Текст книги "The Girl On The Half Shell"

Автор книги: Susan Ward

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Jeez, you’d think it would have stopped being about Eliza as soon as you had that hot guy bouncing you on the floor. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. You should have bounced him back to his place.”

“I couldn’t. You were bouncing my dad’s car.”

“What was the private party like?” Rene asks, rummaging through her bag.

“It was awful. Smoky. Packed. All kinds of freak girls there doing drugs.”

Rene laughs. “Why do you have half a dollar bill stuck in the fold of your UGG boot?”

“Neil made me a bet. He thinks that band is like the Second Coming or something. If he’s right, I have to give him back the half of the dollar.”

I see the high metal arch on Marina Drive that signals we are officially off the city streets and back into the safety of Hope Ranch. I increase my speed.

“See, he does want to see you again,” Rene says shoving her junk back into her bag. She sprays her mouth with breath spray. I park the car as close to the front door as I can manage. Rene grabs my arm. “You go in first. See if I can make a clean shot to the bathroom.”

“Why?”

Rene’s eyes widen intensely. “I smell like sex. I don’t want to get caught by Jack smelling like sex.”

“You can smell sex?”

“God you are ignorant. Guys can always smell sex. Go check the house for me.”

“Slut.” I only say it because it’s a joke and it seems to fit.

“Prude.” Fiercely back at me.

Rene grabs my cheeks and gives me a hard kiss. “Do I kiss better than Neil?”

I push her away. She is laughing at me folded over in her seat. She looks up. “Run and check. Hurry. I have to pee.”

As I walk to the front door I can hear the sound of rowdy men floating over the roof. The noise makes me think of my brother. Sammy and his friends used to fill the house with laughter and music. As a little girl I would hover, hidden, just enjoying watching my big brother, knowing if I got caught all Sam would do is ruffle my hair, toss me over his shoulder, and send me back to my room with a stern warning not to tell Jack.

I peek into the empty entryway and step in. I should have told my dad about the parties. I knew that Sammy’s parties were bad. I didn’t tell because I didn’t understand why I was supposed to. I loved him. Sammy said don’t tell. That I understood.

I go as far down the hallway as Sammy’s room and turn around and go back for Rene. When I get outside, she’s hopping beside the car like she’s about to pee. God, she is really messed up. I didn’t notice in the car that she is all crumpled and ratty haired, and acting wired.

She is more than just drunk. She did coke with Josh in my dad’s car and lied to me about it. I can see it in her agitated movements and the way she is standing. She’s coked up. Josh got her coked up and screwed her in a car.

I put my hands on her arms to stop her hopping. “It’s OK. Everyone is on the patio and Maria is asleep. Just run. Clear shot to the bathroom.”

Rene runs into the house. I hear my bedroom door slam. The shower turns on. I go to the kitchen and I fill a glass with ice water even though I’m not thirsty, but if I don’t drink it I’ll have a headache in the morning because of the alcohol.

I toss Jack’s keys back on the breakfast bar. I lean against it, sipping my water. The patio door opens and Jack steps into the kitchen.

“I’m glad you’re back. I was worried about you driving in this fog.”

He smiles, then goes to the refrigerator.

I watch him over my ice water. I’m wearing different clothes, Jack. Don’t you even notice? And my hair is all puffed out and sprayed like a heavy metal chick.

Jack leans an ear up toward the ceiling. “Is someone taking a shower?”

Ours is an old house. Large, solidly built, but the plumbing groans all through the adobe.

“Rene. She doesn’t think there will be time in the morning.”

“Oh, that reminds me. I’m taking you to the airport at nine, only a half hour earlier than we planned. I’ve got this thing.”

“Sure, Daddy. No problem.”

“Are you OK, Chrissie?”

I put down the water glass. “I’m fine.”

“You should turn in too, baby girl.”

He drops a kiss on my head.

“I think I’m going to practice for a while.”

“Well, don’t stay up too late. You have an early plane.”

I watch Jack disappear back onto the patio. If he had asked one probing question I would have crumbled. There is so much I want to talk to Jack about. I want to tell him about Rene. I want to tell him about me. I just don’t know how to start it and Jack never tries to start it.

In my bedroom I find Rene curled atop the covers of my bed, hair still damp, my mother’s quilt wrapped around her. I sit down beside her and I close my eyes. I’m exhausted, but not the kind of exhausted that gives way to restful sleep. If I go to sleep now, the way I feel, I will only have dreams, dark dreams, the kind that scare me.

