Strings Attached (17 page)

To Jeremy, time was like speeding down a two-lane highway; the approaching days crawled toward him like distant cars in the opposing lane—growing imperceptibly from minute specks until they whizzed by in life-size blurs, then disappeared forever.

And autumn waned. Even before Thanksgiving, he noticed how the crowds of beachgoers shrank as the successive Saturdays grew colder, and the usually teeming parking lots along the highway emptied to become chevron-striped rectangles from Venice north to Oxnard. From his balcony, he watched the brilliant blue November skies battle, then surrender, to December’s gloom. The landscape faded into the likeness of an old photograph: the once-supple beach grasses became strawlike; even the clay-colored cliffs paled beige above their assault from the charging waves. And summer, to Jeremy, seemed a century away.

He’d dragged his desk next to the French doors in order to labor through his never-ending homework pile in view of sea and sky. From his chair, he marked the passage of the chilly afternoons by the faint, creeping shadows of the oaks below, and lifted his delighted face at the occasional flock of geese, honking like furious circus clowns as they headed south. He even relished the air that poured through the doors smelling like fish and pickle juice, so misty it curled his class notes and made his walls shimmer with sweat.

Ballena Beach had become his home.

During study breaks, he walked along the beach by himself. And during these moments, while dodging the sliding tides, he soul-searched and worried.

During the week before Christmas break, he’d thumbed nervously through the admission packages his aunt had requested from Stanford, Berkeley, and USC. And although he was now doing solid work in all of his classes, he knew that neither his accumulation of lackluster grades from Fresno, nor his lukewarm SATs, would carry him to the kind of school a Tyler was expected to attend.

His only hope was the promise made to him by Coach Tunny.

So he trained ferociously five days a week, both before and after school, then on Saturdays and Sundays at home, perfecting not only his backstroke but also his
rock-from-a-slingshot
start. His aunt had built a 50-meter pool for his father, and she was so delighted by Jeremy’s commitment to the sport that she kept it heated to regulation temps, an extravagant—in the winter months—78 degrees.

And his body grew more sleekly defined with each passing week, so he shelved his slouching shuffle once and for all. He wasn’t shy in the showers anymore, and he enjoyed doing his stretches poolside with the other studs, in plain view of the students and faculty who slowed as they passed. To class he wore tight T-shirts under open, flapping shirts, and he even, consciously or not, adopted the universal affectation of every high school jock:
the rolling swagger.
It dawned on him one morning, as he toweled himself dry in front of a mirror, that with the combination of his swelling musculature and his burgeoning athletic ability, he was quickly becoming Coby’s equal; the gap separating them was closing.
Fast.

Then, during the fourth all-city meet of the season, Jeremy won first place doing the backstroke, while Coby was awarded top honors in the breast, and the duo instantly became the team’s shooting stars, their trajectories aimed at the Junior Nationals in early spring. So the pair settled into an uneasy friendship: two golden boys, one adoring and the other adored, sharing positions atop their high school’s social totem pole.

Meanwhile, Jeremy and Reed sprinted through the rapturous days of infatuation, and then ambled into weeks of familiar coziness. At school, they were openly regarded as a couple, and they spent every Friday and Saturday evening together watching TV or cheering for their football team or catching a movie with Ellie and Coby (who had reconciled the day after Halloween). They spoke every night before bedtime just to say
good night
and occasionally surprised each other with thoughtful gifts and tender, unexpected hugs.

He cared deeply for Reed. He loved spending time with her and being at her side. They laughed together and looked at the world through similar eyes. He figured their relationship had all the qualifications for success provided they could ride out the gathering storm of college life; she had opted for early decision at Dartmouth, and it looked like he would be attending one of the schools his aunt had selected in California, as long as everything went according to his plan.

