Hydraulic Level Five (1) (20 page)

It was time to loop in my cheerleader-of-a-best-friend.

“So, Cabral really wasn’t behind the café photo? I don’t know if I buy that.”

A flare of static crackled through my phone. Hector was up in the Rockies clocking climb time. “He’s truly not as manipulative as you want to believe, Hector. I wouldn’t put it past his publicist, though—she’s brutal. Although, I can’t figure out how she’d benefit from it.”

“Hmmm. You know what they say: All publicity is good publicity.”

“Maybe. And Caroline does think that…oh man, I don’t know if I should tell you what Jaime Guzman did.”

“Spill, Trilby.”

So I ran through the entire lesbian story, from the moment Samuel and Caroline caught us on our “date” to Jaime going for Caroline’s throat, pausing only to let Hector catch his breath between guffaws.

The evening was balmy. I sat outside on my balcony, swinging my legs between the rails. My Boulder neighborhood was idyllic in late spring. The rustling of hundred-year-old trees. The occasional chirp of a cricket—most likely from my apartment. Charcoal and wood smoke hung in the air, from a family grilling burgers a few houses down. A man and woman pushed a stroller along the sidewalk while two boys on bikes weaved along behind them…

There were the two photographers parked on the street—Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum—presumably waiting for Samuel to swing by and “fertilize my flower bed,” as Molly had put it.
Nope, sorry boys. Just an exterminator tonight.
I gave them an acerbic, friendly little wave. They smirked and waved back. I had a feeling they’d been snapping pictures of Santiago and me at Fisher’s Deli, and I wondered how long they planned to stay here. Maybe they thought Indigo Kingsley would swoop in with her posse of starlets and beat the everlovin’ tar out of me. Something like that would buy their bread for a year.

“Do you think I need to keep on my tux coat for the reception?” Hector asked. “Tuxes in the summer are damned uncomfortable, and I already sweat like a hooker in church.”

I didn’t even know how to respond to that.

“Don’t worry about it. Just support your brother, don’t abuse the open bar, and show your friend with the pathetic love life a wonderful time, as only friends can. I’ll be the one in the aubergine bridesmaid dress, stumbling around in peep toe heels.”

“Kaye, I have no clue what aubergine is, let alone peep toe heels.”

“Eggplant. Purplish, almost brown.”

“Sounds tasty, rawr.”

The corners of my mouth curled. Hector was such a guy.

When Dani chose her wedding dress, she saw it on the rack, pointed to it, and declared, without even trying it on, “I want that one.” The boutique owner didn’t know whether to ring her up or hunt for a hidden camera crew. The dress was tailored to be svelte, with a sash to keep it sweet. It was exquisite and it was very Danita.

My own wedding dress flitted through my mind in a sweep of lace. I’d wanted to have our ceremony on my mother’s front porch. Alonso’s Roman Catholic mother, in Ciudad Victoria, nearly had an apoplectic fit when she heard there wouldn’t be a mass, even though Alonso and Sofia left the Catholic Church not long after his brother’s death. So we’d compromised—ceremony in the old community church, reception on my mom’s farm. Farm meant tea length. My mother and I’d found a lovely tea-length dress with a delicate, daisy-embroidered overlay in a Boulder boutique. It was clean and simple, and suited me tremendously. It had suited Samuel, too. Before wedding pictures, he’d helped me out of Dad’s car near the cluster of quaking aspens. His hand gripped mine, too tightly. So much had been in his boyish face, it was hard to piece apart emotion from emotion. He’d settled on awe.

He’d asked if he could touch me. I’d told him he could. Two trembling hands slowly swept down either side of my dress, fingering the lace, circled my waist. He pulled me to him.
Thank you, Firecracker,
he’d breathed into my skin.
I love you, so much.

My own hands had smoothed over the lapels of his crisp, black tuxedo, strong column of his neck. They’d settled into his half-tamed hair. I’d pulled him down to my mouth so I could speak to him, and only him.
I love you, Samuel. Always have…

So warm, so secure. So close. I shivered, realizing the air had grown cold on the shadowed balcony.

“Kaye? Are you still there?”

My heart twisted. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve been a space cadet, lately.”

“
Mamacita
, we’ll show Cabral you know how to have a good time without him, whether you’re on a skydive or a date.”

“Thank you. We’ll have a blast, I promise.”

“I’m counting on it. Hey! Got a new one: How do you hide money from Hippie Tom? You put it under a bar of soap.”

“Horrible.” But I laughed, in spite of myself. Just then, Molly’s car pulled into my driveway. “Gotta run, Hector.”

Molly had insisted she stay with me, excited to see real life paparazzi. “That cliff-hucker and his tramp Aussie actress are
not
running you out of your own home,” she’d declared earlier, when I called.

Pushing past the cameras in my face, I jogged across the street to meet Molly. She pulled me into a tight hug. Several cameras flashed behind us.

“Don’t say anything at all until we get into the house.” I picked up her overnight bag. “These guys will twist your words around like nobody’s business.”

“Hey, Kaye, is that Samuel’s sister?” asked one of the photogs.

“No, I’m Molly Jones!” she replied cheerily, all but skipping past them. “That’s M-O-L-L-Y, not I-E. I’m Kaye’s hip, indie-stylin’ best friend and life consultant. Be sure to print it just like that.”

“Cripes, Molly, you just had to.”

“Should I goose you for good measure?” Her arm rested on my waist as we made our way back to the house.

I gave her a playful swat on the rear. “That should keep them busy for a while, until the exterminator arrives. I hope you don’t mind crickets.”

