Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (24 page)

Anger clawed its way up my chest as I really listened to what Caroline said. My face burned. “But it’s stress from your insane schedule that’s made him like this! Why would you do that to him? That’s heartless—”

“Heartless? For years, all that stood between him and a jail cell was my ‘insane schedule.’ Samuel wants his name on the top of the
New York Times’
bestseller list and I can give it to him. It’s the
only
thing he’s let me give him.” Her voice cracked tellingly. “No, I’m not heartless.”

Caroline looked down at her manicured nails, then pointedly at me. “If you had a chance to win back the man you love above anyone else, if it wasn’t too late, would you do it?”

“If it was best for him, then yes,” I said, my brow furrowing. “But what does that—”

“Good,” she interrupted, and threw back another shot. “That poem. For the longest time, I thought Samuel was just waiting for the right woman to step in and fill his books with her pages. But the heart wants what it wants, right? He already had the woman. He just didn’t have her pages.” She pitched the empty bottle in the garbage and gestured toward the door. I guessed that was my cue to exit. But before I could leave, her arm shot out and blocked me.

“I despised you for a long time, Kaye,” she said softly, “even though I knew there was another side to this story. I saw you as the cause of Samuel’s sadness, even before you divorced him. Even before you showed up at my door in New York, looking so lost and pathetic, I hated you.” She met my eyes, and there was that grudging respect again. “But I think, maybe, you could be exactly what he needs. And the odd thing is, I don’t hate you for it.”

She sighed and lifted her shot glass in a toast. “Anyway, that’s that.”

Several days passed and, slowly, acceptance that Samuel had a mental illness seeped into my bones. I walked the well-known halls of my childhood, unlocking doors and peeking into rooms I never knew existed until now. With each new room I explored, I understood so much more about Samuel’s actions. A too-thick wall here, a blocked-up fireplace there…I had no idea what this meant for us, except that everything was about to change.

But as the shock of finding new rooms wore off, other emotions rose. Grief. Guilt. Fear. And so much anger. Anger at myself for my blindness. Anger toward the Cabrals for locking me outside when Samuel needed me. Anger toward Samuel, too. At times, I was so furious, I was this close to kicking in Samuel’s door and railing in his face: quit hiding things from me! Why did you and your family let me believe a pile of lies? Why are you still letting it tear us apart? Then I would breathe and mutter: open me carefully.

I asked Caroline if I could copy Samuel’s poem. She dug into her purse and handed me the laminated card.

“Keep it. It’s yours, anyway.”

Samuel spent those days alone in his hotel room or running. Always running. Caroline and I rescheduled his appearances, telling our colleagues he had a bout of food poisoning. In reality, he’d gone into a creative explosion—I was somewhat acquainted with them, as he’d had them in college. I was sure when he emerged he’d have written something heart-rending and beautiful—yet another tragedy of the beast. I checked on him every few hours to make sure he was shaving, sleeping, eating the room service food I ordered. He’d gaze up at me with shame-filled eyes. My chest tightened each time I passed him. I’d pause and give his shoulder a squeeze. Samuel would place his hand over mine and draw it to his lips. Then it was back to avoidant eyes and fidgeting, flying fingers.

When I wasn’t with Samuel, I read mental health books. Caught up on my TrilbyJones projects. Planned the Lyons benefit concert. I paid a visit to Samuel’s Aunt Lucia and Uncle Carlos (Sofia’s family in Mission Viejo), apologizing profusely that he was too sick to see them.

“You can make it up with a drive along the coast in that gorgeous car,”
Tía
Lucia said, her pleasant face so like Sofia’s. Of course, Lucia passed along Samuel’s “food poisoning” news to Sofia and made her worry. But honestly, I was so incensed with my surrogate
madre
, I didn’t care.

I also toured LA with Justin. He was a breath of fresh air, with thumbs ups and goofy grins that would melt the PBR-soaked heart of any hipster.

“Did you know the Santa Monica Pier is celebrating its one-hundredth anniversary?” I read from my tour book as we sauntered along wooden planks crusted with sea salt, past caricature artists and whimsical amusement rides.

“Uh, yeah. If you’d get your head out of that book and actually look at the pier, you’d see banners all over the place that say ‘100 Years of Summer Fun.’”

“Right.” I tossed the book in my beach bag and adjusted the straps of my sundress. The Pacific Ocean was warm and sunny. If I closed my eyes, the roar of surf sounded like strong winds cutting over my mountains. I felt a pang of homesickness, and this time it showed.

Justin tweaked my floppy straw hat, his eyes sparking. “You are a beautiful woman, Kaye. I mean it.” I ducked my head, taking a great deal of interest in my snow cone.

“Justin…”

“If I were a straight man, I’d do my best to steal you from Cabral right now. You’re too pretty to go to waste.”

I smiled, not caring that my teeth and tongue were stained pink by cherry syrup. “Thank you for showing me LA.”

“He’ll come around,” he said kindly.

On Thursday, Samuel went to his doctor’s appointment with Caroline and flipping left me behind. While the man who supposedly loved me sat in a mental health specialist’s office with another woman supporting him, I took out my fear and fury on a rock-climbing wall.

What if something bad has happened?

He’s safe at the doctor’s office.

He should have asked me to go instead of Caroline. (Tighten your grip on the belay rope…Hoist…)

If you’d asked to go along, he would have said yes. He loves you.

