Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (7 page)

“We were upset, but we tried to put ourselves in your shoes.”

I twisted my fingers nervously. “Have you ever considered that if you or Sofia had only
told
me Samuel was trying to get clean to save our marriage, I would have held off? Heck, I might’ve been able to help, especially when he had his setback.”

“I’ve gone over it many, many times. In retrospect, yes, I could have handled things differently, and I apologize. But, Kaye, as much as I care for you, my first priority was to my son. It was
his
decision not to involve you. To do so would have opened up a whole new can of worms which, honestly, he wasn’t ready to deal with. And as his father, I had to respect his wishes. Maybe if Sofia and I had dealt with circumstances differently, when he was younger…”

“The damage from his mother?”

Alonso blinked, taken aback. “You know about her?”

“Samuel has been sharing bits and pieces. I could hardly be kept in the dark forever,” I replied, bitterly. “But, Alonso, I was still his
wife—
the papers weren’t signed. You had no right to keep me away like you did. You had to know his judgment at the time wasn’t exactly sound.” I hissed as my head throbbed, and pressed a palm to my temple, forcing the ache back.

Guilt-ridden eyes darted over my pale, scraped face. He tugged his tie loose with a sigh. “With Samuel, I’ve made the mistake of being an overprotective parent. I have a multitude of regrets, Kaye, even things that happened long before you or Samuel were born. In my need to atone, I’m afraid I steamrolled you.”

“Are you talking about your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me about him?”

“No. Not without speaking to Samuel first.”

“But he was your brother,” I argued.

“And he was Samuel’s father,” he said gently.

“Bull. I want answers, Alonso, not excuses.” I again pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead as pain shot through my skull.

Alonso rested a calming hand on my shoulder. “Kaye, enough for today—you’ve had a head injury and you need to rest. I will tell you what I can, only let me speak with my son first. He’d like to be a part of that conversation, I’m certain—he’s in a much better place than he was seven years ago.”

I sighed, knowing he was right…to a point.

Tricia had advised me to take a few days off from work to rest. “Resting” consisted of raiding my mother’s recipe books to find some new dish to spring on Samuel. In the end, I decided to stick with my tried and true summer fare and loaded up on fresh salmon, tomatoes, brown rice, and all sorts of colorful produce and pastries. My entire body was the purple ache of one deep bruise, but I found if I sat for any length of time, stiffness settled into my joints and it was best to keep moving. Light housework proved to be the cure, along with a liberal dose of Advil. My apartment was dust-free and sparkling, I’d aired out a few bed linens, and I’d even emptied my wine rack and stuck the bottles in the cabinet above my refrigerator, ever mindful of Jaime’s snarks about Samuel’s booze-free lifestyle.

At first, Samuel insisted on booking a hotel room in Boulder for his upcoming visit, the two nights we wouldn’t be camping on the grotto trip. I told him that was ridiculous because I had a very comfortable sleeper sofa and wouldn’t he rather spend the night with me? (Whoopsie). He groaned that I was making it extremely difficult to be a gentleman. I laughed, assuring him he’d leave Boulder Saturday evening, virtue intact.

“It’s a little too late for that. You stole my virtue a long time ago, Aspen Kaye Trilby,” he teased. “Just don’t go to any trouble for me, please.”

It took me two full days to finally tell him about the skydiving accident. There were no I-told-you-so’s, no recriminations of Hector. But he was upset. Very upset.

“If you won’t think of yourself, at least consider the people who love you,” he pleaded, his voice edged with panic. “Your parents, Molly, Dani, me. If anything happened to you, we’d be devastated.”

Despite the pain in his voice, his assurance that he’d be devastated if I died was morbidly comforting. “Would you be, Samuel?” I asked, wanting to hear it again. There was a pause, and I immediately regretted asking him to reaffirm something so horrible.

“I’d be wholly destroyed, Kaye,” he whispered, his voice low.

