Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (35 page)

My lips quirked—Samuel and his poetry. For him, musing over the Romantics was akin to breathing, it came so naturally. If I tried, I’d sound like a haughty snoot.

“So, which bench do you sleep on?”

He laughed. “None of these. My apartment building is across that grassy stretch—see the archway?—then down a set of stairs. This is a roundabout way to get there, but I couldn’t wait to show you the park.”

We walked in silence. Suddenly, Samuel dragged light fingers along my spine and I jumped. His face was full of apology.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you about my meds. It was a fair question.”

I waved him away. “It’s okay. I’m not your parent.”

“I’m trying to be more open about it.”

“I know.”

He rubbed the knuckle of my ring finger, squeezed it, and let it go, his face twisted in defeat. It made me sad. No, no defeat, Samuel. Look how far we’d traveled on this third road. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have even known to ask about the meds.

I watched him shuffle the package between his arms. “Speaking of being open, are you going to tell me what’s in that thing?” I nudged him with my elbow. “Did Ace bring you a bust of Ted Williams?”

“Um…no. It’s an urn.”

I cocked my head. An urn?

“It contains my mother’s ashes.”

I pivoted so quickly, my purse swung off my shoulder. “You’ve been carrying a cremation urn all afternoon? Your…y-your mother.” My hands flew to my mouth as I eyed the package that contained the earthly remains of Rachel Caulfield Cabral. “I wish I’d known. Oh Samuel, I’m so sorry.” I had no idea what to say, so only awkwardness spilled from my mouth. “We should have taken the taxi so you didn’t have to carry them—her—onto the subway. What if you’d been robbed?”

He shrugged. “Then some thief would be sorely disappointed.”

“Where did it—she—come from?”

“Ace’s relatives came across them in the family home. He called and asked if I wanted the urn. I guess no one else did.”

“That’s really heartbreaking.” Sorrow for Rachel Caulfield Cabral crept into my chest, in spite of myself. I eyed the morbid box as we descended the park stairs into the neighborhood below.

He was right—the bottom of the bluff was a different world of Art Deco and fire escapes.

“Is it legal to fly with remains?”

“I don’t know. Ace took his family’s private plane. Here’s my place.” He stopped in front of an eight-story façade with awnings. I noticed he refused to refer to the Caulfields as his own family. I knew he’d never cared about them, but his omission was so deliberate, it was almost passive aggressive.

As he collected his held mail from the doorman, I took in the lobby. Cracked tile floors, mint walls—nothing like the gentrified East Village brownstones. According to Samuel, Inwood suited him perfectly, unlike the “bohemian” neighborhoods south of 14th Street. I jokingly called him a snob. Yet another dichotomy of Samuel Caulfield Cabral, formerly of Lyons. He turned up his nose at pretension, but kept his own secrets and failings guarded beneath a veneer of flawlessness.

“So, what are you going to do with the urn?” I hedged.

He sighed. “No clue. I’d rather not talk about it anymore.”

Yes, Samuel’s head needed some serious
fêng shui,
but like he said, he was trying. Open him carefully…I fingered the laminated poem in my purse.

There was nothing more I could do for Samuel right now, and frankly, he didn’t want me to. I wrapped my arms around his middle and murmured a last “I’m so sorry about your mother.” Then I promptly collapsed into the first bed I was steered toward, where sleep came to collect.

Mmmm, soft bed. Beautiful, cozy bed. A very nice smelling bed.

Then why was I yanked from its bliss?

I burrowed into the right side, but my body slid to the left, where the mattress sagged. How funny that, after years of sleeping alone, we both preferred our respective sides of the bed. I savored the warmth of the familiar quilt, almost positive it was the comforter we’d had on our bed in Boulder.

Actually, this
was
our bed from Boulder.

And wasn’t that the armchair we’d salvaged from a university Dumpster?

I didn’t know when or why Samuel had acquired our ratty old stuff, but I vaguely recalled asking Sofia to get rid of it when she helped decorate my place above TrilbyJones. My heart hammered in my chest. If Samuel’s pilfering of our rag-tag furniture wasn’t such a testament to our obsession with the “glory days,” it would have been sweet.

