Hydraulic Level Five (1) (4 page)

Caro, is this what you want in the guitar back-story?
~SC

SC, absolutely. Now I want to hang around podunk Lyons until August, just to catch the music festival (and bag one of those jugglers). A shame we’ll have movie promos by then. A side note—‘Aspen’ seems fascinating, can’t wait to know her better. I have a feeling about this book. It’s different from Water Sirens.
~Caro

Caro, that’s just it—this is not Water Sirens. It’s too personal. I don’t think I’ll even publish this.

SC, darling man, such an artistic temperament.
~Caro

Tears dripped from my eyelashes as I dialed Hector’s number. Samuel had a date for the wedding. Not one of his casual girlfriends, but the type of woman men took seriously. Successful. Ethereal. From what Danita said, Samuel met her at NYU when she worked as a lowly editorial assistant at one of the big publishing houses. But she had connections, passed along his book, and made both of their careers. And, as much as I hated to admit it, she was nice. I loathed her. I loathed him. I loathed the perfect marriage they’d have, the beautiful Hispanic babies they’d make.

Yet, a bigger, better part of me just wanted my childhood sweetheart to be happy.

“
Hola
. Please leave your name and number, and after I’ve doctored the tape, your message will connect you to a terrorist plot and be brought to the attention of Homeland Security.
Buenos dias
.”

“Hector?” I tried to catch my breath between laughs and sobs. “I need you to be my date for Danita and Angel’s wedding stuff. I know you’re already a groomsman but if you’d just pretend to be interested…I’ll do the winter climb on Longs Peak. There, I’ve committed. Love the new message.”

Just as I hung up, the phone rang.

“Hector?”

Silence. “No, this is Molly. You okay? You didn’t come back to the office.”

Sobs won out. “Fricking Caroline. He’s in love with her! He’s bringing her home to meet the family.”

“Whoa. Calm down there, Kaye-bear.”

“Molly, I’m alone with my glory days photo album, a lousy bottle of merlot, and…and I have split ends.” I frowned at a lock of scraggly blond hair, rolling it between my fingers. I bet Caroline didn’t have split ends.

A pause. “Are you drunk?”

“Not enough.”

Another pause. Rustling in the background, followed by a quiet curse. “Okay, on my way up in fifteen. No one should drink alone.”

“Bless you, Molly.” I dropped my cell phone and hunkered down in my broken-in leather chair, photo album still opened to the picture Sofia took after Samuel’s baseball team won State.
“Let’s do the fairy tale—all of it,” he’d proclaimed as he wrapped me in his arms, jersey damp with sweat. He placed his dirty baseball cap on my head. “Only you, Kaye…”

My fingertips smoothed over his boyish face from long ago. We had so much time, then.

I’d always known my last name would one day be Cabral. Alonso and Sofia Cabral were warm, and disciplined, and solid. Church every Sunday. Family dinner every evening. “
Te quiero”
spoken all the time. Not so in my home. My parents didn’t believe in “antiquated traditions” and had something of a common law marriage that ended before I began kindergarten. The final shake-up happened when my hippie father refused to take me to the doctor for a ruptured eardrum, insisting holistic medicine was the better approach. By the time my mom brought me in for treatment, the unchecked, perforated eardrum had rendered me permanently, partially deaf in my left ear. Surgery eventually improved my hearing, but it would never be one hundred percent. There was a huge fight, and my dad moved off the farm.

To be fair, Mom was not the easiest person to live with. She was a reserved organic farmer who cares more about cross-pollination hazards in planting heirloom tomatoes than heartfelt conversation. Dad worked at his girlfriend Audrey’s organic grocery store, and that’s where I spent my weekends. So when I visited the Cabral home, I’d follow Alonso and Sofia with longing eyes and pretend I was their younger daughter.

Then
he
came. Samuel Cabral. He was Danita’s six-year-old cousin from Boston, a quiet, serious little person whose face was grayer than any Latino boy I’d seen and eyes, too blue. Alonso’s brother had died years ago, and now the wife was dead, too. At first I was jealous of the new boy. The Cabrals adopted him, just like that, when I’d put in countless months winning them over. But something about Samuel resonated within me. He was haunted. So sad—like a scolded puppy—and I wanted to fix that.

I knew the circumstances surrounding his mother’s death were horrible because everyone whispered and when I asked, they’d only say, “she died.” Even as adults he never spoke about it,
ever
, and I never pushed. Perhaps I should have pushed.

I tried to be his friend. He shot me down. Then, slowly, he was friendly back. Little things, like standing up to Danita when she teased me or offering to halve his sandwich with me. From then on, he usurped Dani as
mi mejor amigo
.

Playing by St. Vrain Creek. Guitar lessons. Baseball games. Camping trips. Summer Jobs. Prom.

Our first kiss.

First date.

First time.

First marriage.

First love.

First everything, to our detriment.

It was eerily silent in my apartment. I dialed Dani and took a deep breath.

“Danita, print ‘Kaye Trilby’ in your programs.”

I heard Dani sigh. “Oh, Kaye, it’s not that big of a deal. You’re still
familia
. I’m sorry I’m being a bridezilla.”

“No, you’re right—a real friend tells the truth. It’s time to let go, let Sam have his family back. I’m going to the Social Security office tomorrow to fill out the paperwork, then it’s done. I’ll be Kaye Trilby again by the time your wedding rolls around.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Yes.”

