Love Lies Beneath

by Ellen Hopkins

  “Who?”

  “Sophia.”

  It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to spit out my wine. Instead, I swallow it so quickly that it rasps my throat. “So-Sophia?”

  “Yes. You said you knew about her.”

  “I think we’re having two different conversations. I said I knew about her, meaning her cocaine habit, and her rather dubious sense of morality. I did not, however, have any idea that her sleeping around on your father included sleeping with you. Does Cavin know?”

  “Well, yeah. He found us together.”

  Oh my God. I should probably cut this conversation short, but I really want the details. “How? Where?”

  “It was good ol’ Dirk who busted us first. Dad suspected Sophia was cheating on him, so he put Caldwell to work. Neither of them expected to find her fucking me, especially not in Dad’s house. We should have been more careful, but caution wasn’t something I particularly worried about, and when that bitch was soaring on coke, whoa. She would have screwed any dude with a boner.”

  I look at Eli, more boy than man in my estimation, and even younger when this happened. “But you had to have been, what? Fifteen?”

  “Sixteen. She waited until I passed the magic age of consent. In fact, the first time was a slightly belated birthday gift. She said she wanted me to learn from the best. That woman was one hell of a teacher, too, let me tell you. The only problem is, she spoiled sex for me. Vanilla will no longer suffice, and I haven’t found a girl closer to my age willing to do the things Sophia did. Thus, no girlfriend.”

  “Did your dad catch you in the actual act?”

  “Uh, yeah, he did.”

  “What did he do?”

  “I think he watched for a couple of minutes. Making sure his eyes weren’t lying. Then he turned and walked away. Slammed the door so we’d know he was there. I was banging her from behind. She tried to get up and go after Dad, but I held her until I finished. She was pissed. He was pissed. And I was pissed because I figured it would be our last time.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yep. Right up until I bumped into her on the mountain over winter break. We had a quickie in the woods, for old time’s sake.”

  Bet that’s something that didn’t come up when Cavin had lunch with her. But this explains a lot. Why he broke up with her. Why he distrusts his son. Why he’s nervous about Eli spending the night here. But the kid wouldn’t dare try to put the moves on me, would he? And Cavin couldn’t possibly believe I’d go for it, could he?

  “What did you say to your father afterward?”

  “I asked what he would have done if a woman like Sophia had put the moves on him when he was sixteen.”

  “And how did he respond?”

  “He called me morally bankrupt. I told him I was obviously a chip off the old block.” The boy, who is a font of clichés, stands. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to take a leak.”

  “The bathroom is—”

  “I know.”

  He slithers down the hallway, straight to the correct room. Strange. When he comes back, wiping his wet hands on his jeans, I ask, “How did you know where the bathroom is?”

  “I noticed it when I came in.”

  Which makes perfect sense. Except I think the door was closed.

  Forty-Four

  That’s going to bother me all night. It’s almost as if he’s been here before. But that’s impossible. I’d straight up interrogate anyone else. But I don’t think that’s the best way to approach Eli Lattimore. The closer I study him, the more thought provoking he becomes.

  He’s smart, no doubt about that. He’s got a great vocabulary, and uses it. Doesn’t always fall back on teen talk, although when he does it’s crude. But he uses that language without apology, and purposefully. He thinks things through before opening his mouth, formulates his sentences to achieve maximum effect. So maybe, if you disregard his looks, he is in reality more man than boy. Which makes the game more interesting, as long as I remember appearances can be deceiving. Oh, and now I’m the wellspring of clichés.

  Don’t judge a book by its cover.

  Boys will be boys.

  The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  The last might be concerning, in the case of Cavin and Eli. However, considering how far this acorn rolled away from her mother tree, I have to feel confident that a child doesn’t always reflect his or her parentage.

  “What are you thinking?” Eli interrupts my reverie.

  “About clichés,” I say without hesitation, taking the easiest route.

  “Like what about them?”

