Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (55 page)

Ah, here it comes—Ace told me to watch for this.
Competitive pricing was not illegal. But bad-mouthing was.

I subtly shifted my jacket sleeve, hoping the tiny recorder picked this up. “That sounds a lot like trade libel, Jerome. Are you saying you’d actually go to my clients and intentionally damage TrilbyJones’s reputation if Mr. Cabral fires Buitre?”

“Take it as you will. Don’t think we haven’t done it before and gotten away with it. Most companies fold because they can’t afford the legal fees. Bottom line: If Cabral walks, TrilbyJones is done.”

Got it.
I smiled sweetly, now completely in charge.

“Wow, extortion, too. I think we could afford the legal fees, Jerome. The same man who pays for your PR services also signs my alimony checks.”

Jerome loosened his tie, and I could tell he was losing his tight control. Time to throw down the ace. I steeled my trembling hand, then leisurely slid the tiny digital recorder from my sleeve and placed it on the table between us, red record light still blinking.

His pasty complexion became angry and mottled. He slammed two fists onto the Formica in an indulgent fit, knocking the Red Sox coaster off the table.
Nice try, but you don’t scare me, neutered pit bull.

“You go after TrilbyJones—” I coolly picked up the coaster and placed it in my purse “—and I’ll screw you over with this little bit of damning evidence.”

And then Jerome snatched the recorder from the tabletop before I could pocket it. He dropped the device on the ground, beneath the table. There was a metallic crunch, and I guessed he’d ground it under his heel.

“Your case just got a lot harder to prove, Ms. Trilby.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Buitre, you’ve forgotten the golden rule of crisis management: always have a Plan B.” I cleared my throat, and Beacon Hill Bluefish man turned. “Did you get everything, Ace?”

“Sure did. I’ll upload a copy after I finish my beer.”

Jerome whipped around, just as Ace Caulfield rested his arms on the booth divider and twisted his little league ball cap, revealing a microphone taped on the underside of the brim. “You’re just racking up the charges, there, Jerome. Slander, breach of NDA, trade libel, extortion. And now destruction of property.” He tapped his mic. “You can smash this puppy, too. The entire recording is already saved to six separate servers in secret sites.”

“Nice alliteration, Mr. Caulfield.”

“Thank you, Ms. Trilby.” I may have disliked the Caulfield family on principle, but I sure loved Caulfield Law Firm right now. Corrupt as Boston politics, but a boon when they worked for you.

Jerome sneered. “Illegally recorded conversations don’t hold up in court.”

“No, but it won’t be pretty if it’s broadcast by the national media. The Firm’s done it before and gotten away with it.” Ace tapped the side of his nose. “I can see the headlines now.”

I snapped my fingers. “‘
Water Sirens
Author Hosed by PR Tycoon.’”

“‘
Water Sirens
Author Hosed by
Former
PR Tycoon,’” Ace countered.

“Nice. Oh! Even better, ‘
Water Sirens
Author Hosed by Former PR Tycoon,
Seeking Damages.
’”

“I like it.” Then Ace stared down Jerome, all business. “Plain and simple—if you follow through on your threats to Mr. Cabral, TrilbyJones, or anyone connected to Mr. Cabral or TrilbyJones, those actions
will
hold up in court. Extortion’s a criminal offense.”

“And I bet you don’t want to spend the next few years behind bars. I doubt they serve
Lafite Rothschild
, even in white-collar prison.”

Jerome’s eyes widened with rage. His fists wrapped around the stack of magazines, and it was then I noticed how tellingly sweaty his palms were. You and me both, buddy. I stood and flipped up the hood of my rain slicker, scattering drops across the table and Jerome.

“Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your business. Don’t forget to sign those termination papers.” I’d decided I probably shouldn’t be around for the discussion that would go down between the two. Better to have fewer witnesses.

“We can do that now, if it’s convenient.” Ace grinned, sliding into my vacated seat and taking command of the helm.

I practically skipped from the restaurant despite the thunderstorm. Frickin’ Nancy Drew, now
that
was a rush. Despite its crazy fans and BS-slinging seagulls (and politicians), I really loved Boston.

Day Sixteen of the Great Boston Boogie: Check-out.

Danita was the first to leave, because Angel was living on Cheez Whiz and Chicken-in-a-Biskits. Justin left for New York not long after, followed by the O’Malleys’ return. Alonso, Sofia, and Molly flew out that morning, and now, only Samuel and I remained.

We spent our last few days in Boston, Samuel tracing his past from Beacon Hill to Fenway Park, my hand in his as we trekked across harbor city blocks and hailed cabs. When we gazed up at his old family seat—a discreet yet imposing row home on the south slope—I asked him if he wanted to knock. He shook his head. “I think I’ve effectively closed that door,” was all he said on the matter.

We had a direct flight to Denver in three hours. But before we left Beantown, there was one final stop on Samuel’s early childhood tour: the hotel where his mother died.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked as our taxi drew closer to the grim behemoth that haunted the dark side of his writing.

“Yes. I’ve given this too much power for too many years. I think, once I see it again, it won’t grip me so tightly.”

We sat on a bench outside the momentous place, long since converted to luxury apartments. It was towering and white and classy, encased by a wrought-iron fence and shrubs shaped to perfect cones that cast long shadows against an otherwise sunny day. We’d tried to enter the lobby, but the chandeliers, marble, and sky-mural ceilings were the same as they were twenty-four years ago. It freaked Samuel out, so we stayed outside. Silent. Staring at the sidewalk. With an urn between us.

