Authors: Jennifer Laurens
What if it isn’t really over? If he’s really back at the house, sitting in that chair he loved, the one in front of the glass doors that face the back yard, the pool. The pool I swam in when I was a kid.
He’d watched me.
I’d wanted a dad who could jump in and play with me. Not a dad who lowered himself into a patio chair like his body might break if he moved too fast.
My head plays a dream: me opening the casket revealing its emptiness.
Dad. Still alive. Still time for us.
* * *
After the funeral, there’s supposed to be a ‘gathering’ at Dad and Judy’s. There’s no way I’m going to stand around and watch her play widow to an audience. I don’t know any of their friends, and she’s made it clear I have two weeks to “get my act together and get out.”
The moment the limo drops us at the house I steal into the guest bedroom—the place I’ve been living in since I moved in—and I strip out of the shirt, tie, jacket and dress slacks. I pull on my board shorts and a tee shirt, slide my feet into flip flops and grab a striped beach towel.
Dad gave me the keys to his old, orange and white VW Van when I turned sixteen. In spite of our distant relationship, the gift had been the coolest thing ever. The beast is in primo condition. Only has 70,000 miles on it. “VW’s are easy to fix,” he told me when he dropped the keys in my palm. “They run forever and they’re fun. Girls like them.”
That was true. When I’d driven the car to school, my friends—especially the girls—had all noticed.
I sneak out the back door, because there are already crowds arriving. If I don’t hurry, my car will be pinned in the driveway. A few dark-clothed, older people shuffling from their cars to the house raise their brows when I ram the van in gear and speed down the drive and into the street.
Relieved, I buzz through the winding streets of Bel Air. I need this. It takes me thirty minutes to get to the Santa Monica beach. I squeeze into a spot along Pacific Coast Highway, park and grab my wetsuit. I tuck my board under my arm and I’m out of the car and into the cool winter sun.
My mood’s crap. I’m angry. Scared.
What’s next for me?
The chilly sidewalk doesn’t hurt my bare feet, my soles are tough as leather. I cross the sidewalk and my pulse races. I can’t wait to dive into the waves even though they’re not much to look at today.
The beach is empty, the sea mild.
Part of me wishes it was choppy, that a red flag was up at the life guard station.
I pull on my wetsuit and dive. Cold salt water nips at my exposed skin. It rushes over my body, filling my ears and nose. The massive strength in the ocean cradles me, lures me, and pulls me out further. I come up for air, swim west.
And keep swimming.
If I go too far, the endless power will carry my insignificant weight into oblivion. A rush of hot tears spills from my eyes and I go under again. No tears.
They’re lost at sea.
Mom’s face comes into my mind. Her tears. The ones she’d cried for me when she knew her life was going to end. “I’m sorry, Brenden,” she’d said, looking at me like her heart had burst.
I float on my back. Cold sea presses into me. Mom presses into me. Dad—the lack of him—presses into me. I wish I could sink, drown the ache.
I feel a subtle shift in the tide. More force. As if the tide dares me to tease it any longer before it rips me out and away into fish food.
I dive, swim, pushing back to shore against the strengthening caress of sea. Each stroke is like swimming through sand.
Dragging myself out of the water, my lungs heave for air. I collapse next to my towel and board, the sand adhering to my wetsuit, coating me from head to foot. The familiar dusty scent of sand soothes my aches. Sleep curls its fingers around my bones. I could die in sleep. Never wake up.
Maybe I do sleep, I’m not sure. Suddenly, a shadow comes over me, stealing the overcast light. I open my eyes. A man, dressed in a black suit, stands above me.
“Brenden Lane?” he asks. His silver hair is neatly combed. He’s tan for winter, but then this is So Cal.
“Yeah?”
“My employer wants to speak with you about the death of your father.”
A thread of concern dangles inside of me. “What for?” Who is this guy? FBI? Someone Judy’s hired for some unexplainable reason?
“He’s prepared to pay you for your time. One hundred dollars an hour.”
I sit upright. Sand flutters away from my skin. “Seriously?”
The suit nods. He extends a card to me and I take it. It’s white, with a gold phone number on it.
“Can I tell him that you’ll call?”
Hell yes
. I nod. “Sure. Who is he?”
“Rufus Solomon, an old friend of your father’s. Call him as soon as possible,” he says, then he turns, crossing the sand in his black suit, to the highway where a black limo waits.
Rufus Solomon. The name dislodges from cobwebs in my memory but I forget where he fits in with Dad. Curiosity pushes me to my feet. I grab my towel and board, following him, keeping a good twenty-foot distance.
The suit opens the back door of the vehicle, gets in and shuts the door. I jog over. Who is this guy and, is Rufus Solomon inside the car?
The limo doesn’t move. I see my reflection in the onyx windows, my blond mussed hair, my curious face peering back at me. A shiver spins down my spine. Whoever’s inside is watching me.
Chapter Five
I drive to Bel Air, unease eating at me. The man in the limo must have been at the funeral. That makes sense. And he’d followed me to the beach, right? This is L.A. Anything is possible. Creeped, I toss glances over my shoulder as I head up Roscomare Road.
At a stoplight, I pull out the white card, grab my cell phone, and dial.
A gravelly voice answers. “Yes?”
“This is Brenden Lane.”
Silence follows. “Brenden. Rufus Solomon. I knew your father many years ago. He worked for me. ”
Then I remember. Mom told me that Rufus Soloman had once been a big shot movie producer back in the day. “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say, I just want the money.
“My condolences. “
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to meet and ask you some questions about Jonathan. In exchange I’m offering you compensation for your time. Is that agreeable?”
“Why?”
“I’ll answer your questions when we meet. I’ll send my driver. He’ll be there in an hour.”
“Today?”
