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.
“Jon was a great man.” A static quiet fills the air. “Like I said,” Dick continues. “This is for you only and only you.” He holds out a card. Richard Ridgeway, Attorney. His office address and phone number are embossed in silver. “Call me any time. I mean that.”
I nod.
He turns and heads for the door. “Jon wanted this kept confidential. Even from Judy.”
I swallow. Nod. “Okay.” My head flashes fantasies of me opening the safe deposit box and heaps of money flowing out to my feet.
When the door shuts and I am alone in the room, a sigh leaves my chest. Beyond the door, the soft buzz of voices hums like black bees. Dad spent hours in this room. He’d told me it was his favorite place in the house.
My gaze leaves the envelope, moves to the worn leather chair. I ease myself into it and face the view of lush trees, the pool, brick patio. I shift, and the faintest waft of Dad whispers from the years, the depths, the life of the chair.
When I get up to leave, the imprint left behind will be mine.
* * *
At the bank, I show my driver’s license and passport. An officer wearing a light grey uniform escorts me down marble stairs, through a narrow marble hall and into a vault-like room lined with what looks like millions of different sized steel doors with locks.
He points out my door and leaves me alone.
My heart beats so fast, I can hardly hold my hand still long enough to slip the long narrow key into the lock. Inside is another envelope with my name on it. Next to it sits a small silver box with a combination lock.
Hands sweaty, I open the envelope, afraid to tear anything before I’ve had a chance to see what’s inside.
A color photograph of Grace Doll—the screen icon of the 40s. I remember the photo. Dad had insisted I sketch it once. Her gaze is directly on the lens. The look in her eyes sends a tremor through me. When I was thirteen I’d had a crush on her after I’d watched Paradise Found. Dad had been her makeup artist back in the day, and the far-off look in his eye when he talked about her had piqued my curiosity. Mom told me Dad had been in love with her. Still, I’m surprised Dad’s put this picture inside a safe deposit box. It must be valuable, like the unpublished photos of Marilyn Monroe people are always ‘finding.’
I set the photo down on the table, but it’s hard to drag my gaze from hers. It’s not like I haven’t seen photographs of her a million times. Even today I see them on the cover of the random tabloid. And
my crush is long gone. But her eyes—the look on her face—mystifies and compels. In this particular photo, it’s like she’s so real I expect to see her eyes blink. I gently ease out a piece of sketch paper from the envelope. The letter is handwritten—the penmanship is Dad’s—aged, weak, but with an artistic slant.
I look at the contents of the safe, as if something important will appear. Like money. Gold. Something.
My heart plunges. This is it?
My pulse seems to have stopped dead in my veins. Breath races in and out of my chest. Rufus Soloman? Is this why the man wants to talk to me? I blink. Focus.
He can’t be serious. But he locked this up. I have the key.
Why would he tell me this now?
My gaze continues to the next paragraph.
You’ve got to be kidding me. What does he expect me to do? Drop everything and go running to some old lady? Anger crashes through me. I want to crush the paper shaking in my hands and I’m frustrated that I can’t bring myself to. What an idiot you are, thinking that he’d leave you something special. Something substantial. Like money for an education.
I can’t finish the letter, not right now. My father couldn’t have cared less about me. It was always about him. As if years of neglect wasn’t enough.
I stare at the walls lined with small steel boxes. What do they hold? Better treasures than this pile.
Disbelief weighs my heart down to dark places. Finally, my gaze shifts back to the letter. There’s another paragraph but my eyes can’t focus on the words and I’ve got too much pride to be insulted further.
Scraping my hands down my face, I slowly lower in the provided chair.
Unbelievable.
From the table, Grace Doll watches me in the photograph.
* * *
In the parking lot of the bank, I sit in the van, staring at traffic crawling along Sunset Boulevard. Night came, and the parking lot slowly emptied. Now, it’s eight o’clock.
I’m vacant.
Inside of the VW van starts to feel like an icebox. A black and white cop car pulls into the lot. He’s doing his rounds, this is a bank after all. I’m the only one here. A teenage boy sitting for hours in the lot of a bank? Suspicious.
Starting the van, I back out of the slot and pass the officer, forcing a smile on my lips. I can hardly concentrate on the road, let alone placate a cop with a nice gesture I’m so furious.
My last wish...
Another wave of anger surges through me. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Is this what it’s all been about? Some twisted grooming so you could leave your burdens to me?
It makes sense now: the stories of sudden vanishing acts while married to Mom—no explanation given except that he needed to get away. Even Judy’s been victim of Dad’s mysterious disappearances. Once she’d called Mom, demanding to know if he was with us. Mom’s voice had pitched during the conversation. “Welcome to Jon’s world,” was all she’d said.
His world, his secrets.
My body barely contains the resentment. The betrayal. Why did he marry Mom to begin with? She said he’d always preferred younger women. Obviously, the thirty year age spread wasn’t enough. And if he preferred younger women, what the hell possessed him to marry gold-digging, seventy-something Judy?
my last wish ...
I let out a ragged growl, thrust my hand into my hair and drive Sunset Blvd. home. Why should I do a damned thing for him? The old lady’s lived—what—eighty plus years? Maybe it’s time for her to face up to her decisions.
Not my problem.