  “Like how they don’t always represent the truth, despite how often people rely on them to do exactly that.”

  “Give me an example.”

  I don’t want to talk about acorns, so I offer this one. “Okay, how about ‘honesty is the best policy’?”

  “Are you saying it’s better to lie?”

  “Not always, but in some situations, avoiding the truth might be the best course of action.”

  “You mean, like if someone asks if you think they look fat.”

  “If it’s someone whose feelings you care about, yes. But I was thinking more like if confiding information might put someone else in danger. Or even if a confession is likely to be detrimental to a relationship. For instance, I’m wondering why your dad didn’t mention your dalliance with Sophia. The only reason I can come up with is that he didn’t want to damage the fledgling connection between you and me.”

  “Has it been damaged?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I do know I’ll never think about you in exactly the same way.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Remains to be seen.”

  “So . . . are you a liar?”

  Generally, I like the direct approach, but sometimes it can be intimidating. “I’d rather rely on the truth. And when it comes to people I care about, I’m almost always completely honest even if that means telling someone they’ve put on a few pounds. Why lie about that? They know what the mirror reveals.”

  “Yeah, well, I bullshit regularly. It’s only bad when you get caught middeception . . . Why are you shaking your head?”

  “I don’t know. You seem to enjoy shock value. The truth is much more conducive to that, in my humble opinion.”

  “If you’re talking about the truth as revelation, then yes, I agree. It’s like dessert at the end of a satisfying meal of deceit.”

  I think I’m glad Eli won’t be living with Cavin and me full-time. I could never let my guard down. “Right up until that last remark, I was going to suggest you become a politician. But they refuse that kind of dessert.”

  “Tell me about it. My mom married one, and diplomats aren’t a whole lot better than your everyday congressman. Anyway, politics isn’t a lucrative career, unless you’re taking bribes. And that doesn’t always end well, does it?” He winks at me.

  The file.

  My file.

  Dirk Caldwell’s discoveries file.

  The file Cavin paid for.

  File.

  The word prickles.

  “I don’t think a decision’s been made in Jordan’s case yet. In fact, I don’t think a trial date has been set.”

  “But he’s guilty, right?”

  “Do you really think I should comment?”

  “Hey, maybe they’ll subpoena you. Then would you comment?”

  “Then I guess I’d have to, wouldn’t I?” The verbal swordplay has grown tiresome. “Would you like another glass of wine? I can open a cabernet if you’d prefer it.”

  “Something bold from your cellar?”

  “How did you know I have a cellar?” That information, I’m sure, was not in my file.

  Eli shrugs. “You mentioned it before.”

  I try to remember our past conversations, but the two glasses of wine I’ve already had have retarded my recollection. Still, I’m pretty sure I never mentioned the cellar to him. Why would I? Suddenly,
I remember Charlie’s words, half whispered into the phone: Glasses and bottles. Like someone has been helping himself . . .

  “Why don’t you go choose a bottle? From the top three shelves, please.”

  He regards me closely, pivots on one foot. “Downstairs, I imagine?”

  It’s a logical choice, considering the definition of the word “cellar.” I nod agreement. “Dug into the hill, through a door in the back of the garage. The switch—”

  “I’ll find it.”

  Eli vanishes into the darkness. “Flip on the light!” I yell after him.

  Last thing I need is for him to go tumbling and break his neck. I hear no noise to confirm such a dreadful happenstance, however. He is gone long enough that he either got lost or is making a careful selection. Finally, he reappears with a decent bottle of Caymus.

  “I’ll open it,” he says, stopping to collect our glasses before carrying the wine into the kitchen. “The corkscrew is . . .” He opens the correct drawer on the first try.

  “Do you have ESP?”

  “No, why?”

  “You just seem to know your way around my house pretty well. And considering you’ve never been here before . . . You haven’t been here before, right?”