Fear rippled up my spine, triggering a memory of Caroline’s warning:
You’ll destroy him and you won’t even comprehend you’re doing it.

“I’m s-sorry,” I stuttered.

“For what? Upsetting me or skydiving in storm conditions?”

I didn’t know the answer to that, so I simply mumbled, “both.”

That conversation with Samuel grounded me, for a few hours, before I was again caught up in the excitement of his imminent visit.

Just hours before Samuel was scheduled to arrive, I sat across from Cassady at an impromptu lunch as we discussed the whirlwind that was Molly Jones.

“So why haven’t you asked Molly to be exclusive yet?” Ever the commitment phobe, Cassady ducked his sandy head at my direct question, stabbing his fork prongs into an innocent piece of wilted lettuce.

“Believe me, I want to, but the timing isn’t right. With her stepsister not improving and Molly hanging on by a thread, I need to hold off until things get better.” Molly’s stepsister, Holly, had recently delivered a lovely baby girl, but now suffered from debilitating postpartum depression. Her husband was reluctant to accept help, and Molly was doing all she could to hold her family together.

“I call foul, Cassady,” I answered honestly. “Don’t you dare mess around with her heart.”

“I really care about Molly.” He shrugged, and I decided not to push further.

Lately, the abrupt shift my forlorn love life had taken made me overly optimistic. As the crater in my chest steadily filled with all things Samuel, I was convinced that all the world’s problems could be solved with Q-and-As, friendship vows, childhood memoirs, and sweet, sweet humor. The past few days, especially, I’d been floating like Ginger Rogers across the Front Range, counting the hours until my Fred Astaire arrived and swept me off to cloud nine. Then again, it could have been my concussion-addled brain. But hearing of Molly’s struggles with her sister hooked me, and once more, I was reeled down to earth. I set my fork aside and searched Cassady’s face.

“Is Holly really that bad? I had no idea.”

“The depression has gotten worse in the past couple of weeks. They thought counseling and medication was helping—she ate more, slept better, and she started focusing on the baby again. But then she had an episode this weekend, which set her back.” He cleared his throat and reached for his ice water. “She locked herself in the bathroom, screaming and crying that she wasn’t good for the baby and to get her out of the house. Molly was pleading with her to unlock the door. Derek finally got out his toolkit and took off the hinges. It was bad.”

“So now what?”

“Well, her doctor is adjusting her medication and increasing outpatient therapy. If things don’t improve, the only other course is inpatient therapy.”

“Poor Holly. That’s really sad.” Usually inpatient therapy for postpartum depression meant the person was either suicidal or a danger to their family, from what Molly explained. Doctors didn’t like to split new mothers and their babies if they could help it.

“Cassady, if you and Molly don’t feel up to the caving trip this week, I can find a couple of replacements. Santiago and Hector could shuffle their work schedule around.”

He shook his head. “No, it will be good for Molly to get away for a bit.”

When I returned to the office I picked up the pile of mail on my desk and sifted through it, then hit my phone and email messages.

After hearing of Holly’s mental health struggles, the turmoil with Samuel suddenly seemed not so bad—at least we were on the downhill slope after scaling our pile of problems. Yet, with the eeriness of a fleeting bout of déjà vu, panic palpitated in my chest as I recalled pounding on the door of Samuel’s bedroom in New York, just as Derek had pounded on their locked bathroom and cried for Holly. Cried, pleaded, nauseous with the fear and knowledge that we were powerless to save our spouses from the Stygian thing that had captured their minds. I shook off the dreadful memory and delved into my work.

I found Molly in her office later that afternoon, weeping over her file cabinet as if it contained Saint Helena’s holy relics. I had a hunch her visit with Holly had not gone well.

“There’s no
way
Holly and Derek can afford these medical bills,” Molly choked out. “And they’ll only let me help them so much.”

“What about my alimony money?” I reminded her. I’d just received another huge check in the mail last week, this time with a sardonic:
Mickey, In Memorium
in the memo line.

