Malibu Rising: A Novel

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

  “I cannot live without you,” he said, realizing he had come here to get back what he’d lost. “I cannot live without all of you, my family. I have been such an idiot. But I need you. I need you and our children. I need this family, Junie.” He got down onto his knees. “I was sorry the moment I left you. I’ve been sorry ever since. I am so sorry.”

  June tried, desperately, to make the lump in her throat go away, to hold back the tears forming in her eyes. She did not want him to know how broken he had left her back then, just how desperate she felt now.

  “Give me one chance to fix it all,” he said, “I’m begging you.” He kissed her hand with humility and reverence, as if she alone could cure him. “Take me back, Junie.”

  He looked so small to June then.

  “Think of the life we could give the kids. The five of us, vacations in Hawaii and barbecues on the Fourth of July. We could give them a childhood of everything you and I ever dreamed of for ourselves. Anything we can think up, we can give to these kids.”

  June felt a pinch in her heart. And Mick did, too.

  “Please,” he said. “I love our children. I need our children.”

  He was picking the lock on her heart like a burglar at the front door. Almost, almost, almost, and then, “I’m ready to be the dad they need,” he said. Click. It slid open.

  June took his hand and closed her eyes. Mick kissed her on the cheek. “Mick …” she sighed.

  There, in her pajamas, Mick still in his suit, June moved her mouth toward his and let him kiss her. His lips were full and warm and tasted like home.

  When Mick pulled back to look at her, June looked away but took him by the hand. She led Mick into the bedroom. They fell to the bed, as June pulled Mick onto her. They rushed as they clung to each other, their hearts swelling as they moved, their lips pressed against each other, their breath one breath. They both were under the same spell, that delicious delusion that they were the two most important souls to meet.

  This was what June had ached for, every day since he left. The feeling of his attention on her, the way he moved his body with hers. He touched her in just the way she had grown desperate to be touched.

  Mick fell asleep soundly moments later, complete. June stayed awake the rest of the night, watching his chest move with his breath, watching his eyelids flutter.

  When morning came, she felt as if the next chapter of her life was starting, the part where the family lives happily ever after. As June started preparing breakfast, Nina woke up and walked into the kitchen.

  She could not quite make sense of the sight before her. Her mother was making eggs and toast for this strange man seated at the table. He was in trousers and an undershirt, drinking a cup of coffee. He looked eerily familiar and yet she could not place him.

  She asked what she did not know. “Hi,” she said. “Who are you?”

  And Mick, undeterred, smiled at her and said, “Hi, honey, it’s Daddy. I had to go away for a little while. But I’m back now. Forever.”

  1:00 P.M.

  Jay rolled up his trash and walked it over to the garbage can. “I have an idea,” he said, with a grand pause.

  “So spit it out,” Kit said.

  “When was the last time we were all riding together? Like, actually, all of us,” he asked.

  So often now things got in the way of the four of them just being out there on the water. Jay and Hud were traveling all over the world and Nina was always on some shoot. But they were all here now. They all had the afternoon free.

  “I’m in,” Kit said.

  Hud nodded. “Me, too,” he said. “Family shred.”

  Nina looked at her watch. “Let’s do it. The waves are great at my place. We can head there. Especially since I can’t stay out too long; the cleaners are coming. I should be there to let them in, make sure they’re all set.”

  “Can’t you just leave the door unlocked with a note?” Jay asked.

  “No, I mean, you know, I should greet them. Make them comfortable.”

  “Make them comfortable? They are going to clean your house,” Jay said. “You are paying them to make you comfortable.”

  “Jay …” Nina started. But then that was it. “Are we gonna hit the surf or what?”

  “Fuck yeah we’re gonna hit the surf,” Kit said, offering a high five to Hud, who took her up on it.

  The four of them cleaned up their lunch and said goodbye to the staff and made their way to their cars.

  It would be the last time they all surfed together. Even though Jay did not know what would happen over the course of the evening—did not know just what awaited them all—he did know that.

  1962

  Mick’s life came into focus for him during the summer of 1962. He was on hiatus from touring. His new record was already in the can. And he had moved back in with his family.

  Every day, he woke up with the satisfaction of being the man he meant to be. He was paying the bills and buying June and the kids whatever they wanted. He took June out for romantic dinners, he read stories of heroes and soldiers to his boys.

  Still, his daughter held a piece of herself back from him.

  Nina was not charmed by Mick like June was and she was not aching for his presence quite like the boys. But Mick remained determined to win her over. He would tickle her in the living room and offer to sing her to sleep at night. He would make her cheeseburgers on the grill and make sandcastles for her on the beach. He knew, over time, she would soften.

  One day, he believed, Nina would come to understand that he was never leaving again.

  “Marry me, Junie. One more time, this time forever,” Mick said to June in the dark one night after they’d made love quietly, as the rest of the house slept.

  “I thought last time was forever,” June said. She was half-joking, and still angry, but entirely happy to be asked.

  “I was a boy pretending to be a man when I married you the first time. But I am a man now. Things are different,” Mick said, pulling her toward him. “You know that, right?”