“I’m going to take her remains to Zermatt.” His long, slender finger traced the porcelain lid.

“Why Zermatt?”

“Somehow, I don’t think she cares anymore whether she makes it to Fenway Park. I know it seems strange, but our ski vacation to Zermatt is a good memory. I want to remember us in that ski lodge with wind-burned cheeks, eating room service hamburgers and watching cable TV. I love that version of her. I like to think if someone had been there to help her, to understand her mind…”

“You were just a little boy. It’s not your fault she died.”

I squeezed his hand. He smiled at me, but his eyes were fogged in sadness.

“And what happened at Fenway Park wasn’t your fault, either,” I added. “It was nobody’s fault.”

He said nothing for a long while. Then he simply stood, tugged my arm, and we left.

As our plane soared over the earth, quilted farmland gave way to jagged mountains peeking through banks of clouds. Soon, the ice of the fourteeners sprawled in the distance. I longed for their summits—that rush of strength, even as my body wearily hauled itself into the snow-filled bowl at the top of the world. I pressed my fingers to the glass, sure I could ease them through the window and skim them along the mountaintops.

Samuel stiffened beside me. He ground his jaw, refusing to look at me or the mountains. He was irritated. But I could see fear behind the irritation. I didn’t know what to do, so I took his hand in mine, playing with the blunt ridges of his fingernails until we landed.

We hadn’t asked anyone to meet us at Denver, because there was no real itinerary we followed—leave when we’re ready to leave, stay if we need to stay. It was dark when we lumbered out of a cab and into our hotel near the downtown. The Broncos were home, so everything was booked, save for this shabby bit of history in Capitol Hill. Its radiator heat hissed half the night and its old-fashioned door chains conjured up bad horror films from the fifties. But a soak in my room’s claw-foot tub made up for the creep factor.

Samuel knocked on my door an hour later, and we ducked into a claustrophobia-inducing elevator that had no business boasting a capacity of six.

The hipster manning the front desk recommended a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant across the street. I was so hungry, I would have eaten one of my father’s nasty blender concoctions. But the restaurant was far from blueberry sludge.

I hummed over my noodle bowl. “This is quite possibly the best fish sauce I’ve ever tasted. How’d we not find this place when we came here for concerts?”

Samuel wasn’t listening to me gush over the food. He only picked at his salmon, lost in his head. Finally, he raised heavy eyes.

“Help me understand.”

I quirked a questioning eyebrow.

“Longs Peak.” He waved his hand. “Actually, this entire fixation. This summer, you told me you used extreme sports to fill a hole left by the dissolution of our marriage. But we’re together again. So why do you still need to do this winter climb?”

I took a minute, trying to answer him honestly. “I have this…this
drive
within me to conquer. I guess it’s no different than an artist’s need to paint or a writer’s need to write.”

“Why not do something safe? You love your guitar.”

I shook my head. “Music’s always been
our
thing. But this is all mine.”

“And Hector’s,” he muttered.

“No, it’s mine.” I thoughtfully gnawed the end of my chopstick. “I think it’s because I feel strong when I’m tackling wild places like mountains and rivers. Less of a feeble little girl, unable to stand up against life’s hard hits. It reminds me that I’m not…well, not Aspen.”

A shadow passed over my thoughts as I remembered how much I’d hated her for coming between Samuel and me when we’d had sex the night he was manic. If the same thing ever happened again, I’d be devastated. But wasn’t it bound to recur, or something like it? Pain wrenched through my gut and I wrapped my arms around my middle to hold it at bay.

“What is it?” he asked, apprehensive.

My words were hoarse as I talked to the tabletop. “The night before the party at Boom Boom, the night we…you thought I was the Aspen in your book. I know you don’t remember it, but I do. Samuel, I felt so helpless when everything I tried couldn’t keep you with me, like I failed some test…”

He saw where my mind was going and ran two frustrated hands through his hair. Then he breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and released the air with a whoosh. “Kaye, I don’t know what more I can do to make you believe that when I say ‘I love you,’ I’m speaking to the woman in front of me, right now. You are not some remnant scrap of a seven-year-old’s security blanket. I
love
you. And you have not
failed
me. If anything…” He shoved his water glass out of the way and grasped my hands, beautiful eyes seeking mine.

“You are extraordinarily strong. But the only time you’re one-hundred-percent confident in your strength is when you’re taking risks. Tell me what I can do to make you feel that way about me, too,” he begged.

I watched how hard he struggled to keep his composure—twisted clammy fingers around mine, squinted his eyes then blinked owlishly—and I realized he was still quite edgy. It was thoughtless to put him through unnecessary anxiety over my mountain climb. Mother of Tom, the independently functioning woman in me wanted to thrash my behind for letting this thing, this illness, rule me. But the loving woman in me understood I shouldn’t climb Longs Peak, not right now, not if it did this to him.

I gently traced a thumbnail over his knuckles. His eyes flew to mine, and I let him see my concession there.
I will give this to you
, I silently told him, drawing in his arm,
if it will make you happy.

He held my gaze a long moment, and then let his head fall back, groaning.

“Truth, Kaye. Can you be ready for the climb by November?”

“I…yes, if I put time and energy into some day-hikes. But what—”