Animals…Home and Garden…ooh, another cop show marathon.

“Heck no, Kaye! How drunk are you?” Molly hurried past the marathon and settled on some ghost hunting series.

“I don’t get it.” She took a handful of popcorn. “When they ask ghosts questions and they don’t answer, why do they listen to a million hours of audio footage? Wouldn’t they already know if the ghost talked back?”

I foolishly topped off her glass, then mine. “The voices only show up on tape. See, listen closely.” She turned the television volume up as they looped the audio portion in question.
It’s here. It’s here. It’s here
flashed in the caption.

She squinted. “Sounds like a weak radio signal.”

“Maybe it’s saying ‘Casssssady.’”

That got a rise out of Molly. Cassady Bakke pulled into Lyons in a powder blue VW Campervan a year ago and secured a job at Paddler’s Outdoor Adventures. With his long brown hair, hemp bands, and broken-in jeans, Cassady called himself an itinerant philosopher. I placed my bet on a disenchanted kid from northern Minnesota. But Molly was enamored, and she was a persistent princess.

She pushed back the quilt and stood, only to stumble because it was wrapped around her feet. She staggered to the bathroom for the third time.

If Molly so desired, she’d never have to work a day in her life, but she’d snap like a taut wire if she sat still. Her father was a real estate developer. Her stepmother could sport a cocktail dress like a cougar. She was a waif compared to big-boned Molly, and the witch enjoyed drawing the contrast. The one good thing Molly gained from that woman was her stepsister Holly (of all names) who truly loved my friend.

The ghost hunting grew hokey, so I flipped to an entertainment channel just as a familiar face flashed across the screen.

Oh, you have got to be kidding.

“After a tumultuous schedule in Europe, Indigo Kingsley heads to LA with heart-throb author Samuel Caulfield Cabral. She has just wrapped filming on
Water Sirens,
the movie version of his best-selling book.”

Footage rolled of Samuel and Indigo at the Oscars, Samuel in a dashing tux and Indigo in a flowing buttercup-yellow gown. His hand rested on the small of her back. She was magnificent…platinum blond hair piled high, long silky legs. Was she as broken over Samuel’s new relationship as I was?

“
Sources say the duo is still going strong, though the in-demand author has been seen out-and-about with close friend, Caroline Ortega. Is this a spritely brawl in the making? Maybe we’ll find out in two weeks, when he’ll launch his latest book,
The Last Other
, in Denver, Colorado…”

Growling, I hurled a pillow at the TV just as Molly returned. She looked at me soberly—as soberly as possible—and smoothed the creases from my forehead.

“Oh, Kaye-bear, don’t be sad. You know most of the stuff on those shows is a lie.” I tossed back the rest of the wine in my glass. “He’s thirty now,” she continued gently. “You can’t expect him to be alone forever. What if he wants to be a dad someday?”

I went green and stumbled for the bathroom Molly had just vacated. She ran behind me, tripping over the quilt again.

“Oh geez, wrong thing to say. I’m sorry!” My friend patted my back as I clung to the toilet. “Umm, how to fix this? He’s a jerk! An elitist snob. Their children will be brats. His head is so far up his own —”

“Thanks, Molly, that’s fine.”

“Are you going to…you know?” She made a gagging motion from her mouth to the toilet.

“I don’t think so.” Pulling myself up from the cold tile, I splashed water on my face and steered clear of the mirror. I hadn’t been seriously drunk since college.

Molly scoured the Internet while I lay down next to her, my head spinning. “Frickin’ famous cliff-hucking author.” Molly’s fingers stopped clicking.

“What’s a cliff-hucker?”

“No, no, no, cliff-huck
ing
. Extreme skiing?”

“I like ‘cliff-hucker’ better.”

She hit play on a video, actual footage of skiers hucking off overhangs in Zermatt. I wondered if it was the same ski resort Samuel had stayed at with his mother. I pulled a pillow over my head. “Argh!”

“What’s wrong, pillow-face?”

“Look at me—I’m a basket case. Who in their right mind cries over being jilted so long ago? I wish Samuel could feel this…this cliff-hucking horrible.”

“Cliff-hucking floozy, Caroline.” She pulled the pillow off of my face. “You know what you need?
Revenge
.”

I stared at her dubiously. “I don’t know…”

She shook her head, ponytail swishing back and forth. “No, no, hear me out. Picture this: hot dress. Shiny blond curls. Beautiful legs. Heels.”

“No heels.”

“Heels. You walk—no, sway—into the book signing, all sexy. He’s slack-jawed.
Salivating
for you. Make him forget about Indigo, Caroline, Candy Cane, whoever.”

She had my full attention. “Go on.”

Molly took another swig of merlot and flung her arm dramatically. “You
slam
your book down, lean over the table, get right in his face and say…”

“Sign it, mother cliff-hucker!”

“No!” She doubled over in laughter, rolling off the couch. Then she grabbed my ankle and pulled me with her. “I love you, Kaye. You should stay with me during this book release, until the media frenzy blows over.” She patted my cheek, but missed and hit my nose.

“I love you, too. And I think I might.”

“If you don’t do the whole book-signing scenario, the least you can do is find a date for the wedding.”

I anxiously picked at my thumbnail. “I’ve asked Hector and I think he’ll agree to it.”

Her face softened. “You know, Hector is a pretty handsome guy. And he’s been by your side through a lot.”

“Hector’s a good friend.”

“Have you ever considered he could be more than a friend?”