She shook her head. “Derek won’t take it. He’s too stubborn and prideful. I swear he’s in denial.”

“We can try funneling it through a not-for-profit, one that Holly’s center works with. Could they recommend somebody?”

Molly sniffed and blew her nose, dabbing at the mascara running down her cheeks. “I can ask tomorrow afternoon when we take Holly for therapy.”

I soothingly scratched my nails across Molly’s back as her sobbing subsided. “Hey. We’ll do whatever it takes to get your sister better, okay? You and me—right?”

Molly nodded and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Thank you, Kaye. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I was completely furious with Derek for refusing a financial gift that could help his wife get better. Yes, it’s hard to take charity; anyone with an ounce of pride understands that. But would he do it for Holly? His kids? Or perhaps he was frightened to the point where he’d deny the seriousness of Holly’s illness. If I were in his shoes, I’d have a difficult time accepting it, too. I’d want my old life back, before the tears, the suicide threats, the extreme behavior like having your spouse lock herself in the bathroom to keep from hurting your children. I hoped with all my might that Holly’s doctors, and therapy, and medication could work a miracle.

When I left work that evening, I darted out the door, intent on a run to the grocery store for a last minute cake mix before Samuel arrived. I stopped dead in my tracks. A roadster rental was parked along the side street, its engine still clicking and cooling. I squealed, ditching the grocery store plans, and tore around TrilbyJones’s backyard, wobbly heels, pencil skirt and all.

Samuel sat at the top of my staircase, looking utterly delectable in a travel-rumpled dress shirt open at the collar, blinding white against the brown of his neck. He hadn’t bothered with a hat and sunglasses, not caring whether someone photographed him lurking outside my door. His feet were propped on a small carry-on bag and his head rested against the rail, eyes closed. How could he possibly nap at a wonderful, glorious time like this? I squealed again and eyes as clear as ice flew open, then filled with delight as I dropped my satchel and scrambled up the staircase, into his waiting arms. Tight arms wrapped around me and I felt my feet lift from the stairs as he stood and pulled me to him.

“You’re here! And you’re early!” I laughed into his neck. “How long have you been waiting?”

He chuckled. “Just ten minutes. I very nearly stormed your office but I didn’t want to cause a scene. How’s my woman?” He lowered me to the ground and inspected the four stitches along my hairline, his smile turning to a frown.

“I’m fabulous, thrilled, and ecstatic now that you’re here. How are you?” I tried to tug him toward the door, but he held me firm. His lips lowered to my forehead, and he gently kissed the stitches there, then the bruises surrounding them. Lastly, his mouth ducked to mine and he softly, tentatively kissed me.

“I’m relieved to find you in one piece.” Serious eyes met mine. “I mean it, Kaye. Please don’t ever do something that reckless again. The thrill isn’t worth your life.”

It was all I could do not to open my mouth and demand he kiss me soundly, deeply. But I’d set the rules and now I had to live with them, darn it. I sighed, simply enjoying the feel of his warm body.

“Welcome home,” I murmured against his neck, thinking those words would become a lovely tradition. Every time he came back to me, I’d say them.

He smiled and brushed my lips again. “It’s good to be home.”

Chapter 3

Float or Sink

Rising or falling in relation to another vertical diver, when both divers are in free fall.

H
APPINESS
; W
HY
I
S
I
T
T
HAT
we frail beings turn happiness into something so unattainable? Happiness can be as simple as discovering the asparagus you hated as a child is quite tasty once you reach adulthood. It can be a shared, secret smile with a complete stranger in a grocery store line when they place chocolate, strawberries, and candles on the conveyor belt. Being grateful simply for a rain-soaked breeze cooling your face, soft grass under your feet, intricate veins weaving through a leaf. Or reveling in a strong, secure arm around your shoulders and just
knowing
, even though he hasn’t voiced it, that you are completely and utterly loved.