Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (46 page)

“Psh, you sound like a career counselor. I’m not hitting the work force right away, but maybe in a couple of years. Don’t look at me like that, all disapproving. You get this funny crease between your eyebrows. Anyway, apparently the continental US is still too close for my stepmom.” She reaches for a branch, then decides if it’s too high for her, it’s too high for the children in her Bible class. She hides the colorful egg in a tree knot. “Who knows, maybe I’ll venture out to New York with you and Caulfield next year and look into grad schools, unless you don’t want a third wheel hanging around you newlyweds. Hey, isn’t your first anniversary just around the corner?”

“Next month.” Aspen tucks an egg in a cluster of yellow daffodils. “Caulfield’s planning to whisk me away to a B&B in Vail as soon as my classes are over. I heard him talking to his dad about it through that air vent in their basement.” The convenient air vent Maria showed her years ago.

Lacy sighs. “So romantic. That guy has always been too perfect for his own good. Where’d he go, anyway? The minute worship ended, he bolted out of that church pew like the minister was going to ask him to stay for another sermon.”

“I think his mom sent him to the grocery store to get crushed pineapple for the ham glaze. I bet he got dragged into baseball talk with my dad.” But now that Lacy mentions it, Aspen realizes he has been gone nearly an hour. She scans the churchyard, searching among Easter service stragglers and antsy kids with empty baskets. No Caulfield.

Lacy reads her mind. “If you want to go find him, I can hide the last of these eggs.”

“Thanks. Save one for us to split.” Aspen hands her friend the basket and walks around the side of the church to call Caulfield. But before she dials, she glimpses her rosy-faced husband across the lawn near the forest edge, the only spot of real color against a drab sky.

The ground is soft and muddy from an early morning rain shower, so she ditches her heels and wades barefoot through the squishy grass. She calls out to him.

“Hey, Hubby, the point of an Easter egg hunt is to hide the eggs, not yourself.”

He hurriedly tucks something in his back pocket and turns to her with devastated eyes.

“Caulfield?” Her grin fades.

“Is the egg hunt over already? That was fast.” He’s jumpy. She cautiously places her hand on his crossed arms then jerks it back when he recoils.

“What’s wrong?”

He leans against a tree, heedless of the bark sap staining his pale green oxford.

“Talk to me,” she tries again.

Caulfield takes a deep, shuddery breath. “I’m troubled—no, disgusted—by what I’m doing.”

Aspen freezes. “What have you done?”

“I was sitting in that damned pew I’ve sat in since I was six, listening to the minister talk about love, forgiveness, faith, and all these things I’m supposed to care about. And you know what’s going through my head?” His voice breaks. “How long before I can escape through those doors and forget everything I’m hearing?”

She hums. “To be honest, half the congregation was probably thinking the same thing. I know for a fact that the guy who kept nodding off in front of us wasn’t paying attention.”

Frustrated hands tear through his hair. “I’m not talking about wanting to make a beeline for Easter dinner. I’ve bastardized everything I’ve ever held sacred, Firecracker. My faith, my writing, my love for you.” He ticks each on his fingers. “Especially my love for you.”

The thing about Aspen, though, is that she hasn’t experienced enough to truly understand the depth of her young husband’s pain. What is there in life that can’t be fixed by having someone at your side, loving you? Aspen bites her lip in confusion. “Is this some sort of God-guilt thing?” she asks. “If you want to go to church more often, I won’t fight you on it anymore. We can get involved at that Boulder one you like.”

Caulfield offers her a small, sad smile. “Just let me hold you for a while.”

He pulls her into the fold of his arms and rests his chin on the top of her head. Together, they watch as children in flouncy dresses and Easter suits trample down the steps of the church, swinging baskets and falling over each other to uncover the most eggs. They remember a time not all that distant…yet an eternity ago…when they’d been those children, fingers still tinted pastel from eggshell dye. Even now, Aspen’s fingertips are pale purples and pinks from the eggs she and Lacy hid.

“You are so warm,” he murmurs.

Sam—Since you left a week ago, my days have been a whirlwind of people, with their maddening curiosity and condolences. But when night comes, it’s too silent. Which is a conundrum, because I’ve had seven years of nights alone. We only shared them a short while and yet, I need your steady breath on my neck to fall asleep. So I’ve had some time late at night to study your writing more closely—the way you phrase things, words you would use—and I think I’m getting better at it.

I’m finding as I learn more about what you went through in the months we were married, a lot of things that didn’t make sense are suddenly clearer. Writing this out is cathartic—I see why you enjoy it so much. Put all that guilt and regret on paper, exorcise it, and send it back to the past, where it belongs.

I love you.

P.S.—Has it really only been a week since you ran from the Standard Hotel? It feels as though it was another lifetime…~Kaye

Samuel was running again.

It was apparent he was not returning to the hotel, so I hoped he might be at his apartment.

I dropped a wad of cash in the cabbie’s hand, hefted both my garment bag and Samuel’s duffel bag over my shoulders, and barreled up the stairs of the Inwood apartment building. I prayed he was upstairs. But when I flung open the door—darkness. A quick search of the place told me he’d already come and gone. The jeans and T-shirt he’d carelessly tossed over the bedpost were missing, as was his old Red Sox hat. He’d taken nothing else…no luggage, toothbrush, razor. So perhaps he’d just stepped out for a while.