As I hovered just above dreams, I heard it again—Samuel’s low voice. He was talking to somebody in Spanish, but the door muffled most of his conversation and my bad ear didn’t help. I strained to hear and translate.

“…we’re staying in the city for now,
sí
…I don’t know how long…No, it’s fine,
Papá
…”

It was Alonso on the phone. A sudden pang of fear twisted my gut. What if Alonso flew to New York again? Would he try to force me out? Send me home? My fingers fisted around the comforter. Well, I wasn’t going without a fight.

Dragging the quilt with me, I rolled from the bed and pattered to the doorway, my feet cold against the oak floor. I peered into the softly lit living room and saw Samuel beyond the sofa, his lilting Spanish words echoing through the vaulted ceiling. A brown grocery bag sat on the counter, abandoned for the phone. He’d gone to the store while I slept. I pulled the blanket around me like a cape and watched him. One hand clutched his cell, the other gripped the fireplace mantle, where his mother’s urn now rested.

“…I said it’s fine, you and
Mamá
stay in Lyons. We can handle this on our own.”

My fingers slowly unclenched. Samuel told them not to come. He wanted to face this
together
. Was it wrong to feel giddy?

“…Yes, she’s okay. Sleeping right now, it was a long day…She is staying here, not a hotel. We’ve been married,
Papá
, it’s not as if…”

A frustrated grunt, and then, “…I told you, no more episodes…
Yes
, I’m still on my meds…Well, if I sound irritated, it’s because I am irritated.”

I shifted, and the floor squeaked beneath my feet. Samuel’s head shot up. His troubled face softened, and he beckoned me into the room. I crossed quickly and wrapped my arms around his waist.

He switched to English. “I’ll talk to you later. Give my love to
Mamá
. Tell her not to worry.” He set his phone on the mantle, then folded me into his arms.

“Did you have a good nap?”

“Yes. Almost like I was in my own bed,” I hinted.

“I liked our old bed—sue me.” Samuel laughed quietly. “It’s actually the only bedroom in this place. But honestly, if I had a guest room, I still would have put you in my bed.”

Because I belonged there, on the right side. “Your father thinks it’s wrong that I’m staying here with you, doesn’t he?”

“He’s more concerned than anything. But I think he understands the unorthodox position we’re in.” It was odd, not feeling as though the eyes of Lyons were upon me. The seclusion of Samuel’s New York haven was freeing. Here, we were only answerable to God. I nipped his chin and he smiled down at me.

“A Berkshire courier dropped something off for you,” he said, holding up a package. “It’s marked urgent.”

“Oh!” I took it from his hands and ripped it open. Out slid a freshly printed copy of
BrownStoners: A Houseful of Famous Pens and Crack Pipes
. Thank you, Robin.

“I’m not even going to ask what you had to do in order to pry that from their hands.”

“Nothing illegal. At least, I don’t think so.”
Only unethical
. I cringed. “But I should warn you, Lexi’s PA now believes you’re the devil incarnate. The next time you see Robin, he/she might douse you with holy water.”

His eyebrows shot into his hairline. “He/she?”

“I wasn’t sure,” I admitted and handed him the book.

“Robin’s a man.” Ha, I knew it.

As he flipped through the pages, I scanned his apartment. Like Fort Tryon, this small space suited Samuel. Sofia’s handiwork was everywhere—warm colors, iron accents, even a few scented candles that had never been lit. There was a digital piano I’d never seen before, and he’d placed our guitars next to it. Mixed in with newer pieces of furniture were our flea market finds from Boulder. The woven screen we’d used as a room divider now separated the living room from an office space. The mismatched end tables I’d sanded and painted blue were tucked against either side of Samuel’s sofa. There was the stained glass floor lamp I’d mooned over at an art festival. Samuel had returned the next day and bought it for me, despite his measly copywriter’s salary.

I now knew he’d never touched his inheritance, not even to buy me things. But I was glad he hadn’t—we didn’t have much money then, but our resourcefulness made for some beautiful memories.

