with Sophia, other than to say the lead actress in her show was sexy as hell, but not in a disgusting way. Like a boy his age would think anything involving scantily clad women on a stage less than three feet from his face was disgusting. As for what might or might not have happened between the encore and his return the following afternoon, well, he left that completely up to our imaginations.
When he got home, his pupils looked awfully dilated, and he was sniffling enough for me to notice. I wanted to quiz him about possible substance ingestion but thought better of it. After the fact wouldn’t have meant a thing, especially if before the fact didn’t mean a thing, either. Besides, my counsel in the having-to-do-with-Sophia department is quite obviously unappreciated. Actually, I don’t think he appreciates my counsel about anything.
He definitely wasn’t happy about me outing him to Kayla. “What did you say to her?” he demanded.
“All I did was answer her questions. She was worried because she couldn’t get hold of you, and asked if I knew your whereabouts. I told her you were in Reno, visiting a friend.”
“Why did you tell her that?” Anger swelling.
“Because that’s what you told me. What should I have said?”
“You could have made something up.” Temples visibly pulsing.
“Eli, I’ve made it clear to you that I despise dishonesty. Not that I’ve never lied, but it’s rare. And I have absolutely zero desire to cover for you, especially under the circumstances. That would make me an accomplice to your deception. Plus, I’d be deceiving my own niece. I won’t lie to family.”
“Well, just so you know, she’s royally pissed.”
“Yeah, well, she should be.”
“It doesn’t bother you to piss off your family?”
“ You pissed her off. But hey, I didn’t mention the fact that we’re all going out with Genevieve Lennon on Sunday.”
That shut him up, at least about Kayla, who’s supposed to be back sometime this week. Should be an interesting reunion.
The men come bustling in a little after three. Beyond clothes shopping, they’ve visited the barber, or maybe a stylist. Cavin’s hair is cut quite attractively, with lots of short feathered layers. Eli’s, on the other hand, is buzzed in back and on the sides, but he kept it long on top and is wearing it swept to one side. Young, but smart, and definitely handsome.
“Wow. The two of you spruce up pretty nice.”
“All for you, milady,” replies Cavin.
Eli flips his hair to the other side. “Not mine. This is completely about impressing Ms. Lennon. Maybe she’ll help me get a modeling job.”
The funny thing is, he probably could model. He’s tall and slim, with just enough muscle to look built but not enough to look like he tries too hard, and Cavin has gifted him with handsomely carved features, not to mention those expressive eyes. “It’s a dog-eat-dog industry, Eli.”
“Yeah, but think about the perks!”
“Is that saliva leaking down your chin?” I tease. “Not real attractive.”
“I’ll be sure to wipe it off before I meet Genevieve.” He pronounces it “Zhan-vee-ev.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, although I’m just as certain she’s used to a fair amount of dripping drool.”
Cavin clears his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to go shower. I don’t know how it’s possible for hair to get everywhere when you’re wearing those big cape thingies, but I feel like it’s clinging to every inch of my upper torso.”
Eli fishes around in the shopping bag he’s been holding. “Here’s your Tommy Bahama, Dad.”
He tosses a Hawaiian-patterned shirt, all in blue, to Cavin, whose face flushes slightly. “Couldn’t help myself,” he tells me. “It’s not something I would ordinarily buy, but for some reason I like it.”
“It’s awesome,” says Eli. “But not as cool as mine.”
Eli’s shirt is black, with a bold orchid print in lavender and mint green. Considering I’ve only ever seen him in T-shirts and Henleys, this is quite the departure. “Interesting choices. What got into you two?”
Eli grins. “Must have been the mango.”
“Unusual side effect, but okay, and now what can I possibly wear to coordinate?”
“Grass skirt and coconut shell bra?” suggests Eli.
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure out something.”
