Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (50 page)

With a last, wistful look, she gestures to the Jeep.

“Girls, I need to hit the road. It’ll already be a late night, and I have to get up early tomorrow to buy my books for class…”

Here we are, Sam. I’ve taken us to the morning you left for New York, and I can’t take our story any further without you. ~Kaye

Day Three of the Great Boston Boogie: that’s what Justin dubbed it, capitals and all.

It was fortunate I called Alonso and Sofia when I did. Not two minutes after that tough talk, my phone rang. It was Molly, telling me she and Danita both received social media links to a video of the Green Monster debacle, and they were flying to Boston.

My hotel room across the street from the hospital became a makeshift command center for the small group doing round-the-clock damage control. Justin and Nat fielded media calls. Patrick bit the end of a pen as he proofed press releases I’d whipped up. In the sitting area, Ace Caulfield quietly discussed Samuel’s misdemeanor charges with Alonso. Danita was on her cell phone in the bedroom, talking to Angel, who had drills this weekend. Molly sorted the flood of cards, flowers, and balloons that made their way up to the suite every half-hour. She’d catalogued them as Family, Celebrities, and Politicians.

“Hey, Kaye, is Terry Francona one of Samuel’s work colleagues? Oh wait, she’s his great-aunt in Baja, California, right?”

“Er, no.
He
’s the Red Sox manager. Why? What did he send?”

“Oh! That would explain the baseball.” She turned the ball in her fingers, puzzling over it as if it were a moon rock.

“Lemme see that.” I took the card and ball from Molly’s hand; the surface was covered in signatures. “Nice. Samuel’ll love this. I’ll make sure one of the nurses takes it to him.”

Molly crouched over a box from my father and Audrey (a peace offering), ripped away packing tape and uncovered bags upon bags of organic snack foods. Dad wanted to ship a box-load of home remedies for Samuel’s “condition”—ginseng, St. John’s Wort, and crystals—but between me and Audrey, we convinced him that the hospital staff knew what they were doing. I promised to see him the minute I was back in Lyons, and that appeased him.

I’d heard his displeasure through the receiver when we spoke two days ago. “I just hope you realize whatever’s going on with him will tie you down, and not in a good way.”

“Dad, please. I can’t do this with you now.”

“This is too big of a commitment, baby girl.”

I tugged at my ponytail in frustration. “Question—why did you stay in Lyons after you and Mom split? Why didn’t you leave, have your great adventure?”

“Oh flower, I wanted to. I just couldn’t leave you behind like that. I know I’m not the steadiest of people, but you needed a dad in your life. Still do, I hope.”

“Do you regret not moving to San Francisco, or Seattle, or someplace more exciting?”

He sounded surprised. “Sometimes. I wanted to study Vedic science at the Maharishi University in Iowa. But I think about your childhood, and how you had a fairly stable home, friends, parents. Then I met Audrey. It was worth the sacrifice. You were worth it.”

“Thank you.” I swallowed, my voice hoarse. “So maybe you can understand that I love Samuel, and if he’ll let me, I want to make a home for him—a real home, not a bunch of old furniture and photos he salvaged from our place in Boulder. He’s worth it, too.”

“Aspen,” my dad sighed, “just try to practice some semblance of self-preservation.”

I hadn’t yet seen or spoken to Samuel since he was admitted to Mass General. With each hour that passed, and each time he turned away visitors, a bit of me wondered if, perhaps, my dad was right. How could I be there for him when he wouldn’t let me set a single toe in his hospital room?

But this morning, I hadn’t left the hospital empty-handed. Just as I signed out on the visitor’s log—exactly two minutes after I’d signed in—a nurse caught my elbow. She handed me an envelope.

“From Mr. Cabral.”

I’d ripped it open with quaking fingers and slid out a single sheet of hospital stationary. Another note. The handwriting wasn’t even his, but the words were, and I’d clutched it with hope:

Kaye,
You’re lovely. I want you. Please wait a few days.

Simple, ambiguous. Still, I got it. He’d asked for a little faith, reminded me not to give up on him or to doubt myself, as he had asked the night he’d uttered those very words at the Valdez bonfire. Like me, he was in uncharted territory and it was scary. If space was what he needed right now, I would bide my time.

A beam of autumn sunlight shifted across the box from Dad when my mother opened the hotel room curtains. She shuffled from foot to foot at the window, her worn overnight bag hanging over her shoulder. She didn’t belong in big cities. Her flight home wasn’t until this afternoon, and I could tell she was anxious to return to her mountain shelter.

I wrapped my arms around her waist. “I don’t know what I would have done without you, Mom. Thank you for helping me.”

She patted my hands. “I can’t help with all this media stuff, but if you need anyone buried under an old farm shed…I can see to that.”

Tempting, but I declined.

We were fighting a fire burning faster than it could be contained. Speculation over Samuel’s disorderly conduct arrest spread swiftly and covered every angle, from drug abuse to nervous combustion. Buitre released a statement—a vague thing about his being treated for exhaustion, blah blah blah. The tabs had bloodhound noses. They saw right through it.