  The cork exits the bottle with an audible pop. He waits to answer until after he has brimmed our glasses with rich, scarlet liquid. Then he looks me straight in the eye. “Why would you suspect otherwise?”

  I could drop the whole thing, but then I’d never know. “Apparently while I was staying at your dad’s, someone spent some time here without my permission.”

  “You mean, like a break-in?”

  “Not exactly. My doors are all locked with keypads. Somebody seems to have hacked the codes, along with the security system code.”

  Eli crosses the living room floor in three long strides, hands me a glass, bends to look into my eyes. “And why would you think that was me?”

  “Because it makes more sense than ESP?”

  He smiles.

  But makes no further comment.

  Forty-Five

  I drag myself into Saturday morning, groggy and reluctant to throw back the covers. My covers. My bed. I allow myself the luxury of floating here, cushioned by the familiar, blanketed by an overwhelming sense of everything being right, despite a rather tense moment or two last night.

  Eli and I managed to finish the cabernet on top of the pinot, and stayed up watching some HBO show he claims he’s addicted to. Something about a drug-running vampire, and nothing I’d ever choose to watch. Afterward, I rocked unsteadily to my feet. “My bed is calling to me, I’m afraid. It’s been quite a long day.”

  “Where should I sleep?”

  Even as buzzed as I was, the question felt tainted with obscure connotation. I thought for a minute. “My sister and niece are coming tomorrow, and I’m not sure I want to change guest-room sheets. How about the sofa?”

  “Aw, come on. What if I change the sheets for you?”

  A vague unease descended around me, but I agreed. “I guess we’ve got a deal. You can take the room closest to the stairs.”

  I teetered across the expanse of the living room, fighting the whirl of my head and beaten up by the exercise I’d done earlier in the day. I’d just reached the foot of the staircase when I felt Eli’s hand at my elbow. “Can I help you? You look a little shaky.”

  Thoughts volleyed inside my head.

  Had I watched my wine the entire time?

  I did, and besides, he wouldn’t dare.

  So why was I so messed up?

  Two bottles of wine and not much food.

  Anyway, why would he slip me a roofie?

  Come on. You know.

  Did I need help up the stairs?

  Remember the last time you needed help up the stairs?

  Cavin swept me into his arms, and . . .

  “As long as you don’t attempt to carry me.”

  “Carry you? Who would try such a stupid thing?”

  I didn’t feel the need to share that memory. Eli guided me with gentle hands, and my focus was drawn to the elegance of his long fingers. “You should play the piano,” I suggested, tapping into that well of clichés again.

  He surprised me. “I do. And the guitar, too. I’ll show you sometime if you want.”

  His voice was a warm zephyr at the back of my neck, and heat radiated between us, and for just one moment my inner nymph might have been persuaded to invite him into my bed. But that thought dissolved instantly, along with any perceived attraction, within a sudden cataract of unfamiliar emotion.

  I love Cavin.

  And yes, the word materialized from the ether. Lying here now, I try to decipher what that means. I don’t rush the contemplation, but rather open myself up to possibilities. So this is what love feels like. Powerful. Elemental. And it’s so new that I’m watery about what to do with it. But I refuse to let it go. I don’t dare destroy it, and certainly, veering away from fidelity would crush this devotion like chalk into dust. I’ve mastered impulse control, but this isn’t about proving something to myself or anyone else. This is about accepting a deep human need that I’ve relentlessly closed myself off from. I’m not positive I can manage it, but I’m damn sure going to try.

  I haul myself out of bed and by the time I exit the shower, dripping vanilla-cedar-scented water, I can hear movement beyond the bedroom door. Eli must be up, too. I slip into a springlike floral print dress, hope the day matches my outfit once the morning mist lifts. I actually find myself humming as I head off on my quest for coffee.

  Humming.

  Love makes a person hum.

  Eli has already stripped the bed and is looking for a clean set of sheets in the hall linen closet. “Morning,” he says when he sees me.