  “Yes,” June said. “I do.” She’d seen it in the way he kept close to her, the way he never stayed out late, the way he drank half a pot of coffee in the morning to get up with the kids and almost no booze at night.

  “Will you let this new man marry you?” he asked, pushing the hair away from her face.

  June smiled, despite herself, and gave him the answer that both of them knew was never really in doubt. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”

  • • •

  That September, June and Mick remarried at the courthouse in Beverly Hills with the kids by their side. June wore a pale blue sheath dress with white gloves and three short strands of pearls around her neck. Mick wore his signature black. When the judge declared them married again, Mick grabbed June and dipped her, planting a kiss on her lips. Theo, Christina, and the kids watched as June laughed with her whole body, so delighted to have once again given him her soul.

  “Be the man you tried to tell us you were,” Christina said to him, just after the ceremony.

  “I am that man now,” Mick said. “I promise you that. I promise to never hurt her like that again.”

  “Them,” Christina said. “Never hurt them like that again.”

  Mick nodded. “Believe me,” he said. “I promise.”

  As the family walked out of the courthouse, Mick winked at Nina and grabbed her hand. She smiled just the tiniest bit in her lavender dress, so he lifted her up into his arms and ran with her through the parking lot.

  “Nina, my Nina! Cuter than a ballerina!” he sang to her, and when he put her down, she was laughing.

  Afterward, Mick and June did not leave for a honeymoon but, instead, drove home to the beach. They said good night to Theo and Christina. June heated up a leftover casserole for dinner. Mick put the kids to bed.

  June took off her dress and hung it up in the closet in a plastic garment bag, dreaming of giving it to her daughter one day. It would be a physical testament to sec
ond chances.

  June was pregnant before the year was out. And by the time Katherine Elizabeth Riva was born, Mick had stayed for so long, been so doting, that he had even won over tiny little suspicious Nina.

  “I don’t remember now when you were gone,” Nina said to him one night as he was putting her to bed before leaving to do a few kickoff shows in Palm Springs. His new album was about to be released, he was back in the spotlight. His publicity team was churning out the story of his redemption. “Ladies’ Man Becomes Family Man.” He was dressed up in his black suit. His hair was slicked back, showing his faint widow’s peak. He smelled like Brylcreem.

  “I don’t remember it, either, honey,” Mick said, kissing her on the forehead. “And we don’t ever have to worry about those things again.”

  “I love you this much,” Nina said as she reached wide with both her arms.

  Mick tucked the blanket tight around her. “I love you double that.”

  Nina was in it with all of her heart now, as only those who have been hurt and learned to trust again truly can be. It is as if once your heart has been broken you learn of the deepest reserves it carries. And she had given up her reserves as well this time.

  Her dad was here and he was staying and he loved her. She was his girl, his “Nina-baby.” And every once in a while, when Mick was feeling emotional, he would pick her up and give her a hug and admit to her the truth: She was his favorite.

  In the comfort of that love, Nina bloomed. She started singing Mick’s songs with him around the house. “Sun brings the joy of a warm June …” they would sing together. “Long days and midnights bright as the moon …”

  Nina became entranced by his voice, fascinated by his ties, riveted by the polish of his shoes, smitten to tell her friends at school who her dad was. She was proud that she had inherited his eyelashes, so full and long. She would sometimes stare at him, as he read the paper, watching him blink.

  “Stop staring at me, sweetheart,” Mick would say, not even moving his eyes off the page.

  “OK,” Nina would say and move on to something else.

  So casual was their affection, so comfortable were their bodies and souls next to each other that there could be no rejection, no discomfort.

  Now and then, in the early hours of morning, before everyone else was up, Mick would wake Nina up to fly a kite as the sun rose. Sometimes he would be fresh and clean, having just showered and shaved. Other times he would be getting home from a show, still tipsy, smelling a little sour. But either way, he would gently sit on Nina’s bed and he’d say, “Wake up, Nina-baby. It’s a windy day.”

  Nina would get out of bed and put on a cardigan over her nightgown, and the two of them would walk down, under the house, onto the beach.

  It was always early enough that almost no one was there. Just the two of them sharing the dawn.

  The kite was red with a rainbow in the center of it, so bright you could see it even in the fog. Mick would let it get sucked up into the sky and he’d hold on tight. He’d pretend he could barely hold on. He’d say, “Nina-baby! I need your help. Please! You have to save the kite!”

  She knew it was an act but she delighted in it anyway and she would reach out, grabbing the string with all of her might. She felt strong, stronger than her father, stronger than anyone in the world as she held on to that kite, keeping it tied to the ground.

  The kite needed her and her dad needed her. Oh, how good it felt to be important to somebody the way she felt important to him.

  “You’ve got it!” he would say, as the kite teetered in her hands. “You’ve saved the day!” He would scoop her up in his arms and Nina knew, knew in her bones, that her father would never ever leave her again.

  • • •

  A year later, Mick Riva was performing in Atlantic City when in walked a backup singer named Cherry.

  He never flew home.

  2:00 P.M.