I tuck the blanket in around Rene, and then I make my way down the long hallway to the back of the house where the studio is. The recording studio walls are lined with gold and platinum records, but I stop at the pictures of my mother to pay homage to how beautiful she was, how elegant she appears in the photos of her during her career with the New York Philharmonic.

My parents were such a strange couple. Opposites. I’ve never understood how they locked in place together.

I go through the soundproofing door into the studio and I sink to my knees before my cello case. I pull free the instrument and bow, and I switch off all the lights except a single dim spotlight above my chair. I settle in the chair and go through my routine, adjusting the instrument, clearing my mind and preparing to play.

It feels good to play. The music is soothing in its beautiful precision. It is not angry and confused like the music in the club tonight. I focus on the controlled moves of my fingers. The music is not like me. I’m angry and confused most of the time. But Bach is beautiful and precise. Slow, and then building, then pulling back. I wonder if that’s why I still play the cello even though I’m not very good at it.

I am almost through the prelude when I sense someone is watching me. The room beyond is almost pitch black. I can’t see anyone, yet somehow I feel them, the presence of someone beyond the soundproof glass when that should be impossible to feel. I try to lose myself in the music. I can’t. I halt the bow above the strings. I stare.

“You’re very good.”

The voice floating in on the intercom is male, low, raspy and accented. So it isn’t my imagination. I’m not alone. I strain to pick out detail at the dimly lit console behind the soundproofing glass. I am only able to see a figure, large and casually reclined in a chair, bare feet propped on the table. Jeez, how long has he been watching me? He looks settled in.

Why doesn’t he say something? Oh, it must be my turn to talk.

“That was mediocre. It’s my audition piece for Juilliard, but I’m waffling and I think I should play Kodaly’s Sonata for Solo Cello Opus Eight. Bach seems just a little too predictable. What do you think?”

OK, that was rotten. This guy probably doesn’t know Bach from Bon Jovi.

“The Bach. It suits you. The Kodaly I think too dark, too dramatic, too aggressive for you. Stay with the Bach.”

Jeez, it’s a sexy voice. British and raspy. I don’t recognize the voice. Who is this guy? I struggle to pick out more detail of my companion. He rises, and I can see that he tall, muscled, and graceful of movement. I wish I could see his face.

“Close your eyes,” says the voice on the intercom.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

I close my eyes. There is something so imperative about his manner that disobeying doesn’t seem an option. The studio door opens. There is the sound of bare feet against floor. The warm presence of a body moves into me.

“Don’t open your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you and if you open your eyes this will do you no good.”

“It won’t?”

My fingers tighten around the neck of the cello.

“No.” I feel the displacement of air that follows movement and then the heat of him even closer. “You are a very beautiful girl.”

“What?” I don’t know what to say to that.

I start to ease back but he stops me. “You are a very talented girl,” he whispers. “You are going to be remarkable at your audition. And you should most definitely play the Bach. It was flawless.”

I try to speak. His fingers touch across my lips to silence me. He leans forward and I am paralyzed just feeling his body near me. I haven’t even seen his face and I’m wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him. His voice is a seduction. His words. The way he turns them on his lips.

He takes a deep breath. On my cheek there is the whispering touch of a fingertip. The skin is rough and hardened. The kind of harshness you get from years of working the metal strings of a guitar. But somehow he knows how to touch with them so they are like a velvet seduction. Like his voice. A little raspy. A little rough. A velvet seduction. His touch moves down my face to trace my lower lip. The play of him leaves me frantic and weak. He puts a light kiss on my forehead and then I feel him moving away.

NO! That’s wrong. All that just to kiss me on the forehead?

“Open your eyes. Don’t hit me. It was a kiss for luck.”

“I wasn’t going to hit you. It was a peck, not a kiss. Downright…”

Oh my god! He is crouched down in front of me and only inches from me is a face I’ve seen a thousand times from a poster hanging on my wall in my dorm room. He doesn’t look at all like he does in his music videos, and stepping out of the TV definitely improves him. I like him better this way: simple jeans, a loose fitting t-shirt and what is surely one of Jack’s worn long-sleeve flannels. Even if I didn’t own every scrap of music he’s ever recorded, even if I hadn’t seen every video, I would have been blown away just looking at his face.

Alan Manzone is beautiful. He has lustrous black, unkempt shoulder length hair. I don’t really like long hair on guys, but oh, on this guy it is perfect. It frames his face and softens the features that would have been too strongly carved without it, especially with those dangerously intense black eyes. God, they are true black. I’ve never seen such a thing before, and they’ve got giant iridescent irises flecked with shimmers.