  “Morning. How did you sleep?”

  “Great, thanks. That’s an awesome bed. Conducive to dreaming.”

  “Good dreams, I hope.”

  “Excellent. In fact, you starred in one or two.”

  The boy is an expert at making me blush. “You can skip the details. When you finish, would you mind taking the dirty sheets down to the laundry room?”

  “Not at all. But they’re not really dirty. No sweat. No semen.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Wait. You dreamed about me, but you didn’t sweat?” I purposely avoid the other s-word, but the insinuation is clear.

  “I thought you didn’t want details.”

  Touché, brat.

  “I’m going to make coffee. Want some?”

  “Please. Strong and black.”

  “A man after my own heart.”

  “Maybe. Too bad your heart seems to be taken.”

  He turns away, pulls a set of sheets out of the closet, goes to make the bed while I finesse my way down the stairs to the kitchen, wondering about the intent of his words. “Seems to be,” meaning maybe my heart’s not taken? Meaning maybe I’m faking it? Or was it simply an overt reference to wanting my affection? Eli is difficult to decipher, and that concerns me. I’m glad his father is easier.

  I measure dark roast beans into the grinder, pour water into the receptacle, turn on the machine, and while the coffee perks I call Cavin. It’s a weekend, so he should be home unless he went skiing or snowshoeing, or is otherwise recreating. He picks up right away.

  We indulge in small talk for several minutes. My knee. His plans for the day. Watching vampire crime lords last night. I want to ask why he omitted the information about Sophia and Eli, but I choose to reserve the query for a time when the young man in question isn’t around. It doesn’t really matter, except to satisfy my curiosity. When I hear clunking footsteps on the stairs, I decide it’s time to sign off. “I miss you.”

  “It’s only been two days,” Cavin says.

  “I know. Guess I got used to having you around.” Can I test this new ground?

  “Call me later?”

  “Of course. Cavin?”

  “What?”

  Come on. You can do it. �
��I love you.”

  Dead silence on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m still here,” he replies. “It’s just, you do realize that’s the first time you’ve said that to me, right?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve said it to anyone.”

  And now that I’ve uttered the words out loud, I can’t take them back. That feels like complete commitment, which bothers me only a little. Three loveless marriages all ended unhappily. Can love connect two people indefinitely?

  Eli returns from the laundry room and I pour two mugs of strong black coffee. “Breakfast?”

  “Like what?”

  “Omelets? I’ve got scallions and mushrooms.”

  “Sounds good. Can I help?”

  “You know how to cook?” I hand him a carton of eggs, assign myself the task of chopping the vegetables.

  “Sure. Been doing it for years. When you’re left on your own, you learn or go hungry. Mom always was too busy to bother with menial tasks like cooking.”

  More Melissa insights.

  “Your dad likes to cook, though.”

  Eli cracks four shells carefully, empties their contents into a bowl. “Yeah, but he wasn’t around. In fact, even when he was still married to my mom he didn’t hang out at home very often.”

  I spoon butter into a skillet to melt, add the veggies to sauté. “He regrets not spending more time with you when you were little.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what they say about regrets . . .” He pours the whipped eggs into the skillet. “They’re like butt holes. Everybody has them. Besides, it’s a little late to worry about that now, isn’t it? Anyway, talk is cheap, Tara. When it comes to Dad, you might want to remember that.”

  Fair warning. But what does he mean by it?

  Forty-Six

  Eli is just putting on his shoes when Melody and Kayla arrive, each lugging a suitcase. I was hoping he’d be gone. It’s ridiculous, of course, considering our families will be joined in just a few months, but somehow I don’t feel quite ready for the larger merge.

  I offer a quick introduction, observing the way Eli’s eyes crawl all over Kayla, who is dressed in a short skirt and tight scoop-neck tee, revealing plenty of skin from the thigh down and cleavage up. She notices his attention and smiles approval. Mel misses the entire exchange.