“Nope! I have to admit, the crickets were good, almost as good as Mickey-gate. Sam was asked about Mickey and PETA on
The Morning Show
. Oh! I found the Geneva Botsworth interview on YouTube, and I’ve got two bottles of champagne in my bag—no merlot this time—to toast the comeback of the Trilby. Such a fashionable little hat.”

“Ha ha ha. Did you bring your Sharpies?” I tried to sound ominous.

Molly scoffed. “Oh please. Any generic olive oil takes permanent marker out of skin in seconds. Did you and Jaime even play pranks in college? Now, I’ve compiled an entire list of pranks specifically designed to irritate the hell out of Sam…”

And so we settled in for another evening of fancy toasting and YouTube, cataloging everything we’d need for Molly’s prank night to end all prank nights—potting soil, tomato plants, milk powder, icy hot. The exterminator stayed for dinner, terrified to leave and face a barrage of paparazzi questions about whether he was dating me, if he really was a pest control guy, and if Samuel Caulfield Cabral would be furious at him. The poor man didn’t even know who Samuel Caulfield Cabral was.

At some point between the macabre cessation of chirping crickets and making fun of Samuel’s deer-in-the-headlights expression when Botsworth flashed the hand-holding on the big screen, I thought about showing Molly the top-secret dossier. Jaime had copied all of Samuel’s records for me: the poor NYU grades, a public intox charge, the arrest for possession of illegal substances and paraphernalia. (I hadn’t even known about the first two until Jaime showed me the folder, though I wasn’t surprised.) Keeping the file a secret was like a boulder on my back. But I left it in my bedroom, safely tucked in my underwear drawer.

When we crawled into bed at eleven o’clock, a bottle of champagne and an entire block of cheddar cheese later, my courage was armed and fortified for my serious talk with Samuel. I wanted
my
Samuel again, the one with fire pulsing beneath his quiet demeanor…not this cool, aloof Samuel. I knew exactly what I wanted to ask him.

Now it was just a matter of forcing the words from my mouth.

Chapter 11: Undercut

Paddlers should be aware of the dangers in current
flowing beneath ledges, branches, and rocky
overhangs and evade them.

S
AMUEL
W
AS
T
HE
P
ICTURE
of contentment behind the wheel of Cassady’s classic 1973 VW Campervan, a sky blue behemoth named “Betty.”

Okay, not quite contentment. He was a bundle of nerves as he drove the beast west into the mountains, fighting the blinding afternoon sun. His fingers drummed the steering wheel when they weren’t white-knuckling it. He tried to pass it off as jamming to the Elvis playlist I ran through my iPod. Watching my clean-shaven, Italian sunglasses-wearing ex maneuver this epitome of hippiedom around the hairpin curves of steep mountain roads was…well…frigging hilarious.

Betty rarely made it out of the car port of Cassady’s rental bungalow. He biked everywhere because it was A) healthier, B) greener, and C) cheaper. We planned to take the Campervan on our skydiving trip next weekend, and Samuel was entrusted with “stretching her tires” today after a long winter’s hibernation. It was a perfect solution—the paparazzi knew Samuel drove a roadster rental, so Angel arranged for him to take Betty for a spin. (Angel also thought the idea of uptight Samuel behind the wheel of Betty was better than a mini-skirted bowling league.) Betty was decked out in pure seventies wood paneling, burnt orange upholstery, kitchenette, a custom stereo system, and sleepers Cassady kept in immaculate condition. She was his pride and joy, and I was staggered he’d let a stranger drive her. Of course, the Samuel we’d all known was nothing but obsessively responsible, and I’m sure Angel had told Cassady as much.

“You’re certain you don’t mind forgoing the art gallery?” he asked for the third time.

“Like I said, I’ve been there a lot. They’re one of our clients.”

“Right. That’s right.” One of his hands ruffled his thick hair, an all too familiar nervous tic. “The gallery seemed too whitewashed, quiet. I wanted to get outside, see a few of the old haunts.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice afternoon.”

We climbed up Ute Highway, heading to Button Rock Reservoir. It’d been years since Samuel had seen that tucked-away bit of grandeur, and he wanted to pay it a visit before he returned to New York.

“There’s soda in the cooler if you want one,” he offered. “Diet Coke, a ginger ale. A lemonade, too. You still like lemonade?”

“Thanks, but I’m okay. Really.”

A fraught silence settled between us. He’d been all anxious energy since he waved me over to the van parked in the gallery’s lot, and I wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for the old frayed Lyons baseball cap, now tossed in the back seat. I began to regret requesting this face-to-face conversation. Yesterday, our phone call had come so easily, my confidence was boosted tenfold, but actually seeing the soft mouth that formed his words was the difference between Pikes Peak and a paperweight.

Maybe we were trying too hard to be ourselves…or the selves of eight years ago. I gazed at my trembling fingers and tucked them beneath me. It was time to loosen up.

“So…you really need a tie-dyed tee and vintage Levi’s. This whole dark and depressing New Yorker thing you have going is an insult to Betty.”

He smiled, not once diverting his eyes from the road. “I like to think I’m channeling Steve McQueen—you know, the King of Cool?”

My gaze swept over his gray tee and jeans that just hinted at lithe muscles beneath. I ignored the twinge that ran the span of my body. “Doesn’t every man? Besides, the King of Cool drove a motorcycle, not a VW Campervan. You are not Steve McQueen cool. More like…”

“Smokey and the Bandit cool?”

“I was thinking Scooby Doo Mystery Machine cool.” I tapped into my inner ditz. “Jeepers, Fred! This ride has GPS and everything!”

“Let’s split up, gang,” he said in his best golden boy voice. “You go after that ghost while I take Daphne for a ride!”