Then it hits me: the world would pay big to know Grace Doll is still alive. Not to mention this Soloman dude who, if I had to bet, is counting on getting some intel from me. Possibilities speed through my brain: money. Tons of money. Unlimited opportunities. Fame.
But fame doesn’t interest me. In fact, even with the money taunting me I know I’d be pegged an opportunist once the story got out. Disgruntled son leaks aged movie star’s whereabouts for fame and fortune.
I can trust you to do whatever needs to be done.
Trust.
Hell. I blow out a sigh.
Roscomare Road is dark with thick trees so houses aren’t visible from the street, only tips of driveways protected by electric gates. Scattered streetlamps are lit, but that only adds to the emptiness. A black town car idles across from Dad’s house. Its parking lights glow like red eyes. The funeral and gathering was over hours ago. I can’t see who is inside, the windows are tinted. But the moment I pass, the engine of the car starts up. My palms start to sweat. I watch the sedan through my rearview mirror. It drives away.
A shiver cools my skin. I scan burly bushes the length of the driveway and every dark burrow on my way to the front door. Dad’s place is dark. Who knows where Judy is. I figured she wouldn’t stick around. Over the last three months I’d lived here whenever Dad had needed anything she’d sighed like he was imposing, like she was checking her watch, waiting for him to kick the bucket. Maybe it was because I took care of Mom, but I couldn’t stand by and watch anybody treat a dying person like they didn’t matter anymore. She and I had had our share of shouting matches over it.
I don’t care where she is, I’m just glad she’s not here. Inside, the halls whisper with my footsteps on hardwood.
I enter the guest bedroom but keep the lights off and cross to the windows, peer out. The room has a view of the street. Through the trees and bushes I see a black Bentley. The car slowly passes in front of the house, headlights off, then parks across the street where it had parked before. What the hell? Why am I paranoid? This is Bel Air, not the valley. And that car could be out there for a number of reasons: namely any of the neighbors.
After a thorough check of every door in the house, I shut myself in the bedroom. One last check out the window: the car‘s gone.
Still, when I try to relax enough to fall asleep, I can’t.
I spend most of the night staring at the photograph of Grace Doll propped against the base of the lamp on my nightstand.
Grace Doll.
She’s alive.
Chapter Six
The next morning I shower, dress in jeans, a tee shirt and hoodie, and grab my backpack. Dad’s letter seems to beg me to take it. I wouldn’t put it past Judy to go through my things so I stuff it, and the picture of Grace Doll, into my pocket alongside the safe deposit box key.
Judy’s shuffling slippers scratch at the morning quiet. She’s somewhere in the house. I make a beeline for the front door, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling, ready for her to—
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Out.”
“You pulling one of your father’s disappearing acts?”
“Job hunting,” I lie.
“You’d better. You have two weeks.” She screeches from the open door. “When are you going to tell me what Dick wanted, anyway? I deserve to know! Debile!”
Judy swears in French. Like it’s any better coming out of her in another language? I snort. Morning air chases me along the brick pathway to where the VW van is parked at the side of the house.
Truth is I don’t know where I’m going, I just know I’m not staying at the house. If Dad’s life with Judy was anything like mine is, I feel sorry for him. Why did he stay with her? How much torture could a man take?
Screw this.
I head to the beach.
I crank the old AM radio. Ancient rock rasps out of dashboard speakers. It’s hard to concentrate on the road, my insides are so jumbled.
I just don’t know what I want to do with myself.
It’s then I notice the black Bentley behind me. How long has it been tailing me? Maybe it’s not following me. There are a million Bentleys in Los Angeles. But this one doesn’t have a license plate on the front.
Gaze flicking to my rearview mirror, I take the first right I come to just to see if the car stays with me. It does. Too bad I’m driving t
he van. I could really use something with guts.
I take another fast right. So does the Bentley.
Smashing my foot down on the brake pedal, I force the van to stop. Car in park, I leap out the door and into the path of the oncoming vehicle. It screeches to a stop. The windows are black, I can’t see in. I race around to the drivers’ side and slap my palms on the window. “Come on, get out! Let’s do this!”
Whoever is driving presses on the gas. The car rounds my van in a burst of acceleration. No plates on the back.
My heart’s racing. The car looks just like the one outside Dad’s house last night.
I pull out my cell phone and call Rufus Solomon.
“Brenden.”
“Are you following me?”
“I’m at my home. Can we meet today?”
“Is one of your people following me?”
“My people have more important things to do then follow a teenager around. Can we meet today?”
My heart finally starts to slow. I’m standing in an empty street, the van idling. If this guy isn’t following me, then who is? Warning swarms inside my gut. “I can’t today.” I end the call and get back in the van.
My cell phone rings again. I don’t answer. Mr. Solomon’s perseverance slivers like ticks under my skin. Edgy, I continue driving to the beach. When I finally arrive, I park, get out and stare at the angry sea. Fog sneaks close to shore. The air is uncommonly cool for January, but I always keep an extra wetsuit in the car. I’m not sure I want to surf. Today, red flags dot the beach, the lifeguard station. Nobody’s in the water. A few people walk dogs along the cement path cutting through the sand. Other than that the place stretches on in emptiness.
If I dive in I won’t come out, not with the ocean thrashing like it is.
My cell phone rings again. This time it’s Judy. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
Give me a chance to breathe.
Grace Doll Page 4