  The four Rivas were straddling their boards in the ocean, floating at the peak, all in a row like birds on a wire. And then, as the waves curled in, they took off, one by one.

  Jay, Hud, Kit, Nina. A revolving team, with Jay the self-appointed leader of the pack. They soared past one another and paddled back out together, and when a wave took one of them too far down the shore, they worked their way back to their four-man lineup.

  The first wave in a gorgeous set came in and Jay was primed for it. He got himself into position and popped up on his board, and then out of nowhere, Kit dropped in, cut him off, and stole his wave.

  She smiled and held out a sisterly middle finger as she did it. Hud watched, mouth agape.

  Kit knew that you can only bogart a wave from someone you are confident will not beat the ever-living shit out of you. Because waves that beautiful are rare. That is the thing about the water, it is not yours to control. You are at the mercy of nature. That’s what makes surfing feel like more than sport: It requires destiny to be on your side, the ocean must favor you.

  So when you are granted a sick wave like the one Jay thought was his—chest high, with a hollow face, peeling quick and clean—it is not only a bull’s-eye but a jackpot.

  “What the fuck!” Jay said, after cutting back quickly to avoid colliding. He grabbed the rails of his board to slow down. He hung there in the water, watching his little sister take off down the face of the wave until it slowly let her go, like her spot on the Ferris wheel was touching down.

  She laid her chest down on the board and started toward Jay.

  “You really can’t pull that shit anymore,” he called to her as Kit paddled out, duck-diving under the swells.

  “Oops,” she said, smiling.

  “Seriously. Cut it out. Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” Jay followed up. “I can’t always tell if you’re about to drop in on me.”

  “I’m in full control,” Kit said. “I don’t need you to make room. I’ve got it.” He really didn’t understand, did he? How good she was.

  But Hud saw it. Her confidence, her control, the chip on her shoulder.

  “Kit, I’m seriously pissed at you,” Jay said. “Like, apologize at least.”

  Hud took a wave out and then bailed once it all started to crumble. When he popped back out of the water, he saw Jay and Kit both floating on their boards, bickering. He spotted Nina walking out of the ocean. He watched her walk her board back over to her shed. She made her way up the steep stairs that led to her home.

  Hud knew she was heading in to welcome the cleaning staff. She was going to offer them all a glass of water or iced tea. If one of them broke a plate or a vase, if they forgot a room, if they didn’t make the beds the way Nina liked, she would still thank them profusely. She would overtip them. And then she would fix it herself.

  It made Hud sad. The way Nina lost herself in always putting others first. Sure, Hud tried to put other people first. But sometimes he was selfish. Clearly.

  But Nina never said no, never stood in anyone’s way, never took anything. If you offered her five bucks, she’d give you ten. He knew he was supposed to like that about her but he didn’t. He didn’t like it about her at all.

  Hud lifted himself over a soft wave, letting it buoy both him and his board, and paddled out to where Jay was. “Nina went in,” Hud said. “For the cleaners.”

  Jay rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake. Would it kill her to live a little?”

  1969

  In the late sixties, the counterculture had discovered the beauty of rustic Malibu and settled in along the mountains. The beaches were overrun with surfers on their brand-new shortboards—cooler and more aerodynamic than their older brothers’ longboards. Teams of young dudes and the honorary dudette took over the water, running in packs, claiming coves for themselves, rushing poseurs out of town.

  The air smelled like Mary Jane and suntan oil. And yet, still, you could smell the sea breeze if you took a moment.

  Mick Riva’s career—rocky tabloid headlines, a new hit album, a sold-out world tour—had taken off like a r
ocket, leaving hordes of young women screaming his name, millions of car radios playing his music as they sped down the freeway.

  And so, to his children, he was both inescapable and never there.

  Nina, Jay, Hud, and little Kit knew their father as a ghost whose voice visited them over the loudspeakers at the grocery store, whose face peered out at them from their friends’ parents’ album collections. He was a billboard in Huntington Beach on a road trip. He was a poster in the record stores their mother never wanted to go to. When he tried his hand at acting, he was a movie they never saw. But they almost never thought of him as theirs—he was everyone’s.

  And so, they never thought of the smell of whiskey on his breath, or the way his smile had once made them smile, or the way their mother used to blush with his kiss.

  It was hard to remember their mother had ever blushed at all. To them, June was stress and bone.

  In their second divorce, Mick had paid off the house and granted it to June. And he was supposed to resume the child support and alimony payments of their first divorce. But months after their divorce was finalized, June kept going out to the mailbox every day, looking for the checks and leaving empty-handed. None ever came. June suspected it was an oversight. She was almost positive that if she picked up the phone and called him—reminded him what was owed—he’d have an assistant or an accountant set up the recurring payments as he’d been instructed.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to ask him for one goddamn thing. She refused to let him see her squirm, to see her need.

  When he finally came back to her again, he was going to respect her. He was going to bow at her feet and grovel, in awe of her strength.

  So, instead of asking Mick to pay for the needs of his own children, June finally turned to her parents. She took a job at the restaurant.

  June ended up in the exact place she had hoped Mick Riva would save her from.