He doesn’t move. I don’t move. He doesn’t speak. I don’t speak. OK, whatever game this is it is working very well.

I fight to recover from the shock of finding him, and realize he’s watching me and expecting some kind of reaction. He knows exactly what he is doing to me with his little drama and he’s enjoying it. His smugness reminds me of Neil and that makes my temper flare. Oh no, Mr. Sexy British Rocker, I am not going to play your game and make a fool of myself. Some other guy has already made a fool of me tonight.

I adjust my cello in front of me as I fight for something to say. It’s not easy. Those intense black eyes make it nearly impossible to string together words. “Well, well, well. Not what I expected. The voice was hard to read, but the kiss. Definitely confusing. It made me think you were old. But you are a surprise.”

“A good surprise?”

My heartbeat quickens. “I don’t know. We just met.”

Alan remains crouched before me. “Why are you so nervous about your audition for Juilliard? You must know that you are extraordinary.”

Am I really in my dad’s studio with Alan Manzone telling me I’m extraordinary? I swallow nervously and I think he is suppressing a smile.

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Just life jitters. I’m not sure of what I want to do. I’m not sure if I want to go to Juilliard. I’m not sure about anything. Today, I’m not even sure about the cello and it is my favorite instrument.”

“Well, you should be certain about the cello. You are remarkable.”

I blink at him, unsure what to say. There is something in his voice I can’t decipher at all. Is he being gracious, or mocking me? Toying with me or just making small talk?

I swallow as I stare into his gorgeous face. I search for words and then smile at him. “Are you an actor?”

Something flashes in his eyes too quickly for me to be certain of his reaction.

“Why?”

“This has all been very theatrical. You seem like an actor.”

His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disconcerted. “Sorry about the theatrical. I’m working on getting rid of that.”

“I didn’t suggest you should. Especially not if you’re an actor. I would think that would hurt your craft.”

“You can set aside your worry. Not an actor. A musician.”

I set the cello down in the case and hold out my hand. “How do you do? I’m Christian Parker.”

“The introduction is unnecessary. You look just like your dad. He likes to brag about you, in case you don’t know that.”

It’s just a lie, but it makes me happy that he went to the effort of giving me that. “You are not doing well getting rid of the theatrical. You seem almost committed to continuing it. When one introduces themselves the other usually does the same. Introductions are generally considered polite. Would you like to try again?”

He laughs. “I’m British. You do realize the absurdity of lecturing me about politeness?”

“Sure I do, Mr. Whoever You Are. But I don’t know who you are,” I lie.

“Really?”

His reaction is very odd. Maybe I shouldn’t do this.

I nod and struggle to maintain a deadpan expression. “Really. Nothing personal, but I’ve been locked away in a dark cell for eight years.”

“Prison?”

“Worse. Boarding school. I only get parole three times a year. Two months in summer, one month Christmas, three weeks Spring. It makes it really hard to keep up with the world. The last time I was out Reagan was President.”

“You haven’t missed anything. Not much has changed.”

I smile. “That’s good to know. I like Reagan. I’m going to miss him.”

“Well, any friend of Maggie’s is a friend of mine.”

“Maggie?”

“Margaret Thatcher. A great lady.”

“A great lady, but you shouldn’t say that in front of Jack. I don’t think I’ve heard any of my dad’s friends compliment Thatcher and Reagan on the same day. Interesting. And you must be someone to be sitting in with Jack’s gang on the patio.”

He shrugs and extends a hand. “I’m Alan Manzone. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Well, Alan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. So what instrument are you extraordinary with?”

“Guitar. With this gang I play the drums. I don’t know if I’m extraordinary. I was just here when this started. No drummer. I was here.”

“Are you naturally self-effacing or is it just being British?”

“I’m not self-effacing at all. I’m generally considered arrogant, flamboyant, obnoxious and completely self-absorbed. At least in the American press. They are less kind in the UK.”

That comment made him sound tired and annoyed with himself. I study his face, not sure how to respond.

“I’ve had a tough year,” he adds.

“Why tough?”

“I’m very good at fucking up. In fact, I excel at it.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I say.

“Oh, yes. That bad. Hardly anyone is speaking to me. The label is pissed. The promoters won’t touch me. I’m being sued by everyone.”

Wow, I never expected to hear that. There was something in the papers about him walking out on his US tour, but nothing that suggested it was as bad as all that.