At two a.m. In Washington Heights. Crud.

Jerking on sweats and sneakers, I tried not to think about how big and scary New York City was at night. I didn’t care that I was in an unfamiliar city, alone. Still, I grabbed Samuel’s familiar Lyons High ball cap and plopped it on my head, a talisman.

The elevator was too slow. I tapped my foot; why was it so flipping slow? The doors opened and I skidded into the lobby, nearly tripping over the soles of my shoes.

“Excuse me,” I said to the wide-eyed night man, “did you see Samuel Cabral leave?”

“About half an hour ago, ma’am.”

“Did he have anything with him? Bag, luggage, anything?”

The man squinted, thinking. “A backpack. Oh, and a laptop bag.”

I took a calming breath.
Breathe…breathe…
Maybe he just went somewhere to write, like a twenty-four-hour diner. Eccentric, but Samuel. I asked the doorman if there were any such places in the neighborhood. He jotted down three and handed me the paper, with a stern warning to be careful and maybe even consider waiting until dawn to go exploring. I took the paper and thanked him for his help.

Fortunately, I wasn’t robbed. Unfortunately, none of the greasy spoons produced my AWOL lover. I hunted for him in the park. He wasn’t on any of the lighted paths and it was impossible to search the wooded areas in the dark. I wandered out of Fort Tryon and along Broadway, clutching a pepper spray key chain, my shirt clinging to my sweaty back. I shivered in the cool air. I hadn’t realized how cold the weather had grown the past few weeks and its chill bit my cheeks. The street was relatively quiet, save for club music pounding behind neon signs and well-worn residents wandering in and out of Dominican convenience stores with flickering fluorescents. I gave a cursory glance in each of the stores, used my Spanish. Each store clerk shook his head—
no sé.

My skin began to prickle, and I slowly became aware of all the eyes following me. They probably only wanted to know why a white girl was tearing through the Heights after midnight—I think they believed I was jacked up on something—but it scared the crap out of me. What on earth was I doing? New York City, alone? My behavior was completely reckless. Samuel would give me an earful when he returned. I choked back the fear clawing up my throat.

He will return. He’s coming back.

Fear for my safety sent me jogging, then running, up Broadway. I didn’t know if anyone followed me, but I felt like a hundred people were on my heels. My lungs wheezed and my legs ached as I plowed into the apartment once again and collapsed on the couch.

It was dark, just as I’d left it. No Samuel.

At four thirty a.m., I started calling our New York acquaintances, fingertips still numb from the outside air. Justin. Lexi. Jerome. Even Caroline. Voice mail, every one, except for Justin. He hadn’t seen Samuel since the Boom Boom blowup.

I called Dr. Vanderbilt. “I’m sorry, Kaye,” he said. “He wasn’t at the hotel. There’s nothing I can do for Samuel until he’s found. In twenty-four hours, if he hasn’t returned, you can call the police…”

I dialed Samuel’s number again, on the off-chance he’d returned to the apartment for his cell when I was out. Once more, I heard it ring in the bedroom where I’d left it. No one was picking up. For the love of everything holy, why wouldn’t someone
answer
me? Snot dripped from my thawing nose. I grabbed a wad of tissue paper and fisted it, then angrily hurled it across the living room where it plopped unsatisfyingly on the area rug. Who else was left to call?

There was someone else…

I stared at Alonso’s name in my contact list, my finger hovering over the send button. Not again. Never again.

Desperate, I scrolled further down. Molly? No, as much as I loved my friend, her solutions didn’t always pan out. Dani? Angel? Hector? No.

My finger paused over my father’s number, and the little girl inside of me ached for her daddy. I dialed the one person I knew would always answer the phone, no matter the hour.

“Hello?” answered a sleep-heavy voice. “Flower?”

“Dad!” I cried.

“Kaye?” I heard him scramble out of bed. “Kaye, what’s wrong?”

“Dad, I n-need you. Samuel’s m-missing.”

“Criminy,” he mumbled. “Baby girl, I need you to take a deep breath…good girl…try to stop crying. Now explain what’s going on.”

A stream of words poured from my mouth. I tried to slow them, but they rushed through the receiver and into my father’s patient ears. I told him about the fight at the Boom Boom Room, how he had punched out Avant Garde. How Samuel was fit-to-be-tied, and scared, and all muddled. I explained how he’d been back to the apartment to change clothes and was last seen leaving with his backpack and laptop.

“You should know that Samuel…he’s got bipolar disorder, Dad.” I heard him curse softly. “But something’s not right. He’s been switching back and forth, and I’m afraid he’s gone manic or something.”

“Huh. Well, that explains a lot. I’ve heard about that illness before, especially when people go missing.”

“I’m really scared for him. He gave me power of attorney for my birthday…”

There was a pause, then a sigh. “Flower, I’m going be real honest with you. I love you, but I’m not the person for this. You want someone who can stay level-headed and do what needs to be done. Baby girl, that’s your mom.”

I tried not to feel the sting of his rejection, and instead thought this through. Then I did as my father suggested. I called my mother.