Cavin reminds us we’re meeting Genevieve at the entrance at six. “It’s not that far, but we should leave here no later than five thirty. Traffic and parking will be terrible. Oh, and if I were you, I’d wear the knee brace tonight. That sand is a bear to walk through even if you’re perfectly sound, and you’re not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, hot water beckons.”
Off he goes, but Eli lingers. “Dad says you’re having another surgery?”
“Maybe. Maybe two, in fact. He thinks the ACL repair is failing and it’s my best shot at approaching ‘normal’ again.”
“Did you get a second opinion?”
“His was the second opinion. The first was that I rehabbed too hard and with proper bracing and PT the graft would likely heal on its own.”
He cocks his head, studying me. “So why not wait and see? What if caution’s the better course?”
There he goes again, sounding way too adult.
“Look, Eli, I trust your fa—”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe he prefers you helpless.”
The echo of Cavin’s recent statement is bothersome. I kind of like you helpless.
Without waiting for a response, Eli turns on one heel and stomps downstairs. Not for the first time, he leaves me slightly askew. The boy excels at yanking my chain, but subtly, feeding me uncertainties I must bite on and chew to digest.
Why is that?
With the question very much on my mind, I wander back to my bedroom to change. Quandary. What do I wear to look sexy while sporting a decidedly unsexy piece of hardware? I draw on my rudimentary knowledge of fashion, choosing a billowy calf-length skirt in amethyst. I will draw attention upward to a form-fitting gold tank with a cleavage-revealing scoop. I may not have legs up to there like Ms. Vogue, but I’ve got her beat in the breast department, especially with excellent support keeping everything propped up into place. I devote a copious amount of time to skin care, makeup, and creating, with minuscule dabs of gel and mouse, perfect fox-red tresses.
Overall, it’s a good look, a fact that’s confirmed when Cavin finds me leaning forward to buckle a pair of flat sandals and rewards me with a low whistle. “Wow, woman. Talk about a stunning view.”
I truly hope the attraction knotting us together doesn’t fray in the future. “You like?”
“I love,” he corrects. “And if we didn’t need to go very soon, I’d show you just how much. But since we do, would you mind handing me my new Tommy Bahama? I still can’t believe Eli talked me into it. I’ve never worn a Hawaiian shirt in my life.”
“F
irst time for everything, I hear. Besides, it becomes you.”
It does.
Suddenly I don’t want to share him with anyone. Not his receptionist. Not his patients. Not the Shakespeare Festival crowd. And definitely not Genevieve. “I think I want to kidnap you and spirit you away somewhere.”
“Tara, we’ve only been back from our honeymoon for ten days.”
“True. I suppose that’s a bit unrealistic, huh?”
“Afraid so. At least until I retire. Then we can live a nomadic life if you wish.”
There’s something romantic about the idea of trekking the world, touching down somewhere unique and staying for a while. On the other hand, I enjoy being alone and wonder if I’d get tired of coupling full-time. The half-of-a-whole concept might get tedious. Besides, I expect my partner to contribute financially as well as emotionally, and I doubt his retirement account will accommodate five-star travel. Plus, I like having a place that belongs to me—a place I can escape to, burrow into, hide out in.
“I believe there’s an unwritten law that nomads require two functioning knees, so let’s get me mended first.”
“Amen to that. That skirt is pretty enough, but I prefer the way you look in something shorter. Just call me a letch.”
“Okay, letch. Question before we go.”
“What?”
“Do you really prefer me helpless?”
“You, helpless? That, my darling, is an epic oxymoron, any preference aside.”
He’d better not forget it.
The evening holds few surprises. We arrive in plenty of time and, of course, Genevieve’s skirt exposes way too many inches of her legs-up-to-there. Even across the parking lot, she’s hard to miss, holding court by the gate, signing autographs for a gaggle of admirers. Cavin has the good grace not to stare too blatantly. Not so, Eli.
“Holy crap!” he exclaims. “That’s one model who doesn’t need airbrushing.”
“You haven’t seen her up close yet. She could actually use a little.” Ooh, too catty. I retract my claws.
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