“If not for Jack I’d probably be in a cell in the Chicago area,” he mutters, exasperated and shaking his head.

Jack? What does Daddy have to do with this? All this is news to me so my surprise is genuine and I can feel inside of Alan a strange pressure, a sort of not completely contained internal need to talk. But why is he here with me when Jack is only a patio away?

Now that I’m over the shock of finding him, I see details that I missed. He looks emotionally beat up. Under the theatrics, confidence and charm, he seems a very troubled guy, soulful and tired. Troubled, soulful, and tired at twenty-six. In real life he seems younger, nearer to his age. What the hell has happened to this guy?

A little lightness seems like it would be a good thing. “Jack puts me in a cell and keeps you out. That doesn’t seem fair since I’m his daughter,” I tease.

He laughs and pushes his hair from his face. “Well, you’re out of your cell tonight, but I’m still working free of mine. Forgiveness is a tough road.”

“Do you want to go for a walk? I like to take advantage of freedom and fresh air every chance I get. Or do you have to get back to the geriatric ward?”

“Sacrilege. Some of the greatest musicians in the world are sitting on your dad’s back patio.”

“But for some reason you’re here sitting in a studio with me. Why?”

“Feeling a little shaky tonight and even when I’m not I usually prefer solitude when I’m not working.”

“Is that how you ruined your career? You’re one of the twelvers?”

I wait. I already know the answer. I can see it. But that is another shock tonight. I hadn’t read anything about this. How did they keep it from the press?

“Twelvers?”

“Twelve step buddies of Jack. What’s your poison? Booze, pills or coke?”

He eases back on his heels as his eyes comb my face in a searching way that is uncomfortable. He shakes his head. “God, do you have any idea how strange that sounds coming from you?”

I flush. “Why is that strange from me?”

“Because it’s like being questioned about my substance abuse by a Disney character. When I look at you I half expect animated, chirruping birds to appear.”

That was insulting. I feel my temper stir. “Well, if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to be rude.”

He looks puzzled for a moment. “Ah, the Disney character comment pissed you off. I didn’t mean it as a pejorative.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m sure from you it’s a compliment.”

I stand up.

“You’re not leaving are you?” He cocks his head to one side as though he doesn’t want me to.

I feel the color in my cheeks rising again.

“Are you going to stay pissed at me all night for that?”

All night? How did this turn into all night? He rubs his chin with his long index fingers as he waits for my answer.

“No,” I say with false sweetness, “I’m going to go to bed and forget all about you.”

I start for the door.

“Heroin,” he says from behind me. “I didn’t mean to be rude earlier. You know, with the Disney comment. I’m still learning how to have normal conversations with real people.”

I stop. It’s the first thing he’s said not packed with confusing theatrics. An honest statement that’s left him looking very exposed, very vulnerable.

“Real people? As opposed to…?” I ask.

“Everyone else in my life. I’d been clean eight years, but a year ago I had what they benignly call in Rehab a set-back.”

I’m intrigued by his honesty, in spite of my early irritation with him. “Eight years is a long time. Why did you relapse?”

He smiles wryly. “There are no whys. Only using and not using. Why is not allowed in the Rehab halfway house of Jack’s. Only the why nots.”

Yes, that sounded like Jack. “For what’s it worth I would never have guessed heroin.”

“Really? Why?” His voice is low and he’s gazing at me intently.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to fit you. You seem more elegant than that.”

He laughs. “Elegant? That’s a first for me.”

“You’re a tough guy to read, Alan. But you are elegant. It’s all mixed up in that strange sort of British rocker, messy jeans, t-shirt, shoeless, grunge sort of thing you’ve got going on. But definitely, somewhere in there, elegant.”

He grimaces. “If that’s how you see me then I have an image crisis to contend with and I’m spending too much time with Jack. I’m definitely not going for a shoeless grunge sort of thing. Your dad doesn’t let people wear shoes in the house. Remember?”

He looks down at my feet and I realized I am still wearing my UGGs with Neil’s silly half dollar sticking out of the fold. “Oh, I forgot our coastal customs. See what being in prison can do? Do you want to go for a walk or not?”

I don’t know why I change my mind about going to my room, but I just do. Not waiting for his answer, I leave the studio quickly. I don’t look to see if he follows. I bypass the patio off the kitchen and go down a long hall at the other end of the house to another patio exit. The yard is dark and woodsy here. I slow down, and then stop on the side of the house near the edge. I look back over my shoulder to find Alan standing patiently behind me.