I slipped from his arms and ran my fingers along the intricate lamp shade. Its soft glow flecked colors across an array of framed photos. I studied them and saw they, too, were from the studio apartment. Two children clinging to their fathers’ necks…making fish-faces at the Denver Aquarium…Samuel with a baseball bat slung over his shoulder, me in an oversized jersey that hit my knees. Even the picture of Samuel’s graduation I’d found in his Lyons bedroom now rested on one of the end tables—its original home. Next to it was a five-by-seven of—gulp—our wedding.

A lump formed in my throat. The only way I hadn’t drowned was to hide my photo albums beneath the dust ruffle of a new bed, surrounded by new things…albeit, in a familiar city. Samuel had done the opposite. He’d surrounded himself with familiar things in a new city.

Samuel answered my unasked questions. “Mom put our old things in storage for me. When I finally got my own place, I had it shipped to Manhattan.”

“It must have cost a fortune to ship. Much more than it’s worth.”

“It was worth it.”

I felt his warmth behind me. His fingertips grazed my neck as he pushed my tangled hair over my shoulder. I dragged my palm up his forearm and circled his wrist, cuffing him to me. A thought flitted through my head—I hadn’t seen the Rolex Caroline gave him for a long time, not since he left Lyons after Danita’s wedding.

“It must have been awkward when you brought a date over,” I whispered. “Can’t really pass the gal in those photos off as your sister…especially the wedding picture.”

“I’ve never brought a date here,” he murmured.

“What about Caroline?” I blurted, then internally smacked myself when his hands froze.

“Caro’s been here before, but not as a date.” I felt his scowl turn into a smile against my neck. “She was seconds away from calling my psychiatrist. Quite an image, isn’t it? The tortured writer, alone, save for the pictures of his past. The last remnants of love, a dusty shrine hung upon his wall for all posterity…or the next tenant, at least.”

I turned and gave him a wry grin. “Good grief, are you a writer? I never knew.” Trailing a finger down his chest, I hooked it under his belt. He flinched, but in a good way. “So, tortured writer. Think you could scrounge up some dinner in this dusty shrine, or do you only live on purple prose?”

His eyes widened at my mocking and he answered me with a bruising kiss that, I swear, made my lips go numb.

He always did know how to make me shut up.

Samuel got the first crack at
BrownStoners.

A small television mounted above his dresser quietly aired reruns of some low-budget sci-fi show, but he was engrossed in the manuscript resting against his thighs.

Clutching my bath towel around me with one hand, I tried not to steal glances at his shapely torso as I dug through my suitcase, hunting for my camisole and sleep shorts. I found them at the bottom and dangled them from my fingers, frowning at the wrinkled mess.

He watched me with murky eyes.

Okay, so I was a bit of a tease. I couldn’t help it—his silent attention made me feel sexy. I shimmied into my night things, my shyness long forgotten.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

I lifted an eyebrow and tied the drawstrings of my shorts. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I’d have dropped the towel.”

Placing the book on his nightstand, he patted the bed. I climbed into his lap and gently kissed his lips. “It’s after midnight, Samuel. I know we’re still on West Coast time, but we really should try to sleep.”

“I should have put you in a hotel,” he groaned. “This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

I bit my lip, stifling my laughter. But it broke through anyway, and peals echoed through his apartment until tears blurred my sight. Samuel tossed me off his lap.

“And now you’ve killed that too, cruel woman.” He stretched his arms over his head then fumbled for the TV remote while I pulled the lamp chain.

It never was truly dark here, in the city. I settled against Samuel’s chest and absently toyed with his chest hair. It was quiet, save for the rumbles of cars and an occasional heavy bass blaring from cracked speakers. A cool breeze wafted through the open window and blew across our faces. It wasn’t a Midtown penthouse, but Samuel’s apartment still had an unreal view of the George Washington suspension bridge spanning the Hudson. At night, its lights glowed against the water like Christmas strands. Ripples pulsed with Latin beats floating down from northern blocks, and they lulled me. I could get used to gazing at the city with Samuel sprawled beneath me as I fell asleep.