And they talked about having sex. Both were virgins, so each respected the other’s caution about moving forward. One night, while kissing and feeling the sensitive zones of the other’s body, Reed told him she was ready for more. But Jeremy confessed he was afraid that if they gave in to their desires, they wouldn’t be able to stop until they
went all the way,
and he didn’t want them winding up like his parents, being forced into a marriage and raising an unwanted child. She sensibly agreed. They decided to drop the subject for the present, and when the right time came, they would both know and act accordingly.

So Reed kept her desires, as well as her nagging dissatisfaction, at bay. She tried to stop comparing him with every other boy she had previously held at arm’s length who had hungered for her, had craved the taste of her deliciously ripe breasts, or burned hot as a rocket to be
the first.
How passionate they had seemed shouldn’t matter, she told herself. After all, they were just horny, everyday guys. Jeremy, on the other hand, was worth waiting for. He was intelligent, and sensitive, and gorgeous, and rich.

And a bit distant. To her therapist, she compared him to the abused Irish setter her parents had adopted from a rescue society, who had spent the first few months regarding her family with indifference. Farrell ignored them until the dinnertime can opener groaned, appearing only to gobble his food, and then disappearing under some far-off bush in the yard. But her patient love and constant affection had paid off; he was now the picture-perfect dog who retrieved crooked sticks from the crashing waves, slept at the foot of her bed, and licked her hand when she had the flu. Would her boyfriend eventually be the same way?

Dr. Cunningham wanted to say that she’d heard of only a few boys who enjoyed licking hands, but many who enjoyed fetching wood, especially with their mouths, but decided the joke would be inappropriate. Instead, she suggested that Jeremy was, judging from his past, probably suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder stemming from chronic neglect and unexpressed grief. And she suggested that Reed might want to read up on
codependency,
not so much to understand Jeremy, whom she estimated was most likely a textbook example, but to get in touch with her own behavior so she might establish markers and boundaries to protect herself. Finally, the doctor suggested that the boy might be homosexual.

Reed dismissed this explanation. She was in love with Jeremy. She thought of him constantly when they were apart—as she knew did Carlo.

He was guiding the Range Rover carefully up the narrow, twisting driveway when his aunt’s Jaguar flew down around the last curve and almost hit him head-on. They both slammed on their brakes in time to have the noses of their vehicles nearly touch, like unfamiliar dogs sniffing each other at the park.

Taking her hands off the wheel, she held her phone up to her ear and waved frantically at him with her other. He held his own hands in the air in the universal “what do I do?” pantomime. Like an expert valet, she threw her car into reverse and gunned the engine, piloting the car, with the phone still at her ear, backward at an alarming speed up the swerving incline toward the flat pad at the top. He followed her at a safe distance.

Once she had parked, she signaled him over. He obeyed, and she noted upon his approach how, like her dear Jonathan, his posture was now military perfect and his physique was that of an athlete. And she thought,
My, but he is gorgeous.
“You’re on vacation for a few weeks, yes?” she asked, as her window slid down into the door.

“Yes, Aunt Katharine. Today was the last day of school until after New Year’s.” He took a step closer to her car, and she shut off the motor.

“Excellent. The timing couldn’t be better.” She pulled off her sunglasses. “Have you any specific plans for the next week?”

“Nothing that can’t be changed.”

“Good. I have a little project for you. Our property at Lake Estrella has been vacant since just after your father’s accident. I myself cannot stand the sight of the place, but neither am I willing to sell it, although Bill continuously urges me to. I received a call this morning from the property owners’ association telling me the structure is more than beginning to show its neglect, and the neighbors are up in arms. I would like you to drive up there the day after tomorrow and begin assessing the necessary repairs.”

Jeremy’s face drained. “But I’ve only had my license for a month, and I’ve never driven mountain roads before. Aren’t you worried that I might, you know, go over the edge too?”

“Nonsense. Lightning seldom strikes in the same spot.”

“But wouldn’t you rather have Arthur take care of it? He knows a lot more about those things than me.”

“Than I, dear boy.”

“Than I.” He resisted rolling his eyes.

“Arthur has enough to do right here. Who do you think would cook and shop and fold laundry?
Me?
”

“Don’t you mean ‘I’?” he asked sharply.