I put a finger over my lips, and shush him. Carefully, I peek around the corner of the house.

“Why all the subterfuge?” Alan asks, whispering. “Will you get in trouble for taking off to the beach with me?”

My fingers do a fluttering motion for him to lower his voice.

“No. Of course, not. Jack approves of everything. Well, everything but booze, drugs, Republicans and the Government.” I point to a set of wooden stairs at the far end of the property that disappear over the cliff. “We have to make it there without them seeing you. If Jack sees you, he’ll  keep you talking for hours. And I don’t like to walk alone on the beach at night. Stupid, but it scares me.”

“It should scare you and you shouldn’t do it alone. Not even here. You’re a very beautiful girl.”

The compliment this time irritates me because I know that I’m not beautiful. He says it very blandly in that be nice to Jack’s daughter sort of way that I really hate.

“Do you always compliment girls that way? Sort of randomly, out of thin air? And all very matter-of-fact?”

“No, not usually. I never compliment anyone. I’m self-absorbed. Remember?”

I make a face, grab his hand and tug him along with me at a running pace to the stairs. I am laughing by the time it’s over and I lean against the rail, hardly able to talk through my laughter. I look up to find him staring at me. He’s annoyed by my laughter. Why should he care what I think? His eyes burn into me as if trying to figure out what’s up, and I’m nearly compelled to confess that I know perfectly well who he is and I’ve just been behaving crazy and lame all day.

“I’m going to check tomorrow, but I have to know today. Are you really, really famous?” I ask.

Now he’s suspicious. “Why?”

“Because us sneaking from the house to the beach was really, really lame. We didn’t have to do any of that. I just wanted to see if you’d do it.”

Those beautiful black eyes shift rapidly to annoyance. “I am really, really famous.”

I make a nod. “Good.”

Even though it is dark, the way only lit by moonlight, I trot down the wood steps built into the cliff, the pattern of unevenness known to me and not the least bit intimidating. I’m sitting in the sand, UGGs already off, by the time Alan joins me.

He stares down at me and holds out his hand. “Now what?”

“We just walk, until we find somewhere we want to cop a squat where the tide isn’t too high.”

“Do you do this often?”

“Only when I’m home.”

He rolls his eyes. “Talking to you is like playing Ping-Pong. Are you always so cheeky?”

I laugh. “Cheeky? Alan, that is a first for me and what did you mean by ‘this’?”

“I didn’t mean anything bad. You know, kidnap musicians you find at your dad’s house, make a fool of them, then take them for moonlight walks on the beach.”

“You followed willingly.”

“Thank you for not saying I willingly made a fool. Do you have a boyfriend? Are you involved with someone?”

Whoa! My heart turns over. Where did that question come from? “Why do you want to know?”

“You’re very confusing and definitely a challenge to talk to.”

Me? Confusing? For a moment I wonder if he’s making fun of me. I kick the sand with my feet. “Nope. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“That surprises me. Something in that nope tells me you used to and the story is not good.”

“Nope. Not good. Not bad, just sort of nope.” I tilt my face to look up at him and I can see that he’s waiting for me to explain that answer. For a fraction of a second he looks really interested, though I can’t imagine why any guy would be interested in my dating history. Maybe he’s just making small talk. “I don’t date that much. I just can’t seem to connect with the right kind of guy. I met someone I sort of like tonight but he is what I call my classic type A jerk so I won’t be seeing him again. Just to let you know there are four types of jerks who usually try to date me: Type A, type B, type C, type D.”

He nods, his eyes bright with amusement again. “Very organized. A good system. What’s a type A jerk?”

“Guys who pretend to be interested in me because of Jack. Usually musicians with a band they’ve failed to tell me about or just a really big fan.”

The teasing glint vanishes in Alan’s eyes and there is a sympathetic heaviness to his gaze. His mood shifts so suddenly it catches me off guard, and then I realize that this is something about me that Alan Manzone would get without even an effort.

“What was really disappointing about this guy was that he slipped right under my radar. I’m usually really good at spotting A through D.”

“So what are the other types of jerks?”

“B’s are guys who date me because of money. C’s are guys who date me because of how I look. And D’s are guys who assume because of who my dad is that I’ll party and be wild. Wild as in sexually easy. My last boyfriend was a type D jerk. I should have dumped him instead of waiting for him to dump me.”

