The Girl On The Half Shell Page 7

  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.

  I turn my head and stare at the moon. “Sorry to get all serious on you,” I whisper. “I have a habit of doing that. My friends get really annoyed with it. Do you want to hear something stupid?”

  A pause. Then laughter again, soft and textured. “Sure.”

  I sit up and point at the ocean. “Jack hates the oil derricks. Don’t even mention the Santa Barbara oil spill in 1969. He will go all Greenpeace on you. But I love the oil derricks. When I was a little girl and we’d drive home from Los Angeles along Highway 101, I couldn’t wait until we reached the coast so I could see them. They looked like pirate ships to me. It made me so happy to see them. It meant I was almost home. It still makes me happy to see their lights at night. It is the favorite part of my drive home from Los Angeles. The oil derricks that Jack hates. Isn’t that stupid?”

  I am laughing when I look over to smile at him. I quiet and freeze. He is crying, not overtly, but there is moisture on his face and a shimmer in his eyes. I don’t know how to handle this, especially since I haven’t a clue what’s going on with him. His expression changes and he looks embarrassed.

  “That is not a stupid story at all.”

  I smile because there is no way to force the words through the lump in my throat. My hand moves toward him. I can’t stop it. I begin to touch his tears away. His eyes flash, and I am embarrassed and totally confused by what prompted me to do that. I lie back into the sand beside him.

  He says nothing and I’m quiet as I silently debate with myself whether to ask. I stare at the fog, not brave enough to look at him. “I know this is rude of me to ask, but what happened? What happened to make you so sad? And that’s what you are. Underneath everything. Very sad.”

  His eyes are harsh as he studies me and I tense, wishing I could slap my mouth and take back that question. I can feel those black eyes combing the taut lines of my face and when I peek at him from the corner of my eye, his expression softens and is no longer hostile.

  “I lost someone important to me,” he says quietly. “It’s been just over a year.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought it was something like that. Were you very close?”

  That question Alan ignores. He seems surprised by his honesty and uncomfortable in it. I don’t press, but I still feel the need to say something.

  “I’ve lost my mom and my brother. I’m not going to say anything cliché like ‘time heals all wounds.’ I used to hate it when people said crap like that. Do you know it’s been ten years since my brother died and people still say crap like that to me? It is worse when they think I can just snap out of it. This wretched girl said to me tonight ‘Don’t you think you need to move beyond your brother?’ How would she know? She’s never lost anyone. I think we heal when we heal and that’s the end of it. Cut yourself some slack. Be sad until you’re not. It’s allowed.”

  Quiet again. Crap, maybe that was the wrong thing to say.

  “You’re not like any eighteen year old girl I’ve ever met.” His face, even smiling, is so intense, half in shadow and half touched in moonlight. “Do you always talk this way?”

  There is something in his voice that I can’t quite read. It makes me tense. “Unfortunately. People always say I need to lighten up. I think I’m worse than usual tonight because you started with that whole theatrical thing.”

  He gazes down at me. “Then I’m glad I was theatrical. I didn’t plan to be. I had an entirely different scene in my head. It just seemed to fit the picture you made sitting in the dim light playing Bach. None of this is what I intended.”

  Intended? I don’t know what to make of that.

  I let out a ragged breath and search for something to say. “This is the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.”

  His eyes are now angry and intense.

  “Date? Is that what you think we’re doing?”

  That was a stupid thing to say. The date comment is definitely a clunker. The adrenaline spike leaves my body making me feel cold and humiliated.

  “Sorry. Stupid joke. But don’t think you need to explain the difference. I’m not a little girl. I know what this is. That’s an entirely different section of my journal.”

  That kicks his anger up a notch. “Stop it. Stop with the playacting.”

  I bite my lower lip. He is really pissed off and I don’t know why. “I can’t. It a nervous habit. I don’t do it intentionally.”

  He stills. The emotion leaves his face. He stares down at me.

  “Nervous with me. Why?” He is sitting above me, on bent knees, carefully watching my reaction. “Why are you nervous with me?”

  “I don’t know. Everything got just a little too real.”

  “Me or the mood?”

  “Both.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re shaking.” He holds the flannel long sleeve shirt out from his t-shirt. “Do you want my shirt?”

  I shake my head. It is hard to keep up with the pitching conversation and the changing currents of the mood.

  “May I kiss you?”

  Every part of me freezes all at once. Oh my god, where did that come from?

  My head spins as my eyes round so much it is painful. Alan’s long index finger lightly traces my jaw and he smiles. “I’m going to take your silence as a yes.”

  I tense from head to toe in anticipation of his mouth and take a deep breath as he starts to lean toward me. I feel his fingers first, lightly on my cheek, nothing more, and my muscles start to calm. He i
s all around me, balanced on his arms, not touching, but the feel of him is like a ghost all across my flesh. The first touch of his lips is just a touch, gentle, a whispering hint of eroticism and tenderness. Everything about him is nerve-poppingly quiet. I’ve been kissed, and Neil is right, I don’t like to kiss, but I’ve never been kissed like this. Not in this sweetly gentle way that has instantly made me melt into his mouth.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” he whispers.

  I open them as his mouth comes back to me and now he is giving me the feel of him in slow degrees, inch by inch until I’m surrounded by all of him, until it feels as though there is nothing on this earth but him. His mouth leaves to touch my hair, the sensitive flesh beneath my ear, the slope of my cheek.

  He traces the outline of my lips with his kiss, then across my brow to my temple before he slowly leaves me.

  I find him staring down at me. He looks the same: cool, calm and in control. I feel like I’m about to melt within my skin.

  “Why did you stop?” I whisper.

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  His expression betrays nothing. It’s hard to speak. “Why?”

  “I owe Jack a lot.”

  “Oh.”

  He lies back in the sand. His face is tense. “After all the rotten things I’ve done this year I don’t need to do one more. But I wanted to meet you and I now get why Jack didn’t think that was a good idea.”

  My head spins. This was no accidental encounter. Alan Manzone wanted to meet me. He searched me out in the house. He wanted to meet me. But why?

  I stare at him. I don’t know what to say.

  “Listen, it’s not you,” he says.

  I blush.

  “You’re a very lovely girl.”

  I crinkle my nose. “Lovely? Is that the British equivalent of an American guy saying you have a nice personality?”

  “I’m not sure. What’s nice personality a code for?”