Love Lies Beneath by Ellen Hopkins Page A

then.”
    â€œWay too young. I was twenty, still an undergrad. And I was a father at twenty-two. It was ludicrous, really, maneuvering med school and residencies while trying to keep a wife and child happy.”
    Quick calculations net Cavin’s approximate age. Thirty-nine. Good number. “Does Eli live with you?”
    â€œNo. When Melissa and I split up, she returned to LA, and he went with her. Then she met her new husband, who moved them to Sacramento. Eli goes to a boarding school in the Bay Area while she and Russell circle the globe.”
    â€œSounds like fun. Is Russell a pilot?”
    â€œNo, a politician. A diplomat.”
    â€œOh. Poor Melissa.”
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    I sip my champagne, deciding how much to confess. “My second husband was a politician. When Raul died, he left me secure financially, but I had no clue what to do with myself. I was a business major, but not cut out for the day-to-day oversight of six pawnshops. I decided to hire interns to deal with the nitty-gritty and focus on the S corp management and investment strategies. That left me a lot of free time.
    â€œIt happened to be an election year, so I volunteered to campaign for a Republican legislator from southern Nevada. Don’t ask me why. I’d never given a thought to politics before. In fact, I’d never registered to vote before. But Jordan and I happened to have mutual friends. One night I went to a fund-raiser. We met, hit it off, and by the time election night rolled around, I stood by his side at his acceptance speech, not as a campaign worker, but rather as his new bride.”
    â€œLove at first stump?”
    The silly joke draws my wry smile. “I guess I thought so then. I’m not sure I had a clue what love was. To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure I know.”
    Why did I say that? Pain pills, champagne, or the combination, that was a very big admission. Too big for a first date. Maybe any date. Cavin could be put off completely. Instead, he prods gently, “Surely you don’t mean that.”
    I shrug. “Maybe not. But attraction and love are two different things, and hindsight, I’ve heard told, is twenty-twenty.”
    Paolo delivers our second course, and I’m glad to veer away from frank discussions of love—or the lack of it. As dinner progresses, we continue to share very personal information. By the time the bread pudding arrives, he knows my second marriage lasted eleven years, during which I learned more than I ever wanted to about deep pockets, corporate influence, and backroom negotiations. When Jordan decided to run for the US Senate, I issued an ultimatum. He chose DC.
    The split was amicable—so amicable that I suspected infidelity. That proved accurate, and not with one woman but several. The settlement was overly generous. In exchange, I promised to keep his dubious morality, personal and professional, our little secret. Eight months later I met Finley Cannon at a Vegas trade show. He steered me straight into the fast lane and moved me to San Francisco.
    â€œWhat about children?” Cavin asks.
    â€œNothing about my life has been conducive to parenting. But I never really craved the experience, or regretted my decision not to have children.” And if I ever needed a reminder, all I had to do was visit Melody for a couple of days. Other than the raging-hormones thing, her kids aren’t so bad now. But when they were younger? Insanity. “Do you enjoy being a father?”
    He looks away, stares at the fire for a silent few seconds. “I was so busy when Eli was little, I don’t remember much of his childhood. I taught him to ride a bike, and to snowboard, and those days are pleasant memories. Now I don’t see him very often. School holidays, sometimes, and over the summer break. He’s grown into a stranger, really. I know he’s smart—genius-level IQ—but his grades