“You need to rearrange your list. C’s should be money. Cash. And the B’s for how you look. Beautiful. More logical. But the D is appropriate. Just plain dumb.”

“So, that’s the whole story of me and why I don’t have a boyfriend and why the answer is just nope. I can only find A through D jerks. I’m hoping if I get into Juilliard it will be better in New York.”

“Don’t count on it. I live in New York. Lots of jerks. Lots of guys like me.”

I laugh. “Thanks for the warning. What kind of jerk are you? I don’t think you fit in A through D. Is there a new type jerk in New York?”

He ignores the question.

“Do you like living in New York? I’ve spent hardly any time there,” I say.

“I do. I don’t know how it will work for you. Very different from California. And certainly different from Santa Barbara.”

“There is that.”

“You seem pensive again.”

“It’s hard to plan a future. To know if it’s right. I’ve worked toward Juilliard my entire life. My mother went. She wanted me to go. It doesn’t seem right to change the plan now.”

“You have to live for yourself. Not your mother or your dad.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid what I would prefer is too normal. Not interesting at all.”

“Normal is interesting. I don’t even know if it still exists.”

“I don’t even know if what I want is normal. I don’t want to be anything. I don’t want to spend my life absorbed in trying to be anything. I just want to go to UC Berkeley with my best friend Rene. Study something. I don’t know what. Maybe meet a nice guy. Maybe get married. Maybe have lots of kids. And just be. Be more focused on living than trying to be something. Why is it so important to ‘be’ something? I just want to be and be happy.”

“I was almost ready to sign up. It sounded charming right up to the point of ‘lots of kids.’”

“I take it you don’t like kids.”

Something in his face changes, a sudden harshness and something else. “If I had my way there would be an abortion clinic on every street corner.”

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

“Why lie? We don’t know each other well enough to have to lie.”

“It’s still awful. You shouldn’t say things like that.”

To make a fast shift in conversation, I point at two logs touching in a V-formation. “Do you want to sit down for a while?”

He shrugs and sinks down on a log. I settle beside him and stare out at the ocean. He doesn’t seem to want to talk anymore so I respect the silence. I look at him and a single laugh escapes me. There is something in how Alan sits that tells me the beach is not his thing and that he’s a little uncomfortable with whatever it is we’re doing.

After a few minutes I slip from my perch and lie back in the sand. I stare into the fog above the ocean, seeing the gleaming tinge of the moon. He watches me and then follows, copying my posture, lying on his back, arms crossed beneath his head as a pillow, staring at the sky.

I fight not to look at him. “Isn’t it beautiful? Every so often the fog pulls apart and you can see a star. Then pouf it’s gone. One minute a star, then nothing.”

I glance over at him. Holy crap that was a really dumb thing to say to an international superstar in crisis who thinks he’s trashed his life and career.

Change the subject quickly. “I want to stay here until morning.”

“Why?”

He’s suspicious again.

“I want to see the sunrise,” I explain.

He relaxes.

“Don’t you have an early plane? Jack said he was taking you to the airport in the morning. I leave tomorrow too. I offered to let you travel to New York with me, but Jack didn’t think that was a good idea. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want my daughter in a private plane with me.”

His head turns fractionally toward me and my heart rate goes through the roof as my head spins. I could be winging my way to New York with Alan Manzone if Jack hadn’t killed the offer. It’s a lot to absorb, especially with him lying beside me in the sand.

“I do have an early plane,” I explain to cover my shock. “But I want to stay awake until the sunrise. If I stay awake all night I’ll sleep on the plane. I really hate flying. Being shut in, surrounded by people. And don’t take Jack refusing your offer personally. A private jet would violate his ideology. We always travel commercial. Proletarian normalcy. Jack is committed to proletarian normalcy.”

Alan gives me a small laugh. “This is proletarian normalcy?” he mocks playfully. “You live on a beachfront estate in Santa Barbara.”

“Jack is committed to the ideal. He is not always philosophically consistent. If you’ve spent enough time with Jack to be worried that you’re spending too much time with Jack you should have picked that up by now.”

Alan laughs. There is silence again for a long while. I chance another look at him and I wonder what he’s thinking. He glances at me from the corner of his eyes.

I bite my lip and study his face. “Do you know what?” I ask. “We’re doing my favorite thing. Lying in the sand, talking through the night, and waiting for the sunrise. Everything wonderful in life is free, but most people never get that.”

His eyes fix on me intensely and too hard to meet for any length of time. OK, what stupid thing did I say now? He looks a touch irritated and a touch troubled again.