A new rumor surfaced, implicating me in a massive blowup with Samuel at the Boom Boom Room, which led to our alleged breakup and his breakdown. Before long, fans would call for my head and burn my effigy in the streets. The source of the rumor,
HollywoodDays’
gossip blog, was also responsible for the “Friend Behind the Forehead” drivel back in June. Back then, an “unnamed source” had revealed that Caroline had taken a Sharpie marker to Samuel’s forehead before a national talk show appearance. Similarly, this new article, “Hard-Partying Cabral Slugs Ex-Wife’s Beau,” also cited “an unnamed source close to the duo.”

Was the unnamed source Caroline, gearing up for Togsy’s book release? Or did the mag throw a wild dart that happened to land close to the truth? I had no clue.

But when the blog followed with another headline, “Bad Boy Cabral Tortured by Breakup,” and mentioned Samuel’s admittance to Mass General’s psych unit—information that
wasn’t public
—I suspected an inside job.

Just before lunch, I called Jaime.

“I’ve got nothing on your Buitre bastard,” she snapped. “Like I said, he’s covered his tracks. However, I thought you could do a little Nancy Drew sleuthing. Use the oldest trick in the book.”

“And what’s the oldest trick in the book?”

“Stick a recorder in your pocket and goad the hell out of the slimeball next time you chat. See what you come up with.”

I snorted. “I’ll give it a shot. I’d like you to look into something else for me.
HollywoodDays Magazine
has run several articles about Samuel, citing an ‘unnamed source close to the duo.’ I’m fairly certain I know who it is, but I need ammo. Can you find out the name behind the source?”

“I can try.” There was a low murmur on the other end, followed by Jaime’s snerk. “Um, Hector says hi, and don’t let the nurses catch you ass up beneath Samuel’s peek-a-boo gown,” she muttered, and hung up.

I rolled my eyes. Well, well, well, Mr. Valdez. It seemed as though he’d finally cut one of his women loose.

By noon, my mother had left for the airport. Alonso and I were bent over room service salads, silently munching. Each bite landed with a heavy plop in my stomach. His calm, appraising gaze was on me. He was struggling to find a way to broach what needed to be broached—why I’d waited so long to call them. But with the media assault weighing on my shoulders, I think he didn’t want to push.

The hotel door opened and Sofia slipped in. She dropped her purse on the kitchenette counter—the only surface not covered by flowers from well-wishers—and pulled up a chair next to Alonso, burying her face in her hands.

“How is he?” Alonso asked, rubbing her back.

“The same. Still refusing visitors. And since he doesn’t want to see us, the nurses can’t force him.”

“Maybe if Kaye tried again.”

“
Hágalo,
Kaye. Try.” She grabbed my hand, oozing regret and panic as she had since they first arrived in Boston
. Save my son
, her clenching fingers said,
bring him home
.

If only I could.

I pressed them in apology. “I went this morning. He won’t see me until he’s in better shape, and I don’t want to upset him further.”

It stung. It wasn’t logical—we’d all seen him at his worst. Heck, anyone who tuned into WBZ Boston saw him at his worst, clutching that horrid urn, security dragging him away. But I understood why he did what he did. Samuel Cabral didn’t want pity. He wanted his dignity, because he was hard-wired to fix and protect. And to him, protecting meant staying away so he wouldn’t burden us. I think he knew, somewhere in his heavily sedated mind, that we were outside the door, waiting, supporting.

I finished my salad, wadded up my napkin, and chucked it in the trash can. Alonso did the same.

“Walk with me? I could use some air, and it’s been years since I’ve been in Boston. I’m feeling nostalgic.”

That’s right. I’d forgotten Alonso once lived here.

Instead of heading into town, we turned west, toward the Charles River and Cambridge. As we walked, buildings tapered off until all that was left was a wide sky and curling gray water. Bright sailboats flecked the horizon. Gulls swept down, much closer than I preferred, and I imagined they were used to dinner deliveries courtesy of tourists and their half-eaten hot dog buns. Alonso led me over a bridge that crossed the river and opened onto a path. We walked along the waterfront, taking in the breeze and slapping waves, not speaking for a long time.

“Let’s sit,” he said, pointing to a bench. A Harvard row crew skimmed along the river, and my eyes followed their strokes until they rounded the river curve. “My brother—Samuel’s father—used to drag me to the river for a breather when my professors frustrated me.”

“I can see why.”

He smiled down at me with sad eyes, and I vaguely saw Samuel in their beauty. “I am so very sorry for what our secrecy has done to you, Kaye.”

I shrugged. How does one explain to the man once epitomized as the perfect father that he let you down? That it’s tearing you up and flipping your childhood ideals end-over-end?

Somehow, he saw it anyway. “You’ve handled everything admirably.”

“It doesn’t seem like it. I feel as if I’ve failed him.”

“How so?”

I fidgeted with my charm bracelet. “I was too caught up in work, so I didn’t see how serious the situation had become until it was too late, even after his episode in LA. Once is understandable, but twice? I should have called his doctor sooner.”

“This is all very new for you, and you’ve done as best as you could,
hijita
. Deciding how to handle someone with an mental disorder is like going on a road trip with no map and one of those cardboard accordion shades still covering the windshield.”