If he loves me, why won’t he trust me? (Wedge your foot onto the notch…steady…)

He trusts you. He doesn’t trust himself.

But he’s never actually said “I love you” since he returned, has he? (Hoist…strain for the next notch, now hold…breathe…)

No, he hasn’t. But neither have you.

How can I possibly risk telling him? (Careful…you don’t need any more broken bones.) He’s the one keeping secrets, not me.

He’s a man, Kaye. He’s scared to tell you because he doesn’t want to seem weak. Remember, on your camping trip, you said you weren’t strong enough to be with someone who is mentally ill. What was his reaction?

He was shaken, badly.

He doesn’t want to burden you…not seven years ago, not now. It may not be right, but that’s how he is.

True. (Wedge your foot again…) Yet he asked me to put my career on the line for him without telling me his secrets. Isn’t that burdening me?

His judgment is clouded.

That’s another thing—how long has his judgment been clouded? Since April? (Tighten your grip on the rope…Hoist…) What if he comes back from the doctor completely normal and he realizes he doesn’t really want me back?

He loves you.

Which
he,
though?

With an angry cry, I sobbed against the wall, just once. I clung to the notch under my fingers to steady my teetering body. Then I took a deep, determined breath, and continued upward.

When I returned to the Roosevelt Hotel after my climb, sweaty and aching from exertion, I found a happy Samuel. He beamed at me, exuberant and carefree, and I didn’t know whether the doctor had stuck him with pure sunshine or if this was yet another symptom.

“How was your ‘studio meeting?’” I asked acidly.

Samuel’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and there was that unnerving look, as if he could see right through me. “Productive. I think we got to the bottom of some things.”

“You and Caroline?”

“No, I went by myself. I took a cab.”

“Oh.” Flaming monkey. I’d spent the entire morning freaking out over Caroline for nothing. “I would have come with you, you know.”

“You wanted to go?”

I nodded.

His entire face unclouded again and his mouth curled. “Then come with me now.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the elevators.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

I pulled back and gestured to my Spandex shorts and ponytail. “Er, Samuel, I’m a sweaty mess.”

“I don’t care. Unless…” He halted and frowned. “Did you have plans with Justin instead?” His voice carried that same smidge of jealousy I heard when he spoke of Hector, and I knew to tread carefully.

I poked his shoulder. “Nope. I’m all yours.”

He grinned. I let him lead me to the elevators, through the hotel, and out to the Bentley rental. But when he began to climb into the driver’s seat, I acted quickly. If he drove in his current mood, we’d be dodging highway traffic at ninety miles an hour.

“Can I drive?” I begged. “I’m loving the Bentley, and I probably won’t get the chance to drive it again.”

Samuel grandly stepped back and held the door open for me. I slid in and prayed I wouldn’t knock off someone’s side mirror.

We cruised south on Interstate Five, back toward Santa Ana. The top was down, and the wind noise made conversation impossible. Still, Samuel babbled on and on about the dashboard features—I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he pointed to different buttons.

“Where are we going?” I shouted over the roar.

“Newport Beach!”

My mouth fell open, then snapped shut as wind rattled my cheeks. “That’s all the way to Mission Viejo! Your aunt will kill you for not visiting!”

“What?”

“
Tía
Lucia!”

His eyes widened. “Shit! I should see her!”

“Maybe next time!” I smiled at him and kept my eyes locked on the road, hoping he wouldn’t see pity there.

An hour later, as we exited the interstate, I asked him where I needed to go. His lips quirked and he turned to me, handsome and wind-ruffled, eyes shielded by sunglasses.

“I’m buying you a Bentley.”

Sweet mother of Tom. I slammed the breaks before I ran a stoplight. “No! Oh no, no, no, no, no!”

“Come on, Kaye. Let me do this for you as an apology for being such a beast last week, and to say thank you for all the crap you’ve put up with. I don’t want to lose you over this, I’m so goddamned petrified you’ll leave me when I love you so much, so I was thinking, instead of flying back to Denver for Rocky Mountain Folks next week, we could get away with several extra days of vacation since everyone believes I have food poisoning, and road trip. Think of all the amazing views! Vegas, the Grand Canyon, the mountains, we could even stop along Route 66 at one of those old kitschy diners, and we could do Leadville again, that old West saloon? It’s supposed to be haunted…”

I don’t know how I held back the tears. My knuckles whitened against the steering wheel.
No, please don’t tell me you love me. Not like this, not now.
His face was bright and innocent and happy, and it made me want to weep.

“Why are we going all the way to Newport Beach for a car?” I asked, swallowing down the lump in my throat. He went on about how he’d seen a television spot for a Bentley dealership that was having a back-to-school sale (only in Orange County, I swear). I was so caught up in my thoughts, when he placed his hand on mine briefly, it freaked me out.

“Hands off!” I screeched, grinding the steering wheel, and he flinched away, remorse spilling off of him in torrents.

Then I felt guilty, so…I let him buy me a car. Not a Bentley. At the dealership, I talked Samuel down from his luxurious aspirations to a used BMW convertible for twenty-five thousand. (The salesman, of course, was no help. I paid the guy three hundred dollars to shut his wheel-dealing trap and follow us to the Roosevelt in the BMW.) Whenever Samuel came down from this episode, I’d give him the car and he could either sell it or keep it in Boulder to use when he moved.
If he moved.