“As soon as possible.” His voice sounds crisp.
The funeral was hours ago. Still, with Judy on the “you need to get your act together” bandwagon I need money and sticking around the house will weigh me down.
“Okay.” Click. Phone’s dead. Money’s money, and I don’t have enough of it. No way am I telling Judy about this. Still, she might see the limo pull up, wonder who—then it hits me—I didn’t tell Mr. Solomon where I live.
I dial the number on the card again.
“Yes?”
“This is Brenden Lane. I forgot to tell you where I live.”
“I know where you live. See you in an hour.” Click.
I stare at my cell phone. A blaring horn startles me. The light’s green, so I drive. A voice of warning chimes in my head, but I need money. A hundred bucks doesn’t go beyond a day or two but it’s a hundred bucks more than I have. God knows Dad probably hasn’t left me anything.
Still, I’m not stupid. I press the redial button.
“Yes, Brenden?”
I swallow. “Sorry, can’t make it. Dad’s funeral stuff. Maybe another time.”
“Tomorrow?”
The man’s short on patience. “I’ll call you.”
“I’ll wait to hear from you then.” Click.
Dad’s place is a hive. Cars line the street and driveway. There’s nowhere to park so I find a spot half a mile up the road and jog to the house. I don’t care what Judy thinks, in fact I relish walking through the front door, dusted in sand, while all of these dark-suited, old, plastic people watch. I unzip the rubber suit down to my navel.
A grin tugs my lips.
Dad met Judy through his Hollywood friends—she’d been a bit player for years: an actress who gets a line here and there but never shines bright enough to catch the attention of anybody important.
Her flute-pitch voice pierces the air from open windows and I cringe. She’s lined the path to the door with hideous gnomes. I hate those things. I open the front door and step inside. Take a deep breath of Dad’s house. Even though he’s not here anymore, I’m still getting used to being a part of it—however brief.
My entrance and attire catch the attention of a few mourners—gray-haired, fragile but beautiful people.
Old Hollywood
, Mom had called them.
How many funerals have they all been to?
Judy swings over. Eyes flashing, her red-painted mouth gapes. She’s changed out of the black dress she wore to the funeral. Now she wears hideous black leggings and a drippy black fringed tunic. Judy
is
retro. Her boy-short red hair and red lipstick reminds me of a guy in very bad drag.
She eyes me. “
De quoi ?!
You went to the beach?
Today
?” Her screech silences everyone. All eyes latch on me.
I toss the beach towel over my shoulder and push through the throngs of whispering old people. “Yeah, so what?”
Her scowl deepens. “You have no manners.” When she’s angry, her French accent thickens. “This is where your duty is. There are people who want to meet you.”
The old folks part for me. Judy scuttles at my heels.
“Brenden!” She yanks on the rubber sleeve of my wetsuit. “This should be your priority.”
I wasn’t Dad’s priority. Why should he be mine? The words are ready to leap off my tongue but I pinch my lips closed.
I take a left down Memory Lane—the long hallway Dad coined—lined with photos, awards, plaques, and his showbiz memorabilia. Old Hollywood congregates there, staring at the eight-by-ten glossies of Dad’s life. A white-haired man in a charcoal suit is coming toward me. His eyes are the color of his suit.
He extends his hand. “Brenden.” He’s old Hollywood too: faded sparkle, ultra-slick show. “Dick Ridgeway. Jonathan told me a lot about you.”
“He did?”
“I didn’t get to offer my condolences at the services.”
“He ran off.” Judy’s eyes are daggers. “To surf, if you can believe that.”
“He’s a teenager.” Dick laughs. The sound loosens me up. I like that Judy’s brow arches at his comment. This guy is real.
“Let’s go into the office.” Judy ticks her head. Panic tightens my gut.
What’s going on—who is this guy and why am I meeting with him?
She leads us to Dad’s office, a dark paneled room lined with bookshelves, stuffed with Dad’s books on art, gardening, travel. French doors open to the pool—gloomy gray—reflecting late afternoon clouds. Dad’s chair, the wine-colored leather worn where he sat, waits for him in front of the window. A spot is still depressed into the seat—as if he just got out of it.
Dick stands by the door, his gaze on Judy. ”Thank you, Judy. You can leave us alone.”
Judy’s eyes flash. “If this has anything to do with Jonathan’s estate, I’m going to be here. I’m legally entitled.”
I shift my feet, start to sweat.
“This has nothing to do with Jonathan’s estate.” Dick’s voice is smooth and practiced. “It’s only between Brenden and me.”
Red bleeds up her neck and into her cheeks. “What could you have to say to him that can’t be said in front of me? I’m Jonathan’s wife.”
“I understand, but this is a private matter.”
With a loud sigh of disapproval, Judy glares at me before leaving and shutting the door.
Dick crosses to the door and pauses, as if listening to make sure Judy’s not pressed against the other side. Seemingly satisfied, he faces me. “Your father wanted you to have something immediately upon his death.”
“He did?”
“There’ll be a formal reading of the will, but this has nothing to do with that.” He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out an envelope. “He gave this to me four months ago with the promise that I give it to you as soon as possible.”
I take the extended envelope. It’s thick with something small and hard inside. My name is across the front in Dad’s scrolled handwriting.
“Should I open it now?”
“You can if you want. It’s a key to a safe deposit box. He’s had me keep the key all the years we’ve known each other. However, I don’t know what is in the box. He also has a trust created in conjunction with whatever is in box. We can talk about that later.” Dick lays his palm on my shoulder. “You’re surprised?”
Speechless.
I stare at the envelope. Thrill skitters over my skin. I can’t believe Dad’s left me something. I hadn’t expected anything. I lift a shoulder. “Kind of, yeah.” My voice scratches out.