Love Lies Beneath by Ellen Hopkins

car, guides me into the plush seat, and helps me swing my legs inside. “We’re off. Hold on tight.”
    â€œJust don’t end up in a snowbank, okay? I didn’t bring my coat.”
    It’s a short drive to the restaurant, so conversation en route is minimal and revolves around Cavin being a personal acquaintance of the head chef, whose torn rotator cuff he repaired. “He’s always happy to show off a little, so be prepared for something outside of the box.”
    Turns out, Chef Christopher has a very special prix fixe menu in mind. The maître d’ seats us at an intimate table in front of the very real fireplace, burning actual apple wood logs. It is out of the way of foot traffic, so I know Cavin informed them he’d be bringing a disabled date. I am thankful for that, however, as I can stretch my leg straight without bothering anyone except, perhaps, our waiter, who is more than accommodating. “We can push another chair up under the table if you want to elevate that knee,” Paolo says.
    â€œIs everyone in the Tahoe service industry familiar with the treatment of orthopedic injuries?” I ask.
    â€œEveryone I know,” answers Cavin, grinning.
    Paolo hands us our personalized four-course menus. “If there’s anything on here you don’t like, Chef is happy to substitute.”
    Eggplant crepes with smoked salmon. Caesar salad. Veal saltimbocca or fresh sea bass, sautéed with garlic, lime, and cilantro. Chocolate chip bread pudding with amaretto cream sauce.
    I order the fish; Cavin chooses the veal. Paolo inquires about drinks.
    â€œDo you like champagne?” asks Cavin.
    â€œOnly if it’s excellent champagne. Are we celebrating something?”
    â€œI think we are,” he says. “Cristal?”
    â€œPerfect.”
    Paolo brings the bottle, pops the cork, and when we raise our flutes, Cavin offers a toast: “To chance meetings.”
    And I add, “To possibilities.”
    The Cristal is fabulous, the atmosphere romantic, and if the fragrance can be trusted, the food promises to be sublime. But the company trumps it all. Cavin is charming. Funny. Straightforward. I like that in a man. Cat-and-mouse is such a tiresome game.
    â€œWhere are you from originally?” I ask.
    â€œSouthern California born and raised, that’s me.”
    â€œLA?”
    â€œSan Diego, but I graduated from UCLA, and that’s where I went to med school. How about you?”
    I skip over Idaho. No need to sour the lovely atmosphere. “I went to UNLV.”
    â€œVegas? Don’t think I’ve ever met someone who was actually from Las Vegas. It’s one of those places you visit, but don’t stay.”
    â€œI would have left sooner, except I married a man with deep roots there.”
    â€œDo tell.”
    Over delectable eggplant crepes, Cavin hears the story of Raul, minus the strip-club part—omission, which does not strictly qualify as deception.
    â€œI take it that didn’t work out?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking. He died in a skiing accident at Heavenly. I was a widow at twenty-three.”
    â€œWow. Sorry. That must have been tough.”
    â€œEmotionally, yes. But I was young. Resilient.”
    Paolo interrupts, refilling our glasses and clearing the first-course plates. It seems like a good time to change the subject, or at least redirect it.
    â€œWhat about you?” I ask. “Have you ever been married? Oh, wait. It probably seems like a ridiculous question, but . . . you’re not married now, right?”
    â€œWould we be here if I was?”
    â€œYou never know. Some men find fidelity . . . Oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Impossible. Yes, that’s it.”
    Cavin laughs. “Not me. And I’ve been divorced for eight years.”
    â€œKids?”
    â€œMy son, Eli, is seventeen.”
    â€œSeventeen? You married young, too,