“Touché!”
She lowered her eyes, suppressing a grin. “Jeremy, darling, the chalet needs immediate attention, and it’s time you took an active part in the family’s holdings; many more things of this sort will soon become your responsibility. Besides, this is an opportunity for you to prove your mettle, as you’ve done so wonderfully with your swimming, and for you to pick up something your father was unable to finish. You know we never even completed furnishing the damned place. And finally, just knowing you’re up there may help me to release your father’s ghost, once and for all. It’s all rather poetic, don’t you think?”

“What’s poetic about it?”

“Because in so very many ways you’re picking up exactly where he left off, only without the disastrous mistakes. It’s like we’re all getting a second chance now; we can write a happy ending to a formerly tragic tale. So, are you up to the challenge?”

“Yes, Aunt Katharine. I’ll do my best.” His mind raced, and an idea dawned. He spoke quickly in order to herd his scattering courage. “But do you think I could take a couple of friends up there with me? I mean, it might be kind of dangerous there by myself.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and then smiled. “Why, of course. I should have thought you’d like some company. If you’ll give me the names and phone numbers of the young men, I’ll speak with their parents personally.”

He hesitated. “Well, actually, I was hoping to take along Reed and her best friend, Ellie, and…maybe Ellie’s boyfriend, Coby.”

Silence.

“Jeremy, please don’t ask me for such a thing.”

He looked down.

“You’ll forgive me, dear one, but having barely survived the disaster brought on by too much freedom, I am twice as reluctant to
lengthen the lead.
”

“Aunt Katharine.” His eyes pleaded. “You know Reed. She’s nothing like my mom was, and Ellie’s her best friend and Coby’s mine. It would really make me feel better going there with them. What if something bad happened and I was by myself?”

“So you’ll take along the young man…and what about that nice Mexican boy? They both appear to be capable sorts.”

Her suggestion was ridiculous.
Coby and Carlo together for an overnighter?
“I think Carlo’s already busy, but Coby’s only planning on going away with Ellie this weekend to her parents’ place in Tahoe—so I’m sure they could change things around if I asked.”

“I see.” Her cell phone rang suddenly, and she snapped it open. “Yes? Hold on a moment, please.” She pressed the device to her breast and continued. “Jeremy, if I agree to sending two young ladies with you and this boy to our home, you must promise me something.”

“
Anything.
I promise.”

“That sleeping arrangements will follow the age-old rule of propriety: boys and girls in separate rooms.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Aunt Katharine,
I promise.
Separate rooms for boys and girls.”

“Very well. I’ll have the directions and keys for you tomorrow before I leave on my trip to Alaska; I’ll be gone for about two weeks to meet with some Yup-ik Eskimo sculptors. I’m sorry this trip will necessitate postponing our Christmas celebration until after the first, but this is the best time for art scouting in Alaska, as the Eskimos have nothing to do but whittle, and no other dealer in their right mind would travel that far north in December, so I get the best ‘pick,’ if you’ll forgive the pun. But I promise to make it up to you.”

“Please, don’t worry about it.” He flashed her the smile he’d just recently perfected. “It seems like every day is Christmas around here.”

“Such a charming boy!” She beamed at him. “Which is why I left a present for you to open, which you may at any time. In fact, it might come in handy on your trip to the mountain. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a particularly demanding former First Lady at my gallery. She’s insisting we extend to her a substantial discount on a sixteenth-century Chumash fertility goddess. Can you imagine the nerve? I’ll see you at dinnertime.”

She sped away, and he bounded into the house and ran up the stairs. Once through the doorway of his room, he catapulted across his bed, snatched the phone from its cradle, and hit Reed’s number on the speed-dial.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Baby, I was just missin’ you.” Her voice was soft as kitten fur.

“Me too. Listen, I have some great news…”

After he filled her in, she called Ellie, who in turn notified Coby, and on Katharine’s word the parents relented, and the excursion was a done deal.